whererushuman

Like pulling away folds of soft, cream-colored linens from my face, so have my eyes been unveiled. I see the insanity of heaven, the crashing bend of the poplar tree, and the stars –the whole of the night sky – shiver and shake with simmering delight at one consciousness’s thousand-year-long breath, a boiling copper-cast pot dancing – so hot! The peace-makers and mind-shakers, those blue-bubbling babies kicking and bouncing from side to side in the crackling basin, are cool in their sloughing off of form, are cool in their freeing seeing; friends laughing for they have found in their coat pockets what they feared they had

honey, sometimes I feel like life is fireworks and dandelions: all popping and growing finished with a fade or rough pluck. some days none of those  crazy-cat Chinese dragon chemicals get lit, other days the whole damn box blows up and you go to sleep a mushroom cloud. just the same, the journey might stretch prickly and yellow and then dwindle into a white-mopped wish-pillow which at even the whisper of the wind will fall apart. it’s a ratatata or a swish. it all ends, you see, you gone girl you? thank god we’re young and rash and dig life. you get it? time and all that? we’re just a couple of apples not even yet ripe from the

i am failure dripping down the concrete sidewalk like speckling rain, the bright explosion of a hundred flash lightbulbs pop snapping and the blue crinkle of glass shattering like water as it butterflies vision, jumbles of noodle thoughts seeping carbohydrate into spoken broths, frail skinned tangerines dusty and heavy with juice after a sunny cross-country journey: america, cigarette ash on winter lips and paper kisses sent via postcards, caramel half-circles left on side-tables by cold brews and coffee cups, sweet heat lightning, mottled tea waters, sister and suspected daughter, heat and summer's getting hotter.

I wish to taste the snow flavored water        that clings in fat, transparent raindrops                 to the pane of glass, driver's side. The dribbling spatter quenches my thoughts,        mesmerizing me away from clucking fodder    wrasped and whistled                from relations' mouths                                on this wet fog ride.

Colorful and crotchety, the wilting, the snickering slam down their pieces on boards checked in gray and black. Chess on a sweltering day. Grand old men play kings on their cement        thrones: the park. Fat leaves, big as hands, fan the paper-thin kings        who twinkle eye in the rainbow-raped thick spray painted court-side benches kingdom side.

Camaraderie instinctively pippopping into being out of nothingness. Energy pressed out of seams between worlds like electric pink and blue playdoh thickly oozing,        smile inducing,             crack snap energy                  camaraderie.

Looping, glass-encased breath        flashing emerald, lime,              and rasberry. Reflections of popsicle-stained        children cheeks warp fluidly. Giggles are locked inside of         fleeting time capsules           that gasp and float              then disappear. Children oughtn't hiccup hot tears         for new bubble fleets dock            in minutes, not years.      

lampshades should be worn as hats, for when i look at silky tops, mopped and whispy, sometimes cropped, i feel that city-folks have lost the grand filamental watts that illuminate and toss brilliance on our world. were there lampshades worn for hats in this age of television din we children could click on/click off the light wrapped up within.

i. I will never be colder than         in this moment. This is the only moment in which to be cold. Past and future are all this moment. This moment is now, now is this moment. It is cold. It is cold. It is cold. ii. The god game paints its play, soaking up, out-squeezing the divine everyday. iii. walking on sidewalks. searching for something. searching for sidewalks      my feet overlook  their current home      in search for something different      and entirely the same. iv. Every person is on

My fingers are long cigarettes trying to play the piano. The embers splash the keys rumbling them with a sorrow. The gray ash       whispers like the sea when it clouds up the music             clouds up the music right here                i can                       act--                            ually breathe the slow             smok--                      ing piano. Tinkling tinkling keys; stars in your eyes. The black cap is thick, dark, and deep, a vision of night sky. Tinkling tinkling keys shiver with surprise when cigarette       fingers flame fumble       and release a forced sigh.