I used to want tobacco to breed on my little purple lungs
but I’m just fading under the sun without
wanting much at all.

Touch my fingertips and turn to water on the sidewalk
Little puddle people fading under the sun not wanting much
but a little moon too.

Where were grey windows when
You came around?  I took your eyelashes
and gave them to the bees because we’re all dying anyway

So play, tip toe around the clock
I’ve got three keys and one lock and the honeys
all gone To sinkholes on Chinatown

Three times I’ve slowly licked the ash left on marble
well I regret telling you more than doing it.
But I don’t think about it too long.

Yellow suits.  He wore yellow suits. To work, to mourn.  He wore yellow suits and his teeth were yellow too.  But only if you could see them.  Those silly dancing teeth poking through his tiny lips.  He licked him, curling his lip, and I watched the wrinkles come and go like passing waves on his yellow face.

He plucked five dandelions from the garden I found him in from their plastic root that sat next to a yellow balloon. I was on a sidewalk first.  Then stepped in.  I saw his yellow suit.  His yellow suits. Yellow suits.

I stepped in through the black ribcage that held this garden away from Irving Park rd.  Well it wasn’t much of a park.  The stones had names on them.  And years on them too.  The trees were big and I fell in love with a single ant.  I dipped my finger into the maple of the tree and brought it to that man.  And his yellow suit. He sat on a stone with the word “Emma Jennings --- 1953-1989”

Well this rock was young.  And really didn’t look like much of a rock at all.  Mr. Yellow Suits wasn’t looking at that or the dandelions he was stepping on now.  He was staring into the green grass.  I walked up to his shoulder and smelt his ear who had three stray brown hairs and placed that juicy ant on his shoulder.

“Yellow suits” he said, pushing the cuff up on his left arm.  I smiled and placed my fingernail at the bottom of his prickly grey chin. I pushed his face up, “of all the yellow things to love”

Every toe, like a daisy picked and planted,
their roots wrapped around my bones
and licked tips in translucent pink.  
I place each sole on slightly dusted
wood board floor before hearing
the window pane being beaten
by hail, my vanilla skin riddles itself
in jealousy.  I felt lonely
like only the rain wanted me
and not even the piano on the stereo
could save me.  Where was God now
but rendering herself on the slightly
more stable existence of window
panes of dark brick Chicago complexes?

I was supposed to ****
her a long time ago.  Not because
she never loved my toes but because
she did, and she loved them better than I did.  
I remember when I’d lose my fingertips
in God's chest bone and they'd disappear
like a song I loved  but was never the same every time
I heard it.  Kind of like classical music.  
I never remember the composer's name
but I knew that tune.

I pulled the green string holding
my dress together and let it fall. When I die,
don’t let them keep my clothes.  I was somewhere
between letting that dress dangle by the single nail
I forgot to pull from the window sill, hang myself there,
still living so much anyway or sailing my big toes across
the linings of the wood, spun on them, let my threads pull apart
against the wet sill; dripping half opened window.  
But then, to both these thoughts I stopped.  

I just stood there naked.  
Until the sun came over my neighbor’s roof.  
Until the window was dry.  
And there was nothing left to be jealous of.

I wanna fall in love with someone who plays
the blues like floss between his toes
baked under the sun, steps away from a lake
we called a sea anyway.  We sat

their four days, the sand packed under
our breathing vertebrate
the sun never set; only dripped, dipped
its golden fingertips into pleased, green ripples.

He'd watch with me, his rolled up jeans,
pressed pink cheeks blowing against
that harmonica, fingers white, pressed.
I rest on my hands on wet sand, tiny grains

of sunny diamonds.  I sang out
to the redheaded halcyon --
to his slender beak:
*pierce my gentle heart!

her bare uncold body stood on red ice but not breaking
Europa's gentle surface; delicate patchwork of Angelite Rose.
She was covered in butterflies who crawled and kissed her,
******* gently on her paper skin dressing her; peach-fuzzed legs
tiptoed across, antennae exploring her belly and her neck as if
she was a blessing from Them -- Them, and the Moon Bugs,
and The Cosmos, and the stretched sunset wings on the veins
of Pieridae who tickled the behind her kneecaps, fluttered and boasted
to Their Moon, Thirsty Europa, about Her.  She was a house never sought
but found between the fragile glass mountains, who, spitefully, were unmoved
by Jupiter's glow in the horizon -- the sky was half red.  She laughed
at how silly it all seemed. "Do you hear me?" said Morpho swimming
to her eardrum moving from the gentle hairs of her collarbone
like scarce grass. Morpho's electric blue wings that made Lo jealous
and the red ice crave more of galaxy insects.  His slender, tender body
as slim as the legs he pressed into the curled hairs around her ear, "Or am I silly
like unmoved mountains or the air you used to be able to breathe?"

I heard un-hallow crickets
play mandolin in
small city grass strips
far from rubber-asphalt
grips of cars passing
in distance.
Their moon-muscle
remembered
to move silence
somewhere else,
alone and terrifying,
twisting itself
in burning sun towers or
...something like that.
Screaming, scraping
wings of little
creakers; are they
also scared?
Does he beat his wings ******
until the stringy veins
of his back snap
and ******* under
the weight of Sun Towers?
Would blades of grass ******
his open wound, reduced to
whispering
woes into his wake
about his wonder?

My solitude requires nightlights
and their temporal choir.