Inebriated evergreens have busted the sky with all its aircraft and inhabitants.
The feeling of turning into serpents makes them queasy,
The idea of sticking to earth makes them laugh.
Language is just a perversion of the bark.



The opposite of wine is vintage telephone steam
Where a chain-smoking catfish conceals burning scales and rose petals.
Where desultory souls of heavenly rust invade crepuscular animals
In the moments of utmost joy.



It is funny how the texture of
Falling clouds can change within seconds,
Would tell you a she-coyote.
It changes just between your fucking paws,
As if you have eaten twenty three starships,
Crews, fuel and all.




A fox and a dove have dropped their fables into a creek.
They have been listening to the drummer in
The center of the sun for too long.
They count the statues of primordial animals
That sleep in cracked rusty bowls day by day
Til their heads begin to throb. They wear human masks,
To lose the feel of their hair and feathers.
It is a pleasure to be nameless in this world.


There is a dying drummer in the middle of the sky.
The golden hands of beings called Awhile,
At, And, Along and After carry him away
Into the darkness which is someone’s face.
Afraid to sing, they see no bird, no blade of grass, no tree.
Afraid to lie, tombstones dance below.



A time to sleep peacefully when the weeds
in the nearby towns have reached the
fringes of the sun, a time to
when all the birds in the woods have been lost in the foliage
to compose a lullaby for the
when all the prairie dogs have been lost underground
for the first hangwoman in the world long dead
when all the waves in the nearby oceans have been counted



God is but a poster stolen by a couple of angels from a misogynist painter,
A view of the flesh from below, a roundless zero, a Chinese
Computer from the Han dynasty, a bottle of Hyperborean wine
That will make you blind and addicted to the inimical sounds of bestiaries.



Thirst is not a woman that never leaves her apartment.
Black and white films don’t make her mad.
She doesn’t dream of a spiderweb nursing the eyes of coyotes,
Nor does she catch raindrops with her shoes.
She is half dead. She despises lakes, fountains and rivers in disguise
And the silence of molten tea spoons with a satyr
That keeps fourteen knives in his heart.



Ghosts never talk to the landscape.
I mean, the words disappear as fast
As the bottles of brandy, and the rain
Means as little as another century
To a housefly. It is funny to gape at the relentless stars
And coyotes and policemen of a stolen hour,
When you know that time is the worst toothpaste
Ever made. Thunderbolts and shivering dogs
Make me laugh. I do love them.



Flowers bloom in the mirrors like broken letters. Poisonous, according to the rumors,
Flowers silently count museums of noise in the towns of crumpled birds.


everything is heresy

In the city where my mother was born and where I have
Never been an infidel could hide
Behind a blade of air or cut the world into thin slices
Just for a grain of sand any vagabond could
Detach the roofs and towers from the sky and walk
Away laughing
Cursed by the snore of the empress
(Time on her temples dried faster than submarines after rain
Than the wine made on the fifth day of creation)
People ate rat tails and had sex with demented horses
Local angels were eternally out to lunch
And the street campfires smelt like the tongues
Of soused storytellers wrapped in blankets and towels



My retired aunt is the author of the sky.
She talks to the rabbits in the backyard every afternoon, but still
Is too young to speak English properly.
She used to sell dental floss on Venus.
All her shoes are expensive, but there is never
Any ground between the heels.


Renegade ministers are tired of penitent water.
They are perfect substitutes for giant cellos
Filled with rum and tequila like the tires of their cars.
Like instead of learning to get lost, squirrels
Grow voluptuous plants on the pavement
And throw steering wheels into the sky.


People are dangerous in
The kingdom of laughter like doorbells that
Don’t ring. Their god is viciously hiding.
A pale moon shouts at blackbirds, at labradoodles,
Books, stones, brooks.



Enchanted by the contents of wastebaskets,
A soul, like an animal, can easily escape words.
But words can disfigure the face of a goddess
That has managed to survive even a summer sky.
Books are the bricks of monstrosity.
Sometimes they are life itself.