trim brushes, paint buckets, second story roof tag,
what it means to have an artist plug a black hole with mortar.
close circuit walk home, broken brick and lease is up,
house is open, keyhole empty.
meet you out in california, rucksack, sleeping on nude beaches,
performing for our dimes and nickels.
sewerside on street corners speaking out our piece,
we'll till the land with a pulled up parking meter
'til the soil churns to wind.
a stretched taffy howl to peacock plume our haircuts,
the painted pigeon dessert's a crust of bread.
the former melon's rhine and open empty shell,
which ones get the poets' bedrooms?
and kicks the pebble loose, a sylvan lot, its painted rail,
a horde of cricket carcasses.
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The bin is a place for household rubbish, not beloved pets!
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