in the trees the twigs at least can still cascade
accomplice you said but what does it mean
but I know they’re all the names we’ll never give to anyone.
irony being white hot like the white heat
So ordered by the Queen of Childhood’s House
whose spirit had been stolen by a witch.
their furious thumbs sprouting dollar-bills
You were gone, though your body stayed behind and rose
Anne made her soup in there. Mother set a lampshade
beside her father’s torn neck.
Surely I understood the tragedy of exchange watching
The children running around with mirrors.
just above the powerlines
already it is a season
That’s what i wanted
To do for u
Now the van is driving away, and the boy
going home is not the boy who arrived.
Some guys take straight dips of instant coffee
between their gum and lower lip.
drink ride or stand
sit or lay my body down
a blackbody can be red or blue or another color. The blackness is theoretical.
on this brutal blue
dot is constructed of elemental attraction
line at the HyVee 33 minutes’ brisk walk
Always reached for a body
Made to last
that makes me certain
New York is not safe for art
no excuse o cat it’s evening
He urged Terry Gross to bring her clarinet to his group
And see what happened (she didn’t go).
They’re always surrounded by small graveyards
Supporting occasional ghosts, fences and a few flowers.
like the parents of butterflies
careful among what they’ve left
you’re someone I’ve never met,
quite perfect, intensely lit.
Not insomnia but bartered weather
Prints me off this chthonic
To life on mars,
is a star.
Billionaires are developing a Nano stamp.
Hope moves like a micro-sail.
in my heart. No explorer goes that deep:
Columbus discovered nothing but his own likeness
therefore it rises
—the charred snags, the whole forest that carried on
I wanted something sick, a thick throat of pearls
Your lancet window let in
very little light.
Christ crucified on antlers of an elk.
Bring on the operators, equal and unequal.
I do not consider sticking my hand out the moving taxi
just so I could see the wind catch through my fingers.
I think to make folded birds
across a sea of black openness.
He drinks his coffee black without sugars or creams.
As we all know by now, power only has one chin,
because the angle we take its picture from is always up.
by the problem of proving
that I exist
on cold nights, open the chimney
so the sky is the one
adorned by smoke
He was about to say something, but
I put him in a sonnet,
Or no. The way your body contains the pain
that eats it whole,
to be a trinity to web
my voice with florets,
dilating my bones
his colorshifted city
We have disturbed our child
Two marks thumbed into
providence, bled dry under
her palliative snowfall.
singed in red chilli lattice, latticework edges
into the mouth of a devil who smokes rosemary
The thing I call myself has aged a bit,
its atoms exchanged
this endless trial isn’t the calculated leap
to your hunger to the priapism of your bloody mask
the next gone down/ in a bullet or razor/ a narrow escape
We covered her
and propped her in the sun
while the neighbors hummed
drop enraged with weeds I don’t want
anything can’t bear anything I learn to
Gatsby, the green light’s gone, sold for some girl’s folio
left in a bathroom stall.
The tree means a stolen playground taxied
by light, a twin obstacle pendulum switching sadly to resolve
impulse crammed into a doppelgänger.
Gary Cooper sketched alive on a train.
This last line, which no-one will know if crossed, pops off layers
into the spaghetti-pit of treason as eggshell poof goes shyly
where the knackered poor kids may breath.
When I talk like that, of extinction, then what do I talk scattering
the ice-heavy magnitudes beneath the crowded kiosks of poor-will.
Wearing that voice that doesn’t fit, like a leg film ballooning a text-
cradle thundered into meaning by the niche finality of Haribo
Through kitchen windows, she points
at my sons playing in the rain. A steeple.
The bell held in its throat. I am
Our dads were being jealous
of big houses
No jostling now in
this darkness between us,
Do not believe the mushroom’s
bid for isolation
Wit and mirth are scarce.
gave me, a fuchsia, as from my west of
Story is best friend and long-found love.
the cliff and waiting for earth
to move. no quake came. too
Baba Yaga, take the lampblack to my heart
Approaching, proved less insistent
Than her humiliating new desire: again
The dare to jump into early-year water, elastic unsnapping
of bras followed by bounding, wooden din, down the dock.
The collective conscious
is in my right pocket, and it’s a clubbed
One more and I’ll
throw the truth,
Wishing stars drove
three blocks in
I kept the scream
in my throat.
You sit a few seats down
and rub the red marks your socks made
around your calves.
A new scar rose like a tooth
on the knuckle of my index finger.
not all the time
get closer to the screen
Degenerative complaints parallel with sense
All there is to do is watch the wick crumble
Relying on the postal service as if it was a right
Dipping into social norms without fear
How prone to a design of carbon-based stars
Turning our heads instead of our minds
Whatever I do next, it will be this, or not this: I can’t
do otherwise. In this respect, I can be said to be a fatalist
0:30yes and i guess it can be spirit nationalism squashes
in a relatively new field carries all nineteen hundred