Lina ramona Vitkauskas


Your Poem is in the System


It's audio & hierarchical. The all
of nothing that you mean, that

you're meaning
to say on the line

we're holding,
in the system.

You are in the system,
Because your poem is in

our system. In our system, it means
something but out of it, it means

nothing. It's just marmalade.
Your poem means nothing

in our system; it's what it means;
it's something you'd like it to mean

to us in the system, yet none
of it can mean what you are in the

system,           in the



X-ray Gingham Dress

With an excerpt from Charles Olson's "In Cold Hell, In Thicket"


Slip on the X-Ray gingham dress…you & I have no time.

The yellow SCUBA men

on dirty dishes         

of the cosmic cortex

about to spill everywhere.


You said, HOLLYWOOD burns crispy,

that super-sleepy mountain of stars;

flaming sugar kisses we locked in sundrops,


& Gram Parsons is on the prowl,

& the Cucamonga good morning comes,                      

& I should spank you.


You are yummy,

a northwest badger &

you said, oh my god, good morning after I wore

the X-Ray gingham dress,

all geocentric threads—

a hearse to rehearse.



I am inaudible, with the exception of my

roast beef. Here we trade cards, you

with the axe & me in my father's workshop.


I'm against a tangled wall of shadow rabbits

in the X-Ray gingham dress,

& summer announces itself

with a crimson voice,  & a French shutter

is some sandwich.


I set my hand into the cradle

of the vice, each dip & pull

of the dumbbell cranks closer

to crush my metacarpals.

Oh, Charles,

if this is love


"this is the abstract, this

is the cold doing, this

is the almost impossible..."




Flesh for Fantasy

"Face to face/And back to back/You see and feel/My sex attack…I sing for culture..." —Billy Idol


Someone walked into this room

coniferous, quartered

head, their cells


before us &

we still adapted

so economically,


the same furniture,

our numb lamb

limbs flapping, the speech

patterns of outsiders & oh

the kinky way—

that guy is as sharp as a warlord,

that idiot.

This cat's loud purr

hits 73 decibels

& just outside

Vic Berry’s Scrapyard

we received an official affidavit,

signed by physics,

that lust is in cahoots

with "prowess" (or they act similarly)

as they lick a bowl   

or remain seated.

The structure of time based

upon frankfurters is flawed

because we always pet a dream menagerie.

This is our jacked up catastrophe.

It's our movie & it's weeks

of jumping off windmills

with gentalia flying &

of course,