all the pennies have disappeared /
currency is no longer counted by fingers /
what is owed carries the boldest font /
the new is made burdenless /
promises bend around a distance corner /
beyond the reach of the tongue’s taste /
at checkout, the cashier placed a space in the bag /
a sample to bring home /
and test on the kids’ fevers /
so many flavours, so many shades /
so many five note brand hooks /
echoing off the thickening walls
outside of our world /
making a meal of expired skin /
eating what we were /
microscopic consumers of our past /
thank you for erasing what was /
jawing through all our ghosts /
leaving us as thin as the sheets for the morning
good goad! /
the name, the name spoken aloud finally /
after centuries as a symbol /
passed around in a note /
from child to child loitering conspicuously on the city’s corners /
good goad! /
slice the last syllable off of each sentence delivered /
to adults because they have hidden so much already /
keep a few mysteries unsaid /
adults must earn rights, too /
only a few are presented at birth in transparent gift boxes /
little surprise after the first shriek /
so much is the dim empty space within a present /
oh goad! /
twist us all together into a blinding tether /
pulling planets out of their orbits /
into a wheel within wheels /
shaving sparks off a dark vacuum /
furious slivers in our eyes
it’s a safe calculation /
jumping from the space needle /
the sum below will arrive /
regardless of the units /
assembled underneath for the morning’s display /
dividing through each other /
not to mention, as they are not, /
stilled angles unmoving wedging /
into the give of space /
always adding a room to measure /
variations on an original sum /
made less until weightless /
drifting into out paths, welcoming /
the chance to trip over every single thing /
back to the landing /
move the earth upwards /
that is the exception for each end /
a rush to complete the equation for one 1 /
a single number formula proposed daily /
isolated to its own variables /
accelerating to be free of all angles
maybe a day wishing for the death of the dollar /
a last show of interest around stained sheets and uncirculating air /
what next? what next? /
to keep causing the fight in the middle of the dance floor /
the ankle biting in overchlorinated pools /
the metered taps in the firehouse /
farewell 100th cent that put the title in the count of talent /
we only expected the number to be an abstract, said the abacus makers /
not a hole in every wall letting exhaust in from future highways /
pushing shoelace aglets eastward /
drop a bomb at the memorial service in between calculated pauses /
let the embers be an early sunrise /
forcing a day forward /
rubbing the face off a weighted clock
the body will flatten out /
stretching into a thinning line /
point fading, end ending /
and some land breathing around it /
with more colours and shades /
than our internal organs can muster /
what a dull dot are we /
blinking enough to miss the sun /
sleeping beside the giant /
who can smell like all of us /
too small to wake him /
stepping again in our own tracks /
days made into a flip book /
thumbed backwards /
delinquency enough to throw matches at our children
still swinging the cat by the tail everyday /
turning on the gas and walking to the store /
eating QEW slush as dessert /
mounting the wall street bull for a final thrust /
rubbing the bellies of yellow jackets in a therapy moment /
easing into the niagara for a quick shower /
sleeping in a pothole, soothing the tremble of the road as a sedative /
collecting syringes as political donations /
using dynamite fuze as laces for the morning sprint /
into the city’s heart /
writing in industrial warning symbols /
to communicate directly to the audience’s bilious torso /
drawing targets in crayon for greater representation /
swinging up to the jaw to dislodge the last talking teeth
time to snuff the candle out /
on each other’s chests /
at the spot we believe the heart lives /
pounding on the ribb’d door /
still waiting for a shout /
drop the curtain like a toy guillotine /
on the frequented scene /
it doesn’t take much weight /
to cleave colour from form /
just a plastic seam where the molds met /
a millimetre of rough blade /
scraping through painted fancies and tinted light /
do we get a prize on the final day? /
a take home bag for a deserved end? /
our pupils turn white /
the sun was here for what seemed a day only /
it’s not dark /
it’s not black /
it’s not dimmed /
it’s the back of our heads staring forward /
props for some future lesson /
sliced out of the ground
there are the dead /
over there, shifting around the bus shelter /
their schedule keeps getting struck /
our vehicles are large /
with filtered heat and dialed lighting /
drive /
past /
try to look/not look /
we pretend to talk /
some motion to make time our own, separate /
no registered accelerant /
yet not stopping for thrumps under the wheels /
at the stop, they may recognize an eye or two /
if dwelling long enough /
one day we will stall /
struggling to open the hood /
hearing the rustle behind us /
the bus shelter is set alight each night /
recovering by morning /
clean glass for our viewing concern /
we keep our routes /
stopping for no thing /
listening for the rattle underneath
not today, expiring /
the grey vapour popping /
out of a children’s book /
the only one we ever truly read /
another night to pretend perishing /
then the lighter eyelids of an unsolicited morning /
sound, too /
hum of the house running away /
finch shouting finch /
okay, I’ll stay /
push the world off the curb again /
trying to prepare its ankles /
for the big leap