poems are made of words, words are made of

 did you think words come from nowhere? that they are not made of the same matter in which the entire cosmic creation was made? what did you think they were... ghosts? words have matter, they have shape and weight, they vibrate differently, they have different voices, different religions. words make different colors when combusted, they stink. our poems are not without us, they are not without our breath, the grease from our skins, our baggage, our tiny stupid paradigms. they are graphic, they only exist when we can see them, when we can build them. they have to be made by us. did you think words lived without the fleshy mushrooms of our brains? did you think they live without the fibers of the forest? without oxygen? without history? our poems are made by 100% recycled materials. they are made by the dead bits of our ancestors. words are our limbs, they grow out of us, the way our legs grow cumbersome. see now, look here and see how the word is not unfamiliar, it is not strange, and it is not isolated. we cannot separate ourselves from our words. they are us.

winter warm

glow:  a dull, steady light, for example light produced by the embers of a dying fire.

warmth comes from the coal night chalky frozen
inside puffing stomach of train, the black is transformed to a red bulb

the air is  cold the body is

panting on the mist slope

the land is winding down but the body is

a furnace. This is winter:

when black is lit, it reveals it has always been yellow.

brilliant strands of racing oysters

underbelly silence balloons

a shore stroked through screen

and for a moment hovers in worn scraps

sweaty animals

1. all plants sweat
2. all animals sweat
3. anything that unabashedly sweats is an animal and should be hunted.

molecules 1

if A is: our organs are made up of molecules 
            [drops mucous liver onto floor]
and B is: smells are made up of molecules 
    [shoves bushel of lavender into face and squeals]
then C is: our thoughts are made up of molecules 
        [so why aren't they more smelly?]

chemical reaction

chemical reaction: 1. adultry.

ions

ions: 1. a. those of us who are spinning by the alchemy of our childhoods.
             b. those of us who are walking with a gimp

if i am writing poems

can a poem do what hands do?

can it reach?
hold someone?
kill someone?
hold on for dear life?

if i am writing poems, know i mean to be writing hands
they are the things that do the real labor around here

winter

what a relief the bare lace of winter trees.
brings the breath back to bone
back to silver back to granite
watch us: the chimneys and I are huffing quietly

atomic hypothesis

there is no such thing as body there is only movement our bodies are like a windowless room filled with brightly balloons, except the walls of the house are made of balloons and so is the space between them, those are balloons too and when we heat up by our dreams by the radiation of each others souls on fire we jiggle about like singing tonsils bumping into each other like the running bulls swinging balls and we are attracted to each other in the dance, our brightly round bellies rubbing up against each which explains why we cant help suck the pulp out from each other's memories and fantasize rolling our green cold eyes inside our warm purple mouths or stick ourselves into each other into the viscous moving balloons of each other just to glob right on and become each other like mold

pac-man bit

the smallest chunks of information are bits because of the way the gnaw on the brain they enter the brain tube and mutate into fish mouths with the stringy razor teeth, little silver pac-mans coming with jaws open

i have to eat hamburgers because to use the brain is to make it run on its legs which turn to jello things and its stomach full of gilly toothy bits turns over too like a cake and the soles of its shoe are worn down like sardines.