I would rather have a "huh..." than a "okay..."

there might have been something that you use to say
that would have helped me, yesterday -
or today -
or now
we've talked about everything except for that
that you've not said
it's refilling or it's empty -
it's the future, or it's the future
(not in a sci-fi way)

when love merits a scallop -
a single scallop -
that is THE BEST SCALLOP

once -
a coroner inside a scallop
whose name was Scallop:
"it is flowing now..."
gelatinous, and full of eyeballs -
"uncomfortable -
flotsam, centered in the corner of the eyeball"

I didn't even notice that truck,
bed full of spider mites.
they never sleep.
Larry - their spokesperson -
came forward to set the terms,
but we're waiting, watching -
I have a venus eyetrap
that never sleeps,
hungry for flotsam

once asleep
out of dormancy comes the era of the bloomscape
on an island of snow,
but also - doom

"doom, why the bonnet?"
(the lasergun makes sense)
there go the blooms -
but...why? really -
the foliage flourishes -
the bloomscape is alive

the sound of the body -
sometimes it just sits in my mouth -
like a doll's tilted, quizzical head

I was driving home one night -
I don't remember the night.
I'm very rarely out at night at one at night
(domestic or just poor or homebody and not
actually domestic but lazy or anti-social or
just more social at home - but why?)

also, when I slept last night -
I slept in a bed of baked beans
and wore nothing but potato chips
as pants and they were lovely
pants but I bled, as in my mouth -
as in the roof of my mouth,
as can happen with potato chips -
but also apparently potato chip pants

the variegation of the heart
and non poetic serendipity
(or - happenstance?)
whatever

I think you're a real poet
if you can pull off flotsam
and not come off as trying
to be a real poet

my greatest struggle in writing is
"who cares"
but if they can't understand
then they can't not care -
right?

if you were really tiny -
like say, a bug -
you could actually probably
float on flotsam
which would only be cool
if you were a poet bug
because no one else cares about flotsam

what I would give to start -
what was I afraid of -
eternity
a bonneted laserwielding doom in the bloomscape
writing my own poetry
or just starting

unspecified

perfect rings unroll around you
as you passively face your fractured extinction
the happiness you find in your sleeps
the sun, tangled in your hair
perfect mornings rise from the happiness you find in the fractured existence
with the velocity of green
green has the most velocity and happiness
some think yellow or orange, or maybe some think red
think shrapnel, from sunlight, from stained glass windows
it could have been a bird
calling, with it’s fractured voice implied
the happiness of calmness
and the calculus of mystery (62% unspecified, 26% fractures, 12% exogenic)
and the solidity of sleep
simplify the softness of roses and the transitions of souls
maybe I should stay home tonight
the twelve-faced spell brushes her teeth and goes to bed happily
the ornamental equinox searches
        fingerwalks across
                comes to erase me
and I don’t even have any gadgets
I wake up with happiness and stretch
“naked but underwear!”
I say, in my underwear, and nothing else
and I say nothing else