terrible posture on the world stage leading to admonishments in the cleanest corners, falling off a bike is a pleasure for gravity and ground, forces that fit the décor are welcomed through the door, those that tunnel underground wait for our years, we will always have pity
terrorific the two of us in one, shouting, murmuring, crafting a wax paper boat to escape, shifting the face into a painted mirror, scraping at the edges for the original wallpaper beneath, if a hammer were a weapon of conciliation, I’d drive home a fence
do we know enough to know, enough?! pauses on the tracks for a scribble adjusting the nation’s posture, leaves of needles irritating public shoes we should be, pry open space written sufficient for a flake of snow inserted chilling babble and traffic into a lingered stare at this country’s mantle, more than needed for the weather
a tree, a house, a street, a wind, a rain, a weather, a water, a air, a sunny, a dry, come day, come night settling in to the deep rut plowed through a level landing at a Atlantic
leave identification in the thing called home and blink long at the cartoon still living in its box where manifesto is menu, declaration is demo, as the zoetrope tightens slower, raise up a glass of petrol to the infernal stomach grumbling in every scene
always if there be food previously chewed is the rate of interest increased for day bartering invisibly, a data point here, a demographic aggregate there, who does this hair belong to? speak up in rithm and rime
alert a lot in A frame better than B side fade from popping memory but close to crashing C suite invitation carrying D list concerns to the glass decks after handshake making a physical suggestion the ground meet all Us early
lack mounts one syllable, a minor offensive on the tongue, rusty scissors cut a philodendron shoot, fist swaying in the breeze catching sunlight through cracks, years guaranteed to bring less or your money lack
I’ve never met a human / wait for more / there is none / all eyes on the wrung above / should there be movement of this species / it may come when there are no choices remaining / the quiet hiss of us reclining to feed the brush
stop the sign making a second cousin of that alphabetized horizon, long, sinewy arm reaching l’ objet when legs were speed rotating the earth, also a marble was the floor, sun and second eye