Thunder, it soothes me,
and quiet disrupts.

Must I always argue with everything?

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

You were stern
when we were young
and spared not a rod,
but when you moved,
for us,
you boomed like miracles.

Later, you calmed,
and willed us
your wealth,
tried to share
how to share,
and we stubborn
and stupid,
wielded your love
like bludgeons.

Now modern,
full-grown,
we trace only
our ugliest genes
back to you.

And you,
old and dying,
can climb no mounts,
have nothing new to say,
and we don't call you
anymore.

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

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

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

"It finally got to her that Buenos Aires
was her own private prison.
That's when she decided to run away.
She went to Montevideo
and got a job singing in a nightclub,
started divorce proceedings,
and met a man.

Amado Mio."

If I insist on writing poems about movies,
I'm gonna have to find some
with worse scripts.

Every little
noising,
some dried-out
decision.

My friend bakes bread
and wonders about plants.
My friend burns candles
herbs and oils.
My friend gave up movies
to watch kids play games.
My friend counts crayons
and chews her lips.
My friend gets drunk
and cries for strangers.

I think I'll bob a bit between them,
and chart them all
like stars.

i sharp my teeth at angles,
i throw my hair at people,
i grape the day electric,
and bite my thumb at evil.

Each morning
brightens
visibly
at my approach,
busking birds
and snoring
garbage trucks.

The mailman
refuses
to let me carry
my boxes,
and the bills pay
themselves.

Hands on hips,
popped akimbo,
I just want to hold something
that's angry at me.

We love when children
say words wrong,
and hate
when we do
the same.

We negotiated natural wonders
and local history,
settled on county museums,
filled our days with boring
plans
to be somewhere new,
but not get distracted.

I used to find freckles
and write them down.

Now that I weather
like wood,
I find I prefer
weathered wood.

I should be surprised,
but I don't do that anymore.

novels are rocks
to be kicked and chipped,
impress that they remain.

poems accumulate
like ash,
are made to breeze away.

we missed each other like bricks,
talking into navels.

each sighting uneven.
always just leaving.

somehow we made home,
kissed bellies,
and met.

Feel free
my friend
to let your eyes sparkle
upon the one
you love.

But keep in mind
there is such a thing
as too many orchids.

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.

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

At any given time,
I wish I didn't have
about ten percent
of my too many books.

She's gold
with a heart of a ******,
laughing off-key
at you laughing on-key.

Future temples
will make her prettier
in their statues,
will stain the wrong glass
in all the wrong ways,

and it is just then
when the truth that she brought us
will begin to be forgotten.

After the linens,
I turned out my pockets,
was reminded
where I found you
and how much it cost.

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.

I was born the calm disciple
of a tall templed God,
breathing straight lines,
walking narrow paths.

Now,
in my newer years,
wild things call me by name,
mossy nymphs,
grassy laughing.

I get stirred
curious
boiled
by the trills
of night creatures
and by the snaking lines
of rivers
on maps.

I think I wanna do something scary
in the woods.

Empty boxes bellow
with very violins.

The ones I love whisper,
mostly out of tune.

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

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

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

Angry sparks
get lost
in light pollution
until they spiral
to the bottom
of this season's funnel.

Brilliant blazing warmth
for the night,
then a burned-out
barrel,
next to the others,
a museum of flaking moments
in the cold morning air.

Death is too big
for ten words
or less,
and these bobbing signs
and chanting rhymes
make myths of our meaning.

Or at least
so I sneer at my screens.

I have no right
to ask you,
to stir my stuttered spirit,
to rouse me from my
contemptible
somnolent
overfed
indifference.

Nonetheless,
I have to say,
for better or worse,
this just doesn't do it.

Barring water,
bathe in wine.

If hearts are scarce,
eat seeds.

Without words,
make any noise.

You came with all you need.

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

"But sir, I heard
from several birds
of an oracle below."

"Come in, my friend,
I say again,
you passed it on the road."

Like a miner,
or a lama,
I spiral
deeper,
getting
quiet,
lighting
candles,
to read the backs of books.

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

Dripping with dirt,
I spent all night
digging up graves,
looking for mine.

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.

My fingers through your hair
leaves your hair
through my fingers.

We chase each other
in circles,
cause we like
where we're at.

Edward G. Robinson,
in an apron.

Let us not forget this man,
this onetime massacrist,
now a nervous painter,
now a lonely cashier.

Fritz fries the city
in chiaroscuro rain,
and Little Caesar
offers us a tattered
umbrella.

His hurt face
his hurting-face,
are barely distinct,
a furrowed brow
a sparking heart.

They've come to remind us,
that artists are heroes
and stupid in love.

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.

When you can't ever
seem to
prune yourself,
then just
grow grow grow.

There's an overfilling
happening
somewhere next week,
kissing you.

It's nice to know,
that while i've grown duller,
the stuff inside of me
is still bright-red.

My watermelon thumb
crosses your brown leg,
like a thirsty prince
in a dizzy desert.

I trace bug bites
and stubble,
while you radiate heat.

I feel our whole summer
pouring out of you.

When the sun gets high,
I search for shade.

All these clumsy men
don't know what to be
and do even that
much too loud.

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

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.

Give a penny,
take a penny,
spend the rest on stickers.

people are wearing masks
to keep each other safe.

and i thought 'how sweet,'
and 'of course.'

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