Blood in your fist mud in your veins

the thickening of mist a clot

expands

echoes

steam from your mouth like a fuzzy ghost

and you fall to the floor a fine mist now

rising.

I’ve got a head in the back of my eyes
and it has just mushroomed like a rose
bud and I have no tuxedo jacket to clip.

What came first the moon, the egg
or this fucking head hole head wound?

If you hold my head up at the right angle
you can see the moon like a telescope
through a window of flesh.

All eggs must fall.

Babies come from ovals

and my forehead is ovulating

new blood in place of old life

and I lie on the ground

a vaginal wall of hot peppers

this throbbing head burst

hurts like porcupined fire

and the more forward to death

the more looking back life

the more I ache this womb in me.

Open to something born.

I always clean my knives before I kill

and twist the blade pull
and twist the blade pull
and twist the blade pull

and the splunching sounds

record an index

that even head wounds have good days.

We eventually become lower case i’s 
without dots on top.

They roll off

tongues

into deep openings

the dope oceans the moment to a hissssss

yes the drugs help sometimes

they help sometimes

to smile.

Thomas Fucaloro has a book out through Three Rooms Press called "Inheriting craziness is like a soft halo of light".  He is an editor of Uphook Press.  He expands only to release.