Who siteth with thee?

Welkin

Firmament backdrop is only the
glass of a snowglobe covered by the
hands of an angry seventeen year old who
hates his parents for raising him for
locking him in his room at night for
forcing him to escape with art on
his walls in the form of collage hates
their smirk and
their finger pointing toward
a door toward a door toward a future for
a sake so he holds the snowglobe in his hand
in his pocket walks downtown and places it down
in the art museum in the restroom atop
a shelf in the darkest room
intuition inside leads him here:
Planetarium.

my Sky is Green

june bugs on screendoors

defying all coloration
Ika allows
cameras
"black and white photos
only,
please."
while
outsiders may think
dreams of
turkey
spark
his salivation
tis for
a mudpit
some brown paint
for sucha
cleanly coat
Ika yearns
if only they knew
his
muddyminded side

Means "Fish" in Kiwi

Possible.

Up
U.p.
Branch lift me
Will we ever climb to
Where will we get
Sky Zion?

Are we chasing or just running?

It just doesn't have to make sense.

That unfamiliar feeling

when thoughts race and keys keep falling anything she sees melts away the faces blow up but i don't remember eating any brownies or falling into the rabbit hole but here i am again trying to make out the words that are telling me how to function and do what i am supposed to think i want to do and so as i stare i begin to make out a reflection only unsure if it is mine or if i'm having a "quantum leap" experience maybe something was wrong with the coffee maybe the food i ate was expired this couldn't be real but this announcement tells me i cannot do anything i want a cigarette and i don't even smoke no throwing confetti no listening to music what is this hell that i'm in just tell us to lay on the benches bones digging in can't get comfortable my head feels like a dried sponge that will break what has it absorbed this place we're in is a painting these things don't look real but somehow i have stepped into the painting and here i am i can sit on these colors. i thought it was a poster. rushing sounds like a tornado announcements just my airplane to take me far away at an unnatural speed like we used to ride on horses but i always preferred a bicycle so grateful for the wheel so grateful for these planes it is a time to be thankful all the same isn't that why i came back but i'll go back to my pretend world i'm not dead but you haven't seen me he was gone for so long i am i lover of the wanders i wish boys would stop trying to make out with me how come i have to break up with people i'm not even dating where is my plane i want to get to the place i'm trying to make home but i miss you

Here's a song for you, lovely

This is Just to Say

Us scrofulous creatures
burrowing muddust - nose first
Tyrannosaurus arms wheel dig
...And I'm sorry if I push too much
if I'm overbearing
African Mongoose tend to be like that
we dig

Apocalypse

inside your shell

when i was young i had lots of turtles. my father used to stop and take them home whenever he saw one crossing the road so they wouldn't get hit by a car. under the porch in our backyard he had an ecosystem. they were safe under there from the cars on the highway. he built a pool and put food in there for them. i am not sure if they were happy or not but when the weather would start cooling down the turtles disappeared. i thought they ran away and later learned that they had dug a hole and hibernated. in the spring they would reemerge. i used to search around in their little environment and never could find where those holes had been dug. sneaky little turtles!

Tell me, what are you going to do?

UFO

huck it- he'll get it.
What a bid!

Casey lays out in duck pajamas
Derek gave em a show with his hibiscus skirt
Olivia knotted
Caroline shot tequila
David hammered o.o.b more than once

Highland Park tournament.
the b

She likes it here

photo credit to ali

Tripod if you asked me

ONE
TWO
BUCKLE MY SHOE
THREE
FOUR
SHUT THE DOOR
FIVE
SIX
PICK UP STICKS
SEVEN
EIGHT
LAY THEM STRAIGHT
NINE
TEN
DO IT AGAIN!





IF MAN IS FIVE THEN THE DEVIL IS SIX AND GOD IS SEVEN AND GOD IS SEVEN

pentagon

Tree tracers assemble. Arborists encircle the yard of the Pocono home: log walls with roof made of mercury umber shingles. Pergola skeleton. Queued humps of clay: road bumps to dissuade hasty drivers from running over children playing in the neighborhood. Spruce & 8th has such bulges in street pavement. I cannot wear jeans without ass-pockets. Maybe green khakis or even brown pants, but never denim. Burle has them for practicality. Once let Bill borrow his flashlight and found himself stuck in the black of a 50-foot Stygian tunnel under a Church. *Spectacle in center demands the first glance. Peremptory request to be the pivot of the swivel. But first I saw the sky. Lack of clouds birds smog sun planes h.a.b’s blimps passing aerial things. Intentional inattention to Mohawk meditation with an instrument of wings. Scene reminds me of Log. Flip the hammer, hit the nail. Just after hookah and some aderol. Arbor: an axle or spindle on which something revolves. Device holding a tool. Shape with a lathe. Harbor of jetties.

Perhaps we are even too much for ourselves

Rewards

Logarithms.
Derivatives.
Laws and theory.

Another mess of books.
From another universe.
My nation of one.

Constant torment.
behind the closed covers.
I can never get to.

Once an escape
Now a chore
As I grow older.

Let my mind wander
where nothing is real
pure imagination.

As soon as I get done
With this work
I'll take you on

need no name

gallop: with all off the ground, together in each stride

brain works best
when
ears flap back

pup makes tracks
for
sand-burrow clams

waves a white crash
kill
tide

and never does the sky
cease
for stationary souls

The speed of light

Energy is neither created nor destroyed

Stopped dead in his tracks
Resting on the sidewalk
he saw her heart
once alive.
now dead
too many times
he broke her
in selfish tantrums
it was nothing but words
she was weak
as she grew thin and quiet
afraid and timid
and finally wilted
she lies there
broken
cracked
on the concrete
the wound is fresh

the world is my calamus that lacks barbs

Quill

Comparative darkness and coolness of
An Azure Cerulean hue
hugging chubby freckled arms.

Context: a trouser deck,
an autumn fallen leaf
flaxen in the sun,
a bucket, devoid of light,
ready for soil & chlorophyllic creature.

She pushes my vicinity:
a puli puppy recently released from the pen
Chosen from the shelter
among others -- cuter.

proffers a cricket
(characteristic for its rhythmic chirping
sound)

Her eyes form an obtuse triangle
Cross-eyed and fixated:
No blink,
shakes tresses from her face,
a sniffle.

Miles away