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
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. 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
Think of the tree
as a flower
secluded in winter.
