this is a collection of short divinations culled from old school notebooks, the backs of job applications, floppy disks, and other scattered places
hover the colorful dots to read
poem is a color between orange and purple
poem is a color between orange and purple
our alchemy
turns avoidance
into progress
the author stands
in front of an audience
of chairs
that hold silent offerings
to the sin of endurance
whinst
separate the three of us
arms blazing
flank a fork pattern
into the reluctant field
worried
about our girlfriends fidelity
we sit smoking cigarets
and talking about television
on the beach
three boats
and three clouds
frame the tide this morning
for the murder of night
five black birds
form a flying jury, cackling
acquit
acquit
acquit
people get sad
after they get too smart
and then they always try to
think themselves out of sadness
which is ultimately really dumb
and here we are
at the end of the world we know
still incapable of finding ourselves
a poet
wants nothing
but to emerge from its cocoon of words
tearing the pages in half and laughing out big blue plastic tears
from each glass eye
as it dries its wings
under the old exploding sun
bravely, for you
i navigate this cup of coffee
i unpeel thursday morning
to find hollow bursts of night
the italian mosquito hunters
set off late at night
in groups of one
new americans
slide down the night
one left his sweater
i
dreamed
a poem with numbers
two
with a third one below
the
great
glowing oracle
of computer
shows me tonight
everything
i will never hold
and we wait
for the women to come in out of the rain, smiling
with a paper bag full of jellyfish
suspended above our heads
men
still make pyramids
from which to throw their mistakes
we are
picking geometric shapes off the ground
and you are late for school
or an audition
or somewhere to be measured
'twas a skinny
tie-dyed bird
a crane that in reality
was a spider
or a machine that reeked of one
out to attack us with its beauty
i
drank enough
that
with her breath
dried on my glasses
even the street signs had souls
tomasso
in the hall
is making a time machine for noise
he says: only sound can travel through
make more coffee
write more lines
wait
and watch and weave
the toffee of time
and now
we come here
to the bus stop
where neon lights flicker
and men rap about mortgages
and women give shape to pants
that have lost their meaning
she slept
in a room made out of skylights
under a glass blanket
and coveted privacy as if it were a pirates
every day she woke
giving birth to an odd object
ugly word, world
broken cloud, and
the bus brakes squeak into birdsong
a
pillow case
full of forks
is falling
from the fifth floor
no reason, no reason
just luck, excuses, and mothers
and beer for the men
who ride their own need
like an old red wagon
