diamondface

Things I kill and hide are hides
by
cut-and-cover tunnels I took to touch them.
Tutu halos disposed
in tagged dumpsters.
Recital at the gun range.
Banana clip-art.
diamondface, hand of the carrot farm. Sometimes I eat whole chickens and
sometimes it’s now. On highway islands, plaque stains on my teeth.
By someone else’s clock I am late, by
blustering bay weather whether
whirling dervishes were
worth a weight or anytime.
By and by and buying menthols, memories
of German pubs and November baseball.  

And sometimes I say nothing.
By some Sunday some say
I went missing. Or missed.
Missed out.
Missed her.
Missed the mist
of mystery.

Some jungle in Costa Rica.
Somewhere where monkeys
own airwaves.
Some forest too tall to slash and decorate with ziplines
above beaches where locals sell coke cut with talcum,
but it’s cheap and we’re family.

New diamondface, more coal face.

Way low
weighed down
by a face
of diamonds