The unruly dollar, crying on the phone like I always do

Uncertain daughter, on the altar of the calendar

and ill-fitting dress shirts that smell like stale detergent

An undone collar, closet creeps and dust bunny sneezes

pollen cramming through the screen slats like reverse house fire victims

Sacrifice, make yourself smaller

Lips curling from the humidity. Magnolia flowers, head-sized in your youth, sleepy-smelling, ginkgo splats rotting on the ground. Rotting on the sidewalk and in the brown steel rain gutters. Rotting orange and mealy in your shoe tread. Take care, now. Why. Why do the garbage cans still reek when you walk to work in the morning, when the garbage was scraped out an hour ago, you know because the truck woke you up, and before the sun’s high, even. Where’s all that hot garbage going. But it’s alright with the monophthongized “i”. And why’s the ginkgo with its dinosaur leaves. Why there, so bashful, you imagine, so embarrassed about stinking up the place. But secretly maybe a little proud, in the way only the shit-smelling destitute can be, prehistoric pride, to have made it this long. And maybe the smell’s only alright because you remember it, you remember it being there when you were a little boy. It’s historical. And if you could find other memories, deeper ones, only yours via a shaky, treacherous inheritance, the rest of it would be alright, too. If you could find the secret meaning of the toil that bore you. The toil that’s now yours.

i saw desperate sex underneath the holiday

even the tour bus was naked and blue

i saw secret men grab shiny fistfuls

of wish-wet coins at the fountain fold

and are you sure?

i saw angels scratching the skin under their halos

i saw a label: “made in the hollow earth”

and i’m not sure.

making a house in my mashed potatoes

can we squish this garbage into a world

with sticky jungle gyms for our kids

chisel punch through the bubble sheets

rip sound rings rattles broken windows

thread squares pulled screen door shimmer

step step step step swell of the six-string

five finger magazine coughed up out of

the neighbor’s mailbox like yesterday’s

nail bomb step step step boot puzzle piece

right angle roundabout glass on rubber

step step crunch four corner wet team

walks rolls step down the pitted street

map of all known and unknown pleasures

which will be pulled into straight lines

sawdust sprayed over drip drip dark

wriggle out of the asphalt up towards

the heat of the hum of the wince of the

subcontract street lamp light

squinting people smashed against

cops and disdain and rain

the apocalypse is sitting

on the sidewalk in front of the bank

human body shape disasters

a face like dodgeballs in a sack

nylon ensemble in tie dye

the ATM machine is warm

and purrs softly

and it is our mother

and we love her

playing hopscotch back in time

it cuts you down to soft parts

like wheat through a thresher

the muscles that never get stretched

cool girls with scary bedrooms

cliches that bad people love

it’s a miracle we all don't kill ourselves

shivering organic jukebox

strangling under a tongue

it’s a good miracle

twenty itchy cat-eyed bandits

sunder the collection tray

the pastor blushes embarrassed

the parish looks shyly away

plenty of worn out-people

find they have nothing to say

kitties spend it all on catnip

and sniff the night into the day

the flock wonders after their sins

squinting hard at their wallets thin

“Maybe if we all button up one more button

the Lord won't lead us astray.”

Afghan modes of reflection

when we turn Friday night

upside-down connection

and weak two-story trying

your dusty trepidation

never fails to horrify

groceries walk up the steps

dream gel cut down by the net

we don’t know what happened

inside of that hotel room

we think it might have been

a double barrel meteor show

we're pretty sure we heard

something glowing up from below

a down-and-out with wild eyes

grips your arm with impossible strength

and as you try to pull away he

whispers this to you:

I grew up in a rain barrel and the

weather taught me a thing or two.

Your rituals and repetitions bore

the hell out of me and you should

chase a more liquid rhythm.

which is exactly what i would have done

if i were wearing your fuzzy hospital socks

and i would have seen God in the buzzy

fluorescents just as you did

the NICU grows legs and sprints right

off the edge of the known world as

something unbecomingly upbeat plays

in the waiting room where i’m dreaming

about having lost the whole country’s mail

can you turn the letters into numbers

before the poem turns to dust

the cipher sand is the color of

lost hairs just about to turn to lint

sunlight breaks things down to

their smallest parts

before it wears off we need

to figure out a way to wear it out

pluck ripe ones from the garden

and just stick them wherever

not like anyone’s watching

lately i can’t make contact

making faces out of silly putty

pinching noses from flat planes

i want to tell you but it slides

invisible shroud of hard air

your spirit’s got no footholds

mud and careful measurement

take everything from you

my eyes, i’m so ashamed

where did you go this time

doing difficult parabola math

is it really possible for two

blind blimp pilots to fall

in love without dereliction

of their dirigible duties? i am sad

and i want you bumping

into me in the dark, because

there’s nothing more honest

than an honest mistake

on nights when lids won’t shut we might be unlucky to see

the ceiling looks so still it must be swirling secretly

a picture show of all the eyes with tears we did make bleed

the curtains gape wide open scorning all our desperate pleas

next to us a lover sighs while sleeping peacefully

she knows not what was wrought and if she did might think to leave

you see, we’ve lost some ancient fight

and though stealth into sleep we might

no dream could be so gentle as to break our fall tonight

the bins of sins we drag around are why we’ll never fly

we thought we could skate by on the grace of our good design

fling our old suitcases out of windows miles high

the mirror shows us wings wrecked beyond any setting right

it hurts to be far from the place we thought we’d rightly die

and so we drip vain tears onto dull motel bathroom tile

you see, this time the bad guys won

this time the world has come undone

when she wakes will it surprise her that her lover’s cut and run?

we step on each other’s toes

we bump our heads on doors

we say such cruel cruel words

let’s be slimy undersea creatures

let’s never be angry again

we’ll trade our clothes for fins and scales

and know we won't regret a thing

we could be sharks or dogfish

you’d make a killer octopus

let’s get marine jobs

part-time kelp harvester

assistant coral cleaner

they’re hiring everywhere

sandbar tender and school teacher

daredevil trawler teaser

let’s be simple gilled friends

let’s never be angry again

shoulder shapes fit in complicated ways

lips and noses you can mash together however

if pillows talked i don’t think we’d spare a feather

even two nice people can’t make it two days

you see, a house fire’s a chance to start over

i saw you with your sunglasses and your rings

a horse hair away from tomorrow’s big strings

we can hold hands while the furniture smolders

let’s take a trip to the primordial chasm

we can bring our gadgets and gather the facts

the sons of safe science will dish out beatings

when we find magic animal tracks

a lot of people care about pet opinions

most calendars come with pre-loaded holidays

maybe we’re all just looking for excuses

to like each other more than we’re allowed

in many american households

the father never says a single word

the mother’s waiting to be rescued

hanging on to cliche for dear life

the fort worth news helicopter crashed

into the mayor’s shiny new coupe

there is a lesson

hidden inside of the lesson

there are elves and fairies

kept in cages like canaries

there is a secret principle

stuck in the vents at the remedial school

places get named after people

and people get named after places

honey please don’t let me let you

the last thing i wanna do’s depress you

i'm at the bar where i first met you

i was looking for a chemical rescue

now the windows are wide open

but the doors are closed

it's time for you to get a clue

you're the one i adored the most

smoking on a menthol vacation

you never cared for my fixations

the bouncer's eyes say devastation

this tourist town's staring down damnation

honey please don’t let me let you

i really don't mean to distress you

a phone call's no time to attest to

i only care about our bedroom

Cities used to burn down every ten years because everything was covered in whale oil

and all that grease probably stank to high hell.

Carcasses and old growth stumps

Tar and pine sap crackle in the inferno.

Massacre and disaster and all other vessels tragedy climbs into sag aluminum warehouse shelves with dread-weight and the planet is heavier than it used to be. 

“Look at the little star shapes that the light and water make.”

“Look at the way the silt sparkles from the mica. I used to scratch around in the clay with other little kids looking for big chunks of it. It’s flaky like filo pastry.”

“Look at this.”

Plunk.

“Look at that bird landing on the water.”

“Cormorant.”

“How about this one.”

Plunk.

“No good.”

Plunk.

“Me neither.”

Plunk. Plunkplunk.

“We should plot South before the cold. My bones can’t take it. I think my bones have endured enough. I don’t want to abuse them after all the good they’ve done me.”

“They do a nice job, don’t they.”

“I’d say so. Yours too, it should be noted.”

Plunk plunk plunk.

“That one looked good.”

“I think it’s in the elbow.”

Plunk.

Plunk plunk. 

“I want you to know that I care about your bones, too. I don’t want to seem selfish when it comes to bones. And it occurs to me that I’ve never asked how your bones like the warm weather. And if they hate the warm weather then we can work something out. I don’t want you to just go along with what my bones want at the expense of your own bones.”

Plunk plunk.

Plunk.

Plunk plunk plunk. 

Plunk plunk plunk plunk plunk plunk plunk

plunk plunk plunk.

They watched the rings turn back into flat water, and the sun kissed their shoulders very very gently.

i’ve always been a sucker for a good crescendo

and bruising my skull on a subtle expression

when the sun sets we can start to reflect

on all the old wrong words hanging over our heads

even with miracle modern technologies

i know i'll always feel lost instead of free

how many scowls does it take for a home

to be absorbed by the pleasure pond outside

blue blue jeans still go white in the sun

and all my little words dry out with the mud