vaguely at two the old argument
corners me when I’m most unconstructed.
The gist is blame myself and save the world
or the other way around, but
I'm not sure of the next step and
can’t easily stop the limping
way I’ve been with crooked circles
beat to either more or less and
ever hoping for a chance to walk a
thin wire high in clean air—but this
private war—is there a place past
fidgeting through the fog of flies
and the oily birds that feast on them
and make a chore of every banquet
Tag: birds
-
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Ten more pounds as you breath this air in
while small flying things establish more
colonies on a significant
portion of your disregarded
land mass while an occasional stormbrings no relief to little Tom
in his prospect of geraniums
thumbing in peace far from the noise of bones
being broken for the amusements of childrendays grow too dark under the broiler
strange birds visit for a moment and
fly back as one of my fatherssaid those wandering clouds at least
are worth a couple careful words
-
hoping for something chocolate covered
hurry up wait what was I saying the
shoreline shortens birds gone from the sky due
to a lack of how’s it with you those headaches
back I have just the oil and volcanoesfor it though maybe the coasts blame the
center and vice versus our scattered
poems may stitch it but we’re in it
now did you hear what the finalbutterfly whispered as your phone
oh I’m no better I just like
to fly and sting so maybe youshould check out the dog filter
that clown one does nothing for you
-
in an age when close and distant cloud
I make what you won’t want to eat and wait
for the snow scrape and salt that wakes us too
early or too late little mountains pen
in sugared cars I try to lift this snowwith homemade rhythm into clouds
like berries almost black but how
long do I have to long for long-lasting
mud and birds who stay a bit and fly backa breath that leaves green leaves to shake
so let’s finish the crackers and
call them cookies we can watch amovie through the neighbor’s window
just balance on this pile of skulls
-
Having darkened my hand with dark ink in
an age when close and
distant are cloudy unaided having
made so much that nobody wants to eat I wait for the latest
historic storm and the
scrape and salt that wakes us too early
or too latemodel mountains pen in
sugared cars I try tolift the snow with a wave
of homemade rhythm into
sky like berries almost blackbut do I fracture some rule with
this spell how many feet do I haveto long for long-lasting mud
and the birds whovisit though we won’t learn
their names this yeareither but the tracks lead
to a curve turningback on itself with a smile
the breath leavesgreen leaves shake
so let’s finish off the crackers
and call them
cookies we can watch
a movie through the neighbor’s
window just
balance on this skull
-
before I’ve started I
give up on this little
story surrounded
by the almost noise
of air conditioners
slow unseen aircraft
the last breath of
why can’t I juststop me if you’ve heard this one
but no it’s just
from here we see
trees burning birds
thud to the ground
apartments collapse
spilling canned peas
and plastic dolls into
a stream and clouds
and clouds and clouds
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Seven in the morning of the first
of May already so bright in clear
blue air birds make their plans
immense. Time for our little
dog to darken the earth with her
mighty stream and then a few thimbles
of kibble. As I doze my way back
and glance at the car of the neighbor
I try to avoid
a wide disc of wood from some
unlucky loved tree on
the driver’s seat.
I guess everything I
thought about the spring is wrong.
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On Dry Land
The problem in rolling
out over the ocean
on a day like you might
ache for just a single
sheep of traveling cloudonly a few blinks
and the wind you are
worse off now without
taste birds circle
maybelater that one friendly
star and now paddle
with meaning maybe
you were going
the bright way all along
other animals 