interview with pale, shovel

to ask whatever happened in the
sandbox? when whatever happened
to the sandbox is clear. it strings out like a
piano, added sledgehammer.
where is james joyce that dressed in ipso factos and clefts on this very corner?
where are the shadows the phone poles armored with the they says
a toolbox of statistics, anecdotes and storyline that I wish I could cop

there’s no place stranger

than a poem
to make it personal
j.edgar hoover played in nylons too after all

there are too many
too after all’s
e.g., your terror is tomorrow’s Tea Party too after all
but that’s conversation in the dark corner

wile the mean defile the average

a bouquet of guesses smells
rank
then file under gift:
(rationale behind)
dried flowers anxiety of having to speak
suavity of not having to speak
naivety of not forcing to speak

I fill the space with fire between
your hands in Guatemalan arms factories
extinguishing conflagrations only leads to a hollow in the sky where once flames

my sense is lead to a hollow in the sky where flames, once in the
hemi-, atmos-, oblate spheres of pasta

which empty like a look over the shoulder
a house pours down a stairwell
stoops then

grabs a basketball and V’s the air in passes
check.

convention of dew makers makes namesake
wings we flapped are sun faded
parking violations which shed
a let’s get outta here ahead
of staying at snowbird ground
zero

don’t open adore