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.
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.
Miniature Moon 