Density

We were walking three feet above the ground to keep our bare feet clean. The jesters walked in oxfords with scuffed soles and business suits. They walked in such a hurry to get to where they had to be. Their feet bottoms were all dead skin. They didn’t feel the rigidness of the sidewalk, anymore. But their crooked backs glared at us with green eyes. They wondered how we did it. It was as simple as floating.

You noticed that I had stopped looking the people, the jesters, below us in the eye. Glaring at me, you ran into a man and kicked him in the groin. “What the hell in god’s name!” The man tried to follow us, but his testicles whined for him to slow down. And we floated through a side alley to lose him.

As we approached the house, you impulsively said, “We have to be humble.” But I wasn’t listening. Instead, I was trying to figure out a way to walk higher. And belly down towards the ground. Clearly above the heads of the jesters. So that their babies may point and shout, “A plane!” And their mothers would look in disbelief.

“If our parachute fails, we will not be safe. It was a fluke that we became gravitationally lighter than the others. One day we may become heavy, honey.” You grabbed my hands as you spoke. The top of your golden head nearly touched the patio ceiling as we stood outside the door.

“No, it was our higher brains. We will never be like them. Now, I have to eat before I go to work.” And I ducked my head as I walked into the living room.

You sat down outside for a long time. Your ass never touching the steps. The spring air lifting you up. Thinking about me before, when my weight was restricted to earth’s gravitational pull, you smiled. The mailman saw and smiled, too. Failing to notice that your were levitating three feet above everything else, untouchable.

Ameliorate the Debutante

It's not the route
that leads home but i'll make it my own
it's your softly flowing dress
suffocating my skin that i will sit indian style in
i won't wear panties i'll purposefully prance
over steam grates on the downtown streets
i will not match but can break your heart

it's your four walls
 'permitting' me the courtesy of a room
 to trap myself inside of secret
 is privacy ceases to exist
it's but a pretty dressed up jail
 i do jumping jacks and splits
naked with the windows open in mid day
i dance i smoke i rub myself down till i shake
 all traumatic like and relieved to be living
 blinds drawn up, apart of the world, again
My own box, room, window display, peep show,
if you shop with no money, i'm for you

and go right on laugh
at my vocabulary my poetry my rants
about wild Descartes and fornicating forlorn Foucault
Because what do I know College aint for me

So now this is your dead end job dead end living
i'm dreaming through in mars no now spain new mexico
and then Marvin Gaye's coke-ridden parlor
shift ends and i implode into water vapour
sent from the pure Arctic to flood away
the sinister carbon devils and no you can't
 have my number i'm saving myself for white ice

sure, sir, please, cut my curly brown locks in my sleep
- or rip them out piece by piece while penetrating me
(in more ways than you'd like- you rattle it all, a truest klutz)

did you notice me here? tugging at your sleeve?
asking if you could spare a dime a dream a home?
i will make my own there isnt one map i dont know

Off Beat Second Hands

This evening, we were lonely. So, we congregated.

We wound ourselves up.

We drew our numbers around the television for a sexless circle jerk.

Someone told me to be the bulls eye. “Think red-hooded and doe-eyed. Maybe even shake a little”, he instructed

Case study of aggressive males with hockey sticks on the television:

A players human cheek smashed at HOW-MANY miles per hour against the Plexi glass means

The men who observe are closing in on cumming.

If two players are digging their skates in ice, clinging to each others faces for balance, while beating the other in two,

it is my duty to deliver a new set of pants to the gentlemen in the room.

They smile all the while. Happy in their humanity.

They speak in codes. So, I myself do not speak but listen to even the smallest silence.

One speaks in well-articulated full sentences, but down at the floor. How long has he been unhappy for?

Another erupts each minute in profane, liberated yells about this and that.

He smiles all of the time and fills the silence.

The youngest only open their mouths to comment on sex, money, or marijuana.

But they look you in the eye.

The one in his room sniffs cocaine.

He is preparing for school tomorrow.

Which of these is the breadwinner?

Who to pick on our mass broadcasted dating show?

Is there a best Joe in a lot of Joes? I finally say aloud,

“You know, I never met a clock that didn’t know how to tell time.

Once, I thought I had found one.

But it snuffed back at me,

I know how to tell time. I’m a clock that’s only

　

broken!”

Silence. So, I ask, “Anyone have the time?”

And they do not. And they do not understand. Silenced.

A holier moshpit of hockey players piles up. All of the men cheer and giggle,

except for the one alone in his room. But something tells me he doesn't mind.

And we all sleep soundlessly later. Except for the man who sniffed cocaine

He will make beautiful art and be late to class the next day