Matthew Henriksen

The roof can’t keep out
the sound of rain, nor eaves

ease sleep.
Tangled silence,

as you said “drown,”
drowned, stirred our vacancy.

Muting discretion,
our lips danced back

at loss, our ring,
where meaningless

plungings in a rumbling surface
(how the deaf dance)

in a lot full of rain
stared back out:

with distance, a warping,
so we won’t come single file to burning shelves.


Holy tissue made of glass,

my tongue is a flame
you touch with your finger,

a flame I try to swallow, bitter
little bird I am, mother day.

Pass&eacute History Testes

Screwed brain to spine with nut & bolt
but forgot the washer in your pocket.
Make money, dinner & love in the closet
with the closest monkey you can afford. 

You love the monkey because you must
obey the law of a desert skull. 

Make your river snake. Tail feathers
fake a virile imagination, when every

monkey knows you oblate doom. 
Oh happy chance to’ve made

your life a feature loony tune,
and the gross product, a pearl

of cum on a cactus, does not bloom.

Matthew Henriksen is the author of Is Holy (horse less press, 2006), Another Word (DoubleCross Press, forthcoming), and Only Grows (Cue Editions, forthcoming). Recent poems appear online in The Cultural Society. He co-edits Typo, an online poetry journal, and produces Cannibal Books, a literary book arts press.