Rounded phantasms
With shredded cheese smiles.
What would you like and where
Says the voice from the corner.
I listen intently
But my ears are sewn up.
It sounds like hamburger meat.
A house
Near my house’s street
Was burgled
Last week,
And I wasn’t in the county.
I found a hand saw
And went to work
On my tree house.
Colored with sauerkraut
And bleeding childhood,
I took it apart.
And built a fake airplane
To sit in
And eat tomato soup.

Is it worse to wake

In a parking lot

Ablaze,

Or to stumble through

A door in time

And live that one

Nightmare you always remembered

In living technicolor

All over again,

As you watch the pins

Fall into place

And exhale because they know

It’s about to happen,

And you scream,

But

There’s social tape

Stuffed inside your

Throat?

I promise,

if they told you

just to wait for winter

to feel something stirring

under your surface,

that they were only

partly wrong.

Time is a factor of the heart

in the sense that everything is,

but now and again,

when the sun sets on your

Daily sin,

you’ll feel something pass

through your chest.

it may be a sparrow

or an eagle,

or some existential exit

strategy.

But every day,

you will feel something.

Pull the sheets up, envelopes over the eyes.They have tiny toothpick sticks propping them and stopping them in their tracks. That is of course, if eyes had tracks. Like a train on its way to a town in the West. When I close them, the neon blues and reds and whites shine freedom of thought

 

Unrestricted.

 

America keep me quiet.

 

America, the movies in my mind will not cease. Projecting black mixed with daytime questions. The show is not finished until the house lights come up.

Oh God. It’s 4:31 in the morning, and the streaks of sun sneak in between the curtains. Like flipping a page, the end is here and the next is in sight, pulling at dreams by bootstraps.

 

And when the dawn breaks like joyful Jewish glass

And I fall into my car,

I am crying.

The insomniac paradise of

Raindrops on my windshield,

Drumming like a ticking clock.

Sea salt of beauty in the air.

They are breathing and loving,

Overcome by the madness and the passion

Of this sleepless life.

 

[Because what is the point of breaking

Your day in half?

When you have only so many hours, don’t think that wasting

a handful is pardonable.]

Oh, tears of joy.

 

I fell in love with the air

Line stewardess

As she pantomimed

With a hint of a smirk

And deft movements efficient.

I imagine what she does at home.

If she stands in front of a mirror,

Sharing varying smiles

To see which is best to flash

For 12 hours each and every day.

Does she demonstrate

The proper uses of the under seat

Flotation device to her cat?

I don’t know why,

But I picture her alone.

Prairie

 

The thickly buzzing wood hornet,

runs along a gravel utility road,

crying out to the damp morning:

 

“Prairie, my sweet democratic landscape!”

 

Across the flat broken dirt of yesterday’s crop,

the wind flees from the east,

tosseling and juggling the prepubescent wheat.

The wheat is green like the sacred,

and the sun reclines towards the upward gravity.

 

As the drainage ditch renders a new pool,

the blessed groundhog roams and cuts his teeth,

on the bleeding heart of the brush weed.

He simply meets the market value,

waiting for his capital gains.

 

The dark chested blue bird moans,

her crushed and scavenged eggs.

Aborted by the hunger of crows,

the violaceae turn their faces forward,

to the mourning sun.

 

Voices can be heard.

The day of many has begun,

and the maintaining of livelihood,

continues with eons of practice.

The irrigator needs adjusting,

while the spray heads all attached to combinations.

In his hands,

lays the mesopotamian tradition.

 

Warm dedication to diligent labor,

radiates from the ground,

while the unprocessed carcass of earth,

prays to nothing but herself and the centralization,

of purpose.

 

The white squirrel frantically seeks solitude,

in the confines of an oak,

while the Middle American seeks solitude,

in the confines of his land.

 

Dance on the crispness of a lily pad,

Without dragging it down and soaking it through.

Once you figure out the weight ratio

Of hopes to dreams to steps to rhythm,

Then teach it to your children

So it won’t die with you.

Wound up soldiers

Who march so in time

And delicately,

Like stepping on silk sheets

Eggshell thin.

Reminds me of her skin,

All lunar pale

In my dream with

Rube Goldberg machines

Which tumble through hallways

Declaring love.

Rotten wood houses,
Green and serene,
Waiting for their owners,
Singing folktale songs,
To jump through the broken windows,
But the air marches in
Through panes all full of shards
And spider homes,
And tell the walls
The honest year.
Slapping hands
All over their ears,
The lumber swings open 

The door and waits so

Patiently
for the oxygen
To get bored.