somewhere we might be beautiful
at the interruptions of light or
the cross sections of earth or
        now

we’re all faded in the sun
dried out and tossed away back into the basket
like someone else’s ***** laundry
        and
someone else is coming to fold us over
        again

we’re barebacked in a black hole resemblance
        just ******* the light out of the laughter
        kissing the nothingness off our skin
try as i might
i can’t get the taste of tragedy out of my mouth

you and all the lullabies in languages i can’t fathom
i have no idea what the hell you’ve been saying all this time but
        it sure sounded nice
like a nocturne for the nobodies,
the forgotten as a body politic

so fall back outta the spaces between us
i’m just trying to warn you of the curves ahead
of the caustic lovers curated by the utter carelessness

the words are falling from your hands in the form of snowballs
chucking away the weight of what you believe about this world
we hurl ourselves at the wind under the precept that

        it’ll hurt less
to think about the things wilting underneath
three inches of a solution
melting away with the rest of us

The sun rose
Flickering on the pink flamingos
Being graceful
By the gold-glimmerish riverside
How has it become that,
My fantasies have become my days
I hope this happiness
Don't get washed away
by the waves

I am a borrower
collecting things that shine
all stashed in cracks and hidey-holes
where the rafters meet the roof
in the basement floorboards
lift one and you'll see
the treasures I've collected
two gorgeous glassy eyes
seven gilded antique buttons
a bouquet of sweetly fragrant lilies
a gleaming jar of pixie dust
three noble barristers
an Irishman netting butterfly dreams
a sorceress of the endless prairie
windmills like soldiers all in a line
the saddest porcelain doll
a small brown bear
trains screaming by on underground rails
a sprinkling of desert blooms
six jack-in-the-boxes so I'm always surprised
the hairless stuffed dog that bit me as a child
a Rickenbacker bass softly riffing the blues
a farmer's Ovation to accompany my woes
seashells that sing the ocean breeze
a merman from the Northern seas
tucked away in every space
packed within each sweet hollow
these simple pleasures I have borrowed

The ghosts of old raindrops
mock and scold.
Their scorn writ large
on these dusty roads and in these dusty throats.
To tote the barge but not lift the bail
ain't no kind of protest.
Spit in the well and
hope the master draws up that bucket-full.
Wishes.
Still, the giver of life
serpentines through this valley
like the Euphrates did
in that one book, but
it does not matter
since the scythe swings
in such wide circles
this time of year.
We can bring in sheaves until dusk
then fish for men in the morning but
our souls are still corrupted.
Our hearts are rotten like old pears.
I'm so thirsty.

I've never read The Torah, but
I'm reasonably sure
it is a travel guide
for a desert getaway.

I've never dreamed of
red headed priestesses
who can move their hips
like cement mixers.
They probably have sharp teeth and
slender fingers.

I always thought that
the cosmos would bend down
to give me a dap.
It still may.

I'm full of dark and weird judgement.
All for you.
Sometimes the darkness wanes
while the weirdness lingers.