The state of the art fog hides me.
When traveling I go hand in hand with the saints.
The tunnel is at the end of the light.
There is no difference between my moods
And my imperfect soul.
Yesterday is gone,
And his ashes were scattered by train.
Boiling water must be discussed in the pool.
Shivering yelps race to the edge of audible.
There are always claws on our edges,
Steering us away from the yelling
The time spent idling in swimming pools judging extra colors
And into a song on repeat.
Even the acrobats and ballerinas will die in the end.
It was my last gasp
That fluttered across the wind.
Stars do not stoop before moons,
Only before an invisible God. Ringing the multiverse with fire.
Moons are delicate,
Sound like flutes as they spin.
Moons are sleepy debutantes
Over each devouring body.
Stars, arrogant,
Give each other more space
Than is wise.
the thing with Mondays
is –
they lie
that eternal weekend
lives in its shell
at a deeper level of
sea than you’ll ever go-
tethered to the busting
waves by an insipid Monday
There is no compassion
in industry.
you will always be desperate
in the tidal pools,
the diving suit you live in
desperate for elsewhere
Friday,
In his flippers and goggles
Does not exist.
the globe gingerly turns
on an axis she would not
have picked for herself
if given the choice
she has a crush on the
black hole
that calls her sometimes
something about that
event horizon
feels so remarkably other
her identity is unknown to her
not even the sun will tell
her she is gifted
I take a bath with a
Blue haiku –
The fewer the words
The more July the language.
So much steam.
I am a puddle in a pool
In a pond.
When I evaporate
No one notices.
Not even me.
I rise to the brevity
Of language and
Citric summer
Consecrate energy,
Obey the demand.
You travel a million matters
From your source.
Letters overtake me,
Solid empty book that I am.
U kisses me,
I abuses me.
Synchronicity of text makes
My whole story work together
Like a glass machine.
But it isn’t about me.
Book of uneditable extractions.
Rock with respect.
You’ll be dead
And this song will be
Filling the oldies station
Like a bucket.
Rhythm connotes meaning
More than words do sometimes.
Body movement is our base language.
He doesn’t see the mountain
Under his feet as he travels
Only thinks that the
World has pulled away
From him
Miniature Moon 