And so as a man, a job,
a cactus wearing a business suit sharing relations with the hydrant down the street.

A ***** strapped to a baby carriage with plastic baggie cellphones
yelling "run away now"
to the grass at his feet.
A man devoid of water, rather.

These are the times

A well, emptied.

Rather death
find waves of spilled milk and
all the fat people, skinny.

A dry mouth desert, kneeling
In either breath of a living feeling
or the one that talks of so much
for only the wealth of his screaming.

Some tiny furniture talked all night about running through wheat,
ebbing and flowing against the end tables,
then falling short as crumbling tree leaves.
An ottoman as recycle bin holding stem
from stem of watermelon children
and vine-ripened acetaminophen.

Some odd truth told the blowing wind that
God does cartwheels with Lucifer at random.
It then billowed out about
his ***** underwear and holy fodder for memorandum.  

I would say a man, a vision,
A little girl using a GPS to calculate the distance from the rest her teething.
Instead, she found a funny barbeque ***** playing hog-tied pharmaceutical reps into neoprene
mud-flapping pigeons.

I would say the sinking plastic six-pack islands revealing trash limbs,
sunken,
honest,
grim.

Life, itself, must move in tandem to only fleeting geese.
Though in plan, the artisan-picking fruit of word must be depicted.
Live in sin and ignorance much like the
breaking news walking on broken record.
And so as a man; a fear.
He looked down, staring at no one
with bare feet and shaken, coconut flavored palm trees.

400 odd days
some might
accept it,
but with you
I am dead.
filled with water
to my sunken eyebrows.

the tigers now walk with me.
the ones that
walked back and forth
as shadows.
that was not love.
no beast,
nor growl
has found love.

I am without sight
of your
wiry lips.
the ones that quivered
like most ponds do,
having life beneath them.
yours did not.

the tigers sit,
ending tail on my legs
over blankets.
i wish to talk
with them
but like me
they have fallen.

hell
within four hundred,
your legs
that bruise so easily
your guilt
your selfish appetite for
love.

take all of my water
and leave
this place.
the tigers pervert me now.

You told me once about your mother.
Not a lot, but she was a lover.
She would squeeze your hand three times
to spell out the words
and look down for your eyes to know
to squeeze back
as hard as you could.

Then, you took mine.
squeezed it real tight.
and we laughed.

Another night,
I watched the moonlit dance of my
apartment room reds
where another woman lie flat,
knees up and head.

She took my hand, too
to hold on, tight
and I thought of you
right before
She squeezed you to death.

The wall clock refuses to play with me
and I drift upward
as a neighbor and his dogs growl
about the silly and the ******
while the ceiling fan
hums,
gentle and
jazz,
without a cage,
without a key.

A life tastes so much greener
as my legs are unsheathed
like waves that cut
our ring-spun,
gossamery
teasing
continuum
and (to the mole in the milk of your thigh: I widow in desire)
continuum
tickling
your cheeky
ribs into gravity
like the galaxy grains
of orbit that had screamed
into life echoing so much deeper.

The woman I love asked me one day:
"So, you're telling me you haven't felt love since then?"

-"No, I. You know, I guess you're right."

"Well. That's just really sad. I'm so sorry."

And then I looked down
and around
        and swallowed what felt like
                                    a handful of red grapes.

Girl, around 27.
No, woman, rather.
Her youth walked through and hung there, dry, as mine did in exchange
so we pick and choose a role and sidle along the bar where
I am with a perk in the feet, lifted by the ***** of,
but a lot easier than you can imagine as
she lays her words out like warm hands and with a blue bird of compassion,
asks me how I am.
I gripe and she listens in a knowing way then reverse
in very clean queues and open mouths

She says, “They say today is going to be the busiest day of the year”, with a fire lit
behind an eye where she does not smile of her face, but through a grit in the teeth

I laugh inwardly, towards myself in a search for appropriation and then spit heavily onto table, “well, it looks like we both have something to look forward to, then”.

Then angelic laughter where my cheeks couldn’t follow and I am ****** in.

There was a moment then, which I wish could be brought to plate and silver.
a sort of cunning lock between a soul and my own where I hope only to god,
that I’ve thrown a key down river.

She walks out after our matching eyes and mirrored moves
So I watch her,
not her ***,
not her chest,
not her brown, burning hair,
but the still skin of her neck in an open sense where I want to take it in
as if she had the happiness and I am jealous
like a tearing gabble of a baby.

I look out
from a car window
and remember
that I learned to
love the trees
and thought
of all the graves.
Of
all the shallow graves under
the erected deep
where
there is all hair,
lonely and naked,
against the time and rain
as a stage lit river bank
with drawn fire and ice clicks
along the cold side of the keys
to crawl like waves of
timber
among the
oceanic mountains
uttering a small prayer to say
that I am here,
up and coming,
coddled through coarse grind in pulpit about
peace and subtle motion.
All shallow.
All echo.
All graves and disbelief.

The woods all beckon.
The billboards gasp
in a valley of tears
and
I sit
for a long time
and think heavily
at the middle
of my steering wheel
until you push my hair back
and scratch my skin
like shallow cuts
to swell.
Under the erected deep
where
murderous crows lie, scattered
and
her crawl, now
a galvanizing leap.

Northern light and stars
crept into
my window
that wish to
gallop and spur.

i toss at it
legs spread under
different colored fur.

The birds have all flown
in from the kitchen vents
confused about their nest
the one
we took from them
earlier that
month.

They just fold in and peck now
at the windows
the doors
with **** everywhere
the whole place
in twigs.
all feathers
in restitution.

some of them try to say things
with their wings
or their gawking mouths.
i miss many beats
of their hearts
in tragic blinks.

summer has ended.
fall has long railed and winter
finds nest within
ear shot of
the first northern light.
we peck and peck.

I began reading out of spark,
but this little thing has me growling
and I can’t help, but to feed
knee to head and crouching
cornered against walls of a busy cafe
where there are more jaws buzzing and even more capitol
in the money and these flies drone me out
and the words push me in
towards the heated center of feeling
if my heart were a room then it would have an open window because
the fuzzy thing about the lift is that it chooses my head
on top level
to the inclement of mood and allows no cumber
set hallowed and watching
where an angel has fallen,
superfluous in feather
not from grace or worry,
but from break on my lungs with
none of the bulk
and all of the beauty
I am rinsed,
sunken in
revert to push another sell
and the mouths stay open
because the chump will abide
by the cold fortune honey
caught short-changed
and pudgy
looking like the pulled skirt of mother with
curled hands in a toast of the coming season’s weather
and as day pours at fold lines,
the flies really make a killing
which can make a man take notice
of the birds,
and their singing.