a 'good' poem crumbles in your mouth. it doesn't
tell you, chiding, "this is how i should taste" -
instead decomposes into the loam of ages.
no single flavour is the same
to every person.

a 'good' poem forces open the jaw,
climbing in. it begs no hospitality -
it needs none. and as it clambers on your tongue
(trying to avoid incisors), only taste
keeps you chewing, rolling gobs of words over molars,
wondering when before you've felt them
without knowing.

sustaining life sustains a string of
otherwise insubstantial little letters no better
than ideograms, clicks and chirps
all ones and zeros, really.
we embroider and tack up that
which our minds give meaning to.

let's divulge our flippant secrets in screaming loose voices over the tops of the buildings where they'll
bounce and fall to the sidewalk
maybe on someone's head
our secrets will penetrate their skulls and they'll know us:
strangers becoming friends.
something in us flickers, keening warm red
we hold our breath and wonder
will it
die?

affection: a drug too expensive
you sell it to me, i give it for free

blue laser inhabits the space beneath wet eyelids
eyelids catch wayward wings
wings licking nerves in a paranormal
paranormal rythm          
            
film formingashing  - skin boils over soft
see the horizon line. freckles rise to meet, formal
japanese businessmen with
crazed expressions

the ease with which
a skull drops
puts the weight on your back: piggyback haunt, glamoured golden
his own raw red lids with their fixed tears magnifying parts of
spoilt milk pools ... depth

scream not; he will murmur you
to sleep
and in that sleep draw eights on your body
spirit of pressure and spirit of luck

search not; your ghosts will never
return your gaze

the curve of his smile is tiny in large rooms
but loud inside my skull with
sun colored echoes

infant star expanding
pushes out all but the matter you (might) shed.
one thing: moss hides stone. only burrowers & nightwalkers
have ever seen it, its - inhale . exhale
the space around you hums with enticing
clarity and i imagine even a 
stranger occasionally nearly
thinks about the same millimeter of air.

black ash and waking, scraping plagues
of this modern world will extinguish
makers of entropy, retaliatory perfection of chance
leastwise: Naive won't be aware
of drowning noiseless in the gray jar of foam.

in one spot: the intersection of an infinite number of chances
& their permutations.
produced: a nighttime arrythmia of storm drain popcorn
leather creaks and my friends' leaky sink.
your hand is surprisingly soft; i am out of line
(that was a pun).