Every little
noising,
some dried-out
decision.

I flip you
like pages,
you make me
ticker tape
dizzy.

They think me sad,
disheveled,
too loud
at times.

There are bugs
who bounce
and flit
between
the same empty
things,
who would ever,
who would ever?

I imagine you
mopping,
mad
but determined.

I wrote poems
for half an hour,
so I guess
I still do that.

There's a river city
close enough
to pin my sloppy
dreams on.

You can't clean yourself
with plaster
and tile falls
like water.

Like film
and candy tins,
old dull things
seem more
on purpose.

You washed
your hair
in your
dream,
but I
did the
same
just now.

I was blessed
when you found
several seconds
to twirl for
me.

I blessed you more
with many magic
manic
hours.

We were both so
stupid
and so blessed.

Always admire,
and never
respect,
a man with a
bag or
case.

Men without bags
or cases,
do whatever
feels right.

"It is nice to fall down
with a pretty woman,"

I wipe my chuckles
on a nearby
beechnut,
then dare to jaw
you my open
hand.

I watch old movies
about love
and loss,
and all I can think
is how
they smoked
different cigarettes
back then.

I think I can
admit
that all I want
to write
is poems.

But for
so many
ugly days
at a time,
I am empty
of even
the fewest
words.

You always think
some physical
thing
will change
the
*******
air.

Tomorrow
and tomorrow
creeps on
such
a petty
pace.

I take
propranolol
and it makes
my jaw tight,
like mushrooms,
but I flick
my fingers
somewhat
less,
and I'm less
distracted
by beautiful
things.

It's so nice
to be so high
without doing
a thing.

It's so nice
to be so high
without doing
a thing.

when i kiss
your clarinet
fingertips,
i honor
the arcane arts
that unlock
ancient melodies,
lifting
catacomb curses
and stirring
restless devils
within me.

How can one be holy
in this world
and not also be
a fool?

I wish I were brave
enough to babble,
ashamed to not
be naked,
knew enough for now.

Knowing better
is not being
better,
and Brother Juniper
runs
to do good
in any wrong way.

If you struggle
to make
your eyes
meet others,
such magic
can be
learned.

A stranger knocked
on the wrong door,
so I showed him
where to go.

I spent a penny
on another,
and now it's
raining dimes.

It must
be hard
for you
to say
nice things
with such
long teeth.

I took a week off
to draw maps
on your legs,
so that whenever
I felt like leaving,
I'd remember
why to stay.

Some long-haul trucker
told me about
a buffalo people
who have very
light souls
and bathe themselves
in seeds.

Coffee is for
mild apologies
and introductions,
sometimes to
yourself.

Sometimes it's nice
to flick a finger
and make
pretty heroes
happen.

The stupidity
of children's songs
is second only
to forgetting them.

I'd like to
be lucky
enough
to take
some mountain
for granted.

All the best minutes
are lost to hours,
while many
moments
marry us
for years.

I love all things
cheap
bright
and
fragile.

I remember
our soggy ears,
barefoot braving
the asphalt,
jumping
from white line
to white line,
checking
with our
angels
how much
longer
we could be
brown,
loud,
and young.

This bed
creaks
and swings
when I
shuffle
and shift,
but I like
the way
it makes
the most
out of
moonlight.

I'd change clothes
more often,
if you would only
come around,
make days
not all the
same.

There are parts
of women's dresses
that have
earned
specific
names.

I'd like to learn them,
apologize,
give thanks.

Birthday cake tutus,
bobbed barbarians,
these children
screech
when they aren't
dead-eyed
or
cackling.

I could move
so much faster
if I knew
it was toward
and from
only paint.

The heights
and plummets,
the Saturday
rocketeering,
all look like
gentle slopes
from space.

you send me sheet music,
i juggle jargon back.
i parse you all wrong,
while you squint
and rub your temples
at all the dead languages
falling out of me.

A man told me about a woman
who lives in the desert,
eats only locusts,
honey,
and whatever's
bad in you.

Carry her to a nearby
nexus,
under certain stars,
and she will whisper
things
that only foxes
know.

She has a website,
and all proceeds
go to the
truth.

I'm at the point in summer
where the heat doesn't hate me,
but bullies at my being,
like a hungry cat
or pop song,
will not go away
until I love it
like a brother.

Dying artists nurse
on youth, beauty,
and foreign cities.

They think that
making marble
is their gift,
and not simply
the belch
of their overfed
souls.

I'd like to learn
the names
of trees
and bugs,
so I can have
new words
for the place
I always am.

I found
socks
and poems,
a cat,
found
get-well cards,
under my bed.

If knocks on doors
frighten you,
think of the courage
it takes
to knock.

There's red,
there's white,
there's blue.

There's other colors too.

I get dizzy daily,
doubting deadly.

I go mad with
breakfast,
and manic
miming,
chaining
choices,
changing
timing.

It's not
choosing one thing
that smalls me,
but refusing
all else,
like a spoiled
king.