The Worn Soles of the Moon

The worn sole of the moon.
The haggle of the afternoon leftovers in
The ears.
A slapstick of terror = graffiti umbrellas.
A giggle of blood reaches out for the
Morning,
Unbuttons its curfew elevators.

Between nonsense and fury,
Joy draws straws.

Daises ring ring ring the
Stretching bells of our assumptions,
Like death and the color of sails.

Sequels

Silence is perpendicular

A hole the size of a

Sequel

With eyes the color of pants

A rolling tap tap tap

Of hard to reach matters

Get a step stool

And don’t forget the diving board

——

There is no radius

No angels in heels

No god of napkins

Just bicycle hearts

Pulling wheelies

Leaving skid marks

A Washtub of Ghosts

I asked the
Bouncing ball
What time
The light bulbs
Go out?

A washtub of ghosts, said the ball

It’s just
A squeeze of light, the darling blink of darkness,
Came the second reply

The sleeping cat is a fat chance

The dollar amount is traffic

The atoms are a taste test

Genes are the mocking call

In cursive, beware

Field Study

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

light and sod

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

Self

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

Red Lips

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