Where are you dandelions

On the edge of summer’s breath

The stars are volume and sound

And depending on mass

May end up as holes

Where are you exiled feet

The weight of distance

Is the circle’s end

I published a field study

On the aerodynamics

Of solitude

And found that it could swim

the poem will look of light and sod the vacuum and praise the love and aloof

a stuttering child on a chalk elephant

the shirt of chance the belly of god

the sound of jars in light

I could put it away or put a table in a puddle

tamper with the lineation go ahead bury it will it grow

I will tell them then again not

Silence is translation

A smirk of distance a fever up the spine from the heels

I close the windows to increase the draft

first
sound out
the words

begin with

g-r-a-v-i-t-y

the tulips of a gas
giant

next
parenthesis
everything

(th(e t)ul(ips) of (a) gas)
g)ia(nt

and mostly
last

the idea of the self
just as meaning
really is less
meaning

a grasshopper
on a
concrete whisper

Baffled like the parchment sun

And if hell is a hula-hoop

This evening has the hips for you

It better this way

A heart of almost

Keeps one steady

Crumpled up like a basement door

The seasons are the friction of motion

And if I had to guess

Life is red lips

The nomination of significance

In the spaces between words some find a footing on. Of silence there is no getting one’s head around.

So let them cashier us let them muddle thoughts and beg our wants but never our soil will not ring with the footfalls of clumsy angels.

The hot night of the hot hotel of the mouth.

Because I quit this tenement of capital.

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?