You are Alone in Your Kitchen

i’ve known pirates to be chefs

as steam rolls us over

network sensors who mix up

second life for plus nature

humans are prone to specific gravity

in little boats familiarly tug

strings of our labeled mattresses

less wound by weeds

that puns at the corner table

glad resources in reverse

for career gals made italian

by re-homed yellow jackets

plant again martini husbandry

whose mission is for epicures

The Good Parts Version

hold of moves to new zealand

while we hope in posters

that group hugs find new parades

under besieged municipalities

give or take one billion less

obeys like the giants posse

that pops in manhattan

where it’s lost on jersey shore

in humbleness of thief weddings

where salmon chanted evenings

on bluebirds hidden by fences

irregulars reply with undeserved

chances to fill fourteen flaws

to bluff their way north

Night Moves

funny how questionless sons
working on dead gregorians
snows grace on top of calamities
truckless, poised to sneak outside
where guerillas are behind curtains
gestureless, sleeps it off
but, regret is your artistry
silencing charlie brown morning
that duty is so spanish
to pair with red table wine
bereft of morality tales
are contents of my refrigerator
of substance with weakness
open how the night moves

No Such Thing as Mondays

this is more november
breath is waiting commute
behind tricks of little people
call them old technologies
a lost generation fond of drink
on used parts of eulogies
that resist invitation
when philadelphia is on fire
under changeless bowls of dust
so the threatening letters say
with the body of bob ross
awakens joints of the armies
there is a sweatshop five floors up
& a bar on every corner

Midnight Reading Jackson Square

let’s pay the city stars
absinthe left at midnight
cups as keys this year
medaled as courage calculates
three north, four east
ambles distracted crowds
that futures on milk crates
partial love of fine things
goes with new broken deals
never write your name to
these tokens of land use
yes there is that singularity
of feminine wilderness climbs
stone streets in place of arms

Chicory Mid-October Morning

wall of earth is sunken

story out of doors

famously here leaves clouds

for rivers to sit and have coffee

now refined stormy weathers

where callers lead us every damn place

we go in unacquainted territories of

very much alive resistors

with greening hymns of aristocracy

you are used to bitter mornings

touched in tin-clad wooden

indians barely in their nickels

to beat this dime game