Hydrogen Maser

another sunrise to smoke and ghosts,
the saccharine song bleeding over
sleep to let me know that even though
i always forget the dream
i still got something...

and all your awkward fiber optic paws
clackclack no blame like
presidential teleprompters
whose keys are too small--
gibberish erupts, meandering
backways and sideways to echoes of some
awesome hunter's dance,
while the nation laughs

ticking grass, silver linings
loose and unbound by skies
bleed everything UVB--
the lines dissolve,
and the sort-of-almost cloud--
fear burns off in agawam sun.

Bones

This amnesia thread unwinds--
I don't bother bleating,
or speeding to kinder blanker skulls...

The gunshot hole chrysanthemum
and great walnut escape are only over glass roads
and boxed boxes waiting to be broken down--
remade into bags, cheap children's furniture,
and idiot robots who can't tell the difference
of the mini flowered assination
and the deep ice of wild geese mountain

but no time to be a bug of thought
as the future worry wars and real wars
precede the 15 minutes and internet drone,
"expansion!"
to assert spare cogs by flying by,
welcome to the machine.

The 6-Cylinder Home

when the now has come and gone
a fuck and run that lasts the stretch
of stretch

and then dissolves to brighter fears
and smaller murders--
death the parked car, only

in cages concussions dwell and chug, abandoned
with jobs they hate and objects wasted
always on the edge of something with wings
that never leaves the ground

i'll let go first, in my dreams
my fist will open
and the thing will fly away to wait
for the day the snow comes
and never stops.

Fall Fleets

Legions of leaves stoke
armadas,
burning autumn coronas
around everything
that speaks a different language than you.

The pile of televisions
stutters to itself
and telemundo sails off--
a midnight ride
to tell the world
about how theory
can stop a revolution...

and the sun-bleached weather-dead land of southern california agrees.

Vapor Egg

Fall fleets quit parades for ghosts grown
under socketless ache of blue vaulted ceiling.
Their war with the clouds was fruitless
and they had to retreat before the cold...

for napoleon advances always
like love evolving death
and the sparks of the bitter tumor-seed
proliferated to tie up the sky, or
whatever was left of it after it had killed
the green with cinders and smoke.

It rained then, and the leaves could be seen jiggling
a symphony out of what water remembered as they fell together.