The biceps of silence
Is how I am certain
I emptied the house
By removing the house
I left the magazines
Is how I am lost
The words
Promised the stars
grapes
The words
Study on
Trampolines
I left the magazines
The apple blossoms
Are
Famous astronauts
I need to fool you,
A bikini of sand washed ashore on a tongue of stars, betting against height on a swing set of sky,
This is no different though it looks the same,
I know I know, it’s not the same,
Someday I’ll shake hands with butterflies like sideburns on the dark side of the sun
Flowers
Are the copper pipes
Of the night
Silence
Crashes
Into the earth
Picks up the sea by its verbs
As thick as lightning
And doused in laughter
Charged to pursue
The cave paintings
Of distance
—
How does the person reason out the threadbare guts of being alive
A love of a loaf of the daring knees of a skinny spring
The inhale of muddy sky and the breathing rain
The ramble of birds and I have not the know of April wrists and fall and drown of the embrace of cloud and soil the rocks and waters and the heave of left it all in the grave grace
Seemingly the distance seldom is alone who is there?
A subtle maybe
Of dusk
Is in the hips
An attentive pinch
Of self is
A bright aboriginal quiet
Doing pull ups in the dark
A piano fell
On you
But has yet to land
And never will
The self settles like a pencil
In a toaster
Whose legs are imaginary numbers
Sweeping sidewalks for
Enlightenment
Needless to say the self
Is wheel ruts if you let it
Speaking drastically
The oomph that is not the self
Presupposes silence
I have made a diorama
Of a mirror
And left it on a driving
Board
Jump
The sea
In a can
Is only
the green ruckus of the sun
What would you have me now do
I am present
What of that
The future is hands in the rain
A pane of moon
In galoshes, the heart rakes
Barefoot in thunder
The fathom
And the gambol
Into piles of hello
A slight solitude
Like a jump rope
Of tin swans
Asks what
bedraggles
The capitalism
Of napkins
A purple sweater
Is a slight solitude
Of color
I answer with a joy darker then
Umbrellas
I answer with joy dancing
On its hands
A slight solitude is a bear
Hug of ghosts
An ephemeral knock knock joke
The knuckles of early April pushups
The liar said
He invented the sky.
I believed him.
He raised the pillars of time and space.
Again I believed.
In return a thief gave me his apple trees.
