miniature gene simmons lives in my building. he never wears the make-up. I’ve asked, but he won’t let me see his tongue. he won’t spit blood. I say, “mini-gene, somewhere there’s a young girl crying while you stare off into space like that. while you go south”.

some mornings miniature gene simmons revs up his huge harley and it echoes into the courtyard where we live, waking us all up. we ask him, “why do you have to be so loud mini-gene”. he answers, “I was born like the bullet from a gun stupid neighbor people”.
we don’t like it when he talks like that. it tends to knock out the hot water in the building for some reason.

miniature gene has his tough days. he sits alone then, in his underground studio apartment, at an angle just below his only window. he hums in ghostly perfect tune, usually a song by the smiths. over and over. “there is a light and it never goes out…”. on the television across the room you can often see part of wolf blitzer’s head with no sound coming out of his mouth. every once in while mini-gene will scream, “fuck you blitzer, you C.I.A. lackey”. and later, after a few more drinks, “it’s okay wolfie, it would be wrong of you to change now”.

the morning has antlers. water on the backbone.

it sings laceration.

a cat named speedy who used to jump on the counter when I was doing the dishes. yellow gloves over hands. stitches in the water along the same spine.

the continuing oxygen. intention in the way you picture a face. or the way it comes to you as a surprise.

all the other faces rising as one as the train approaches.

inside a boy bends forward, his hands clenched behind his neck. he mumbles something none of us can hear.

seven a.m. is school uniformed. another breath of stories for the receivers watching it come like it was never there.

oxygen slips in with the key, knocking it down. an easy reading of the lucent.

on brittle mornings my only response to the soft spots is take them in. a hymn for the lights in any chest.