Platonic Fridge

You get so wise
talking to the plant
about the grilled cheese sandwich
you are making
in the middle of the night
all about guilt.
Cheese.
You think your thoughts
are mostly stolen
animal products too.
The moon in the window
is also a thief.
All light feels stolen,
if light is property
which seems a sacred idea
about shoplifting
the divine.
The moon in the night
like a yearbook in your mind
quietly assaults you.
You turn the sandwich
as a lover turns
a lover in a drawing
you can’t stop tasting
before you actually taste
yourself forbidding yourself.
Before you are the moon,
its shoddy accounting
and what it did with light
for billions of years
that it can’t explain
or won’t in this court
because it doesn’t even understand
it is a dark body
with accountability
to other darkness.

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.

Let

Let no wind blow
Let no water flow
A head stills now
Let no word go
Lessness, less
Moreso, more
Let grass try here
Let calm
Let stars
Let matter lie
Since
One head stills
Round it all
When grass blades
When wind
Goes a lock of keyhole
A house’s skull
Feel its spies
Let leaves that blow
Let water flows
Know I don’t
Feel a thing
Let rubies
Let heartsease
Be done
Let colder planets
Who orbit done stars
Speak to me
At morn

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.

The Green Park

The space from zero to one is finite.
This is one unit. The space from zero to one
is infinite. There are these irrational intrusions,
something like thoughts, that go on forever.
The space from zero to one is no different
than any other space termed span.
The truth is that space is always opening like a hand.
We have only this conceit of span. If you look at a landscape
enough years, much longer than you possibly can,
you would see that green park elongating and rarefying
to a thing we’d sooner call a space than span.
Just think. All of that emptiness was already in it,
when you saw a child get on one of those swings
and pump her legs until she was nothing but joy
surrounded by stars and a funny darkness so loose
it could be anything or anyone at all.