dress all fucked in the night sweat summer

fuss—all hot—gone to the pulped paperbacks

falling apart into dust

it’s probably time

time to throw in the chips dad and

well

let in the new gods

Back to Us

Back to Us

we pass through these days like sunlight

through gauzy wet sheets

damp

and yellow in the backyard

riddled with hopeful light

and

my world is nothing but day

and

it was the silence stirring in the room

that sent

my dream

back

to me

and

back to you

or

back to us

always

back to us

Windows

Windows

it’s nice to be away from all those mirrors

8th street

9th street

2nd avenue

each building each wall

another mirror

another shadowfall

in the sidewalk

boots and cloaks

and

new clothes

everywhere, pink carnations floral print

on bleached whale-skin sky

print blue and white

antique shop shoulders

black camera eyes

installed

always looking

back

it’s nice

to be away

it’s nice to be away from all those mirrors

red witch

ice witch

witch mountain

every morning every moaning noise

another haunting

another curse withdrawn

in the bank buildings

they build a court

and

new nets

to watch the checks bounce, purple uniforms

blur past the seats with the tv stars

sucking face into the vacuum of time

on the stove fried eggs burn

kitchen smells like

burnt onions

always looking

back

it’s nice

nice to be away

from all that

Full Tilt

Full Tilt

bicyclemad

born dizzy

i am

flying off the cliff of panic hill

umbrellaless

doing/doing/doing the twist

bicyclesick—

my broken spoke,

my past;

that angry kid throwing the stick

into my tire from the curb—past

wheelspinning

bullygrinning

me

knees on fire

handlebarjumping

asphaltskidding

past

what calms me down—in the ditch

teethbusted blue

in that ol’ spin of mine

is a quiet

is a voice

is a note

is a flurry

white on white-polka-dot-alright-sheets of static

roar all day—roar all night

in the khaki-lit room for one

between the letters of a hotel sign;

red hot neon blue

now Full Tilt and so so

filled up…

a room service staff waiter

with a bowl of fish

i am

returning champagne glasses

in the mail slot

down the mast of a wooden ship

a laundry shoot am i

i am

a junker bent from that cross gale

(maybe)

southern bit-lip honey mouthed

tale spun

spun out

drawn out

overdrawn

sails up

junker bent

tense

ya know—in one slow movement

like an orchestra tuning and

then out of the silent woody

reeds

a hilly crest—a fallen army on that

hilly crest thing

or

a horizontal sunrise colorblast

blueberry naughty

and all

“calm the fuck down”

engine purring

in me

nine lives

plus three

and a movie

in a rush to get home

for good

this is what

it is

like

to wake

and hear my lover’s voice

Sparklers

Sparklers

dreaming

this