Sitting and writing on the dining room table,
I want to tell you what it is to be alive,
the yellow oilcloth table takes the imprint

It is not so much that the boat passed
and you failed to notice it.
It is more like the boat stopped

My father raised me to know
that I am not different
from anyone else. This knowledge

impossible to pick it up. the oily outer coating catches on the kitchen
counter and begs to grow, even where there’s no soil, the ones I did
manage to plant lived for three years—never trees, but the flat leaves

My morning cereal can’t contain my hunger.
I ask my wife for more. As usual, she refuses.
For once I’m undaunted and I eat the empty bowl.

He feels the catheter as penis,
is pleased with its sudden growth,
and goes to great lengths fondling

I am never getting married or having babies
after I saw what happened to these dogs we had
named Max and Phoebe. One day we heard this

First the Chickadees take
their share, then fly
to the bittersweet vine,

I hold a pair of scissors over my head and open and close the blades to cut off the air from its source. I lower the scissors to the ground and snap at the surface to punish it for its errors, such as grass, trees, flowers and fruits. I turn the scissors point towards myself and snap the blades open and shut at my nose, my eyes, my mouth, my ears. I have to be angry at my-self too who lives off earth and air.

Perhaps there was a rug
There once, a hooked one
Originally owned by someone