a madwoman gibbering in a library makes all the poets of the world
sound a little less boring than they usually do



When you count animals to fall asleep,
they begin to change, grow spare legs, tails,
eyes and other body parts, quite purposeless,
blow silly brass gadgets and cautiously
tap at piano keys with the hooves,
intertwine, merge and scatter away
squeaking, howling, roaring, etc.,
crunching light bulbs and mushrooms,
mocking their own allegorical nature,
and the jovial cosmos eagerly
awaits the whole pageant to go bananas,
heavy layers of the void fill the cages,
kennels, pens, stables, coops, corrals, pastures
and the hungover heads of illiterate deities forever.


The guardian of the cosmos treats all the walls and fences
with all their lurid openings, inscriptions and depictions
as her equals. She talks to them like an ordinary creature,
but the manner of speaking is as far from small talk as possible:
it’s a kind of mumbling in front of a crowd,
when the words are placed sloppily in the mouths
of grasshoppers, mice, rabbits, prairie dogs, horses
to make them disgrace or astound their species.
She is a nutcase with an eternally misspelled moniker, loco
’til the inalienable tomorrow.


stones drink mistimed beetles and fall into
the air next to the piss of the saints and milk of
mad geese


Wing clipped angels listen to
barbed wire trying to memorize
the music too twisted to be performed.
Dead composers and haiku poets
invade the moon. Caterpillars steal
letters from gravestones, toenails
from stray giants. It is going to rain before
they are gone. Through various stages of lunacy
let’s watch broken marble float overhead.


Pine branches raise the sky like a wayward child
with all its aircraft and feathered creatures, broken wings
and lost umbrellas. Thongs and sandals
trample on the squishy clouds and
blind watermelons. Thunder is
a cheesy fiction invented by the foppish stars
in the daytime. The map is always in the voices
of water that are prone to argue like
mad jellyfish over a piece of glass.


They say in the news there are trapezoid clouds
all over the cities flaunting gasoline-speak,
but the raindrops are as shapeless as ever
and you need plenty of ears to hear them fall.
The residents chew ground glass in the closets,
kiss the windows with their internal organs,
leave handprints on a mirror-like sun,
sacrifice children to dog-eared books,
embrace sleeping fires of the forests, and do
many other things you would fail to notice.
It is easy to burn the crumbs of time in your mouth
or compressed aeons on forgotten burial grounds
(and forbidden pictures of a family gone postal)
where feline conductors perform kitschy music of the dead
and the mother of the gods, benefactor of lesbians, lover of iron deer
sits on a mossy stone laughing at cavorting chipmunks.


Once upon a time a drunken cyclist
spent a night in a graveyard, the tires
full of cash, making slits in swanky black skies
and the faces of deceased divinities
with a Swiss Army knife. Once
upon a time I dreamt of forgetting
my head over there. It was
the largest patch of the land of the free
I knew about, complete with
verbose commendations for every
harebrained creature of the world.
(Once upon a time a saint
hid in a soap bubble.)