Bottled Water Sucker

It is much easier inside the wake.
the one white pressure bubble
amongst more in tote,
in the speed
white water forms
two calmness column rows.

the glass over the bump is easier
and lovely and smooth-
Realizing uniformity-
or absence of criticism
is nice.

We all have had a good summer,
And we all can't believe
it is the last of four laps.
Outside the white train
in front of circled mirrors
we saw our images behind her
expensive grace,
bows and lace.

like the day in a vintage store
pretending to have red lips,
white pearls clipped on the unpierced
cartilage hoisting faithful dark hair.
I'd thought our older selves
would appear like a brand new shade
but it was just her,
not even taller.
If you are old and climbing stairs
do we all okay me,
sitting at the top of the slide,
running in place?

I'm watching a film when we speak
of these plans
when two perfectly lit faces
are always under the shining stars
then two to five upward hands
wave happily bye in the rear view mirror
and two to five others sit just right
in the comfort of fit pockets
or they happy cling around taller waists.

We'd have that envisioned
in between the lines of letters
requesting quieter music
and earlier dinners.
"mommy this is called
Friendship Always Lasts."
All of the neighbors who saw that dance
died or moved,
and the ghosts that taped it all
metamorphosed into real beings
who bake
drink tea
and laugh before and after the sun sets.
These are all full things.

A saturated advancement
placed earnest speakers
in my heart.
I am interrogated,
but it is wonderful.
This is the spectrum
This is the line
This is the tree
where I laid in my bassinet.
This is the bayou
where we've shed our former selves.

osteology

I carried my bones in a bag,
over my shoulder
or pulled behind my heals
by a drawstring.
the marrow clanked over the rocks
and I heard the canvas tear
and felt the decayed tendons
slip through the frays,
into the city sidewalk cracks
by closed down stoops
and hangouts for people
seeming only to comment.

It was an orb
with Xes over cartoon eyes -
electrical lines and wooden surges
callous thumb prints and foraying
encounters passed through me
and the skeletal concealment
like a plane through a cloud.

Various sized hands on the glass
see the fluff essence
as one large color,
when from the grass
the white retains familiar shapes
and names.

I crawled into the bag with my bones.
It was dark inside
and holes from the canvas drag made
polka dotted sense.
This reconnection of the mandible
has made the greeting audible
and the wooden splinters visible
and the paper corners evident,
or dangerous-
before I accidentally cut my eye.

Interaction

ring out the rag
that dropped into the
pool today
absorbing bitters
debris from puddles
and dirty blends
from soles
of rubber
indented mazes
detailed
from a silver
moving track
by smoke

the time lights up and then dims.

The things which are dictated
by one or two obligations

pass,
frailly...

the time lights up and then dims.
The mouths, purple,
and uninhibited panting wades
between the low chairs.
And when the gray uncurling rug
bathes over the buildings and cries
we hide.
I moved the wooden wind chimes,
saw the bricks
and the level from a high leap
then crawled back into illusion.

obligation,
number one.

I'll wait
with anticipation
to become frustration
over a world between two walls
with a scary reality of a failing state of
not just us,
but the world too who's not within the walls.
They shouldn't have been so greedy

about the Trout,
or the fire.

The door beeping
is an echoed laugh to all of
the excuses
about festivals elsewhere, and the weather.
When across the street through
the dark glass
Eyes unpeeled decide

choosing organics,
and acoustics.

On the routine crescent stroll
I stopped and turned
like a 360 degree black sheet
where she revealed herself
as something inconceivable.

Where she drugged,
and talked on mute.

and it's like an immobilizing vision
when I think of it.
A deep breath before diving.

no,
not really.

Anyways...
that house doesn't exactly
match the others on this street
and we need to hurry passed

those men,
over there.

Scissor Morning

Green chairs and sinks reflected in
inescapable mirrors and
art of the wood on the wall.

he had been cleaning the guns, spilling the beer
on the bed.
"This is the fucking end" he'd said.

Some music made him smile on the two-tracks.
some lawn mowers and broken hoses
threw him down the well.

When the crowds of coffee
and five o'clock tickets moved
right on front street,
he was at the bottom of the hill,
burning furniture.

"you have failed".

Away from the skyline
he threw the jacket on the floor
and ripped up every
sincere word into bits.

after the bark thickened and the lids peeled
he remembered some lucid dream
like a headache.

He can see a bald spot
in the inescapable mirrors
but the freckles I remembered were wrong.

A Sonnet Concerning My Brain

The night you killed the faceless boy we ran
into our car and drove beneath the land.
A school of fish began to crowd our lane,
you whispered fast, "I'm sane, I'm sane, I'm sane."
In India we built a bungalow
and hid from civil cuffs, the marching row.
We pranced in floppy hats and skirts that drug-
and ate and drank- from tusks we made a mug.
Our powered hearts and eyes would not sit still--
Those rhythmic drums and ticking clocked the thrills.
You said Polanski hid beneath the ice,
and elephants made India so nice.
Your jungle bracelet broke from pelting rain,
I roll down hills. I'm sane, I'm sane, I'm sane.

Animals and Children

I saw myself
fumbling around,
bumbling over piles of clothes
and yawning.
washing my face
and rewashing my face,
dressing
and redressing.
sifting through the delays
my voice
saying the usual saying.

I set down a plate,
leaning passed the glass wall
and a pair of fat eyes
appended me
'Ill speak with you in a moment'.

like an object of consideration,
calculating the yawns
and the piles of clothes
the delays
I fainted a bit into the cloth,
'How significant is a rose to you?'
he asked.

it meant nothing to me
but I lost my lungs
during the pause,
the consultation-
a lull before a bombardment
of truth.

strengths and weaknesses
formed a palpable diagram-
which floated around
making emphatic notions,
sweeping below the orange
dangling fixtures,
decoyed words
like smoke.

the pros and cons and
light and dark spaces
from the bulbs,
whichever, selectively died.

the space
changed like a seasonal tree
going from lovely to lifeless
within just a few
songs on the table.

'don't tell her what I've told you
but you will because I know you'.
and I did.