Cleaved from the breast of a hydrophobic stone; I found solace
in disremembering. I stowed away on a barge of flotsam.
Carried the weight of my teeming delirium
all the way, to my tiresome revolt.

Like a Gunga Din... with a bucket
full of wishes. And a bucket
of holes.

I only slept when the dreams stopped.

As foretold.

I'd much rather wish you well than wish you luck.
love turns up dead but for some of Us... it's just Us.

II

Try as I might, the azaleas are doomed.
I slip through pumice and overripe plums
to only always, very nearly -
as I somewhat almost always....
however seldom
or merely.

III

Love is how you get from here to there
without killing a god.

while chewing on the sandwich i was given
i failed to notice the ruffage and the soil of my glamour
only the ludicrous measure of my apathy and passion.
only the girl of my memes and the maladaptive gnomes
of my moveable feast.

i saw through the aerosols and the Hindi.

i ate nothing but net.
i slept with a barstool and a comet.
and asked you " Why? ".

and said, Less.

just a sliver of cool whip-thin
and some sumptuous appraisal of our unbelievable
Love.

I cast the first things that happened to Us.
and kept the windy trinkets that mark things as for real -
to better be happy and something other than
a wish on a stick... and a mattress.

and Life is Laughing...

let's exchange mercy, and be done with these tiresome discords...
to better suss the remedy to our distemper, and quell the shrieking
mule of our workaday demise.
let's be more than friends
let us summon the quilt of all our charms
to feather our bed of nails... and together, lurch into breezy
aplomb. let's become one.

the kind of one that nothingness looks up too.

Asleep through all the nightmares i've been keeping.
Seems like a drug that I had a handle on
was slipping... I kept a bird in a cage
to evoke the sky to save me.
i had wings enough but nothing so much
as anything happening',
only the worst happiness
and a crap rapture.

II

" New York, can I call you? "
I'm sleeping through the windswept plains
with my filigree tucked in my boots
and all things strange, a whisper
in my Lager.. just a mumble
in the  dust
of my last
confession.

and a marvel

the song on the farm is the same. death sounds like morning.
harvesting hens and sawdust... we feed the little ones and bask in the sun. ice adjacent. our overalls polished by plight and random
creekbeds... wholesome and defiled by happy acts
of willful, and a smidgen of pure
hats.