The red
In my socks
Are damaged
Clouds.
Especially
The more
Ruined end
Of the couch.
Early March
Fills
the mouth
Of the sun
With the craters
Of being.
I spent all morning
With
A trilogy of daises,
The
Galaxy
In my ears.
poem
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.
You left your surname on the chair. How
Will you be walking out?
I think they will laugh. But the sky
Is a can opener.
We should try this foot first. It
Aches like fur and berries.
A romance of psychedelic
Umbrellas. Disheveled looks
Good on you.
You can borrow my shovel.
Let what you
Have lost settle on the stars.
I think they will be angry. The soles
Of
Your ambulant thoughts
Are not stay at home caddies.
yesterday I swallowed a solar system, put on my boots, didn’t say goodnight to anyone
from bed, through the window, a rhombus of birds on parallel lines
today I sketched the square roots of my favorite numbers, brushed my teeth, chattered over coffee: I held the umbrella (rain)
I opened a book, I opened two books, then walked the tracks to just outside the city, smoked a joint
belly flops are obtuse with beauty – the swagger of thunder begins in the heels – goldenrod and the last of the tee shirts
tomorrow the hours will wear a cursive necktie into the distance of lost handclaps
We were nothing
We were only the best
A duration
Molecular connotation
The fragrance of falling
June fractals
Lifting the moon
Primitive words
Planting stars
Hand
Gestures of sky
And everything that is less and more
Than everything
it may have been the late
afternoon on the walls in my room
of two windows and a table a
small trembling
that if given a chance
and the time
reduce mountains to plains
but how it worked on me
it opened the doors to stones
and earth
doors i made buried long ago
or haven’t yet ready to find
a scalding surprise a menacing reminder
on orange-red wings
of the terrifying birth of stars
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
