Around 1 a.m.

I hear some sort of distant emergency vehicle make a sound halfway between a horny drunk and a shaman. Foreshortened siren. Miles from here. I hear two cats fighting or consummating. Much closer, but who can tell?  I hear silver leaves of Andromeda falling through the vacuum of space. In the vacuum of space, where nothing hears nothing. I am listening there. Tonight. They may land on your shoulder. They usually do. So I will think about them some more. I will be a home to the sound of their homelessness.

Guessed It All Along

I have this interstellar feeling,
I keep having this outer
space feeling, this awful
feeling, that when we get
to the end of the universe
by extragalactic probe or whatever,
some futuristic beam,
we will find another
universe begins there
like another dream,
and there will be this fence,
this ancient fence,
with a sign that refers
to us, to all of us,
and the sign will read
“QUARANTINE.”
And the worst part
will be, the absolute
worst of it will be
that we’ll feel no need,
no earthly need
to wonder or ask
why.

The Sticks

The need to dust the words.          To explain and draw.
A book titled How Do Birds Know How to Build a Nest?
A dental appointment.    You forgot it.    Maybe your teeth

were supposed to remember.     The film you want.
Is Full Superia 400.   You think maybe these train cars are disjointed
thoughts like a missed dental appointment in meth and its aftermath.

I guess.    That makes this poem by default.    The bank is coming, mad.

Infinite regress regret like a highway.       A really deserted
piece of ass backseat leopard stretch of highway.      It glows green at night.
Over the giant fiberglass ice cream cone that lights up.    After everyone leaves.

And where a U.F.O.       Only ever.     Came again once.    Looking for you.