The poet's frown is hung like the trophy rack of a 12-point buck. [2011]

[It was not hung upon a wall, but from the strongest branch of a tree located on the other side of the driveway, just outside the back door and in front of the garage.]

A portrait of one, hung above one, upon a numbered wall.  The portrait is (of) an accident, and it is similar in composition to a smile, though it is not written.  The number on the wall is twelve higher than previously stated.  Math.  Smiling.  The wall (itself a portrait), though artistically rendered, is neither distant or approachable.  Neither can be seen as an image.  It can't be counted or assimilated.  (The tension manifesting itself is an amalgam of three base elements: judgment, subjugation, and disease.  These elements can be found -- hung as invisible entities -- within the frames of every room.)  Another is a frame.  A frame collecting frames.  [A collection is a series of related entities framed within a certain context.]  What is framed is an image of twelve frames gathering within one frame.  The frames are numbered, as is the frame, and they are gathered, like the other trophies, in the room outside of every room.  (At the dining table, five familial others are engaged in mortal conversation and the gnashing of deep-fried meats.  An urgency throbs within them, an exaggerated, irregular heartbeat.  The waitress, herself relative, takes note of their orders and their degrading languages, then scurries off through the dining room.)  And the smiles are token shells of an empty chronology.  Counting them is empty.  [Various mathematical systems are employed to assist in calculating the distance between one emptiness and another.]  Empty is every other room.  Every other room is where every other room is empty.  Empty and counting.  Counting is the distance between.  The numbers are the times and they are hanging.  Empty.  Between.  Above the empty, accidental heads of those posing for numbered portraits.  Portraits are one and one.  Portraits of one and one.  (Taut returns to the leash one loyalty.  From the wrist of one it extends to the length of another, tugging at the joints and tendons of another, as if it might rise, to reveal itself a kite string, attached to the glorious kite of another.  And this taut kite string, which is an artery, will reveal its attachment to another, and one will find that the leash extending from that loyal wrist is a bloodline.)  And the brush is the trophy in the chronology.  In the chronology between one and one.  Hanging upon a numbered wall, smiling.  An accident.  A misconceived accident.  A misconceived composition of an approachable accident.  Beside a smile hung upside down.  A trophy, misconceived smile.  Framed.  How many points are there in that image?  

[It was cut down with a steak knife and transported -- upon the hood of a powder blue 1976 Volkswagen Rabbit -- to the local butcher's shop, where a small Polish woman in a blood-stained apron smiled and made meat of it.]