We owe you nothing but love
Today is 12/21/12, just fyi, one of the last days
on earth. We lie upon this beach, scraping the wind
from the sea or a sticker of the sea.
We dream upon this beach, breathing the slimy
breath of the sea. I imagine my hero, the legendary
Annie Sullivan, who taught me that flapjack
is another word for pancake and that dying in
dreams = skyping in dreams.
I skyped the whole
galaxy in hopes that you would bump
cups beside my sleeping head, that
my daughter would never be grabbed,
and I would never become crazy.
It's sad, but in some cities, water
does not equal water.
On Wed. I will read all your chats to you.
On Thurs. I will lie down beside you.
You whose hair is on fire, you may remember me
by my flat-footed walk and wide-set eyes—
Preludes & nocturnes
Lake Baikal is the deepest lake in the
world, a true miracle of nature.
It's a can of several flowers, and a grave
to place them on.
I turn on this old radio, with its preludes and
nocturnes, nocturnes and preludes;
all the daddies of the world gasp.
I have a little dog who fetches my slippers.
I have a little wife who strangles me in my sleep.
It's the rain, Dr., it's only the rain.
Lake Baikal is the purest thing in the world.
Lake Baikal is a pistol.
Lake Baikal is calling you collect
from places no one's ever heard of.
Girlies of the woods,
we are standing in long lines for daiquiris
and the water is rising, rising.