These kids can't cope,
don't eat on time.

They stomp craters in sidewalks
on their way to the
culling.

They choke me in comet tails,
blear beauty through brains,
cursing at cops,
stooping to saviors.

They streak their spit like evidence.

These kids get angry,
get plosive,
like it was kissing or grinning.

These kids get angry,
and I've yet to say thanks.

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.

When I saw her again,
I learned she named
all her pets
after exotic spices,
like cardamon
and sweet flag,
flavor she found,
life she had earned.

"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.

While I while hours
and wonder where to be,
by the time the *** is empty,
I like the view from here.

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

Every little
noising,
some dried-out
decision.

Like a tax return,
once or twice a day,
I wondered
when you'd get here,

thought about ways
of making you
spent.

we missed each other like bricks,
talking into navels.

each sighting uneven.
always just leaving.

somehow we made home,
kissed bellies,
and met.

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

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.

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

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

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

Building
marble men
to admire
or hate.

We should
tear them all
down,
and climb up
ourselves.

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

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

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

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

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

Like pianos
or ovens
or puzzles,
some people
see mornings
and know just what to do.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Lizards, snails, birds, and *****,
tobacco plants,
thornapples, obscure types of
buttercup.
Pinecones, arrowroot,
the more striking moments
of fossil remains,
foreign fish and normal bugs,
a terracotta monkey.

We took the things that matter,
gilded them in squares,
glassed them astride.
We enshrined your lazy gardens
in a temple on the cheap,
reminded you to
visit,
to look up
at the world around
above.

The stone you strive against
with no success,
becomes the perfect
welcome wall
to rest your head.

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

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

poems accumulate
like ash,
are made to breeze away.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

I made the books on my shelves
straighten their posture,
I dusted lamps and practiced jokes.

I bought new things
for you to sit on
and next to.
I wondered which fruits were your favorite.

I suddenly
grew clean
and brave,
because I knew that you were coming.

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

My eyelids are a coiled bolero,
a bear trap,
a battery.

My tongue is bitten with
careful measure.
The skin of my teeth,
a dormant antique.

My breaths tilt forward
to the next dry season
and downbeat ignition.

I keep faith with the calendar.
I worship the prophet,
the savior spark.

you called me an angry thing,
said i blamed the leaves for falling
and noticed you less.

i loudly disagreed.

but as i watch you call for cabs,
scratch your ear,
and pack your books,

i miss the angry thing
i used to be.

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.

the hours play pianos
through the scaling
spiraled
march of truth,
out my window
afternoons,
fleet of foot
and sharp of tooth.

stranding through the moments
come glimpses
of tomorrow's
news,
inked in future
blacks and blues,
just off beat
and out of tune.

surely there's a braving
somewhere
waiting for a
nickel rube,
selling something
old men use,
softer eyes
or faded suits,

where sighs are money,
and sleep is grace,
i can settle in
the spot they've saved.

You fanged at me so proud,
but I only eat poison,
I only kiss snakes.

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.

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

There's other colors too.

Thunder, it soothes me,
and quiet disrupts.

Must I always argue with everything?

You projected your voice
to the backs
of ninety theaters,
even whispered asides
to ballrooms and arcades.

It would take generations
to see your domes tower,
to call you to curtain,
our line of sight
at last
unobstructed:

You crafting your
cantilevers,
you setting the stage.

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

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.