Insomniac shades
let the street lamps
spray the ceiling. I cannot
read. The bay

beside the highway sunk
to mud that frames
here and there a sheen. "Dis

person," some Morse
code of headlights, "Dis
person."

what is it, sunk
possessed by Gershwinjaundiced sick we are playing notes of others, vacant now of the passion that stirred them. but all have always been vacant, only the few who choose not to be fix themselves into the phantom that possesses future players intent on voicing your composition.

the asphalt widens
it is nice to roll
along the char.

futile now? rubber
skin, prod

The insomniac
clouds dull the grasses
I've seen the Yellow Mountain ridges
to Gershwin preludes beside
my desk lamp. The pipe

is full of ash, soot
and remains. Prod
my supine
hand, it is cold.

At our desks and the professor
says Huizinga's cane factory, be
the process om
shanti, glaze

word
to confection, clouds

of it to perfume
with a moment's burn, heap
lest they notice, the arid

riverbed.

Half truth, what the man
in the isle leans
on when he bends
in indecision, his spine

makes for something solid
it is like others', like pull
the dip and there
we are all on the patio

"Mavericks" he says and omph
through chips like grass
whistles,

they play. The crumbs
in the crevice next morning
are already earth, almost
their edges sag,

and so the evening satiates.

nietzsche. truth is right and wrong are survival inconcrete flesh is transient so we build these and "here it is immutable move on" along nothing to see here except false we see ourselves through the world we build through this incontrover   but there it is, stop   here.

agape agape. does modern art take on the form of pressing stream of consciousness because this is the only way falling people can tap into the art, beauty. but what is that but poor order in need of reordering order would be better off in chaos. so is this it then   a progression to a halt to break see it is coherent this way, loss, art is here. death  or we can instead of jump from point to point linger and play a song really.

I kneel to tie my shoes, I try to walk

The snake moves along pavements
its eyes gouged. The solemn procession
of scales best handle the sprig
of green onions before the palm molts
away

the sunbathers scratch oil
from their nose or peddle lunch
menus

cleave through the pockets,
as even the small moon
shrinks when you squint,
and though scales bristle
there is space,

so glide. All the same I stepped
in something varicose
and it sticks.

Returning to my parent's house

My Bichon with gray knots
sighs. Hair mats the floor like soot,
the stools are crooked,
but the Franzia box
is parallel the fridge:

home. My apartment
was less comfortable.

I never minded fleas
until my sheets became a harem
of the slick-skinned
progenitors of "He is a quiet

one, I understand why he did not come
tonight, but at least I did invite," to whom
the crabs clap their claws

sue the withholder of deposits,
feed his dog pins

and the hike up Tunnel trail
showed me State street
and brake lights

I called myself happy before
I ran my nail between the knots
and flicked black beads
from the inflamed spots,

but my blood then
was festering.

The smoke has shed
layers of my mouth,
but it blooms

Clicks at the screen
is such ease, but
simulation. Can we live
strings? Foolhardy

Promethean, to presume
your clay is set:

orange blossom
at clarity, but it is the scent
that droves
of nerves strain
to spray, and then recoil

between the rocks. Effort,
this, but seasonal,
and the moss on the rock-
seat, the spark

and the pungent
release ensures
decay of yet
more layers.

Tendrils of teapots
stained brown and brown
smoke

I only ever use my penis
when I pinch some moisture
and sniff

love, we hiked to the sand
and shucked oysters, tortoise-

shell glasses, now, eyes faintly
there if I squint

your dress is so
tangerine, but you expect
what

shall we live both in tangerine
teepee, dank
oysters, yours
agape

smoke, brown
not cloud-white
must   use
stain.

Mind the barb
on the hanger
as you pull the day's
shirt, starch

and coffee points the prism
at the sun, but wrists
fatigue. Rest,
restart tomorrow.

"Bite the plum:

it soaks your teeth

nicely,

does it not? We miss

you already, but say

before you leave

a little about yourself

Come, drink

let us speak,

savor life." We tipped

our cups,

and there was little too say

beyond recent shootings,

and I refuse.

a glance:

is it inwards

when you pause?

we have let the bird

bath in the back dry

a beer bottle

is in the well

"But speak,

it gives us pleasure

and you would enjoy"

I step to the street

where the moon's jowls

are still, the air turbulent

with hysteria.