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

Your ambulant thoughts
Are not stay at home caddies.

Not so much the clichés
Of heaven, nor the dullard’s
Industry that bottoms civility,
Riches are pittance, power
Frivolous, and fame is a fortune
Found in shallow water,
Rather it is to make life, even if
To little purpose its service,
Never rendered never obsolete

the job of a fool
is to ride the bus
till the heart becomes a circumference
suffices the world

the job of the poet
is to put earnings
in burning buildings

look look a macho moon in reverse
parks in the eyes of city gulls
go ahead and honk for doomsday
i’ve the summer grass
tattooed on the shoe strings of my brain
between the toes of my heart