Will your life be too smooth
When it’s over
Or the rough of happiness
Caught in the throat
On your expiration date
Death
Achieves its aesthetic success
Marvels the audience
Till they too are on their feet
Whispering to stars
Make use of what you peruse
Aim was made to be wrestled
If not
For the whirlwind in your heart
The sky would not be round
Fat butterfly, obese moon,
Skinny highway,
Hardly the moon
Picks up the light
And doesn’t go home,
If the clouds would
Show me
An arson of flip flops,
The house is a liar
Of rain,
The color of a new
Chair fills the grave,
Concerning the dreams of leaves
The shadows on the sidewalks
Took to rowing boats
The lunatic
Necks
Of the clover
Are ephemeral
Bowling pins
That blink like a bridge.
The end of the day sky
Has a restaurant chin
Like a drive in.
A reckoning of slapstick
to mend
And our daring doodles
To darn our noodles.
i’m obsessed with horses
in paperback novels.
i’ve never read a novel with horses in it.
chairs have four legs
but no eyes.
trees devour the forearms of the moon.
trees devour the trembling branches
of a dandelion’s lip.
even if it’s not, so why not anyway?
even if it’s not you,
i don’t remember anything.
i am obsessed with paper horses,
the sounds of their hooves on pages,
the whispers
of their coarse fingers
apple unicycle bird
barbarian heyday song
sighed the rain in ghost shoes pilling dark rocks on the horizon
ray guns and eyebrows
volcanoes and arrows
are such things sink
their claws into falling snow
not say a word
a silly sleep of fire
turning over like a dream
is something like geometry
but with laundromat eyes
rattles with nonsense
and aboriginal wind
We’re very serious when we are 34
Alone in our culpability
Reassured of our coming
And going like daffodils sniffing
Cocaine stars
A boyish fear trembles us
We are seriously naïve pitilessly
Stricken with joviality
The sun pockets my brain
Leaving only the brilliance of parting
To keep me company
A poem
Black as a match head
Vigilante as applesauce
A wink in the thunder
A thud on the daisies
An illumination
Flipped
On its side
Some poems find their way onto the sale rack
At the thrift store
Others for the piracy of sadness
Some the dusk
Gridlocked between trees
Taking up a yelping defiance
In the defense of joy
