coupons and corn puffs

the post man leeks his fury through
wrinkled corners, post marked

passive facility,
posing as ledgers of progress-

but I could never keep a sticker
stuck.
aggressive remarks lend their cents

too colorful to care, how many people
can use a useless

discount;

but I flip through the pages between
bites of corn puffs anyways,

thinking, that's a pretty good deal.

whipping milk from my chin I think of
cashing in on favors given,

like coupons crammed into my mailbox,
unannounced-

shouting, "cut me,

put me inside of your pocket."
so we'll both save a few dimes.

channel hiking

I'll believe you when the locus become friendly,
spelling words from their ears

instead of toes. my nose smells your breath through the
screen in front of me,

through the words in front of you

and a cable of truths
between us.

no longer can I read the eyes of tin
people reading their point of views

on points of cues given to them as paychecks.
you say ad-lib, I say birdie

ad-lib, birdie
ad-lib-birdie
ad-libert-y

actors.

I wear my boots to bed while walking through talking ties,
leaning into syllables, like
girls leaning

into uninterested men leaning into them
for as long as it takes to get off.

then they get off, and the smell of it lingers.
I wonder

If we'll last through the summer, last
through the fall.

a food poem

the belief of shame depends on your belly.
cured from within,

it's soft spoken sanctuary,
exposed the rue-

blinks when blinked at
while the summoner sneaks a smoke break.

these are the days of the Thickener,

swimming in salt.
I'll eat a piece,

when i'm good and ready,
but

the pistachios are burnt, and
I haven't the chips

to fold.

at least we can mend

at least we can mend,
while the day is found short;

finding leverage
in the sands of the past.

forget what you think you might know,
and breath a wind

left by a strength
that surrounds you,

in theory.

forget assumptions of comedy

left
by dreams in the dark,

and build castles with concepts,
written with tears,

and we'll forget the rug burns together.

the birth of book keeping

lets watch the clouds go grey.
cast out the lure

that made gold into lust-
made you into steal

and the story
is to long

to tell.

I would soften you with a kiss
if it meant confer;

but no one uses wood to make boats
anymore-

because its not practical.
or,

because the noise heard
while licking lips

softens the feel of it-

and the sounds are to loud for
resource.

or because I am a bad kisser.

or its not
what you thought

it should be.

I thought it was nice,
but I like it when it rains.

the drops of water sing,
drown themselves into

a short street melody.

see them halo, falling forward
like sleeping fingers-their flesh

cleans foot hole directives-
their memories

growl,
unwitted in their own mutiny
for they are many,

and can't read

the letters read to them
since the birth of book keeping.

or maybe i'm too self involved
to know

what you need
to feel-

to feel.

soaking

soaking, pickled in the saw mill shaving
cure that carried me,

long ways,

towards
a kingdom once ruled by

believers, their thoughts
projecting immunity-the indifference
of slaves-

and I'm reading the paper

online

ignoring the difference.

smile, the doctrine of implant
sees you,

knows your face.

let us go, and we will love freely.

because what are you afraid of?
and,

there is so much to see,
and taste, before

the time,

named serious, complies.