___________________________________________

The ivory keys
trump the quotidian
of exclusive music.

Who heard
the sounds
of possible daylight:

A pond 
       full 
           of footsteps 
                 are 
         crammed 
                 into 
            the 
   frame.

In this age
of buildings
without roofs,

e-compositional
devices are
heavily-weaponized.

In front me,
a sticker says:

You 
    know 
        that 
            people 
         are 
   dreaming 
     of  
Socrates.

Faces
you can feel
in your insides

emerging out
of paintings.
Antimatter

is the sewer
underneath
the sewers.

I see maps
in your sloppy mop
sitting on the back porch.

Welcome to eternity,
beyond the works
of the human imagination!

Do you
really think
that the future

is a bear
rushing out
to grab you?

My mind’s eye
goes airborne
(tall signals)

when I think
of you.
When you

think
of me,
I am like

a soft wind
across a
Japanese rice field.

Even our dust
has a voice,
like speaking

through
cardboard pipes.
Another familiar Saturday

tangled in the rising sun.
Metamorphosis
from Weightlessness,

like grasshoppers
receding backward
into their leaps.

Images slowly erupt
into debris,
slowly circling

the Wall;
does it know
about the weather?

Plucked
by mighty things,
like a soaked

“Welcome” mat
sogging the socks.
This, a test.

A black cat,
in the center of
panicking children,

is the Mother
of the Moment.
Frigid women

holding themselves
outside of a theatre—
they often look down

at their feet
as if their bodies
were crumbling to ice.

People
annoyingly correct
other people’s mistakes,

but are the same people
able to discover “typos”
in a Mozart melody?

Kites in your words
cover me, hammering
the armor

out of my nerves.
I want coffee
to drink me for once.

“I’ll Photoshop it.”
I want someone
to open my up body

to see the light
within me
that could rival

the explosive bursts
of light
from the death

of a massive star
collapsing to form
a black hole.

Swollen sea
of everyone’s
object-viewage.

A woman
who is proud
of her curves,

the way
a cartoon character
walks in mid-air

for several seconds,
then falls to the ground
for entertainment’s sake.

I jab at no one.
I just walk through
muddy fields with no one

to speak to,
as if Tarkovsky’s eyes
were scanning over this scene,
 
“moving so as
to bring the words in.”
I am looking for a wife

that doesn’t want

to be like Paris Hilton
or act like

an angry pony
in a dance club.
I repeat myself often.

My body,
turning to confetti.
I “melt” away,

becoming a puddle
of exclamation points.
I am looking for a wife

that does not
judge one’s status,
that understands how

Incomprehensible
Comprehension
can be in writing.

A wife that is as kind
as an approving-nod,
that deeply loves

without needing
to construct opinions;
a wife that engages herself

in the divine fruits
of Yahweh;
an entanglement

that needs
no improvisation,
no words

at the surface.
I am a visible core,
serene & waiting

for my redemption.
Stare at me the way 

you would stare at a tree. 

Think of the tree 
as a flower
secluded in winter.