Parisian plastic and crisp churches

Line the rain with loveliness.

At the edge of wet and dry reflections fly free.

I am painted with velvet sound,

eating my turpentine soup.

How lonely are the days baked in my face?

The scent radius of a rose as a unit of measurement.

My smile weighs too much,

crumbles off my face.

I’m sick of fried hair and unstoppable worry.

My secrets hate me and my eyes betray me.

On the beaches are boxes of life

watching the great red shipping containers float on the  horizon.

Simply put

I have no allies I have not bought

And I drink old snow.

Your neighbors know you better than you do.

My hat is me-

black and white and full of

Hamptons zeitgeist.

On an irritable coastal crag a gaggle of

children considers drowning while their mothers read an Amish romance,

while their fathers surf with mirrors.

Lights are scarlet away and foamy.

We have a vast space in the night.

Do you remember how my feet

burned with happiness,

my bones black with jealousy?

I was a rock star on the asphalt.

Scarlet lights chase away the foamy,

ebony space of night.

Does the road remember my feet,

their burning wide imprints hunting for homeopathic

happiness?

There was such a searing black pain in my bones,

glittering and sharp like the starry rocks in asphalt.

I hauled pain with me like water in those

uncivil days.

You always box

Always time.

He is a jazz concert

Do bunny slippers.

Together you the river

The dam was still missing

The flowmeter memory

And jargon like foam.

Open your mouth

And as a family to come