eyelid

me
ta
mor
pho
sis
is
com
pres
sion
of
sec
onds
in
to

marble

be
neath
the
eg
o
lay
er
words
weigh
down
on
i
deal

days

my indecision is rooted in
a dusty window in the basement of
the house on richard's lake road

where dust made the pane
each side a separate cosmos
and in between, incarnation

the residue of life clinging to lucidity
letting light pass through
its fossil poetry

making true discarded pots
and a leather bag
as the greens and flowers outside

beneath the sun sill factual concrete
framing the common descent
of each speck into thoughts

truth of beauty in the unknown
grows in me like  an orchid
inside the goldenrod light

finding transcendence
in a '95 ford taurus
is the best i could do

the humble babylon
columbia is no valencia
we're not shakespearean

unfolding maps and
self, i've never cried
so much, either

putting my things back
on a shelf, each like
store-brand soup

after the weekend
sucked our blood, and
buried color from our faces

i feel subterranean.
please leave my
sacred grounds,

it's no cahokia either.
i'm tired of trans
cendence and

road trips. plastic bags
are the most
beautiful thing emptied

of groceries, pneumatic
angels ascending
, logos aside. still,

it's no aether,
but nothing is,
today. i'm in a loop

a clover north of
denver, but it's night
so that doesn't matter.

water trapped
between
chipping paint and
the brick that sides
my apartment building
are those
fingernails scraping
sky blue sky
sky blue sky
sky blue sky sky
for years
for life
while thinking white is beautiful
or something
. downtown,
residual identities
in your eyelids
pollen finding
a lash
invasion of love
into a crown
of blue logic
let's let
let's let
let's let let
lay in grass and
plant dandelions.
and a tear in this case
is just a symptom,
efflorescence seeps
from the thoughts
of cold
and let's and
and let's and
and let's and and
and go on forever like
every blade of
grass, amen

like paper mache
that never dries

like hands with
unpredictable fingers

like a cavern cast
in paint

like a funeral dirge
for the gut-feeling

like a white horse
in the fjord, and rain

like her hair in
knots and knots

like the way
fruit flies fly

like a seed in
soil beds, and root rots

like the morning to
a million eyes

like concrete towers
on the tongue

like the way
we die

frequently i get image and
identity
tangled. they dress the
same way sometimes,
sometimes her facebook
photo is what she's wearing
today. one is a broken clock,
and the other the sensation of motion. selective
slices and sculpture. graphite
and dna.
tonight and night in general.
i guess i've come to prefer
a sort of embossing
over anything posed
at least in concept
of what an imprint is,
what my image of
it is. still i sit here listening
to a band from 2000 miles
away, from a place
i've never been, and how
real is that?
i don't even eat that
much organic food.
i like that my bedroom wall
is brick inside and out- same -
even though it lets in
cold and the sound of the
train. i sometimes threaten wearing
the same clothes every day
just to consolidate
the two.
i reminisce over pictures
of florence. i reminisce over
non-pictures of non-places.

no one can see me right now.

mouse brown is the new
black, and humility is
beautiful again.