"I Didn't Invent the Wheel, I was the Crooked Spoke Born Adjacent."

There were seven windy windows
With ballerinas spinning, silhouettes on thimbles,

Pirouetting, looking out the windows, and others,
Nine levels beneath them, a man

And all his demons. Giant staples
Dug above his lip and pinned beneath his jawline,

There were held nine nails above him like a halo,
And he held a bell, the bell had

Nine blades that hung down from
The onion shape bell-head, it was rusty black.

My first thought was, he died in every world,
That hoary cripple, to be put here,

In the other-temple, I was scared,
I had no credential, no claim or credence for

My tune, the hell-spokes grew, enveloped
Spires, higher and higher, a spark,

That was the child I knew consumed
By a picture, April isn't the man with the bell,

April isn't cruel. If you do the math this is the
Consummate fool, much too obtuse.

Another Poem

How is it that I am
What I am

When I want
What I want, I want no more.

No less, take a cue,
Stage left,

Get stupid,
Getting ruthless with two

Dreadlocked heads.
The people

All stare,
Hold gasoline and light,

'Let's get the fuck out of here.'
Neon pores through,

This is language,
Not what is written. 

Dust in a glass
Held in fear,

A spinster
Of this,

My dear.

Staring at me.