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?

This is the way to lose

By the seams of our nativities

The sea is an inchworm and myopic

The sea is an easy song, too easy, and too complicated for god

And this is how we succeed

Same as before

By a muddled preference for breath

Or the magma of gravity crawling into the bones

Till at a standstill, silence stoops for a hug

And even our dull eyes can tell the difference

Three Fragments

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

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