seeing everything again today /
all the drips, flakes, peels, crusts /
lifting up into our thin atmosphere /
death isn’t worming through the ground /
it is as light as last year’s dusted skin /
blinking in the late afternoon sun /
swimming in the air upwards /
towards the nothing expanding above our heads /
death is weightless, without form /
spreading out amongst emptied space /
and pricks of light holding
every way is clear away /
numbers now and over a carry over /
inspiring waste of time /
we aspire to do diligently /
cracking the day made useless /
a subtraction of its parts /
till the less than zero burns /
a brilliant hole in the drywall /
gleeful it should spread /
into the next morning frame /
add or deduct nearly everything /
artefacts of the future already unbearable /
never consume anything on the menu
no rain for weeks and heads still on fire /
blessed is rusty condensation in the storeroom /
tapping on our tongues unfolded for the trip down /
everyone runs in a straight line from combust to combust /
tearing past malachite and mantis, phlox and plum, layered in shade below /
skimming the outline of words by each other’s glare /
that flare sent up days ago has yet to arch down /
it’s pin of flame lost amongst the flashes we fan about /
draining oxygen from every public place
the citizens are waving along the canyon /
its depth is a massive yawn /
at our moments protruding like minor blemishes /
culmination, an unnecessary by-product of fits and hissing /
not the starry explosions of gargantuan gestures /
sweeping whole ideas off the continent /
but an unsteady stream of cooking oil /
we boil ourselves into
craft is a balance between sharpening the knife /
and tamping the urge to thrust at random /
preferably up a down escalator /
shredding gift bags and beverage containers at the mouth /
lost the thread of the export there /
landed on an unclaimed planet few tourists plan for /
one letter after another until the plot is claimed /
figurative survey stakes raised just enough to trip over /
that’s what keeps the bubble over the head /
shaved rage hammering at the alphabet /
building a fresh unoccupied division daily /
zero units sold and counting, always burning through /
the blinding city on my hill
T capitalized /
not quite a cross /
crucifixion stops at the roof of the mouth /
pronounced never the full way through /
to a recognizable torso /
sloping from the precise arms /
imagine the next rood against the sky /
will it survive beyond the cycle /
waking from dead on a weekend? /
just another body shouting /
amongst the atoms of a nation
a sample of earth was found in the elevator /
having travelled for days up and down /
far from the low rumble of the planet /
pinwheeling slowly in its space /
some eat dirt because they choose to /
letting the grit stimulate their gums /
scouring the throat with each gulp /
gradually consuming the continent /
until all the roots are bare /
and apartments slide toward the sea
there is much less to do /
than can be imagined /
sit down on the rock
bigger than a city bus /
pause all day long /
until your organs rest too /
no oxygen, blood, urine, feces moves further /
the tilt forward halts /
nothing comes as a brief flash in the eye /
then moves outward from the warm hole /
pushing your frame aside
so lead with the bodies found in the observatory /
that line will pull a few gills up into air /
subscribe to soundtrack for digestion /
pillow sounds as light as barely /
grab the ankle escaping at lunch /
how a discussion descended into sceptic /
leaves temporary workers puzzled /
tell the long tale swaying into darker waters /
too much to prove /
a whiteout of documents just over the hill /
in decline, stake your bookmark /
keep a quick quote handy
sound days if ever nick close enough to be measured lean say turbulent boy harvesting stubble at winter one hour for the year to leave push that window out further fast for three hours let my catapult free a kidney or two same as the billboard driving down side streets to the sea argue under the tide with streamed gesture no one returns except those who hire a page turner tie the beast up in the yard to rattle windows outdoor animals allow us to live longer lives if read at night to rest writing is not for holidays