shiny

    dogs to rest, forlorn prowler
midnight- fork in the road
passing on the macaroni salad
             structured on the backs of ants
             hives of bees
the acquisition of literature leads to
full on fucking suspension of disbelief
as the bright lights of future servitude
shine in your eyes like the most horrible
of birthday cakes

south west apex

they've got boxes i'm in. top of the chart
emancipate the printer, and all could be free
but nothing is left. down the backward side
hopping in lobster bins, crashing through
philistine fences, luddite passphrases.
one more alum-sleeve down the hatch
one less worry, one less dream destroyed
screaming at the moon on a warm bench

for Garth

   beneath the tears of trees
 light through air and dust and smoke
blessings upon blessings
       the high-roller cartel cruises
       along a rusted trail to next to nowhere
    extra spaces dot my 't's and cross the whatever
    the spiritual guides of my brains manipulate
    universe thoughts, set them on a toast and pop
                                                them back into my neural oven until
 they're just greasy enough to spoon feed a church choir
and if that doesn't make sense, i don't know how to console you

upholstery 2

                        the upholstery shoegaze is a better bed than most
                       for a shit kick sunday holiday

upholstery

         so too may i have missed the mark
      so many before me seem to have been
                                          stuck in the mud
                                         flapping rudders, with shit grin gazes
                                                    the backwards confuse that i won't take
                               my dimly lit yesterdays always seem to
                           make some sort of dimpled impression

paragon blush

the warm chill with the fan off
through a portal, porthole, screen window
the jays rage, the light scatters itself
amongst the organized wreckage
cracks in the wall ponder the notion of
daylight strangers.                                 my mason mug
                                                              sits upon its thermal pedestal
                                                              and watches as the slow rising
                                                              star of the east makes its
                                                              diurnal journey to the well
                                                              charted water world

hats

backwards garbage truck
unfiltered, unloading
packing down and picking up
and dripping along the stretcher row
of another tin can funeral,
and another dimly lit patio stoop on the moon
two more days, three more weeks
fog hat construction sounds
and extraneous wreckage of a high caliber

perpetual jobs

he sits in a box with a big hat
a big hat
and he pokes and prods through papers
and finances. insert disk. press enter.

machines have their legs and they walk
but the chains of bureaucracy(i can never spell that right. write. rite. the first time)
chains of thought, trains of thought.
whole big fucking armies of thought.

get the mop and a bucket. we're gonna be
at this one all night