The red
In my socks
Are damaged
Clouds.

Especially
The more
Ruined end
Of the couch.

Early March
Fills
the mouth
Of the sun
With the craters
Of being.

I spent all morning
With
A trilogy of daises,
The
Galaxy
In my ears.

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.

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
Of

Your ambulant thoughts
Are not stay at home caddies.

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