the whole world's untitled, baby

Hey guys, it's been a while, but I wanted to leave the picture poem up for a while for SXSW. Now, however, it's an untitled world, baby. That means I've written my 5000th untitled poem, and all week I'll be posting a ton of them for you guys. Call it a celebration of the written life. And just wait for April, oh me oh my. Have a funky good time!


untitled 5000


it is not our place to save
the world even if there are monsters in the midst.
we
have
love

and is that not enough?

carry me under a pink horizon
and I will
sing to you of old iron factories.

there is nothing sweeter –

Sunday morning or other,
a prick of violin and some biscuits,
an indigo bedsheet,
the last thrust of lovemaking,
the phone ringing,
a computer on a coffee table,
and sheets sheets
sheets of paper.

we can be a forest ourselves with strange
fruit,
and we can consume ourselves,
and
we can collapse.

sigh, and clap, together, once, now, my love.


untitled 4999


I who am not so wicked
yes
as my chest is a furnace
and glows I chase
around

old beaches attempting to reunite
with ghosts and memories

but
not to worry

I have the ordinance language carved into my feet

so imagine
sand
and imagine poetry and

there
I go


untitled 4998


tell me again I am leper but god lying in gutters and know him beautiful ask and answer he replied but empty newspapers and lime colored dumpsters and to speak instead of the world blue downtown center commerce bank and puppets’ pink pajamas and the old factory biting dust distant and a miracle of course eating ourselves in mirrors and removing in the evening to drink brown liquor and sing song angels that exist pin pricks and telephone calls and god me to buffoon of course is easy and the secret cities across the pages of happy magazines and an entire float stream of piss underneath my feet the moment midnight in the scrounge life


untitled 4997


oh we wretched few

have no names
and are
listless

shadows

emerging
from
bars at the end of the night

chanting
god oh god
is dead
he
is
we have beer soak and whiskey
prattling
and
god oh god
is
kind benevolent timid
insipid and blue
beetles oh
ha

and we lie upon broad mattresses
below frayed blinds with
hope for the sun’s bright
touch;

the morning tells us we are
children
but

we don’t listen.

we have hearts of the magi pricking
the fabric of the ever
want
want


untitled 4996


hey funny valentine,
be
a dead pharaoh,
be a book unread
and be the door that does not slam;

hey,

take your time listening to your father’s
music;

he had a lisp and a lithe gun in his
pocket;

oh wow oh

go boom
go bang


untitled 4995


shoot a ruby slipper and tame
nothing

and open a doorway;

hey,
it is spring;

hey it is summer, hey;

hey, it’s fall again and we have
flesh colors on the balcony;

I think of jumping to reach something
but
the radio tells me

hey, hold
on,
it’s winter