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Balcony owl-nest. Sits alone, hat ready.

Witches of the poltroons' pot, Flesh that rots of psychic plots, Stay away from heroes, who, Brave and young and trusting too, See but crowing crones about, Humble, ugly, and devout To King Arthur daily serve. Witches leave the young men be! For the knights are quite naïve, Knowing not who lurks at night Who tend to seek a life to smite Rewriting stars with Satan's sight. Tricksters of the boiling blood, Of dirt and grit and gore and mud You shall not take a life tonight While under force of Merlin's might.

Imprinted with fleas and rings of darker lights around me. Rings into my head like a string of lighthouses (dark on the inside) turning and turning like curled hair. His calender loses days, my calender.    My days .... Even blinking as it is, take my smile -- Oh, beautiful god! I feel the urge to scratch himself (myself) Keep my hands still keeps his hands. Years of talking to himself     (self) years years  (unhinged by years) shed into patternless skins. Where once a man was standing lie flakes of wood.  Save me from it,   save me, god. I am the thing that begins with       M (Save me from it)    Oh god within a woman ....

I am devout to the primitive devices of my captivity. A barber runs his razor against the back of my neck, its angry bites like a conversion between faiths, its intimate hum gymnastic against my skin and shaving off the feminine barnacles that grew. I feel like a contortionest, flexing against the walls of my box like dark coal, squeezing and trusting in the cultural mutation: Dumb, begging, diced up into a "functional human being" as if I need handlebars to depend on my own legs because this is sexiest; captured is sexiest. A wearable filter between what I feel and what I tell the members of my church. My first cat call will be an achiev