open the door.”
Belts, gears, and beautiful breasts.
It’s hard to see in Lynchian darkness
you can enter where others will also be:
solarized silk-screen and black disco ball
as if cutting glass caused stars to choose
against ever being born at all.
Surprising degree of blatant pornography:
black & white hand-job in a wicker chair
tucked (as a joke?) in a marriage tableau.
The painter’s line to my body spoke—
scavenging gulls off the stern,
on a rope between a ballerina’s wrists
another ballerina turns. Ravaging spy
in weather personified. Surrounded
by pictures I watch Dee fix: three
leather queens plus one nude grinding
with her own perfect ray-o-graph double.
Oxygen bubble inside the syringe—
decomposed tear in opposite air
like a shadow might breathe
a new life through a gate of teeth.