Cross the bridge
Tremor of paths unfit
The fight extends, pulls
"Range of pleasure,"
grit of the fake
all wonder functions
according to the (I) will change
hustle fall seeds–
"And you want to tell me how you cannot
understand when eyes overstand a
shallow voice, hemmed-up lips, uncrossed legs,"
corner on you
higher pitched and higher
childhood stories (parent and sibling)
roaming heart (trust in)
"I could hum the tune for pleasure, please no,
the photocopied timbre,
blushing–blood backs into whispers over clout."
Gold still yellow oval kitchen table
arm rest fits laugh memory
all plugs chrome salt potato
adoring your central role
eating times these
instances of vased arrangements
orange too blue to white
(jealous refrigerator heckles with currency)
you withstand on all fours
have been swept around—
cajoled tangled spilled rubbed.
Not for a clammering iron skillet or toaster
copper fork prey companion spice
(wait in the dark while the offices are bright)
always home in aroma
primary collage, informal coatrack
soon there coffee
hot news, keys, kneading—
So clean, then more, a ceiling is never too high
when stacking means more.
YOU are a tongue, an open mouth, a state masking me
you stay circa 1959
said you would,
that day, you,
were found in the back of a farm house in Sonoma.
not gangly house plants Goldie Hawn might have
but combat boots (jock socks) on electric buses
slivers of whipping eyes
momentum is everything.
thinking in watercolors
act in strobes
at ease is the way
veal scallopine is ordered at
Il Giardino's Ristorante on West Portal
smart big smiles
Party invitations handed out on Castro street corners
for a crowd without crowds.
Doomists (dead Marilyns, Morticias)
draped in sludge
begging for a nature they can stand.
The piercing sun on morning nipples
waking this fine day
spokes and jokes and fax machines
better dizzy than without a deal.
from a bored biospheric tofu fiesta
are under-nourished shouts for slight metaphors
eyes, but not ears so quick in judgment
so shy behind stereo walkwoman and numbed
by private auto exhaust.
They've killed the French Horns now youth is left where?
(know someone who goes fishing and builds homes
with his hands)
Yet taxis with turkeys and hills without land make
for wonderful catches
facades I can stand.
There is no quiet in imagined rain.
[Teach the ear—
how a gift unwraps]
The sandwich is ready from Community Blend
plastic discarded in appropiate bins—
The place is nothing without its sins.