The translation function is broken, but I am 
still trying.  I spend too much time in front 
of the terminal.

     A work path turns into a burnt sandscape.

Hate-hyenas eat livers.  In a cupped hand, I 
touched warm oatmeal.  Blue eyes have no 

taste.  Even morons can disrupt the stew.  In
a widget world, the corner brick is crucial.

     I heard angels singing on a mount.  I wanted
to kill them.

Carnivore teeth can strip the conscience.  The
clamp-screws close and crush the skull.  Rats 

gnaw through wire meshes.

     A passing car is full of possibility.

Angry days are like summers in Burma.  Life hangs
gauze curtains in front of its peepshow.  Where is

the raw churn of turbines.

     My tongue craves you — more than death.

Creativity speaks through the prison phone.  Safety
glass crumbles into rubble, on impact.

     Each footstep is a loud gunshot.

Helium balloons won't keep clowns from the
cliffside.  Twisted sheets forge a weak


     I wonder whose eyes watched you undress.

Streaking dandelions sting my feet.  Where is
heaven found?  In a lintel closet, you keep 

leather shoes.  Cambridge is a mile away.

     The skies ache to storm blood.

Ecstasy can't contain your flood.  Angels sing
hymns on a mount.  The arc of dawn closes.

And everything begins anew.