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

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.