My bed is only
big enough for
just me,

three pillows,
my phone, and of
course my sheets

Ashtray astronaut
drifting around the
nautical stars

Knots in his stomach
and shoulders for naught,
he sticks his little flag in slots

God, this stupid thing
language! and what of it
anyway? What pleading sounds
can it make, as
no one listens
to poetry anymore...

no, though it turns
letters into cities
and cities into salt
and salt into
oceans and gold.

And from them:
what dumb sounds
do they make?
but a susurration, a murmur
that everyone knows:

one spiraled shell
on a beach like all spindly shells, same
thrumming thrush, rush
of blood in the ears echoed
from the heart —some string
of the loveliest of sounds—  
yet one
is enough.

One is enough, so
of course,
no one listens to poetry
anymore.

I write the same
old, nothing new,
like:

The sky is blue; not
how the ocean is too.

My melodic tune, and
yours a harmonic half-step
shift flows,

going brightly—as sunlight
glows into moonlight

Love or free
who you want,

they're gonna
die anyway

I've not been myself
lately, I've been some
other archer firing off
blanks at a wide target

What's a poet that
doesn't write?
A thing that jot
down drivel before it
got down off its pedestal

Winged migration
to flee from migraine
irritations:

I was the shadow
of the waxwing slain,
flung and flew through
wire flues on the roofs

To be some happier
glove, not on hand

I am the ghost
-of chemicals-
in the air that
slow and
turn to rust

While the droplets
in the air rush to
turn to dust

While I
try to find
some peace
of mind that
could be mine,

the roots of
weeds tangle and
twist inside;

And time
goes by

I felt a
flower
in the sun:
like feeling
without touch