What are the smallest of the names of the words?

How can I interpret cats?

Older endless books?

Melodramatic Mondays?

What a day,

low, soft, and warm as it pleases,

boasting of kittens.

My face is full of static

My eyes are absent grace.

What signal can my hands claw for

Beneath this sky scored by power lines?

I am a receiving blanket.

I am a receipt.

In the best houses I am not received.

Watch me decode messages buried in my doughy skin.

Dark pink lyrics weave baskets beneath an umbrella.

What invisible hands,

What spacious choruses,

What softly glowing tendrils of words

fill the air,

swelling and shrinking like breath.

What can I put in those baskets?

Old ledger books of unceasing desire?

The sardonic cold of January?

How about a day,

soft with down and warm with good will,

chirping for a deft farmer?

Synthetic oceans tug at my private world,
The glorious ripping tides from two pink moons.
To ameliorate is pink.
What swims beside my boat,
Wheat colored, round toothed, bipedal –
That I cannot recognize as one of my own?

In the indispensable dark
A radio waits
Fuzzy with signal.
Can you hear my hunger in the static,
The sound of my teeth gnashing overlaid
With the crackling
Like music?

I wear a necklace of thirst.
My forehead is emblazoned with
The idea is in the umbilical cord.
My shoes light up.
I cannot walk without marching,
Dance without dreaming,
Scream without reading.
I carry a satchel of books.
The first one reads,
In the aftermath are bunnies and prose.
The second reads,
Math is Armageddon.
The third reads,
Armageddon was yesterday. The aftermath
Is bunnies and prose.

 

 

The dance is lost in translation.
My feet are visionaries,
The floor a diary poorly kept.
To the right,
A sprinkle of justice.
To the left a topographic map of indecency.
Give me all your semicolons.
My story is not finished.
Give me shoes of air.
I wish to dance in my own language.