There is incessant chatter inside
Looking glass where the tenants
Paint used tea bags day and night
And collect the canes of the blind
I know I am a poison I stay
Away from insects and weeds
I have already fed all my skylights to the angels



The cactuses are broken by the sun
All the way to the shanties of
The illiterate totems.
The south is clever at hiding
The countenance of its spirits.
They advance with the noise of the mute,
The destitute, the betrayed, the tiny,
Inevitably. They hoot
Like wingless, featherless birds
Concealed in the foliage.


The sun can barely touch a frog
Remaining in permanent confusion
Cats, dogs, people and horses that could be seen in old photographs
Have been carousing for decades in scrapyards
Constantly disguised like a glass of water forgotten on a windowsill


Crows and pigeons are tolerant towards
extraterrestrial presence on the web and on the air
while poets swim in each other’s vomit
and iridescent graffiti subverts the buildings.
This is a reason for still being here.
Obsolete animals you don’t believe in
leave tracks on water, pavement and carpet.
Leaves stuck in soiled ice can talk to the sun.


Water comes down to eliminate the pain of dissolution.
I would like to sell barbed wire to the angels
on the corner of Main and 5th, hiding my memories from strangers.
I like the windows I can look into, eternally unopened wine bottles
on the sills, I like to count how many psalms a blood cell could contain
until it develops destructive tendencies. There is always a choir
singing, barely audible, in another universe.


Deer never know where they came from.
They flee from cumbersome light,
shunning ghost gates marked by rough wooden poles.
Trees get lost in the hills. Old age doesn’t bring
wisdom to hawks and stones, old gods are
prone to destroy the context of the world.


the eye within an eye is blind enough
to watch a rag doll parade on main st.
at 1 a.m. the day after tomorrow
when cooks and waitresses nod off
and drop umbrellas from the clouds
and warehouses eightysix the birds
tall enough to care about flying


Wooden men have a very
short attention span. They unfailingly
distract flesh and blood from
other liquids and substances. Visible
worlds are a nuisance to insects.
Fire is purely feminine within the
divine limits of slumber, where foliage
becomes a plague of the sky.


Cities begin at the northern end of the air.
Invisible mountains dance high above in the snow.
Pianos burn in the hotels with unpronounceable names.
Retired dentists call up local spirits from restaurant mirrors.
They do appear sometimes. Modest and shy,
they meditatively count wine glasses used by
thousands of maudlin imbeciles. Some of them are
a mess, the others sound like garish rock songs
or look like someone who has just eaten a plate
of sacred mushrooms at a fast food joint by mistake.
Rare insects follow them, ready to lose a sense of purpose.


Some dogs lose their nature at night.
Cats, car radios and handsaws
become possessed by the otherworld. Snore is offensive
to common sense like the songs of merfolk
to the mountain creatures whose wings are never dry enough.
Stars break the roofs and look for traces of water in sinks and bathtubs,
their shapes unable to stop the silence
from delivering the obvious into the bloodstream under
olfactory traffic signals.


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.)

a pair of derbies

In a town like that, you keep meeting quite often
A boy with a bicycle on his shoulder
And a very tall woman wearing sunglasses.
They invariably ask you the same question
And go away along silent streets without
Listening to your reply,
Followed by a cloud of mosquitoes.
Even if they had an address, it would be invalid.
I don’t believe the sound of their steps,
I don’t believe their bare feet, the words
They forget to utter, the red skirt,
The pair of derbies, and other attire,
The little fingers pointing at pigeons and blackbirds,
Pointing at the moon that can barely exist overhead
When there is such a low death rate among emperors,
The rum they drink right out of the bottle,
The coins and cigarette butts they throw from the bridges.