I am ready
For the perfect legs I don’t remember
The silence of swim suits in the branches of stars
For the shaman to burn my habits and pull the cosmos out of a sock
The sleeveless sun like an alphabet flying a kite
poetry
Heading Home
If I should
Head home
By now.
Back
To the
Strange
Shoelaces
Of angles.
But that’s how you remember
Black holes are timeless.
And
It is in life
You find the words
For words you don’t
Know.
Evolution manages imagination.
Just Any Poem
To perturb the air
The moon
In gallant horseplay
Seems to be as still as a chimney.
Though it has no use for ladders.
The kites on Mars
Are as blue as the sea.
But don’t let depression garble you yet.
There is the melancholy of the heart
To broach this night of shoulders
And elbows.
The poem can be
Black as a match head.
Vigilante as applesauce.
A wink in the thunder.
A thud on the daisies.
An illumination
Flipped
On its side
Kicking at balloons.
Wish me luck.
Red Lips
Baffled like the parchment sun
And if hell is a hula-hoop
This evening has the hips for you
It’s 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
philosophy
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?
Mine are the Boots of Incorrect Math
Mine are the boots of incorrect
Math.
I begin in puddles. The rings of sky. The graph paper of spring walks. The footfalls of ghosts.
Don’t close
The windows, the draft
Is my fault.
Pull up your sleeves.
Or don’t bother.
This year April will be
A composer.
Heaps Of Long Legs
Heaps
Of long legs belong to
The afternoon
I can’t get enough of early mornings
Or swearing at the moon
I eat the whispers of birds
Cough fire but do not disturb the cobwebs
Earfuls of Green Stars
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.
Delicious Ankles
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
elephants and butterflies
Night is filled with flowers.
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. Seriously, if I could
Taste your 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.
naïve haircuts 