cold coffee

slow november bugs-walking

sulk of heavy fog

melancholy

hades-shadowland

early morning broken glass

where in two dimensions

is without an and

end of sun-time

crunch-leaves tickle

whisper livings out of

darkness, low down

so there i'm

on a mall walk those

cheap mall shops hawked

the thought of silver

not its substance,

also plastic pearls.

strolling under an

imitation clerestory

i saw many glimmer

ing happy-wrists &

laughing-necks strut

Macy's truths

"what will you" (buy)

to mean "love" he asked,

but i didn't know

real pearls from

candy-spheres. then

the moon stared down

east-west streets,

pocked mark face

"i pull tides out

of sand beds to life,

living oceans i

invented on the

beaches and deep

down." which is

why i threw my

money on the ground

to stare instead of

buy

last night's forgot

to capitalize, (or

put on shirts) got

service though,

didn't wear badges,

reap or sow

but were

hunter/gatherer

gothicly defied

gravity in unthought

cathedrals of sky

beautiful feet forgot

ten and found

in scribing the ground.

conscious now,

fast food/fresh plucked,

a thought place

bo for reality

or the other

way around,

either way. are

'nt what we

are/think/do

logos.

wary to betroth

words, those apparati

crystalizing beauty but

clumsily attached

to self. rooms are

'nt arms, though: we

go to live in houses,

maybe move in

3 years. delayed,

to soften sharp feet

, by choice

of shoes + blouses.

i have sense

(vector) no

form. i will

wake up to

morrow changed

as the day

ceases at ev

ery footstep

and born again

are we. i am

not the same

roses bought, plastic

boxes, clear, stacked

in grocery-store fashion-

could crush them

in my hand-

fragile and

malleable (modern).

the petals adorned

thebed.

could have been

for anyone, now.

love is served

in single pieces

scattered from a

hand, not thorn

bushes, drawing blood,

old as a

stonewall.

to

under

whelm me,

will do.

to build

too tall

under

mines

all and

it own

s me.

it's no grave matter that
you write fossil poems
underneath
skin-soft facts and
clothey dross giving way
to their own kinds of
mutability.
i want to read your bones,
to boil you down to
stuff found in books
about the past,
check you out of
shelf-death, hard cover
pressing dirty hands like those before.
i want to know you live
and dig down through your whens
to trace behind skeleton pens,
i want to read your bones.