the stinky poem

 a bloom of words from a
saturated tongue tickles
 imprisoned minutes


and in big grey puffs
I see the same abandon in the poem


sinking right in
curves across  my heart
the mights unrested
to even remembrances of a face
I never even knew


:l

The cubicle of seven threes

I promise
I am not here
to prove an ape.

Or to
tell you something I
heard waiting
to fall asleep

I forgot the rest


.









.

learning tennis

moving flesh
inside our hearts
coloring and
collecting like waves at the seashore


a heart can
draw the sky over
and in each movement
all I don't know is
happiness


..