Unacceded

Seemingly as simple as
finding you in the forest
full of apple blossoms.
You are a nude bitch
there ruining the white
petals.

Having you then, were I
to put an Ambien down
your gullet, it being
the only damn way to keep
you euphoric and me placid
I'd be

unacceded.

Salt

Despite no lack of salt,
residueless; and there are
basically millions of salts.
Cars kicking up white clouds
of the stuff, and is so not
wet. We could be salinous,

me chemical, you uncontained.
And if the thing were not
porous dispersion would not
be an issue as it has been:
just you gone, me dun
caking the beakers bottom.

Motility

Shin splints
from awaying
so fast as
to use all
muscles
of the legs.

Even it is
over the long
days hence
invariably.
If boot-strapping
is what they say

is what was
here always?
A complex
system of
locks holds
the boat only

with water.
A million
cillia feet
would but push
and would strain
for the bottom.

Pre-dawn

And I too am tremblin'
out the vintages of morning
stiffness like a cold and
anticipatory horse would be.

They will call us both steam
nose as we jangle to the
party green, not knowing it
is still early morning.

If night is a reveler, pre
dawn.

Sleep-motion

If I were a Lincoln scholar
and you a research assistant
working on somnambulism; and
suffering from it! you would
call for a damn beer of what
-ever variety and deserve sand.

"Oh my," one may say, "your
lips, mighty soft." This corpus
corpses, lips soft from
too much fluid. The trick
of sleep-motion is more
figment for the wishing.

Embetterment

I am hunched over
in my garage-bedroom,
shirtless, knowing
that if I had a television
show starring Cole Mohr
I would be further
than halfway there.

a Very Large Urn

Fairer for the distance
the sea's face. He
hates you very much, grows
distant, rounds the square
peg, eventually.

Scribbling old pen
nubs up to your face,
loves as much as sea
in going hates; bites
the metal back in kissing
in indifference, ink; cheek.

This is some cold tattoo. When
you are a dead bitch bloated
in the water, a very large
urn would seem wonderful.

Bad Photography

Articles of clothing
scattered on the hardwood
would seem novel
if everything were novel.
It seems a shame that
silver particles and knowledge
of cameras from Maplethorpe
to Terry Richardson
should coincide with lack of thought.

Age disregards this.
Our rooms disregard this.
Painting here surpasses.
Things on the carpet and concepts.
Wishing that misanthropy
were lovers, wanting
to walk the dark streets
and being tired of the night
and scattered articles of clothing.

Salt

Encroaching
on where dreams die in sawdust.
It is a real place. Saw
dust is absorbent, life
wet. In barn
a bloody nose would be
analogous, if you were
packed in salt and were anemic.

How could finally
losing the limb and repatriation
be better than this? Does
each limb not need
an artery for bringing oxygen
and taking out the lactic acid?
Every barn day people seem
more eager for the salt.

the Intention

Ingredients broccoli
artichoke hearts
I bought
with the intention
of making
a pizza
but was
so tired.
Ate green
curry and
rice from
a box.
Went to
bed at
ten o'clock.