I drank the creek water until my eyes, until my eyes were prayers too.

I’m on the moon / your favorite place, how encouraged you were I left / my safety stars

I’d always wanted this, I just didn’t know / to give it a / name.

Every Sunday, I practice saying no in three languages.

The Complete Correspondence (1979) My dear, It’s downpouring. From here inside I can’t stop thinking about the trickle of people outside. Cold hands and feet under control. Only vague news, you …

The Complete Correspondence (1979) My dear, It’s downpouring. From here inside I can’t stop thinking about the trickle of people outside. Cold hands and feet under control. Only vague news, you …

we can all agree / no jobs for clouds / unconscious drifters

I get a haircut and scrub the stove, feeling unpeeled / from the old terror.

On my swallowed stone, I painted the weather inside a zebra stripe.

Could I not want / the justice and / the sentence and / the jail of a goal?

though I do // look pretty good / slung over // where a pair // of hot pink / fuzzy dice // used to hang—

Take this cryptic correspondence as – a sound bite skirts my wonder.

But come on, even Eve ate a dead baby dino. / Adam was still munching on his apples like a dweeb.

only the two rocks holding each other know / where they find balance.

You love to see it—discrete individual units realizing they are not / at all that. Like a grass field caught in wind, finally understanding / its purpose, I breathe with the sound of God breathing.

No one said much / just / this makes virgins, that // makes pollution.

he is remembered // like a stoic painting. it looms over / his organ, static from years // untouched, nesting nutcracker
 / and country hymnal.

How the distances collapse when / moving at speed, several instances of relapse folded until one prolonged scene, an / abrupt start from sleep.

Call it oxymoron, where to shed is to gain worship, / polish escaping into the hidden temples of my teeth.

clean of me, my rod, / creel, sturdy / shoes, jack knife.