She purrs,

like dusty-rose wallpaper

over my day, which was

a living room of bricks

New York was a wall of black umbrellas

the tulips were on the other side 

or so I heard

Monarchs make poor messengers 

as I could only make out

their muffled pollinated rumors

between the clap of their thunderous wings

Unititled

The word grunge sounds green,

like it should grow like moss

with bright brown flowers atop it’s short stems

solitary and terminal, it grows under the

sub-genre of rock



ha ha

Away and From

Hells bells and cockleshells,

armadillo bones and microphones

bicycle tires and appliance wires

are buried in the beach of Isla de la Canta 

a kaleidoscope of parallel hands

I cut my foot on a metal shard

while standing still,

trying to pick up a signal

on his satellite radio

All I could hear

was the sound of gigantic balls hitting

glass windows

Yesterday, reincarnate.