i try to write about you and i get too giddy

all my words knock heads and come out wonky

bumper cars and funny mirrors

popcorn kernels stuck in my teeth

the simple fact is that i love you, honey

and i want to be around you all the time

i tend to choke on letter petals

and slobber all over my metaphors

sometimes these words make my head ache

i know you like it when i’m candid

so i’ll tell you straight-up, honey

i want to choke on you instead

and answer all my own questions

shot in the strings trying to cross the musical exclusion zone

i’ll keep your picture tucked under my magazines

and i’ll remember how you cleaned me like a trumpet

knocked flat by winds of top brass, we used to whip bottles at black SUVs

bars and stems and batons and beams and flags caught in razor staff

how does the party look from down there?

it might turn to brandy if you ignore it for a week or two

do you have a passport for those hips, or a license to hop?

The tank bakes in the desert sun. The rivets are all melting, dripping into the sand. The barrel droops like a dead cock. Once it pointed straight, and spit hot death at unwilling lovers. All of that is forgotten now. Synthetic liquids boil inside of cracked rubber tubing and try to explode. A marching band sweats in a great line, knees rising and sinking. The tuba player collapses first and his skin sizzles like droplets on a hot pan when it hits the sand. Thunder magic has been silent for as long as anyone can remember, and the air is clear, like a prism, like a perfect crystal, and the sun is the center of a vast alien timepiece. And the center of the sun houses millions of ghosts, and they strain at a great dynamo, and it spins, spins, spins. Faster, faster still. In ten thousand years, hundred-foot soldiers will smother this place, pull all memory of what’s happened from the air and shred it and bury it deep underground; even now they approach. Maybe then the ghosts will rest. For now the ancient ways boom out from the tank with a muffled rattle as shells cook off inside.

watch your feathers twitch

double up and make a mess

too much snow to shovel

you spit like hot sapwood sparks

let me lick it all clean

smoke in your pretty eyes

sweep it all off the table

don’t need forks and knives

there’s a song outside my window

all of these little things

carry me, angel, take me away

let’s go to the very last days

where you can stretch your wings

we don’t care about the highway

and we’re bored by the wheel

we get much higher this way

we see every drop that’s spilled

i’ll make you a nest, angel

and you’ll make this thing real

it must be bad in the cities

it must be hell in the streets

it’s just you and me, angel

one day we’ll wait and see

curl and stretch and hum

simple sense comes undone

fit two meanings into one gesture

prayer folds and holy salt

and we are wordless adepts

holding breath for hours

in seconds between sharp inhales

swimming in place like dancers

you trace it with your eyes

and recite it with your palms

a soap bubble is as real

as fossil teeth. but:

i want a vegetable garden

something that lasts

i want to bud your flowers

and bear your fruit

our very own world will be nestled

neatly within that other one

tucked in the margins

we’ll make our own gentle way

my eyes are closed but i can see you

in oil painting detail

i’ve lost my lungs but i still breathe you

goosebumps, eucalyptus and camphor

winter girl, let me melt into you

don’t know where i am or where i’m going

or where that music is playing from

but i’ve got a seventh sense

and i know your soul

i can feel it glowing like amber

angel, wrap me in your wings

take me back home

i know you’ve got your own wheels now

you don’t need me to ride no more

but please don’t throw out our old saddle

please don’t think i’m just a chore

don’t you put me out to pasture

please don’t say i’m such a bore

maybe i’ve become vestigial but

aren’t i a handsome relic?

so keep me ‘round for the aesthetic

or keep me ‘cause i’m such good luck

keep me ‘cause i’m nice at parties

or just keep me around to fuck

whatever my use may be

honey it’s alright by me

just please don’t scorn your dear old horse

don’t replace me with some truck

i am just a winged creature

and you are your own woman

but i’ll treat you just right

if you let me roost here tonight

i’ll croon to the moon

and your nights she’ll clarify

i’ll confer with the conifers

and they’ll shade you in july

but in december when it’s cold

feathery things must be so bold

and i’ll make it all right

if you share your nest tonight

forever isn’t long enough

i want to tell you what you want to hear

and i want to mean it too

check your mailbox for the letter i sent you

i froze some tears and they’re enclosed

forever stamps won’t cover it

you’re gonna need a bigger desk for this

if the mailman saw us kiss i wouldn’t mind

wouldn’t be the slightest bit embarrassed

and if i were an envelope i'd wrap you up tight

and keep your words nice and warm at night

they say you’re either a hammer or an anvil

or God forbid some poor schmuck nail

but i think you’re a a pretty flower

and you’ve got nothing to do with molten metal

and you’ve got nothing to do with toxic fumes

and all those tools are useful, sure, but if i were a castaway

i’d want you with me, pretty flower, to keep me company

i don’t want to build a house

i don’t want to make crude tools

i don’t want to flatten any vermin

so is it so wrong (is it so un-pragmatic)

am i so wild (am i so foolhardy)

to want a pretty flower in my garden instead

when you tell me you want me baby i sure hope it’s true

cause i’m afraid that i might be neck-deep in love with you

and if you don’t love me back yet that’s alright by me

i think you’ll come around even-tu-a-lly

now i don't wanna embarrass you honey

but i think you're the real deal

and i don't wanna frighten you lady

but you know just how i feel

and i don't wanna shock you sweetheart

but you're just my kinda girl

and if you don’t love me back yet that’s alright with me

i think you’ll come around even-tu-a-lly

and i don't wanna make you hurl

but i'm afraid i'm on your wall like a ten-point buck

and baby you should give this buck a whirl

baby you should give this buck a whirl

the sun is washed out in December 

and won’t do much to warm me 

but your sweet face is never out of season 

and when you smile with your eyes

I feel like a gator on a hot rock 

if you peeked through my curtains every morning 

instead of that lazy old star 

I’d throw my alarm clock into the sea 

and send my French press to hell