To finally arrive—detached everything; a changed disposition skipping in a new coat made of shiny buttons.

Go to work, sleep through the news, fold the lines into an origami boat to float in the bathtub that needs to be scoured before the unwanted company arrives.

Smile and say, we are leaning in a bright direction.

The theory of the factory won’t open the enclosure.

The workers are naming all the broken parts of the massive new machine, its instruction manual in Chinese.

They release the boy who can’t drink the elixir—pressed under a car, performing terrible tricks—breaking windows for home.

How easy the game of hide-and-seek in the attic when no one is there except dirty pigeons that don’t mind the nails spiking straight up to send them running off the roof’s gray, tarred shingles.

Their thick necks of dusted, oily feathers—careening—jerking—on high speed because they no longer care to fly.

Their flattened, dilated golden eyes multiply, following in the smallest room facing the front of the house—where you wait for the too-thin girl with unwashed hair to cross the street, alight the crooked porch steps of the old woman who can’t remember the girl’s mellifluous name.

Pull out your spleen to show the middle child while the pictures of death detach recklessly— shattering the platelet of the sample.

Collision’s blueprints clear Tuesday’s field of glaring sun that doesn’t mean to hurt you—doesn’t mean to disturb you with sharp pebbles.

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The painter combated the gray day with an entire tube of yellow.

When finished, he sat in front of the canvas as if it were the sun.

Lemons plucked from summer trees morphed into liquid buttercups void of lies.

Somehow he had highlighted happiness from defunct childhoods across countries.

It was an altar that didn’t require sacrifice or playing chess against segments of time.

In the gallery, the catharsis would be amplified though Icarus’ wings perpetually melted.

They had all become fatigued from living online.

With enough boredom, solitude shifted into plateaus of loneliness.

Every day faces became smaller, and the wave from across the street at the mailbox invited a potential epiphany.

Every set was a series riddled with memory.

Even a null set formulated absences, a treatise on entropy that unfolded beyond grief’s harbor.

The quilt was a timeline without meter—and desire, something to hold on to, not an anchor but a sail.

Someone kept sending unfinished stories that followed like a dream that wouldn’t end even though the dreamer kept waking.

In the Diaries of the Somnambulist every dream was a new city, a magic room in a house that multiplied.

When the moon perched before darkness, its pale, faded light taunted night.

An organ played in an empty church, echoing through the nave where angels wept in stained glass windows because they were afraid.

After the final scene, the antagonist in the dream play removed her costume backstage but couldn’t get out of character.

Her family missed whom she had been but were, admittedly, mesmerized.

Without props, her life became a drama of the absurd and not a tragedy.

It was silly—all the searching for something to save.

The garden whispered into late November in a duet with the neighbors’ landscape machinery.

Sweet pea vines still flush green, and the decorative grasses wore tufted plume hats.

Snap a photograph and call it Still Life with Such and Such to salvage something before the dark velvet curtain call when the moon again became a trusted beacon, a pendant poised on night’s thick neck.

Consult the book of titles on the nightstand, the necessary orientation.

Sadly, the whole day couldn’t be a poem or a painting of sun.

There were more chores to do, and it looked like rain.

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The moon gave you a standing ovation tonight for enduring so much hunger.

It loomed larger than a face on a TV screen and followed your car skirting darkness.

That slow dance on the ice made the barren trees weep for fallen leaves and long-ago summers.

First, darkness lead and then the fractured stars took over, the smallest lights lifting your torso skywards.

To lose a part of oneself left a hole that could grow into something even beautiful with the right safety nets.

The woman lost at the frozen lake sang of her missing husband, the one who never found her.

In the book you are writing the holidays were magical and the dog didn’t die.

The beloved offered gifts with violin fanfare where the coldness froze every heartache.

Fire flames devoured the old notebooks you offered without distraction or second guessing.

The map to Monday also became ash.

If you could stop unwinding memories and let time again be linear, shed fear of hours that could destroy if you fell through

The book would stay as kind as the moon following your measured footsteps.

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NIGHT GARDENING /the green book

Lazy, hazy—I fell in the night garden—just missing the yellow roses’ thorns.

The sweat pea curled around me, redolent—adorning me worthy.

Things didn’t go as planned. The beloved, the monkshood, didn’t return this summer.

That part of the east flowerbed, a reliquary for mourning all [love] missing, the wizening hands.

The moon, gone blank, didn’t pour its flashlight from the heavens.

Just the fireflies lit up night in flickering fractions; the batteries gone dead in paper lanterns.

There was no outdoor dinner party this year. The disease had taken its toll on necessary preparations.

Energy was an expensive commodity in a new currency, blind. The map of the brain clogged with questioning and second guessing.

Human voices couldn’t be differentiated from wind, but it was too early for the neighbors to be awake, two feet removed from the dream world.

It was then my father appeared with his signature smile, indicating things might be okay.

Tata, tell me what it’s like there. Are there flowers and moonlight?  But he was gone.

Instead, the owl resumed writing her nightly poem, an Epic on Solitude, and the wind picked up the shimmering leaves with their echoing murmuring, the sound of silver etching darkness.

To be like that—constantly moving, planting new bulbs, tubers, and seeds—but the garden had become too much for me.

I stood up, dizzy—with the small shovel at my feet—and tiptoed to the east flowerbed to dig up the small grave of notebooks.

With the last match meeting the wick of the candle in my nightgown’s pocket, I read the green book—pages about early summer before oppressive heat, days long ago laced with desire not apathy.

One by one, the pages found the candle—rushing moths to flame—that disappeared, singed in their journey to sky—while the sun climbed the trellis of birdsong.

Tomorrow night, I might pilgrimage for the orange book or the blue. There was no telling.

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The winds garnered our shadows to comfort jumpy birds. Shadows of hands, in particular, sculpted their nests into perfect circles for the bluest eggs, the most mellifluous of song.


The sun knew nothing of this.


To turn oneself inside out repeatedly had dire consequences for the unshelled insides. The gods might be hungry to pluck away hunger (not to mention ourselves).


You were hundreds of cities and one large ocean away, thousands of winding streets, millions of locked houses. The you that was never mine but pined for at sixes and sevens.


Many fear the new disease may have been manufactured in nefarious laboratories to set the First World off kilter.


A lashing out accomplished nothing to write in the heavy tome in one’s stomach.


Let’s do virtual coffee or lunch to discuss this matter thrown from our eyes and hands.


How is it (really) that we go on and on with sunsets bleeding right through us?


I realize the now as I write this is a perpetual now, your now, a peculiar time travel.


What’s it like there in your desert sandbox, bird’s nest, bleeding sunset, your insides turned inside out by conjecture?


In the desert the mirage was a sign of confusion, normalized by the gathering sandstorm.


The man removed his child’s bicycle from the truck to fill the tires for its own wind travel.


I keep forgetting to fill out the census to be counted. It’s difficult to remember this fact.


The things we hate can’t always be rightfully banished. Melancholy took the day and folded it down.


I babysat your sadness last night and left before you woke. I handed off the baton to the restless ghosts of your house that find you charming.


There were (then) things I wanted to tell you, but my voice became too hollow (shallow).


There are no more refills on the medication that was to fix you.


When I fell prostrate at the temple, I pulled my entire city of birds down to show you.


(How) the poem celebrated its own polysemy with new semantic fields.


But I fear this has all become (too) cerebral.


Your morning cereal will return taste to your mouth, sensory perception.


(And) a journey to the ocean will give back (real) water, salt, and movement before the demise in the face of the sun and (then) the moon that will follow.


The river will offer tadpoles, wide-mouth bass, and shad staring at the sun.


That book you are reading or writing has pages that may weigh you down and then wind-lift you into new buoyant nests in the trees with (your own) unhatched eggs.


I don’t know how DNA is responsible for such things, the map in your brain can malfunction.


There is birthday cake every day for someone. It’s okay to use your hands.


The joker that was dealt offered a bizarre sense of humor; just make sure he doesn’t carry weapons.


The mass casualties some said were a product of First-World living.


It’s okay to feel anesthetized sometimes.


To want so much, the bees at clover, the hands of the lost lover.


Call your person; he or she is worried about you.

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Night pulled new hostages down for the dream world, a dozen at a time.


Time became a main character in the play, a drama—not a comedy. Well, a tragedy if honesty should factor in, but Time would really tell.


The borders, as usual, were questionable. Everyone was trying to get out of town, see themselves from somewhere else.


It’s okay to be lost on one-way streets, working in the dark, hazed with cloud, filling out paperwork with your name, so you can belong.


Once you stop bleeding, you shall be wiser.


Once on a high floor of the skyscraper, your image will multiply.


You now live on Choice Street in the city of Renewal in a state of Gentle Chaos and work for the Department of Speculation.


I know you are wondering about all this.


When I pick up the book in the recurring dream, it is always empty. At first, this saddens me. I was looking for the chapter BELIEF. Then I find a pen.


Your father’s favorite flannel jacket doesn’t smell like him any longer, but then you realize your father had no scent.


I was a sheet of glass in the wind of their voices.


So many could not fathom the expansive field of the poem.


Not everyone needs language in the same way.


You look confused by the quarantine; the mask accentuates the disorientation in your eyes.


When things go boring, you are known to invent and count angels.


The radio host spoke of a man whose ghost significant other of two years left to cheat on him; an actual ghost ghosted him.


Your mother always warned you about the opposite sex. 


Sometimes the days cartwheeled; other days, they somersaulted slowly.


All those hours of daylight and nowhere certain to go.


You must have patience to deseed strawberries.


The prize was given for the best attitude amidst the wreckage, in the wake of continuing wars and protests absent from multimedia screens.


The father told the son he was burning in a bright direction toward God.


The leader led with a child’s vocabulary.


We were afraid to take the ferry because of predicted hail to the islands to which we burned all the bridges. The last match in the book could take cities—with gasoline, of course.


The birthday was a reminder of everything left behind, year by year.


When the baby was left at the train station, the conductor brought it home to a wife that had lost many and therefore, knit hats, sweaters, and blankets.


There are no medications for happiness really.


A picnic used to help settle the neighbors before the ATVs were taken into the jaws of a big crunch machine. Privacy has its cost.


The world is, by necessity, random.


We had prayers for an afterlife completely different from anything we could imagine.


The children were restless again; all extracurricular activities were cancelled.


The dirt in one’s hands and fingernails was now more than needed, but scratching a wasp sting could, therefore, cause infection. Wash your hands every hour.


One wanted to share the lessons and take from others before a spiritual bankruptcy that precluded the movement of dance—just languor.


The traffic thinned, which allowed as many parades as possible, replete with trombones and candy, but no one was watching.


The baton twirlers wept into their pillows where they practiced kissing.


The poem collected rain for dust, light for night, encouragement for the less than brave.


The things to know didn’t know anything.


We were all so changed.

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The cave where we grew secrets was a safe place; our memories couldn’t harvest us.

The glass beakers and vials held amalgamations of human tears, rainwater, bee pollen, and dust.

If pressed, unlike the alchemist, we would not give up our families, sell food for golden threads.

Unless there was excess vegetation unfurling from our hands, unless our families didn’t miss us.

There were many worlds within the world and outside of us, dimensions of sorrow.

To measure all of them might take eternity’s windfall, the knowledge of truculent stars.

At last sighting, the beloved had a mouthful of desert sand, trying to harbor time.

The sandstorm had rendered all golden kites useless, the pool of water a hallucination, in fact.

We sold our stories of the future to those who needed incentive to wake up, beliefs in magic.

By the fire at night against the backdrop of steady rain, we sang of fallen heroes who gave up their stories, bled out on stone, transformed almost everyone.

A chorus of thunder punctuated stanzas of bravery with the crescendo of dangerous refrains.

Hurry now, braid the wind with fire and hail, the thunder with courage and kindness.

Love was a camel in the desert dreaming of rain, a candle of wax for lighting ways out of dark labyrinths we created.

In the cave, our secrets grew white lilies teeming from our eyes, prayers even staunch atheists half-believed.

It was still a dark time, but our stories of the future set birds alight into new skies missing from contemporary maps.

The stories became us, pages in a book we would sell for more bee nectar, more rain.

Once there was a golden camel that held a globe of nectar, a world of calm betrayal.

Once there was a boy who traded all his baseball cards for clarity.

A woman who looked in the mirror and became rain, a day that heralded parades.

Our families understood our search to cure the diseases of cities falling off the calendar.

Love was the gift that fell through our hands, nectar that might eradicate doubt and chaos.

The beloved sent postcards about weariness and loss, golden threads, and birds of travel.

Our secrets kept growing wings soaring into the future for children and magical kingdoms without time.

Even with us, the pillars of some worlds would crumble, some days would fold into themselves forever.

It was all we could do with the new sun crawling up the horizon, lilies blooming in our stomachs, teeming with more intricate stories of wind travel, miraculous birds.

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The sawed-off legs ached to walk to the house of the beloved and climb the tree ladder to his second house in the stars with their indelible sequences.

Up there, we dreamed of being off the grid, sailing across the Mediterranean from country to country, living in languages we didn’t know, kissing beneath stained glass windows depicting holy men and books of wisdom.

Even the sepulchers lacked sadnesses that would fill in much later.  

Severed arm stumps throbbed to wrap around the beloved’s torso, a sculpture at one’s hands, seemingly missing, too, with desire’s own heartbeats, pulsating with an urgency to be recognized.  

Some memories hurt the core underneath the stomach and caused a wincing at the scent of his cologne in a crowd of strangers, the gesture of his hands contemplating the universe out loud.

Over and over, the memories distilled to postcards with no addresses that would curl up in a box under the bed.

It was hard to breathe without trees and bird trills. The birds vacated quickly with the first signs of industrial saws, the workers in fluorescent jackets.

The absent music left the silence of being deaf after being able to hear; one looked frantically for the volume dial to supply instances with a soundtrack to amplify potential feeling.

Despair could be a name for emptiness or the fear of never getting anything right, the way the night felt in the forest before all the floors fell out, the sinkholes left by tree stumps and private burials.

It was like looking for the dead in a pile of photographs, aching to hear their voices, be in the presence of the ones who seemed to perfect us, dance in a proliferation of mirrors.

The phantom limbs were ghosts that walked right through us with the winds of small sabotages.

The postcards could be sent to his last known address; the treehouse could be stalked at night until the police came.

It was so difficult to differentiate everything that rose to the surface to be named–even colossal throbbing absences.

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The woman in the painting had fallen off the fence between Monday and Tuesday.

She pulled the blanket of stars down to examine them, one by one, burning her fingers.

When she touched her face, a halo blossomed with the smallest white butterflies.

She was trying to see Wednesday, but the scaffolding of beliefs crumbled.

The holiest week had quarantined sorrows braided with deaths and silences.

She would tightrope Thursday without alarming the others with disturbing visions.

The vacation proved a myth, the drama consumed tragedy, the students couldn’t sit still.

All saints were dead but resurrected into the fame of postage stamps.

She knew that to be unseen could be dangerous; poverty required discipline.

The book she carried glared potentially useless, a score for uncomfortable feelings.

With cello accompaniment—a chorus of women wailing, glaciers breaking.

The robots were warned not to be overly human; that the ego had shallow pitfalls.

After all, one wanted to be something more than a conglomeration of footfalls.

The footnotes to Friday distilled the chaos into unfinished meanings.

Weekends were canvases that glared with a tenable vocabulary all their own.

Not to touch another proved more problematic than anticipated, foreseen.

The viewer was confused but curious about the delay of movement, the broken song.

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The ones who did not recognize the subject were sent away with a refund.

The caretaker played her favorite music, so she would take the pills without biting his hand.

A steadying branch, the beloved [at times], radiates amidst the fuzzy confusion.

With the right haircut, one can be different for a while.

How many days can one wear a bathrobe before it is clinical? The philosopher wonders.

The Sisyphus uphill seemed more difficult to navigate in daylight.

Being overwhelmed subtracted her somehow.

Next month, I will believe in something. I am almost certain.

Some people are linear, some circles, some Mobïus strips.

Bring the spiritual medicine kit when you sign the nondisclosure agreement.

It is possible to get lost in sound paintings, cloud paintings, a mile.

The dog can hear chewing from the other side of the House.

After our long winter hibernation, we are hungry all the time.

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