My face is full of static
My eyes are absent grace.
What signal can my hands claw for
Beneath this sky scored by power lines?
I am a receiving blanket.
I am a receipt.
In the best houses I am not received.
Watch me decode messages buried in my doughy skin.
Lush lights linger lightly on my legs.
Excess ecstasy jerks in my finger tips.
I have too much of myself.
I am smoldering.
My old jeans make juice from jam.
I’m going to take my face off
and dance with the band.
Please understand.
Dark pink lyrics weave baskets beneath an umbrella.
What invisible hands,
What spacious choruses,
What softly glowing tendrils of words
fill the air,
swelling and shrinking like breath.
What can I put in those baskets?
Old ledger books of unceasing desire?
The sardonic cold of January?
How about a day,
soft with down and warm with good will,
chirping for a deft farmer?
Synthetic oceans tug at my private world,
The glorious ripping tides from two pink moons.
To ameliorate is pink.
What swims beside my boat,
Wheat colored, round toothed, bipedal –
That I cannot recognize as one of my own?
Insinuating sorrows imply
I haven’t earned my crags and gashes.
What a diamond life I lead
Under equally asymptomatic rain.
In the indispensable dark
A radio waits
Fuzzy with signal.
Can you hear my hunger in the static,
The sound of my teeth gnashing overlaid
With the crackling
Like music?
I wear a necklace of thirst.
My forehead is emblazoned with
The idea is in the umbilical cord.
My shoes light up.
I cannot walk without marching,
Dance without dreaming,
Scream without reading.
I carry a satchel of books.
The first one reads,
In the aftermath are bunnies and prose.
The second reads,
Math is Armageddon.
The third reads,
Armageddon was yesterday. The aftermath
Is bunnies and prose.
Uncompromising clocks are miserly with me.
Mondays are not miserable at all.
Monday is a week in infancy,
Filled with promise.
By Saturday there is so much regret.
I am chest deep in the wet of Wednesday,
My breath black smog.
The afternoon is another language.
I do not speak.
I was sewn for Sundays.
The dance is lost in translation.
My feet are visionaries,
The floor a diary poorly kept.
To the right,
A sprinkle of justice.
To the left a topographic map of indecency.
Give me all your semicolons.
My story is not finished.
Give me shoes of air.
I wish to dance in my own language.
The baby search engine crawls on my floor
Eating cheerios and spitting out good advice
He will never understand.
To remove a hate stain from cotton,
Whitewash in bleach.
How do I know the little search engine is male?
The way he references his own expertise.
Miniature Moon 