Yolk Malfunction. Not Under The Radiator. Room Temperature. For Courtney. Pseudo. she laps the honey from his chalk outline. Mom. Peace Spasms. six billion lion Kings. Prime meridian. fissureman with ichthyosis -Upcholy. stocking stuffers (by morning's night-light).
insert fingers into corners of mouth
and pull that red old membrane out and
over, the abalone buttons
this is like me. Puh
puh puh puh on the floor and then i bury those
pretty things under my arm
Dig'em out now it's cold now!
(but they've really grown under there)
next? Remember to suggest the pinkies.
I like to take the white almonds
from my father's jar.
They're a lot cleaner than
the others.
The pink and blue ones are especially filthy
like lemon furniture polish.
Of course nothing's as tasty as
gelatinous tree bark
when your feet are piebald and raw.
despite the bulges of peppermint,
the redballooncondition
and the oily Bovary moments
you still flash to me
(quickly but unmistakably)
that chaste cresentchen.
my paradoxical child-
i'd love to see the color of your f-e-e-t.
do you remember when we
in curled balls on bed (under
which frightened cat hid) spoke
of waistlinespaperbagstoothpaste?
and we'd stay up all night
waiting for a glimpse
of matteddownblondness
or maybe just a crumb
of tighthunchedwhiteness?
i remember we kept the whole operation
on mute
'cause we were just kids and all
but i still think of that
unkepteyebrowladyness.
serious overstock situation
like the bits of
musical grass, Thomas Aquinas,
and (ever so orange) crackers
underneath your fingernails (at a moment of relevance)
sooner or later they'll tie their logic
tightly so tightly around
your flailing wrists
till it's all just italicized (absen
ce of cigarette) plastic wrap. just
don't let them witness
the chchch of velcro wings
falling to the linoleum.
1. she smells like those baby chickens on her eyelids might be terribly difficult to expunge.
2. she sounds like slippery tap water when it's just the two of us.
3. she tastes like a resonating headboard without the clamor of pulpy mascara.
7 am, and all I can think of is how I need
a job that pays the rent
and a gun
to extinguish the selfishness
they've pinned to my chest again
It's a light show it's a god damn shame
when no one understands
that for the first time in your life
You're healthy, ready
and building something beautiful
First for youself, then for the world.
No mom
I don't need my pills anymore
(they're not the answer this time)
and I'm sorry
I tried real hard not to wake you last night
I stayed up late
'cause I was working on something real important
I had this plan
that I'd start building something beautiful
First for myself, then for you.
stiFFly turtled
suspended forearmsworth
i fork, gingerly, without
rising
as Pendular anthems
spill into breathy orifice
rushing forth--a stillness
Abiding by my inner cereal
I, calm.
I, grAnulated.
sweetly sipping at
the Thunder and Lightening.
In button holes (kindly burrows)
do we wish our fingertips could fit, sleep.
Pull our boots up high
when we meet an honest chill
Knowledge is under the influence
of fallen alarm clocks and
war
m grooves
of
convic
tion.
-One Primal Kingdom.
-Yes, thank you.
-You are no exception.
-Oh.
(pulls up boots)
a p e p p e r e d blockage
like gardens without spectacles
.daily mud raking
unready to point less
root shaving for inky papy rus
pocket paper for bean-drips
,approximately
the evening news:
channel, flavor and latitude.
I am the biggest fish of paper bag architecture
They say “that ain’t bad.”
In fact it’ll get you most places.
But I don’t want those.
Because learning is more than
the work of claustrophobic measuring tape.
Those tight brown walls are less than
Paper, even.
I can leave
my ruler
my container
my fire Hood
at the precipice
And lemon-drop on through.
-What kind of fish does that make me?
I miss black leaves on pears
small orange mutant blossoms
that immediate recognition of beauty
known only to babes
and the lightweight remembering ones
I long for a morsel
and I am a feast
We fumble up trees
me, heavy as some wild creature in
clean, white linen
perfectly awkward-- take my picture.
On my lips, a premature goodbye.
In my eyes, God in chainmail.
already having established
steady stream of flammable
pant-slinging and language
of hollering cluster
they are sweaty-faced
stone-washed
smashing our sleep with technobeats.
motors clanking with logo rebirths
and swampy campaigning,
they chew up coffeeless mellifluence
suck at the slow toes of heaven
bellies bunged
with our Skipping stones.
