A swift zephyr
makes a wake through
the slobbering air.
Finally sober,
the bluebells cover their
naked blue.
What is it about a field in July
that the soul vacates the
body at the sight of it?
Somewhere my digital life,
a harried and unmastered thing,
whines for my eyes and fingers,
my writhing agency.
But here the analog
grass whispers in the heat
“We will always outnumber
your people.”
Dictatorial paint
on a lying texture,
a wall covering pipes
through which a luminescent
harm flows.
In the portico of my palace,
a basket of crazies in full bloom.
Growing over the gazebo,
languid and farcical,
unwanted solemnity.
In the doting farm,
new chicken wire is born.
I stole my solitude
from the arms of a child.
A facet of womanhood
flourishes among the corn,
abundant and cheap.
I have never owned my name.
My legs are on lease to me.
Hunting dogs bark,
Searching for their canines.
The rabbits have them,
smile as they wait for the
hungry paws of the unsuspecting farmer.
If you do not eat,
neither will I.
The sheep shear themselves
then snuggle underneath
fleece blankets.
I step to the trough to drink,
crack my face on the water.
I am binary,
a code with so many zeroes,
and you are the one.
You have a thick, plush
user interface.
Use me for your gossamer
sweat purposes.
If you rewrite me,
make me a file.
Organize your unchained
thinking of me.
You are a prodigy of design,
pure energy in an age
of tarnished sleep.
Rifle through me,
incorporate whatever
spherical zeroes will make
you whole,
though you lack nothing,
transmit a rain-laced joy
like a virus.
The last stones are
under pressure.
Diamonds are dust.
Rows of bad things
lights
around my neck.
Something I’m writing for
digital pricing,
The secret between my sin and the spirit.
I adore
The musk of a delicious person’s weakness.
I walk like a ship in the ocean.
I have
a knife to eat,
seaside.
Destruction has not ended completely.
I stay open as an unread book.
My satisfaction
is kept on his skin,
The breakdown in his language,
The rhythmic dance of his need.
Unforgettable desert
Responds to the body of my writing,
Reedy and winding.
Invisible history.
In the heat of the heat,
ask me for the sun.
The X on my chest
Marks the spot.
I am sorry for my goodness,
barring grain breeding.
How can he sing so false?
Stretch out his hand –
persecute me,
my offering day and night,
that reminds me of being happy.
The sunset is a swift color by number
activity set for childlike occipital lobes.
The lines, gradations, numbers
move swifter than mathematics
on the train headed to the sheer city.
All is colorful, cooling chaos.
In my cheese grater,
my education.
In my dustpan,
delicious dead wood
I’ll toss in the yard
for the termite queen.
What a quiet, introverted sun!
She glows softer and softer until
she leads her usefulness to
someone else for a few slippery hours.
In the transparent city,
ravenous mute mathematicians
render an art ineffable.
light as my wedding ring,
the light picks locks
an open room is a dead room,
the possibility of possibilities
closed like a fist.
Open is the penultimate
killer of the night and levees.
What breaches in the dark
but an energetic lockpick
revealing the world as
gnarled as yesterday.
Punched clocks
and punched walls
the craters of the moon,
pulverized rocks in the bags.
I am beaten
like batter in my room.
Jangle.
My door swings open.
Miniature Moon 