I am a gull with triangular feet. My feet resemble the basket I'm carrying.

Losing the Day

  Losing the day to coffee, altogether altering the makeup of my motherboard, my motherbearing, my mothermail. Penny Puddles Pendergast. Day being the blamee. Day sans glory. Day on the workhorse, see horse, as all that is decidedly yonder floats past. That bomb is weak and brown. My skydrive is syncing. Blessed Day, let us …

the highest point on the plane which is the absolute

Last Lapse

Continuation. The hook and tongue of day. The waggedy that.  Lapse, clasp. The lace of days in utter continuation. The smalls and mediums and larges. Largess. Pants around my mother’s ankles while trying it on. The grooves in love like a golf ball.  As it resists its own specificity. As it becomes crocodilian,  recording it …

The stable buckling under clothy fog.

Days of Men

Days of men who have loved the earth and the atmosphere, the discomfort of trees lining the lake, hooks in fog. Days of men not to worry. Whose rain freezes on the windows like tulle. Whose horses hump. Whose rubbings work around our history of days wearing handsome coats. Down fall our trouser days. Portland …

A burning as the burning of choice has its center.

city of days

I am headed to the northwest side of the cityside. The side of the city least felt, fibrous. A folder of bones sewing my city. A folder of gravel. A folder of clay. A burning as the burning of choice has its center. It checked off, chosen, called on to sing. Sing The Prayer, sang …

All that all

Family Day

The hole in the mud is encircled with families. Each family makes a day of moving the mud from the hole. Removing the thistles and sticks and mud stuck to the leaves. And cleaning the shape of the hole, the circle. Work days, work nights, chewing the ropes. So everyone is in it a little, …

The bee on the bus seat, a little splendid.

Day Driving

With any luck, we can make a mark or notch. Comb the totem for messages against us. The day bright, stalled light, placards driving us for words. The bus. The bee on the bus seat, a little splendid. The knees that are folded upward. The children with their fingers. The coup. This, with all it’s …

Hole in the heart of the damp clothy clouds

Blessed the Pilot Day

Blessed the pilot program, ramming thru. Pilot Days and tenebrous flyers. Cold air cutting under wingy for-realers. The pilot light hole, blinging  and blinging. Hole in the heart of the damp clothy clouds. Sound. His voice sounds like, in the ears of my huskiness. How did you grow up so, bro?  His bass voice flubbing …

circle of sleep

Give us this day

Give us this day our daily tiger snakes, their laces placed in pockets of night. These longer, more slender limbs made swimming, into modified water, for hotter or colder. Pleasantly whirled. A circle of sleep. Hey little doggie, I should have danced with you. Made you mine in this frightening huckleberry light.

Hey little doggie, I should have danced with you. Made you mine by the Huckleberry light.

Blessed days they swinged

Blessed Days they swinged, singed! Days in retirement, sitting soundly bitch in November. Grow time. My will is getting willier, leafier; a here unherded, grazing sweet, sweet-hearts all up in this pasture. Cheaply and chirpy [you herd me], my cattle head that-a-ways, brown cattleproof Cattle. Hoof marks the holler of yellower grasses, of time’s light hair, parallel blues. Hey little doggie, I should have …

There are bleat­ing goats on the wheel­bar­row. They are unchained. They are furious.

Home park. Moonlight.

Home. Park. Moon. Light. The moss on all things felt, green, stink. The wet and blow dry. The shit­ting of birds on my hair. Blessed are the work weeks, on the shoul­ders of clients, in the always-cold inside, sucking it up. The portions I made up. The skim­ming of days, the per­pet­ual down­load, the yearly …

watching a huge poo­dle walked thru dusty streets

The Swamp Cooler of Days

The days made ancient with wind. Our armories unleash secret cham­bers. Knives in the lawn. Rail­road ties aloft in the swamp cooler of days, evap­o­ra­tive spray, watch­ing a huge poo­dle walked thru dusty streets. Tuc­son, down dog. A muff of cicadas, a couple beers. Bless this laun­dry on the bed. To be folded days. To …

Blessed are the times I lost me keys. They were signs I made. They were flashing.

Blessed

Blessed are the horsey days, the gay stringy days, the horse in your court, tennis days, the surefire ride home thru wildernesses neither dense nor trim, wan sun setting on my trophy days. Blessed  days before, wet pleather days, unpaid, the more and the less. They play out in narrow parameters, in parking garages, they …