A lovely optical illusion is old in seconds and dead in minutes

I remember the camper van; it was the highlight of my day.

There’s always time for jaywalking.

The people who name streets are the people who still use Internet Explorer.

Cumberland would make the perfect photograph.

If I had money, I would live in a fairy-tale for a day.

It’s like a thin cotton t-shirt pulled too tightly over the ridges of a spine.

We would make great comic book villains; we’re already competent bank robbers.

They boarded up their windows, how welcoming.

I wonder how much tape gets stuck to your shoes while you cross the street.

Everyone needs ceramic vegetables.

Catch the light with our breaths.

10th street goes through quite a transformation.

Financial time Deutschland.

I’ve memorized my ceiling.
Every unruly pattern
embroidered to the plaster,
ugly and confusing
constellations in the shadows.

My fatigued brain can no longer
differentiate between dust motes and sunlight.

I want to destroy something beautiful.
Some things need to be
written between heartbeats.
To appreciate nostalgia
you must forget it comes
in soul crushing waves.

I want to sleep for a hundred years
arms of silence winding around my head.
My fingers are slow to curl,
every limb weighs me down.
I’m faced with a puzzle

What is origami.
Where can I burn paper cranes.

A relaxed *** of tea complements
the tide that inhales the sand and
all the possibilities
that come with blackberry brambles.
Something about blue
makes you fall in love with the sky.

Aluminum tigers prowl on power line borders
Freudian slips melt,
eating at handholds
Borrowed garbage is sun washed to the shell.
These pretty monsters make their way across the city,
weaving through wet newspapers from last Sunday,
rolling over the urban flowers with seconds to spare.
They are confined to streetlights by night,
trapped with us during the day.
When it rains, water drips inside and out
the windows fog,
an attempt to keep the rain out.
They pass with a mechanical melody,
the sigh of the sun on their backs.
They are the eyes and the ears of the city,
echoes of rumors.
Everything is carefully worked out,
like a poorly played game of Tetris.
They are the lines that connect me to you.

A chain of beautiful accidents
light up like strings of Chinese firecrackers.

I follow trails that may or may not be blue.
They tip toe to the coast and snake around wild peacocks.

Funny things happen when you close your eyes,
lines from A to B are never completely straight.

I come for the sun and stay for the drinks.
Sometimes my thoughts make spider webs in my eyes.

Twelve doves like fingers walk in and out.
Off centre circles revolve around shapes caught in my throat.

For the long nights I played movies
that I wanted and hated as much as cinnamon jelly beans.

I don’t really know what brought me here.
Perhaps I’ve fallen through the rabbit hole, but

Maybe it was only a chain of beautiful accidents.

I buttoned you into a grave,
you were finally a queen with a crown.
I’ve never seen you that brave.

The telephone lines brought a heat wave.
I painted over our names in brown.
I buttoned you into a grave.

There wasn’t much left to save,
just your faded evening gown.
I’ve never seen you that brave.

Everything about you was concave,
your eyes, your back and your frown.
I buttoned you into a grave.

I promised to behave
and I’m sorry I let you down.
I’ve never seen you that brave.

Dusted with smoke and aftershave,
the car drove out of town.
I buttoned you into a grave,
I’ve never seen you that brave.

It was winter I last visited
with a container separated into thirds,
one for me,
one for you and
one for apples.
Your hair was blonde.

We wove autumn tea out of your cigarette smoke
that wrapped into the trees like a vice
secretly brushing our necks as it built up.
Your smoke left a sleepy trail of spilled wine on the carpet
making naked flowers appear on your arms.
Those belonged to the ace of spades himself
lungs deep in a poison.

You became a dreaming mess,
the phone began to worry for you,
you kept chaos in a syringe and
cobwebs were spun onto the floor.
A doily waits for you,
under the apples.

Here are three hundred and seventy-one letters

write gibberish aimed at me.

We can warm up with haughty language,

cumulus white skies that brim with rudimentary quarrels,

as we watch an apprehensive apprentice appreciating an amateur.

Perhaps a devils activist entertaining a lawyer,

might spin supplementary lie- swathed webs,

Appeasing an imaginary stranger that whispers at night.

Liberate the unsheltered side,

In merely ten lines.