Jerry Trimmell Poems

these twelve hands seem to like my abdomen
becoming acquainted to the drawing of one-hundred and nineteen fingers
fingers too thick for anything soft
is the maximum heat of cloth
...

has caught anything I saw
the smell didn't want
a light orange shadow
beat up wood seem
...

in the chair with the lion's tail
painting the ashes of stepping Anderson
crouched without a recognizable likeness
to the borders of his hands
...

I think Helms and chicken feet
a great torture of knees
rubbing "too senstive" "much sensitive"
it is a dead, hallucinating lucifer
...