Thinking, fingering the long parts of my palm

Probably too poised to notice tortoise tampering with high-pitched noises

To make me cry on my way downtown

To make me sigh with relief that no beast lies in my bed

bugging me for a make-shift mobile 

or a smoke

I watch a pigeon toed crow watch the sky and somewhere in the power-line horizon

while my bad eye simultaneously skims the tops of skinned heads 

through my national geographic magazine made from plastic plants

someone discovered in a dark dublin warehouse

In silver symphonies somewhere in the distance 

Darfur children blow kisses late at night to their mothers in hostage

much like I used to do at Christmas.

There's a two headed vagabond dog waiting for you to take him home

in a pet shop in mexico

Don't name him

It just makes it harder when he leaves you after dinner.

In a room built for Jesus
There's a bed in it already (you provide the sheets)
There's a hot plate
a mini frige
an oval mirror hanging reflecting white
and of course time has autographed a pictureof Jesus
He's surrounded by his Angels blowing their gifts into the sky with brass inbetween.
In a room built for Jesus there's a blue leather chair
perfect for sitting and thinking,
"Is that picture crooked?"

There was a fine fire spreading salt around town
I remember because I had castor seeds with honey for my breakfast.
too much time passed, I was healthy already
So I looked to the clouds
Stealthy with white pintop heaps of cotton steeples staring at the townspeople although asleep keep my seeds warm and safe.
Margaret with a young fellow skipped into my shoes.
Jumped a clocktower high and dropped like a Dog.
I burst into three peices, each me milking the moon.
La Lune
LaLune

Here I am smiling looking at you on the shore
I smile as big, maybe even bigger than the moon but
I wouldn't know because she's been hiding
When the stars make trails on the sand and
you turn away walking faster, rubbing and balling you hands together
your eyes spitting sun like a lighthouse lantern on the rocks that make better waves for you.
"what exactly is synthetic?"
You'd like to get to the root of the problem.
And sorry if It seems as though I'm not listening-
just thinking i'd like to see and touch and make love to your roots.

Sticking out like a carriage in a crowd
clawing at the underbrush sweating sour peach
An interbreed of Irish moss and dirt I've eaten-
dirt i've known and seen and dreamed.
And after cold-water baths,
after i greave gravel's breath
I could wander down the path you left
of helicopter seeds and salt.