The ivory keys
trump the quotidian
of exclusive music.

Who heard
the sounds
of possible daylight:

A pond 
           of footsteps 

In this age
of buildings
without roofs,

devices are

In front me,
a sticker says:


you can feel
in your insides

emerging out
of paintings.

is the sewer
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

of me,
I am like

a soft wind
across a
Japanese rice field.

Even our dust
has a voice,
like speaking

cardboard pipes.
Another familiar Saturday

tangled in the rising sun.
from Weightlessness,

like grasshoppers
receding backward
into their leaps.

Images slowly erupt
into debris,
slowly circling

the Wall;
does it know
about the weather?

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.

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

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

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.


What’s gotten into us is nearly boiling,
a kind of living portraiture.
The day & I are exchange signals.
Limbs of trees wanting to fall with the leaves.
A pretzeled putsch could be nearing.
Kamikaze owls rehearsing
like bulky barbaric cyber bombs,
immediately regretting their decisions,
like the surprising taste of water in a cup
that was thought to be tea. I find myself
on the ground, like Gulliver, into stone
I could be, the formation of gneiss.
Cluttered roads, as if to drive
takes needing password combinations.
Railway Age of “third party cookies.”
The rain, a slow drizzle; delicate to the touch,
the way yellow is comforting to the human eye.  
Windows of departure. Vietnamese greens.  
Autumn trees of chrome-like sapphire.
This Anti-vaccination Movement
ticks off” the beaten path.
Now, overlook the flogged judge
with appendicitis of the tongue.  
There are only two ways to end a Haunting:
One: purchase software for eye-opening information.
Two: find someone with an IQ of 180 or better.