I often think of eating myself
alive. Make like butter and

slather. I want to bathe in
blood at least once for

experimental reasons. I want to knock out
every wall and live in my own tabernacle.

My spine is winding rigid static.
Salt and iron in the attic.

There are ways to do this so
no one notices. There are

gargoyles everywhere else. They are
peeking out from under my ribs. We

have a little secret now. We slip them
in our coats, private like the way they

crawl around; silent like public ecstasy
folded carefully over knees.

I think I feel alive and indecent because I’m
wide and awake. My laces could be much tighter.