the billboard light
is a broken nose
and the pessimism
of pigeons
almost-
silly silly silly silly
mo
on
on stilts tightrope
lollygagging
we are almost home
Author: Bob
Instructions Found in the Street
Turn it over
Read it backwards
Summarize till
You are left with
The infinite
Cut it short and
Call it eternity
Skip words
Edit punctuation
Subtract
Alter
If you have access to
Another universe
Collect mirrors
Put each piece in your mouth
But don’t be a liar
The Worn Soles of the Moon
The worn sole of the moon.
The haggle of the afternoon leftovers in
The ears.
A slapstick of terror = graffiti umbrellas.
A giggle of blood reaches out for the
Morning,
Unbuttons its curfew elevators.
Between nonsense and fury,
Joy draws straws.
Daises ring ring ring the
Stretching bells of our assumptions,
Like death and the color of sails.
A Washtub of Ghosts
I asked the
Bouncing ball
What time
The light bulbs
Go out?
A washtub of ghosts, said the ball
It’s just
A squeeze of light, the darling blink of darkness,
Came the second reply
The sleeping cat is a fat chance
The dollar amount is traffic
The atoms are a taste test
Genes are the mocking call
In cursive, beware
Red Lips
Baffled like the parchment sun
And if hell is a hula-hoop
This evening has the hips for you
It’s better this way
A heart of almost
Keeps one steady
Crumpled up like a basement door
The seasons are the friction of motion
And if I had to guess
Life is red lips
The nomination of significance
philosophy
before something is real
it looks up into the sky
the weather report from 11 years ago
tattooed on my leg
is 20 years old
before something is real
it leaks god
our sun is a star of
1,000
000,000
000,000
000,000 stars
religion is a mosh pit
a deliberate humanism
at the diner, the waiter asked,
does the sea on stern knees
catch its fish by hand?
Mine are the Boots of Incorrect Math
Mine are the boots of incorrect
Math.
I begin in puddles. The rings of sky. The graph paper of spring walks. The footfalls of ghosts.
Don’t close
The windows, the draft
Is my fault.
Pull up your sleeves.
Or don’t bother.
This year April will be
A composer.
Heaps Of Long Legs
Heaps
Of long legs belong to
The afternoon
I can’t get enough of early mornings
Or swearing at the moon
I eat the whispers of birds
Cough fire but do not disturb the cobwebs
Earfuls of Green Stars
Now
Earfuls of green stars
Carry me home.
Past the torsos of yellow
Yesterdays.
Now
I am the dust they will dig up.
I probe the menus
Of existential twigs.
Hello god’s knuckles.
The sun is a deaf bullet.
An arson of thighs and elbows.
A sabotage of finality
Dressed in an abacus.
Of lost anecdotes
Wrestled alive.
Delicious Ankles
an ulcer of sunshine quivers
in my blood
and i am shot to my limits,
where scrambling for personality
i disregard the urge to cap this boast,
from the treetops of the moon
with secret arms i
scream delicious ankles
equal to a marathon of
leaves
naïve haircuts 