Leaf Linings

In mottled breaths, trees turn up toward hills, show eyes
How paths wear grooves in hearts. And weeds grow up
Around the graves of our one-time wonder feelings.
Mirrorless, confused, life things gather
At storefront windows, looking past fishtanks.
TV pictures show fire eyes and galaxy yawns, photos
From old photobooks of endless shows that ended long ago.
Wishes and tricks all pour from pipes.
And sewer drains, bricks, and relevance rush
In angled motion, sweet tea on the porch
With someone, eleven grandmothers talk
And grasp at mailman memories, achievements
At the library. Ripe cherries pick old bugs
For raids on their redblack skin.

Who's Breath?

A lost cause returns, tired of hopping flights, coursing all veins true enough in places and going, nothing but chances and being before and being after but no now. No. No. Never now, standing there, staining the floor with my everywhere thoughts, a million trillion things all happening at once or twice and skies all open egalitarian and helping me fish with my hands. There’s that stare I was talking about when we gave coins to the kids. Remember walking through the streets, followed by watermelon smiles and all shifty-eyed and wondrous with trees and hope in the world. This morning I smiled at myself in the mirror. I laughed, or made myself laugh. Streets and potholes slow me down, when will days of air cars come? How I like to eat and wait and eat again. Something is lost, something is found, all weddings have the roots of Spain, flaming with dance and abandon. The first place I went alone was Buffalo, to visit my grandparents, now both dead. I wonder if The Force could be made real if we imagined hard enough? I could invent a cosmogony that might rectify my self, especially if I invested. The trends. The meat. The heart of things, bubbling up and slipping across all the butcher shop floors of the world (read: relationships). Our love oxidizes. In the pantry there are supplies for the decline of civilization, they wait, hoping to be utilized, against hope of the world. This line is a re-run of something said before. Loop, essenceless loop with fingers attached, classically posed against the window, inspires a hunger artist to work again. I am a glutton artist, magically aligned with my gut and missing the breaking wave. Breathe patterns of water for maximum allowance from the wind father.

Sub-Cheer

Tourmaline and flares, all suggested and whatnot, ripple over water-dells and rivulets. Tan giggles pack meat, et cetera. They writhe, wring hands, necks, elbows, get that queasy feeling from brushing two tongues…What have our screens seen? All the searchers, wishing wells, elephant people, in the train stations of the cold soy world break breathing rhythm. First feeling worsts the second. There are wilds to roam, tarnished star-raptures tumbling along bowl-topped skies. Shave seconds off feelings. Full subtle submarines, questions and experts churn romantic pastimes in dark water-spaces. In sense and trials, we feel through eye doors. Take cake fried and placed on dawn gauntlets, sending torque to find ear engines. This is the site of words, of some thing to say and say agin and not just play but go somewhere, rub the potbellied idea set thing, merely saying the frustration and finding worlds that have sails flying at edges of pop pop nude figures wheeling ever high ever trickt, lonesome bird running down my fine, hard to discern coastlines of fear and shivering. I diamond the sweetness, long the own’d owl-call, gone the long old time, sending my thought to far corners for safe keeping. Sorrow and hallowed graves, wished for long, and days are their own whens.

Dog Memories

Pop car slop out. Not a ship in size for old bottle me. I lay down. I take my rest. My first rest in a long time. Yesterday I took a nap. Delightful and full of time. Something about music makes shuddering good. I suppose I travel in a circle. Where did old trees go? My old backyard finished with me, though my dog lies buried there still. Dead of a broken heart, busted aortic tendon, chest cavity filled with blood, panting on a pillow, wanting to sleep. Sleeping now, Old Sweet Dog, survivor of car hit, of suburb family madness and weird two legged things hitting you with rubber bands, putting you in the tub and making you cold with water and soap…how COULD you have loved us? I need that forgiveness power, my Brandy. I invite you from my dream into my heart. You were always there, even in my confusion. My living makes me alive. You are in the ground behind our old house. I wish for you a celestial plane of running and many smells, much humping, much food. Or, alternatively, where can I find your holy sweet and stinky coat of brown fur somewhere out there in universe too big to imagine? You are there, I see you, having another life, reborn as a fat suburban father with kids and your own crazy jumping dog, doing it better than we did, being clear in thought, not torturing each other in broad daylight.