Issue No. 10  •  November 2013

I want a face like paradise caught on film rewound 
and I want to look a heaven that can unthinking kill

for sport or rage. How else do I get what you want?
This room is just a room where I’m what you want

a little of. Deep petting of my name for an unwound
silking of the scenery makes me tame and ill-eyed,

but then again, this room is a promise of wide-eyed
sorts—so I know what I mean and I see what want

wants with me. So, inaction. This thing even turned
on? My ultra violent burns: to turn me on I turn

on you, a tooth clicked into action, which you eye
from under me, lax prey, praying man, I mean Jesus,

where do I get off? Saying like I can sing? I was Jesus
-sure and Judas-strange on the tables of hell turned.

I was warning you like a hot sure thing and the angle
of my mouth, ion sharp, was cut off. And the angel

cut me off. And my lines in sand cut off. I cried Jesus.
I cried not. For me to start over with a stepping stone

for a heart is not for you to stand on a stepping stone
ever—but then this room is a promise with its angle

intact. So I angel, full of wander as a primal Jesus.
I fall on purpose, holy and other. O the only Christ

-like girl I was is gone so good. O god I am no stone
fox fuck: hotly high off a fake moon and I can't turn 

back. If I can’t turn back with a heart half returned
I want to be a heaven that enters swords and jesus

I want a face that enters you like a knife: keen-eyed
can’t cut it. Any camera knows it—a dark room keyed

shut for a hushed shot knows it and all my upturned
scars know better. Beat, I know the cost, but I want—

the last name of fire contained is backfire, all wanton
and beasts in the room a body makes or makes eyes

across—and the last thing I wanted, this. All your kill
come home to roar. All my lions come round to kill.

This room a scene that puts a name to what they want.
What end? Lo, I am lions. A cage is what they wound.