like:
i was actually at the
village vanguard, tonight.
electric wind in the
speakers is distant song.
clouds are in my
room, now.
plastic bags
dream.
i'm not actually
mortal, at all.
time and place
are blankets.
i
dream.
you are a statue
in l'academia.
you are not
a cloud any more.
it's all an ocean being
drained towards heaven.
we'll hold tambourines
in marble hands.
every day counts,
or we count every day.
we can eat
book pages.
i didn't need the
city, in any way.
trees can collect their
thoughts off the ground.
we're all leaves falling
towards the tree.
a guitar is the only
axe anyone needs.
i knew where i was
going, sans maps/gps.
each raindrop is
a word.
stars are moving
apart.
stars are moving
together.
the world is my
nylon tent.
my lungs are
weather balloons.

needle fate- prick the hand of
blind sewer/ machine of
the stars, over and
under (the clouds are a
garment, the dawn knows
its place) and wake
the dreamer- we're
all consenting to
vain repetition, old ladies in
a sky-blue parlor,
the ritual of knitting
fabric realities to don
the heads of our grandchildren-
our fingers are like
constellations,
in nebulae of minds
ticking tongues atomic clocks
synechdoches of cosmic houses-
needle fate, bleed the life
in rain and cold and death.
death is a pause after pain
that wakes the dreamer.
in wrinkled linen, soiled silk,
coats fodder for moths,
the needle is small
an old book memorized
and forgotten when a scarf
adorns the neck of beauty.
i hope i'm making heaven's
curtains, and my shirt will become
wings.

"For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow."


in this eternal return,
i will plant enough
fruit trees to never
be hungry. and i'll
give infinite apples to
all the proto-humans i
inevitably emerge from.
maybe my handwriting
will get better, and i'll
write down all the names
of all the stars and sell
the volume to everyone
then
i'll speed-read the book of
Life, and in an instant
           rewrite
it, and then burn its pages
like a cosmic prairie
fire. i'll have endless
lovers
and for each one construct
a windmill, to remind
myself of strife and mercy
inherit in love and
weather. i will construct
a mirror exactly paralell to
another mirror, and the speed
of light will fill the
vanity, forever.
i will become a mountain
and the path
and a weary traveler,
the sea, the
sextant,
and a weary mariner.
i'll take pottery 101
from community college
a million times, and make
perfect-sphere urns
and die a million times
to fill them.
i will be hungry
and eat everything,
and be everything,

i'll carve perfect pyramids
to a point
with endless bases, far
in the dark.
from the top

i will rewrite
good and evil,
and thus author
sorrow, and escape
mea culpa like a weather
balloon, wrought with
unbearable lightness.
i will
         rewrite
this page a million times
and burn it like
an existential prairie fire
then never rise
again, forever,
meeting endless
sorrow
in finding death
in rebirth.

a plateau of platitudes
named palmer park
and this maptangle
is my nest. in the
morning mist, i
refind myself driving
west, insignificance
to the mountains
is my name, among
the trees and houses
i am not much
different to immeasurable
granite. a blood cell
in the city veins
a census number, i
guess; a single letter
in a poem is paid
for with the
city incense i burn
to praise a forward
specificity-

ran away to the foot
of stairs
fell asleep on the
landing.
your tall eyes
your tall eyes
panes i threw
my words
at,
philosophy as an
apparition
haunting this house
silent.
i wish i were jacob
under shoegaze of
stars
and my footsteps
would creek
as they become lit
at the top of
the stairs,
growing bright
as the sun.

the end

/early august./

7-o'clock rain
(it's been cloudy
since 2 or so)
seen through
panes
to my right
and a halogen
muted yellow
by a shade.
the adjective
"safe"
but what's
so beautiful of
something
seen-through?
if muted reflections
crashed through,
would either side
antagonize?
each pane is chapter
written by frame
read by light
and dark.
it's 9 now, time
for the soaking
walker and i
to become
eachother.

when the wick
sends up heat,
does it know where
it rises,
or which shadow
it casts on the
blankness of
the wall-
a flicker to the
edge of the
known, a praise
like the voyager-

where is the glory
in the end of a
prayer, the smolder
of the votive?
a footstep's motion
is a golden letter
imprinted on the
earth. the beauty
of a song in the
weakness when
notes quiver,

a fact dies
a newsprint death.
there is no end to
covenants without
death, as deep as
space where sun seems
like a candle from,
vibrant darkness of a
paper to write
light upon, if only
to be smothered by
unknown.