the thing

They understand you better than
you understand yourself; alone
and racked with paranoia.
You are the thing, we are nothing
but a set of disparate parts.
But I was born in the wrong time.
No one values the things I have to offer
sighs the Volkswagon Eeyore.
The new cars drive past his
parked form, FOR SALE
and the beautiful girls
shriek at his cuteness.

Alight the feeder

If you love me
don't do the things
that people who love each
other do.
When the man sits
at the window drinking coffee,
too dull to remember his yoke,
a chickadee alights the feeder.
"I love birds".
The rain fogs the portholes,
the classical station steps boldly from
his place in the back.
Look at him!
He's fucking beautiful-
"What?!!"
The chickadee flees.
The man alights
the feeder.

The dudes are the constellations

There is always some other dude.
The one with the weird wit,
the one with the devious glint.
The glint held a mystery.
Mystery solved, next case.
The one with the talent,
the one with the hair,
the one who is good with words.
The dude who's writing is so funny,
or whose demeanor is unassuming,
but whose kisses are passionate and soulful.
The one who is there, at the right place
and the right time; Park Point in the summer,
2 am in the winter.
The one who takes his winnings
and spends them all in one place.
The one who drinks too much.
Then
there is the special man.
Somewhere there are women who
are keeping him in their thoughts, and they
are frames of reference.
They think about him, and he thinks
about the other dudes, forever,
like a beautiful self-replicating prism.
The dudes are the constellations that will
guide him in the night.

You are closer

You are like the sister I never had, though
I have a sister. You are closer.

Underneath your body

Something happened to you
while you were surfing the net.
Your acme passed underneath your body
without even brushing your leg.

The money in matchsticks

There is pride in ownership,
of birds and studs.
A wood stove, and the proportions
of property. I don't want to own anything.
The vast swath of woods
that is really a toothpick farm.
"Let's go ahead and mow that poplar lawn"
for the money in matchsticks.
The tip is dipped in a sulpherous cauldron,
with magnesium soft and strange,
and a strange girl groping my zipper,
to light a head that strikes anywhere.

Blood cheese

The time has come to harvest the pulse
of my achievements.
All I have are words and symbols with which
to quantify the boundaries of my butterfly ranch.
Great mesh tents like titanic nets to hold the cakes
frosted in dust and short as wicks. Verbage is the only
grass to feed the aurochs, their flesh
as red and heavy as catfish bait. Blood
and bread, a sacrament to patience

The money in matchsticks

It doesn't matter to me,
this hundred dollars.
It is a new fly rod, it is
three solid nights on the town.
There is pride in ownership,
of birds and studs.
A wood stove, and the proportions
of property. I don't want to own anything.
There is a vast swath of woods
that is really a toothpick farm.
"Let's go ahead and mow that poplar lawn"
for the money in matchsticks.
The tip is dipped in a sulpherous cauldron,
with magnesium soft and strange,
and a strange girl groping my zipper,
to light a head that strikes anywhere.

What am I wearing?

That is definitely me in that picture.
I look short.
I think I must have the build
of a short man, even though
I am tall.
"How tall are you?" they ask,
looking up at me, surprised
by my height.
I rise from my chair and
feel gravity kneading my stomach.
What am I wearing?
My torso is too long or something.
It is filled with occult impulses
and has shortened my parameters.

The fish
is not a metaphor
for freedom, or wildness.
It is not your avatar in the river.
The fish is the path
of least resistance.
The fish is just like you.
It has staged until sexless
and now in its final gasp
it realizes that the water
has turned.