tangle

shallow accidents folly —
you evoke that old eggshell expressionism
imaginary warpaint
on the first indream ashtray —
phlegmy black and carbuncular

there follows a montage of young sombreros
and the play of wasteland hellscape japes
we live hostage — unmoored — upon this drift
quit before you hit your stride twenty-four knuckle
homonculus aping president gas derangement

fitness passing as finesse
your fellowship hairs tangle

What I’m Reading:

Hug me, mother of noise. 
Find me a hiding place.
I am afraid of my voice.
I do not like my face.

— Anne Stevenson / “Television”