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.

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 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

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.

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

Night is filled with flowers.
Like a twisted ankle this gas station
Smells like a pulled weed. Nonetheless, dawn is a torn dress
Mechanical and tumbling down a hill. Yes, of course I’d like
To go to the corner store and microwave a burrito
With you. And of course, of course, I’d shoot a couple of holes
Of miniature golf. Seriously, if I could
Taste your breath, put your nape on the tip of my tongue
And roll over
Every empty corner of this room
Emptying my pockets of elephants
And butterflies.

if puddles
passed on
DNA

reflections of
elbows
and the biceps
of stars

if puddles had a hairline
to matter about (and they do)
would they grow old

to stir the square
add asides

a pompadour on a rhombus

a quiet
that sold its hands for yearbook promises

a stubborn blue
with numerous white birds
for walking shoes

 

in the dust of lyrics
lost gravity
in billboard boots

in the rubble of stars
a nosebleed
grip
on god

i cohort
i sabotage
i gleam

desperate
shelves
for eyes

a sweaty globe
for a conscience

because pieces of sky in
puddles
are barefoot fires