BufFalo and the POwer LineS

Hidden in the spaceship,
I walked on eggshells,
collecting pencil shavings
for a nest. Come build this
hamster cage with me,
we can run wheels
till the wheels fall off
of my leisure…
Chase after the eagle.
Dig for clams. Whistle for me
to come home. But I’m
never coming

home.

There is a time of night,
where the light
falls between shadow
and object just right —
like art or a car accident.
It makes the city soft —
like a mother’s hug or a
heroin shot…
But I  always miss it,
I’m always a little bit late….
Tonight is no different.
Tonight, the sky condensed
before me like yogurt sauce.
I’m always walking around lost,
like tartar sauce on chicken strips,
just trying to get a grip.
Tonight was all slip.

The buffalo and the open plain
and the arrowhead penetrating
its neck. A painting in the hall
of a mountain lodge where there
was a killing in room 333.
Now there’s a vacancy.
The moon waxing plaintive.
Anxious and out of breath.

The streets shimmering
like the scales of an oily fish,
I walk splish-splash through
toxic puddles, daydreaming
of begonia in Chernobyl.
Planning my next thing
to say. Stocking up
the gigabytes. Lay down
a baby blanket and lets
cry all night.

We’re Supermen dry-cleaning
our capes.

I’m an artichoke heart Presidents
Day Sale, buy two get one free…
Vacation
getaway
timeshare,
but no peace of mind there;
tape dispenser on a Saturday
taping up your
next
yard
sale.
I’m a cut string on a kite,
plastic man, stretch me
to the power lines,
that’s
where
I
sail.

I got winter gloves on
in Club Med,
a scarf at a nude beach,
funny look on my face
like DO ME…
cursive on my towels,
my initials,
my consonants
and my vowels.
Shower from above,
granite tiles
made
of love.

I got false teeth
in the waiting.

I got the moon at my back
and a shadow on the run.

Don’t whisper, my eardrums
need kissing.

Like a fallen ribbon, the next day
swept up and put on display,
memories of a different parade,
like satellites and misnomers
and cannonballs in pool parties,
missing homeroom for bleacher sex,
dreaming the teacher’s next.
The future’s so far,
I might as well go hard.
Pass the note:
I’m ready to go broke.

Daydreams
of dead dreams.
Cream of the crop
ice cream.

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