solitaire hours
      spent
preparing the
         face
they will meet

pour tea
       take cake
       and make
advice

a little butter
    maybe a
     little
      ice

at half past
             three
quote Shakespeare

and
invoke
the automatic
          hand
of
chic

We stand
on the ephemeral  balcony
serving medium rare chicken
wearing ankle socks
savoring the ticks to the decay of perfection

our nights end when their days begin—  
chasing the power that made the moon rise—

Old age is philanthropy
for the failures of youth—

Casual men
tell us these casual things
before they
leave our youth

Rubicon on broadway 
young and beautiful 
in white Cadillacs and Buicks
audio pop gods transmit 
preludes for the night 
through hair waves 
and satellite finger tips

Buried souls are only resurrected
among friends
at Shakespearian rags
at 10
in mind
with wine, no whine 
oh mine, oh mine 
no more golden toads in Costa Rica—
the planet is a metaphor for the body—

old spice and white gum

our everyday gospel

Dear Adulterer

the present is the only girl worth living
for in her bed is where you
always are

time brings about the decay of perfection

always,
breathe

and lend half a knee to the ground

to send naked prayers to the sky
for wifi—
we are supposed
to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

floating lights 
and dark skies
sit on the phantom
heir as chair

a soft touch
a ripple 
in the deep
blue sea

paper chairs 
and crosses
float 
beneath 
the skies
as sheet

(the eye wake
gaze
at merry old
stars;
the ***** wonder )

we are weak
when we 
are poor
and meek
when we 
admit the tongue
did defeat

an old pair
of glasses
as glory

we all
 wither
                  all mouths
meet winter
i hope
to 
see
wall
grow flowers

before 
a machine
gives
birth.

levy the ports
         the burnt ice is looming

plant an ear to the soil
    and hear rain forests singing
    
in chainsaw lullabies

oh, what a wonderful world

Sirius is dingy

By and by,
we lie, we lie.

Clap your hands
to their lullaby
and become their wonder—
96% of humanity
is worth $6 in space
carrots.

The Cartier watch ticks
and some postmodern twitter
handle rocks
a swear jar full of
16th century curse words.

By and by,
we lie, we lie.