Just in case

The felt spot beneath your right shoulder blade. Where you cannot reach like a cat grooming and the snow swirling under the streetlights @ 80, @ 7, picking your wife up from the airport and all that's going on in your mind is a swirl like that, just like that spot just like that itch, fed by the low hum of a soundtrack - the knife, portishead, cypress hill. All the things you cannot reach feel like all the things you can and why do hold on to it. What is the Zen anesthesia moment called when you can feel the earth's irreverent pose, that some blind monkey can rip the rotten bones of what was life and bandaid them across the treachery, across what was landscape and is now something less than the bitterness you feel through your feet. All this is water. All this wasted.

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Clear, now

The tiered colony, a
weighted ellipse of
cigarette smoke outsides
the rain. the train.
adult paces...
close these shutters
wipe

dangerous thought
mud
across the surface, a
will of pipes and glass

the desert is pure because it lacks the sun is pure in distance
the sea is pure because we say,
"Sunlight, rain, all..."
the small home

whiffs of lime
old woods carrying on

animals trained to carve
meaning
through slow circles
obfuscation
ask.

and your part:

"Where is the ice in all this,
rust..."

calumny and reification explained
how something is what it is not
the balance of human interest the issuance of human heart

what your mother really means

slow lift in the radiator wash
a bell rings once
and goes ignored.

Like

The sounds of gas moving colder than you've ever seen it, small braying antlers jostling for confetti, indigenous melons squandering trust funds, Velcro tanning products, overpaid shittily-sequenced Agamemnon under kleig lights, a soft hail under bent eraser skies, huddled Sikhs without karela or marrow, bombastic algorithms grasping for tied votes, stacks of small vegetarians for us all to blame, avian malt, blue- and red- shift lettuce, broken thongs suspended by calculators, all the hundred billion desensitized sins, collective trammelling under perpetual yellow lights

That thousands gather to watch.

Bup

There's no soul in the in-between no grit in her litter, a small song trimmed homily Honolulu, brackish allusions in tenpenny snarls. Wherever did fall crate tempests, piano my nostrum.

all the way from neural (for Keith Higginbotham)

dish-wrapped shellfish clusters

gift themselves as trance, a

post-homogeneic facial crème

huddled shinily given

anemones you know

&

cucumbers you do not

like children, blessed

with no concept of other

kissing the fingers of a stale

air

where laundry hounds

the windows.

whiffle

sometimes I wonder
whether
sometimes
accrues

is there a bank
maybe in St. Louis
where all these moments
being placed on deposit
will add up to something
nice

maybe they taste like vanilla
swell and ache in the rain
distend when the stock market is up
dress nicely on Tuesdays, thinking you might come by
buy things they have no space for
buy things that clash with their decor
appreciate a nice wind from the North
have plans, too

what will happen when they mature
will they go on vacation and not return
or are they drawn back to their original
owner, dragging wounded hindparts
across thousands of miles for a pat
on the head?