Schließlich kommen
Blätter und Erdnussbutterschokoladenriegelpapier
zusammen endlich.

Finally–
leaves & peanut-butter-chocolate-bar-wrappers
together @ last.

Accompanying music.

I can taste the bloody iron

in your sticky spinach clinging

to the rocks, your simple sirens,

though its your leaves that are singing.

There is safety in remains,

memories o’ wine-sweet bliss;

ride on waves, on ships, on chains,

green all that is colorless.

Still you cling to my gray shoes;

though I love your ugly fruit,

progress says you get the boot.

Accompanying music.

Ignore the sun’s slander:

as much as there is in the golden retriever,

there is strawberry syrup in the heart o’ the salamander.

Black is the color o’ cola & chocolate,

& I can feel the moon’s flour crumble in my fingertips,

can feel the soggy brown leaves hug my feet

as they pass poems by Hershy, Sunkist, & Tim’s scattered through the street.

Like ancient Greek plays,

torrents quench nerves dried sick by sunburns;

& there’s peace in the chaos o’ carpet floors

scattered with papers, wires, & shirts.

For what is beauty but that which we accept?

Thus, if we accept ugliness, misery, & death…

No.

They don’t.

I take it all back:

all o’ the muddy foot tracks,

all o’ the red marks left by tacks,

all o’ the limbs blown onto my yard,

all o’ the cheap rom hacks o’ Mario Kart.

There’s only room for either day or night,

& the moon’s not full ‘nough to finish that fight;

so we must all be subjected to the light

—the lactose intolerant to be sacrificed.

Sun-burnt eyes:
sparrows snatch turtles
toward tides.

Fruity-pebble morn:
cubicle worker
quotes vid in comments.

Guaranteed
warm or your cash back–
Summer Moon™

«Mmmm…»

Hold it there, Signor Sher: I just

saw you rolling round the sun-caressed

grass villi like a cub fucking

for the 1st time—well, OK, nothing

o’ this I truly saw; but I did glimpse flashing

colors through your eyes into your mind, basking

in your soft cotton sweats &

your puffy jacket. Think you’re the cream on the pumpkin

pie, right? Wrong! We were saving this

sweet & sour sunlight. It wasn’t meant for you.

Nothing is.

That’s right: put it all back where

you found it—all o’ the slick hair-

like grass; all o’ the viney

wrinkles on every oak; every

juicy loose-leaf hugging your

shoeless socked feet; & all 4

seasons. Don’t miss e’en the most worthless

piece. We’ll count them all to ascertain

that they’re all returned.

As for you, you

need to get a clue:

snooze.

Quiza es junio,

pero el celeste gris

y el aire que es tan frío que puede verlo

lo hacen un junio del otoño,

ni del verano ni siquiera de la primavera.

So there.

What a waste. Without a taste,

stretching out for help, but found

none in suns on yellow days,

frowning drowning pastel clown.

Nothing’s sweat in salty tears,

only smeared & only itchy

make up made up of those years—

dark, & yet they still bewitch me.

Dump you down my creaky drain,

please remind me of the rain—

Please! I promise to behave…

Recuerdo cuando oía aquella canción en el radio.

No la toca no más.

…

I remember when I heard that song on the radio.

They don’t play it anymo’.

…