big time cat fancier

23.5.08

It is late. It is drunk.

The unabashed free weights climb the forted hill
we see it out our beds or windows or the plains

of motion not retraced, given away for pill bugs.
Frenchy lifting beards off the branches of our

hammer hills, our motor oil boat trimmings. So,
the fox's wisdom chews at our mulch pilings,

not unlike the faux fruit filling up the bed
pans and the fan boys. Thus it turns and goes

up into a path where batteries are fragrant
as elephants lift their 1,2,3,4,5,5 and this

is the epitaph to the hour of light. A turn-
around in the elbows the pitting of magnets

to the burn. It all lifts off and we count it
as if new. Restless bugs shift hum hum maybe

Turpin love of gratitude. Bricks, yacht, cran-
berries, a holy ghost of fog between the good

house and the shade, trying to please craft
yet misgiving the idea of relevance like we

are all in the same party drinking the same
tears, fighting for the samish tears. Motorboat

motorboat for the love of Christ! Check the
tonnage or this tug or rung or hung by my lap

now my darling loves the check, eats the map,
treats the servants like the vacuum minus the

lap and the meaning of dust or the weight of
the spot where all hands land. This is where

we find hard love. Call my last name. Mo
lingers in the dust of his last drink. He

never plays the theramin quite right yet
lingers while the trample bears down.

2 comments:

  1. It is good.

    I love you.

    You are good.

    You are drunk.

    You are good.

    ReplyDelete