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12 June 2015

Paid time off

At the end are the great halls
where I go to wash
the footsteps that brace snapping 
legs.  Every day through metal

doors a jarring lack,
an unfamiliar return to pearled
floors and joints of laughter 
left to spoil.  In the smear

of a closet I hide my ashes
and ready the mop.
But the cleaning has already been done.
I'm just tumbling the bucket.

06 June 2015

Rut

Shrinking—
rather opening—forgotten
coats, watches for solid

sopping mock ridded

perfect, foretell deadly
fence posts.  Behind—a scarecrow.

Loose views inexplicably

perforating the "Wh-"
asked trickily, "whistle."

Barded fingers less

their debts blessed
aver unwanted wants

turned down alley clacking

round desire.  Waists
swell, worlds behind

recounting from the inside—

veiled curling dries
on glib limbs.



02 June 2015

Memorial Day

I came to your past
while you were away.
There wasn't much
that was mine,

so I stole your dust
and let myself
out.  This is love
to you.  This is

my love to you.
Motes in the window,
from pockets
from China,

from pants from you
to me.  From motes
from paper from dust
and too much

that's not me,
or the past,
or you, from you,
my love.  To you.

29 May 2015

Clemency

When the storm 
blew in he curled 
over his desk, 
clutched its lips, 
fiddleheaded fingers 
over and under hard lines.  The worn

range of his spine
pushed his shirt back 
into pale blue 
continental relief—
an ice age melting
in the rain.  Old, scarred winds robbed 

him of paper clips
and misguided
kindnesses from traveling 
coworkers: the smallest 
Eiffel Tower, 
a box bearing a painted toucan, a globe frozen 

in glass.  Lightning 
split the office, shook 
his grip.  Rising 
away from the future
unable to cleave—
he thought, "I should have eaten lunch."

19 May 2015

Hollywood and Western

It is wonderful. 

Early enough in the day I can say 
that the world has died.  Vacant mornings 
rest people.  

I'm not that old.  I shouldn't order 
for the world this way.  My back shouldn't seize when I set the dog food on the floor.  

I shouldn't grip the remote control, which will be gone soon.  I'm going to bury it 
beside a sidewalk palm (no one has 

a backyard anymore).  My remote my control 
deserves awareness, like 
dead phones and dead friends.

I will bury very early on a morning
with these laundry-water clouds and the ground sagging from the sky.  No hole—

the dirt will be pliant.  
I'll push the control
all the way to the deep shrinking things.

"Ha ha--in a thousand years a broken person will find it, and show a morning like this mop bucket morning."

"Next year the city will uproot the sickly palm and all remotes all controls.  They will fill 
an unsuitable land."

It is wonderful.

15 May 2015

January 21, 2014

Oooh I wasn’t talking to myself talking
                                          I was talking to the dog

Only if you can find his owner before
                                                           she gets home, she hates dogged.

Oh he likes me, he must be a male—Mind? Mine mind minimum of course
I mind, you can't keep that filthy beast in my         house.
Laughter you won’t even know
he’s here.                                  She has to say
it’s okay, too.
                                                 That seems fair.
I've had it, I've just had it.  In

the past

                                                  few days
I've been turned down for every part-time job.

Right.

It's deadly steady work, they supply the uniform, and you're married
                                                                                                               to God.  Woof.



04 May 2015

Leaving and leaving

Many textures
striate the thin place--
the last push against the chasm--
that founds contents
through division.

The divets 
between tiles
and handsome men
loosen the teeth
of handsome women.

Bone dumb music whistles 
birdsong crushed
under pretty shoes
and kneaded
pretty hands.

Flawless air un-pockets 
tacky grit, pocked 
faces, and stock feelings.
It falls through tunnels.
It touches every edge.

These enclosures
of the senses
blind shells to the 
longing of waiting walls.
With improper

intentions, rounded spirits
strike false notes.
With proper questions, 
the room would roundly wring 
out its ashes.