Vocal Cord Confetti, Bright Come Up 

Revised in your light like an apple ball

istic night—a pen mark, a sound effect, 

my dead plant, the sound “yes.” I’ll go till these

pills are a dove, until I was woke. Damp

moonlight ignored. Too many moonlights. A

flashbulb hot in the dark until I was

woke. The smash above my head pushed light to

a different color. A bowl of banan

as thus love and so, records the light. Un

finished rose. Symmetrical ear. Who

holds scissors? Orange against the downward. Its

branch shadow spastic—my shade, my nightfall

again peels the moon, carries the egg with all

answers to rise to this to not to be.

After

Four white hairy moons

hiding in blue hairy fruit.

One for her one night.

Cloud No Violet Look Down With White Scribble-

Surround. My hands drawn with eyes. Over

black papyrus strips—a kind of dream. Peers

together after midnight. The black marks

describe the street. The woods. The empty streets.

The details: young people on black plastic

blow-up rafts. Sunspots decked with breath. Turning

over commotion. I can’t sleep insane

green. Obese mites full of moon showing their

form. Ducks look down on lakes. Ladybug

remains on my desk for months. Contained scrib-

bles: lengths of time. Dirty plates. STDs

or white fuzzy infections. Again obese

mites full of moon obscuring metal golden

gods. Manias. Up the street, within eyeshot,

the one covered in went—you are morning. 

You’d Have To Come

    Back To Leave

              My Blinking Eyes Boiling Violet.    

                    Mashed snowflake.

                         One shade of orange trapped

in another shade. My fingerprint blown up.

Our want:

              a height, my pupil’s shape, a dollop.

A legless orange

         horse in our arms.

Come Out Of Neither Iris Near, Less, Blown

Do you want from me? Fan. Lune. Waver.

Could this be the wind? Think of

the background missing a corner from once

beneath the rain. Hidden in light

the sun called news.

The sun’s remains

on display. Six dots, now seven, unwound.

Morning parts. Clean sparks.

Yesterday a nipple trying the language

paving my sleep an endless

stop, a dark green.

My breath overgrown.

White pattern bang.

We wait for our guide to

translate the plant. The sky

active in faces. I turn my head to

one arm out the car window. Eye contact.

Where the air blew the sky,

ferns growing along a highway.

A second whelm. That day

night in the pond.

Whatever is able.

The sky linked to

another sky and so on

and soon every now discarded

angel speckle. Countless gravity

out in the far. 

Nothing at the window,

though I turn my head  

replaying the color.

The sun not available

in red: continuous on.

Palms. Rooms of

unstructured gold dust.

The site runs yellow lots

across my screen. The site gives

her yellow grass. No breeze.

Peeks, daylight garage,

like me this once.

Complete light on the verge

asking to see me.

Paris, Texas stuffed

in small boxes. The sun

through the tree in my eyes

stunning. When I look up

her eye wild pictures

keeping characters, evenly.

Buds everywhere in a tree.