Cash for Junk

The pets are with the vanilla company.

Every sentence implies dissent.

A grain is the smallest particle of madness.

In Fayetteville they have a lavish toilet.

I am standing on the grave of the Kardashians.

There are prizes but no achievement.

In this country the ideas of space and time are plastic.

The toad who puffed himself to the size of a cow.

The crepuscule comes like a distillation.

Analogies are demons.

They have perpetuated inequality and discrimination.

In the city there is solitude.

Puddles and rooftops.

The variable distance between sentences.

I have tried it many other ways.

This one feels right.

A kaleidoscope of shrapnel, exterminations.

The senator from Kentucky fired at me and missed.

I fucked his mistress.

An intern made up of contiguous states.

Does this belong to somebody?

A girl cigarettes behind the library.

Black and bronze stars.

Random as weather.

Whoever invented it, it is ours now.

When we interpenetrate, we are liquid birds.

Are the names of God his attributes?

Or are we kidding ourselves?

The Snow, Man

One must have a mind of Hitler

And been alone a long time

Not to hear one’s own flatulence in the wind;

To behold the junipers shagged with vice

In the distant glitter like January Jones

And not to scoff at one’s so-called love life;

And be crusted with crap, not to see

Any hilarity in the life of a squirrel,

In the lives of a few squirrels,

Which is the life of the mind

Full of the same souvenirs

Buried and reburied in the same bar,

For the ditherer, who dithers in the snow,

And, blotto himself, beholds

Nut that is not there and the nut that is.

Poem Written in a Late Style

The sun ignites the colors of the city.
The nothing of today will not be filled.

Spaniels spit metaphysics at the press,

And the blackberries are furry with mold.

A dusty industrial street, small pink flowers,

Uselessness in this utopia of use,

Planted here for that purpose years ago,

Something for your pleasure, to devour you.

The seasons come to seem a repetition

Of flowers and muck.  Listening to the birds

You are deaf to the pink and white trees

And by the time you notice them, is it still spring?

The cooler arguments linger like oblong clouds.

The intensity of the riddle sends your dreams

In another direction.  This building wears a triangle hat

And that one is a stack of turquoise blocks.

As the day melts into its opposite,

Their solid, dark facades are fringed with light.

The light is purer now in the darkness.

And the darkness is that which has no name.

Notebooks stored up with secret images,

An elegance of truths, plural and humane,

These are the pages you live to create,

And when you get it right, no longer belong to you.