Whispers and cries between sacred mountains
can’t wake up the monsters of the lakes.
The sound of typing at the bottom of the sky
fills the universe with disgust, creeks and rivers
with multitailed tadpoles. All the animals you have
eaten are laughing at your expense on the other
side of the Sun, on this side of thank you.
Thank you, said Orpheus a giant cliff dweller, I don’t
play basketball, don’t
eat fish and mushrooms, I
consider them sacred, I am
just gadding around, watching. I have
too many a choice. Cars honk,
mice are obsessed with blankets, curtains and clouds.
Construction workers try to estimate how
many raindrops per square mile
put down roots, and I can’t wait sewing
away my eyes, boiling them in an empty
bottle, shoving into triangles, nailing
to the pavement and autopsying afterwards.
I can’t wait to close them. My sight
is too precious to lose it.


There are countless ways of growing watermelons on the hills,
far off from potholed highways.
There are countless ways to believe in angels swearing into bullhorns,
but trees are too straight to reach heavens,
shadows too long to cover the footprints.
The royal couple lives in a shack made of slide rules,
corkscrews and alarm clocks winded
by the winds, never mind the pun, their bothersome music
and the banality of it all.

{after the comments on behind}