Banalities, you know

the snow has found something within itself to fall again,
trying to be snow, coating the dogs’ heads, the grave diggers’ backhoes, trying
to be snow, work up a little verve, a little storm
to freeze
and cover the ground

teeth coming out of the smile

the organs
inside of me
still working
like they’ve been programmed, really, to work

absorbing my nervous electricity, expelling
(when forced)
my poisons

They are not me, these organs.
They don’t know who I am, in fact. But there’s so much good in them,
brainless duds.
They’ve been put inside of me, hell. and maybe someone else could have them.

it’s hard, guys. I’ll admit it. and trying is the saddest thing there is. the common good
of failing is always there though--

cancer. global warming. another
election

Singing is against itself again

its toys are in a jar
with flies and ants
my friend is in a coma
imagining
eyeballs and prostates and
continents shifting,
the mantle commiserating with fire, deciding when to blow up, a pistol
black livers,
fish,

time as it crawls out of the mouth
of an angel’s cadaver

and the elephant man’s brain
is in a museum,
it looks like
George Washington’s head
and his hat is the dust bowl

and
in a dream
I dunk a basketball,

roll about the
bowl
of my life, pressed down into the earth
by the thumb of my
printer
master