you’re sitting like a bowl of cold soup in the sink
the story
your pajamas would tell
if their mouths
were not stuffed with the hip corny fat
of your last
sink-standing meal,
seeps red dreams
all over your aura
and there‘s only so much
to go around
so you rip a few seams
and pull at your P.J.’s
and soon enough
there’s more room
and the cool ketchup redness
finally begins to chill.


rapid coal-breaking foot chops

The Space
under a wobbley kitchen table
begins a salty glow
not unlike that time
when the water in the ocean
began talking about fish
and just as soon as you began to decipher
went all into sandy gibberish again...
this buttered flame was not to be mistaken
for green nonsense
no, this was a rare growth
teething and pounding under a table
like filling
an otherwise tepid room
with the surprised fist of invention.



all that’s really needed sometimes
Stepping into completely different waters
walking about, that sacred godness
of finding a new voice.



napping in dusty shafts of sunlight

the heat is always coming on
in this old room
it lasts as long
as grass blades
in the spring
under a sweating man’s mower
it seeps out of the attic’s head
the attic
the king of all rooms
that keeps a dead starling
at the helm of it‘s peak
to capture the bird songs
as they serenade the empire
the attic lays with a yellow and brown blanket
made by someone’s aunt mary
out of plastic yarn
the attic
custodian of all the morning dreams
of everything you never knew
you wanted to never know
il bastardo
who lords himself over you breezily,
letting all the heat out.