Henri Rousseau

My old friend has snuck up on me again; Jungle. Consumed in mists by his waterfall.
Takes me to a grass hut village. Simple. Friendly. Women in grass skirts. Men making fire, sitting around. We go back to hang our feet in the river. Mingling antelope, moving like tranquilized teeny boppers.
"Tomorrow," he says, "I will show you the mountain from which our ancestors came down. They were children of many colors \yellow red blue/ w frizzled hair." As I listened to him speak the pink and orange leaves rustled above our heads and I was reminded of the validity of daydreams.

1. Mechanic still lifes, making love in a modernist kind of scramble. Ships running aground, regardless of the number of lighthouses, on Picasso's desperate breasts.

2. Cobblestone, wooden wheel, moustache, umbrella green, single, rains last night. Jesus Christ laying in the middle of the street, waiting for a fire engine to put out the leaping communal capitalists, consuming the entire house.

3. We woke up suddenly in the midst of an acid party, the smoke from your cigarette came out in cubist bubbles. "Fuck! I can't even smell your filthy coat anymore," even after all those nights of sleeping in dumpsters. ICBM's and rotting Iraqi corpses. It's like we are all assclowns, and we know it and we like to show it.

From closer, the mountain appears purple, green, and brown. We are busy debating the level of blasphemy when dusk falls like shit from an airplane. My friend has gone back to his trees. It is not as I had expected. Beauty with overuse and resentment.

Me Monty Makes More

the party is falling to parts-
any individual component is likely to be more successful, so,
so long boys and girls, on these sunshine days in iceyness be damned!
slow sweet story unfolds and tears not along the lines n
replenishes my imagination and i picture what you might picture
and original origami life for you with me.
we've broken the television lie and circled behind to repossess
critical understanding and secret ecstatic indulgences. Baby
I love how baby you are. na(t) na(t) na(t) back to the wall.
Not so much so but a linear zero to which your nature is immune and I wait to comprehend.

in murderous boredom a burning little flower appears
liberating a young text from the stagnant screen.
in case you don't understand I am the Gumby of your dreams.

Green with Giving

I can’t read, I’ve forgotten how I think
As I ride my bike down dry
winterish streets, through stony scents
of every year. Down hills past steep houses
of rock, away from this inescapable humanness and
an air of nothing
doing, cold knuckles.
Branches hanging over the street,
grasping at sidewalk people,
coddling utility lines.

In the backyard the dirt is harder,
trees are closer together than last December. I felt ashamed afterwards, having brought nothing, lumbering, more or less a beast than yesteryear
real comfortable, just real walking dust

and a barrier.
I needed and loved your brain I would think
craving to be immersed within

Her joy deepened like the Susquehanna, and
she would jump from rocks and railroad bridges, into gurgling still.