work poem

the toes go first

i'm looking down
i'm looking down

you're zipping up

i tell you about
scarf tying techniques

kung fu and ping pong

they're not stereotypes they're true

i shake my head in the wind like an early human

and shake up the hot hands in my pocket

looks like i'm masturbating

to stay warm

a group of white men

guffaw over the homoerotic statuette

and say this is an awful place

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visions

Two trees cross each other.

Gargling in the late morning

I remember not to imitate jellyfolk.

I spit, make sound.

No, it wasn't a vision,

it was quite real. 

You and your barefooted visions.

I wipe my tears away.

People think I'm a fool

because devils and angels 

like my company.

I am a child sitting in grassland

that sings of still Heaven.

When my mood drops

I take water through my lips

and smoke through my teeth.

The landscape boils, air

becomes semi-solid

turning us into ghosts.

All ghosts cry.

I cry without bitterness

or reproach.

I turn toward your kiss

on my face.

cardiac

What of writing
that does not touch you?
I am inside the sun
and all touches me.
In my narrow line of life
I dream up all the splinters.
Waking quietly
walking outside
chewing still night
and rubbing my chest
over my heart
where pain dulled.

cookis for breakfuss

And the very best thing of all
there's a
counter on this ball
so skip it, skipit

two zingers four dollar tacos
vaguely that night i became less serious
even if i could've come back that day
paper of the same thickness

what an odd method
i reach into this bag
and put paper in my mouth
two times i took one
but it was homework

so whip it, whippet good
i sat on sunset stoop
make sure i can't leave
bring a friend, something
dumb in the short term

now regular unemployed
tendency to giggle job
work at temple
necronomicon job

never sounds like the moments
that come out of my mouth
couldn't get through the holes
couldn't get past their eyes

all night falls on a red brown house
it pisses itself from the central air
and gets dwarfed over the years
with more friends around the corners

tenmen

At her party
there were
t   e   n   m   e   n
to each woman
and there were two women
he sold vinyl and pretended
to ask me the question,
"isn't poetry dead?"
but I'm not