late night pizza from jonnys famous pizza shack

it's no doubt the worst in the city

but they sell beer illegally till it's almost morning

i heard a rumor they got busted

today the pizza was better

a straight week of rain
but toady the sun comes out

stuck in the library doing a research project

riding my bicycle in the rain
i stop to warm up near a convenient store

two old men are happy that they don't have to wait alone for the bus

the sound the pencil makes when i press it against the wall
my neighbor is made of microphones

i forgot about the first time i saw the ocean
it must have been made of seagulls

the smell of leaves falling asleep
the sound of bicycle tires sliding across the pavement

i heard from some place but i dont remember where
the evidence of mankind is in the belonging

chances the washer in the kitchen sink will be changed by sunday
probably small

the color yellow painted in the hallway of my apartment over time has turned brown.

split open
one hundred at least
the smell of chestnuts.

the feeling after my bicycle has been broken for three weeks and then it is fixed.

a dog confused
on the street corner
waiting for somebody.

the anticipation of eating too much pasta and wanting to fall asleep.

umbrellas hang
from fingertips
the sound of rain.

the humming in the dark after a long uneventful day can be an event in itself.

making cutouts of
dolphins from an old National Geographic
thinking i too could be photogenic.

the beginning of each street corner
taking from a bicycle
watching the sun readjust

the bell on my handlebar is broken
nobody knows that i am here
each window passing in silence

changing sleep patterns to early morning
pockets full of change, little scraps of paper
photographs, pictures, snap shots.

remembering rainy day autumn.
living room window pale and gray
the leaves feeling heavy

fasten stories to the building facades
tall thin trees in the hills
sun setting, arranging thoughts under clay shingles.

wıtness

those little breaks
in the day read like through
a woven plant basket
unwatered and dusty with age

walking sometimes to find water
sometimes to remember
the kitchen sink everyplace we go
is empty and waiting for dishes

sending postcards to distant friends
the air is dry
i pick fresh figs from the trees
the pommegrants are still not ready

lost in a bluish mad circle of sky
lying on my back, water trickles all over
the view a hundred miles atleast
its easy to pretend

the huming of heat wafting from repainted registers

The climb up into the snow filled stoop
the falling flakes make a feeling of surprise allover
A trash container, feeling weighted with sand
helps me reach the sill of the building dated 1903

Smooth corners and dead ivy
rubber treads of boot cling to ice
Hands wishing for soft, warm memory
Once inside the day has passed

Stepping under vaulted ceilings, paint cans rest
discardedto the absence this makes clear, awkward silence
I have headphones clinging to my neck restricting my view
Some rooms have light switches, some only with lights

I have had conversations in this place
thick bandages fully wrapped around entirely from the waist up
motion sensor alarm from the attic, notified police
The beginning of terrible sickness with envy like the smell of candlewax

Tabletop canvas, rust flavored paint, stack of scratched CD’s
in two, groups of two, birds waist time in this heat
Making nests from abandoned wooden desk lined up in rows
lecture halls with graffiti chalked, there sits an overhead projector collecting dust

The intolerable witness of sound
In through tunnels cutting outward from building
We talk like children on holiday
We listen for voices other then our own, we listen for music

Hands full, collections of discarded books
a blue upholstered chair
the huming of heat wafting from repainted registers
hallways comprised of doorways

Saving trash cans on street corners

we were alone or alive or sleeping
inside the weather was great, almost tropical
I spill water in the kitchen for reminders
taping paper to the wall, paint it grey

Headphones, artificial sweetener, missing toothpaste caps
the cable to the toaster oven is white
Cardboard cutouts of butterflies
Trying to sleep with my hand folded over my mouth, very sleeping

Waiting for feet to catch up, walking in the night
Every house resembles a large orphaned zoo animal
no place for concrete rock shaped cave
no place for waterfall pumped into penguin lagoon

The traveling circus maybe, I say to my self
taking eight breaths in a row very slowly, very quietly
on fire like making tea while camping inside an old sock to strain
The leaves releasing small amounts of air over time

To the surface they break and open up into the air
The waves in the distance over the sand
We say out loud “we are plastic, we are melting plastic in this fire”
a garbage truck rolls by aimless, less amused

inside/outside

Lungs caught in blue.
breeze from water drip sing and fume the constant sway
As well the beetle. For deep inter-jointed life.
we pail the day the dreary look of two in one title scheme with headline
the meddlesome words in closure and repeat and reinvent.
the intamacy
she/I
The space between fingers is seldom worn.
the walking when less desirable is brisk and painted eyes they swarm and vent.

Press chin to throat.
play relaxing music in your head over and over until it becomes unbearable.
play very load music. Not in a volume sort of way but in its content.
watch patch of grass wither like spindle of leaves.
this watching for the time it takes to pass the air to the earth.
is like a flower.
she/I
The taking of words from the slanting roof you sleep bellow.
the rise and fall of wasting space

The lax of beard.
Catch button un-frayed and gleaming doubt of warm.
repair harness as clothing you shape and keep home this mirror.
clean out drawers with moths. Move across sheets of ice only with hands.
in pockets holding pens and Velcro shaped throne.
stay indoors as long as possible.
she/I
the calender of self doubt is shaved and porous to the skin.
it belts with laughter in the morning with all the dying day

The jellyfish here look like turtles. I assume. I have not seen either yet but when near the ocean I think all crazy. we took a car ferry to an island. then we drove to the other side. the beach was a haze of fog. I saw a cactus in Montana I wish they were here too. However, all I have seen were slugs. ones as long as small garden snakes. The fog from a peninsula far away moves quickly. we jump towards the ocean in our underpants. the world becomes a haze. the fog shelters us from the giant people. roaming the sand the sticks piled near the top of the coast. they seem euphoric from the distance. this makes us feel the same. When walking along the water it has receded. very thin layers brush the sand. if you focus only on the clouds in the reflection, it feels like your floating. we talk for a long time, like this while walking until we reach a flock of seagulls I run after them as if I am a small child who hasn’t yet realized how futile this may be. they fly up and around, away, and back. I had split the group into two separate groups and sort of felt bad. they watch me a little more closely the second time. I think that maybe they are more intelligent then I had hoped. that was my last attempt. I did not really want to catch one of them. I just wanted to see their wings together moving. so many together all at once. to see the effect that my arms and loud bird cackle may have. and frantic head shaking. small islands protrude and wrestle the tide. some times we walk to them and pretend that we’ll stay for a long time and sleep. maybe become stranded, or declare ourselves castaways. but we walk along them clumsily because of the slippery rocks. we find little green globs of sea-life. they have a name but I’ve already forgotten. they remind me of stress relieving implements that you squeeze for a long time in hopes for quiet.

underneath lake michigan

Sun beat sand sifts a fume
Stings the air
the bottoms of callused feet
from trees the branches
no reason no shape
young
the relenting swell
the body floating like acorns falling
in midair stopped
watching this way
remember the matted hair swam out
underwater holding in
counting to eight
head tilts a thin layer of
clear silent words wash the shoulders
breaking

carving letters in the taut
limbs to muscles to ears
stretching toes to hear them bend
the sound when muffled

passing over the hills

the bulb in my lamp suspended from my ceiling
was finicky was stumbling for air
could not breathe. It fell apart
it broke in two places
it caught the corner of my eye like a drop of rain
swallowed from the night sky it receded like the skin underneath unclipped nails
tender and pale
the creases in the fingers
passing over the hills
over the tree tops
into the cold horizon
the threading
of clockwork driven sun
rattling the joints of bones bending
holding
scraping air
we drink heavily with humid stager.
towards the window the plants will lean away

they are my only witness

their somber faces
drinking, belching
bathing in the vacuum of my breath
they walk away.
I watch them walk away
they live by the window
they through stones like secret messages