The Room

I like what you did with the room.

What did you do away with?

I thought so.

Have feet summered

Into autumn shoes?

I brought you some icicles.

It was no trouble. The stars are cheap

Tufts of nuclear fusion.

But I would recommend a parade.

There by the window.

But you are much too quiet

For ghosts.


A demolition
Derby of flowers
On the surrounding

All of this is me: hordes
Of daffodils, cloud
Shoulders, cloud arms, and cloud legs stretch
Vivaciously in me.

A bludgeon of sweetness
In the summers grass.

A cement bock of seagulls
Ripens like an apple.

Cremate my brain,
Feed it to the rain,
Till only a tantrum of dreams companions me.

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
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.