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.
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
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.
