the future floats

I dreamed a trip
to the golden currant
bush of your unending jazz
my fingers comb

the bohemian waxwings
are back
thronged in the
birth mother of
all russian olive trees

observe them for me
you know what to look for
the wind is stirring rituals

what’s your name?
why do you scent the earth with
traces of words
and assemble a bowl of thorns
in the night river?

I’m warm but I still hate you
speak up!
live your sexy miserable music
wear yourself out

a grim revolving snow cloud wanders
like death
the coachman doesn’t stop, he never stops.

cassette tape

why trap a harmless snake?

my first big dog was love,
out of control
often too much
often too little

her full unborn
blood moon body
called me

let go of your leavings
raked thick
the weather has whitened
there is an injustice everywhere present
let your garden go
to the sincere and heavenly voice of

this is the vanishing point
not a crafty painting on broadway
get a grip
self-destruction, remember, is next year.

illness and desperation crawl
through years of counting
yet I’m burgeoning
beaming myself into mindlessness

sally forth now. be on your way
I don’t have time, I’ll meet you in England
I’m not feeling violent or decomposed
I’m tightly sealed blood
in bitter skin
Los Angeles does that to you.

Jackie’s cafe’ was unsuitable
that’s all. It’s not the end of the world.

unmade bed

what history do you shock?

after the chess tournament in Kansas City
I went home to my needlework
sticky honey sweet you
thank god, were there, to assuage the
loss of my queen
effin A.D.D. oh, wait, A.D.H.D now.

I always retrieved your art
from the trash
bagged it in plastic
and secreted it
in the garage

swing and rub
the future floats
unbreakable hearts

lonely boy, you were just the old
man across the yard
a fiction
a dried out belief
a jersey acid rain
true, you had some discipline
admired by those hoisted
to view perfection
but you were, at times, milky,
imprudent, distracted,
you needed an upping to your shape up

oh well.. you are forgiven

we present you with violets
and mid-life women out of crisis
go with them, to lunar eclipses
and start preparations for April 8, 2024

Jamal can help
get him the particulars

butterflies don’t whine
about your prognosis
this is just a grey bridge
over mustard waters
it’s not your ruin
spelled out on rice paper

chop the garlic
read the dirt
go whistle with lizards

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