night is filled with flowers and human sores,
yet quieter than love’s frigid perfume. 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: just as long as hell
doesn’t swallow me whole right now. seriously, if i could
taste your lung’s 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
i walked to the bank. sideways like a hammer.
i stayed like a grocery list.
confound the yellow birds.
something just outside. picked up the pins.
the pins are me.
i drifted like a folding chair.
screaming stairwells of dandelions.
sweaty tee of lsd afternoon.
paperbag poems in a transcendental tin.
april of lost galoshes. blackhole feet.
he says all the wrong words
rain angels of sunset bikes
simple math for underwear
the heart that exudes soil
the feet that fit the excess of light
he says all the wrong songs
the popsicle moon was no bird
terrific wind knuckles i brave upon my head
the feet of dusk are a fever and forever
a guillotine of wildflowers
I want to shake hands
With a rain drop’s lungs
Wallow in the dust of stars
Drink the wings of
Penniless thorns
Untie the fins from the
Moon
Ride into the downright incomprehensible
On an outright silliness
How the broken plates resembled
The moon. This was no accident.
June asked, may I march
In April puddles before
I am August? If this banter
Is likeable, neither are you.
The sky is clear of its misgivings.
The heart shirtless of its understandings.
A vibe of sunshine
Goes without shear.
Who will collect the saw
Dust from the changing moon
When we are gone?
death is just the jam
butters my intolerable happiness
death is karate moons
a fan belt needed to cool my radiating exuberance
so i do not outgrow the grave
death is a joke
achieves its aesthetic success
marvels the audience
till they too are on their feet
whispering to stars
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
