like limbs

awaking after
dawn, she

suspects
there's more

to this than
simple

inquiry in
the evening

& the
lingering

interrobang.

after he walks out

what's left?

two emptied shoes and


a sudden embryo.

The music is amazing

and they have Stella & Guinness,
of course everyone knows how to dance.


Then on Sunday we're &emsp &emsp going to a mutilated war victims camp.

1980’s punk-rock t-shirt

through the tatters is the flesh that,
tattooed, wonders: &emsp &emsp &emsp Why the uproar?

Broken glass &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp everywhere,
a little bit of gold, &emsp &emsp &emsp hand on the pager

words are worth less when
a text is ten cents &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp but she speaks

magic like Johnson, &emsp girl talk like Ronson
romance the genre
&emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp &emsp without a film, a kid in

ice cream kicks all diamond & dollars, she could
care a lick about.

after Mike Theune

&emsp
my poems don't turn

&emsp &emsp &emsp they do


&emsp &emsp the twist.

The Garden Song of Thought

I am a three-tiered creek. I am water wisps and foliage floors, like steps to the mouth of the mountain. I open my eyes and am the bright red of five-pointed stars, a monarch butterfly quietly laughing, the cusp of my voice affixed to the brim of the crimson cluster. Purple buttercups pucker and stretch their violet eyes, yawning and happily smack their lips on leaves, clean and real and rooted.

when she

&emsp speaks she speaks

in guillemets.