We're sorry
to weave
with elevator
Please hold.
We’re sorry
to eat
but all
would like

but all
to other
your hands
Your call
but all
to other
you know
Please hold.
to us.
      of our
to other
to visit

of our operators            are busy
machines.                If you wish
together                  we’ll cover you
      Did you know                there are
to anti-oxidize              your face?
is important            to us.
      of our operators       are busy
machines.               If you wish
don't,                  our
clear                   sound
red meat             builds
Your call            is
We’re                 sorry
      operators            are busy
machines.          If you
      us                       on the web,
      is:                       www.
thebone             .com





  Magnetic curtains       covered my eyes.       For relief I collected       shiny stones
to finger                                   in my pocket.                   My Life refused
      licorice sticks and candied butter           when a truck             dropped off
      our home and leveled it                          with cement blocks.  The sweat
      from his labor burned                             the soles                    of my shoes.
      My white socks turned                           against me                 as my loverís
      headwinds tugged                                  my sails                      in
directions.                 Tap dance                  around him                        today,
tango                         with him                    tomorrow.                          My lover
a broken blister         and butter                  sliding off toast.



  I never loved the wax that stuck to the roof of my mouth but the blonde blew kisses that looked like a bubble full of the soap my father bathed me in on Sunday evenings and she wrinkled her nose just a little so that it looked like the onionskin I loved to roll in as a boy so you see once she scooped the wax candy with her palm facing my face a palm with doughy lines crisscrossing like hot cross buns I had to chew put it in my mouth chew despite the wax the wax was the cost of the show.  



  God is the history of ice.

Art is the history of salt.

Between eye chronicles, I paint
                            heavy and androgynous.

Scene A transmits doubt.                           Scene B transmits rumors.

One scene crossbreeds                               into velvet beginnings.
Another scene                         fishtails, rolls
into a ball.

Rough strife followed
                          by a slow caravan.

The fridge is a volcano.                               Oxygen ink, the sour roar
of mangled iron.

The thief holds a broken bucket.

The cough interpreter examines
             the salt and peppershaker.

Because I live, traffic lights elude me.

Pleasure is a retired prisoner.

Godís broken thumb slips up my spine.