nothing but

Mistakes are the best thing anyone
has ever made out of posh
reality of the morning. Foxes and
squirrels are nothing but tails
sweeping the sky. They water
flowers growing on the hulls of
misplaced submarines and abandoned airships.
Growing noise excludes family relationships,
paper airplanes with meaningless messages
exclude the earth. The flowers slowly and painfully
narrate unwritten novels of the natives
who can see the trees without
seeing the forest. This gift is destructive
for light bulbs, cigarette butts, empty bottles,
holy books and cows and vacant chairs.


Children grow lying in swimming pools chock-full of chlorine,
study calculus, get married, have children, swallow
snowflakes and raindrops, watch the bones
become soft like water, ears lurid like flowers.
Imagination contaminates the eyes; they don’t
close anymore. Widowed monarchs
of renegade lands, priests of the Church of Erratic Echoes
fill cracked mugs and mirrors with coins and horseshoes.
Judas wearing pancake make-up streaked with sweat
sleeps upright in the last phone booth on earth crammed between
a planetarium and a circus, fired from the latter
for overindulgence toward the hybrids of pike and sheep.