Looking through a stack of old Nat Geo’s found in an art room cabinet is
one of the most sublime and authentic human experiences .
It,being untouched for so many years.
I, being the fist to cut it up for picture projects .
And the dusty ficus
By the window nearest the closet in the further-back, less used part of the
The very aesthetic that I’ve been searching for
Your name is a desert flower
Handed out to me
In the readying dusk.
The canyon walls
Pass a soft light back and forth like Rumors
Nourishing no lost soldiers in this valley .
In breaking several fat leaves from the stalk,
I expose cross-sections tapped for undrinkable fluids
It is spoken again.
My wool sleeves push dry against the earth.
The smoothed edges peel back for flesh
The torn finger hangs from the skin like dumbed ornament
Unwilling to begin the slow decay now promised .
Give me time.
I will ferment a new thing to drink you
And be domesticated [ by the sea ]
don't worry.i can guarantee
that if they where handing out participation trophies
you wouldn't get one
supermarket endcap : ingredients for smores reminds of summervacation and being in thecottage and going to the store late for snacks, and the phone call that comes aboutthe dead friend
as the dog grows big enough to steal the kitchen sponge right out of the sink,
as my arms grow thinner,
as the kimchi jar breaks against the inside of the trash
as the a/c sits tilted and dripping from the window onto the front lawn,
<a̶s̶> people are forgotten.
<strike> as <strike> mouths become softer.
<strike> as <strike> patches fill in.
It’s always trash day somewhere pt. 6
Like convection currents sitting atop pavement in July
Like white slices of paper dragging across the air between your words
You write me off like -
I think I can wash you from my fingernails but-
A new perspective on old music videos I always hated
Not that I like it now but just that I’m different.
I jot you down like
Growing up doesn’t stop
Like a fathers shirt in a picture
I bury my self in my head
Mouthshut and wanderlust wonderful
The wonder years
A couch in my mind
Plush and rough like old stuffed animals
The shore sheds me and sands me down to size
Like a frame on the side table I
Sit tilted to the sun of the window knowing only cool air from the vent while outside cooks the earth with grease and greasy hands
The diner fans push air but don’t let you breathe
Stuffy and heaving
If I were to remake the world it would be dim and orange like darkroom lamps .
Full of ferns and
Like an art installation .
No words - just looking at each other ,
Dull watery eyes and understanding
On the edge of thunder . but never quite breaking