bones

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.

 

e is for f

I

the creaking of old skies
over the fields of fast growing
wings of deceased birds
conceals a call of a cow
detrimental to the ears of the two-legged

II

the twelfth psalmist remains unfaithful
to broken glass and digested grass
turning the silence inside out
before the popping eyes of the fish

III

in the dreams of a feral nanny goat
blind waiters climb slippery twisted staircases
to lick a secondhand sun

IV

in a house made of cardboard winds
dragonflies die spitting cast-iron letters

V

the sun vaporizes our souls every night

nails

Coyotes wrap themselves into paper towels.
Moons chase each other, tin-sounding moons
over chicken wire fences. Decrepit
gods can’t help thinking about frozen
legions of ants, drunk plumbers from
faraway countries, lost in thunderbolt forests,
rotten towers trudging in search of
bent rusty nails.

air filter mimicry

The existence of eyes in the sky is highly doubted by my sneakers. I don’t wear them in front of cats and dogs, but you won’t say for sure how many gallons of water you can safely place between two stars, especially when they are not too bright. Sore throats of New Mexico implore you to forget your SSN, to lose yourself in the prairie dog labyrinths and coyote intestines for aeons. You don’t listen to them, of course.

a

A magpie said it was going to play snake and it would sound like a trumpet.
A trumpet said it was going to play dead and it would sound like God.
God said it was going to play fish and it would smell like shit.
Shit was voiceless. Dendritic letters had destroyed walls and wails.
Every song was old. Some weren’t meant being sung.
Others had never been.