Renegade ministers are tired of penitent water.
They are perfect substitutes for giant cellos
Filled with rum and tequila like the tires of their cars.
Like instead of learning to get lost, squirrels
Grow voluptuous plants on the pavement
And throw steering wheels into the sky.


Day and night children learn to
Count dead blades of grass,
Snowflakes, quarters in the pockets,
Teeth in the mouth, years before and after,
Rays of the black sun in the bones.
The sky smells of giants fucking.



I hear the sky’s sediment kissing a broom
A shopping bag believing in uncombed forests
I can’t fathom how many songs end up with a handful of unsound suns
Whenever silence devours the eyes of a tyrant
Crossing the birdless air to save broken ashtrays



Eagles eat ice overhead, and the sound is not
Scratched on marble like the words of sham gods.
It may be many years before the story begins.
There is no place on earth for the inventor of holidays
To count her hats, her hiccups, her motes of dust.



Days begin as the universe cannot,
With inarticulate slogans removed from the otherworld.
Red-haired plumbers send birds to a place
Where smiles are enemies of shampoo,
And envelopes for voices and tails are cheap.
Songs begin where all of them end.


now that

Now that we don’t have a place to return
We can finally stop and smell whatever
We can barely smell. Spoilt chairs
Ride nanny-goats high above over the windows,
Empty bottles crammed on the windowsills,
The taste forgotten, and the sound they make
We can barely hear. The books on the shelves
Don’t have to be translated, don’t have to
Be even understood. Sunflowers laugh
Under the cracked soles, and the mute brains
Of barking dogs can’t help enjoying
Leaves fallen centuries ago. And little rodents,
They make the skies happy
Hiding in the unfeasible holes of oblivion.
Long live archaic theaters, one inside another.
No blood, no sweat, no word, no ending.


Stinking stairwells hide wet stars between discolored steps, smack dab in the walls
I have done things worse than swimming in homemade stone
Or divining by bleating cars of cast iron groves
No lover can touch a warbling jazz critter on the roof but
I believe in overdue pills buried in musty carpets of historic buildings
And neolithic weather reports and postponed haircuts
Splintery boards stretch out between clouds plundering time
Horror stories become shorter than cigarette butts in the prayers of children

sasquatches are not for sale

I enjoy walking narrow paths that don’t
Lead to the Kingdom of Heaven, surrounded
By stone-mouthed chanting fish,
Exalting mushrooms (not the
Hallucinogenic ones, mind you) over
Marsupial dust. Two-legged chairs
Frolic around celebrating the birth of
A sasquatch. Casual music
Has eaten away half of each tree
Under the sun which is still
Bothersome outside its heat. A frog
Faintly plays flute with the shadows.
Old fiddlers blabber about fabulous floods.
Leaves lose their texture between
The soul and the eyes. Sounds
That musicians rejected are substitutes
For sand in my food.


The air is torn by the birds
And train whistles in the morning;
The jingle of the collar remains
When the dog is already too deep
Even for Orpheus. The clouds have
Been eaten up by antsy flowers
That would be pleased to speak of
The peoples from obscure mythologies
With the eyes to enter and go mad.


It is wrong that the most probable place
To meet a ghost downtown is a public restroom
Monuments to the chaos of my friends
Among black ants and backwater herons
Forgotten by all sentient beings bring the light
To the people who hate it the fire to the sunburned
Dead ends shine like the underwear
Unsold for centuries and cracked flutes that has
Never been played


Prairie dogs invite the sun underground,
And it enters the burrows, its nose bleeding, feet cracked.
Nights begin with cold air in the lungs of timid monsters,
With broken urinals in the public restrooms.
Birds can somehow take pictures with the eyes
And lose them far above in the morning.
The hair of light disappears in the songs;
It is singing that brings disaster, wearing
The masks of the living, one after another.



The space between the lake and an intoxicated rodent
Or between two books on the history of clouds hidden in the dormant grass
Devours humongous laughing heads of our ancestors
Heroes of world war minus twenty eight
So please, my friend, join the feast of limping birds in the wasteland
Enjoy the smell of burnt feathers



The car becomes a cloud in the ravine next to the rutted lane called Dead Ant Street where a dozen of discombobulated septuagenarian hippies used to reside. They kept headless, formless, quadruped animals, each one on a separate ledge cut in the slope, each one possessing long, awkwardly gorgeous hair. The closer you came to the beasts, the more you lost your composure, but they remained calm until you began to count the hairs. It was too silent for a clock face to be seen.


The land where children throw dolls, books,
musical instruments at the dark windows,
not afraid of what’s going to be revealed.
Where hikers bitten by coyotes never have webbed feet.
Where people attend AA meetings wearing wet pants and t-shirts.
Where you can watch for days
watch how pine needles disappear in the sky
or burn it down or
make yourself useless for tiny nasty angels.
Where wind farms go haywire in the tremulous air
and ghosts steal chairs from restaurant patios.