1X1 E. McMillen St. Apt. D

starfish, alive, and liquid on the lighthouse stoop the saturday morning four window spotlight turns into stained sunday bed sheets, and back again in the end. speaking voices swapped for specs, the keen eye's title screams, "after all I found it." Circle K; shitty coffee boomerangs hunger pains to beans. the guy's on the corner with a broken can opener open. dirty shirt, plastic flower print, a poet headed for bore, the messenger practice. a tactile cactus. a leader in the making us drought system. no lattice around the naked edges of a trash heap art piece, I raise my eyebrows when somebody calls me clothed. hands off, better to feel our width. trash heap collecting ex-presidents next door, lodging the lump in our throats. god's daughter's built for speed, lives on the fourth floor, we're in the basement, where the marionettes hang waiting for wet hands to stiffen the limp pen. fuck the fashion show. crumbled bubble limbo's window trapped... trim brushes, paint buckets, second story roof tag, what it means to have an artist plug a black hole with mortar closed circuit walk home, broken brick and lease is up, house is open, keyhole empty. I'll meet you out in California, rucksack, sleeping on nude beaches. performing for dimes and nickles. sewerside on the street corners speaking out our piece. we'll till the land with a pulled up parking meter 'til the soil churns to wind. 1) a stretched taffy howl to peacock plume 2) our haircuts 3) the painted pigeon's dessert, a crust of bread 4) the former melon's rhine and open empty shell which one gets the poet's bedroom? kicks the pebble loose. a sylvan lot, its painted rail, and a horde of cricket carcasses. it's the same old hat, big difference.