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.

There is a difficulty in the west –

A certain sun refusing to move on.

Beyond the fence of a straightforward neighbor,

my sepulchre raided by gulls.

 

When I hear about sand and sea

meeting with salt,

who laughs,

I shred my shrine.

My peace is a blue line.

In my other language my dream

Is disturbing to the barbed wire fence beyond,

So many cutters cutting.

 

My soul struggles

In scorching liquid glass.

 

His thumb print is the moon.

 

On his blessed dark side,

designs of snow,

promise rare and sweet.

Rudimentary songs,
percussive and primal
parade through my hot mind.
In the stew of my stem cells,
supporting my innards like a
parent a wayward child,
a private boiling,
public steam.
My drummer is a bit inebriated,
and so my steps are quadrilateral.
I grow new eyes,
with a cobalt vision divine.

My monosyllabic life—the faint
screech of a hawk having the joy
of his prey,
somewhere beside the statuesque mountain.

I have never known fear.
I construct cocoons for five dollars each,
chilled coffins for five cents.

The banality of spice seasoning atmosphere,
tossed continent at every place setting.
Typically,
I dine in my nest of cylinders and pistons,
but today there is a feast
at the hatter’s house,
and I am invited if I bring my kill.
I never look at what I devour,
I don’t want to swallow the
resentful soul.

I am the raptor in the rafters
of the hatter’s mind,
his goggles giving him
truthful vision.