PINE TREES ARE SNOW
pine trees are snow
with architectural agenda.
men and women blur
the lines between themselves like
twisted digits.
callous, nails and jailhouse
tattoos. jumbled, expressionist,
passé.
hope springs, forceful ejaculate,
from andy warhol’s sunken chest.
he is thrown back
into deep indian
upholstery like science fiction.
pleasure hinders.
erase the words and mail
it back, downward mouth face,
mail it back with cool intention.
AGAIN, TEARS
again andy is crying.
all the days he is crying.
all the days he is crying about how he is so sad.
all the sadness he is being
brought to the door by horses.
all the horses he is bringing round to friends' apartments
“love me and freckles breath will warm your mornings”
all the breathing on his friends' faces
and subsequent condensation
making his breath
on their faces
rain like andy’s many tears.
THREATS
“you know that bag
that had had that drawstring?
you know i liked it?
you know how in the evening?
when you go to bed?
you know how on the dresser i
got the glass roses?
how i organized them
small to large?”
sometimes andy warhol felt the
way water was as something of a threat.
he was hoping just like a book
open in a hand.
