Square peg, round hole he’s so beauty-full, trig function
backyard junction licked envelope stuffed assumption 
cling wrap face mask shoelace; and a spade’s a spade’s a spade’s 
a space to make my own.

CURRENT STATE OF THE FRUITION:
She’s a silent musician, an achy breaky invisible
magician, mistaky mistaky slippy and shady
mountains of crumbs and the songs of the earth that shape me.

Q: Do you whistle while you work?
Listen: synthetic fabric flowers, vinegar in
 a sunny smiley vase. Father Time surfs 
on the sounds of things out of place,
graphite wind chimes made of golden fork tines,
the smell of lemons if you can ignore the taste of lime.

Paper dreams + cotton stars, 
left foot on the moon, the right
on mars. Blindfolds, kneepads, 
Rosetta Stone Rosaries, candy 
necklace trick or treat, olive oil
through a sieve. I get
it from my mother and in 
dog’s name, the wet 
finger-paint I will not 
smother.

A: What is, an aptitude for swing dancing?
You put a flower in and take a lemon out,
you squeeze it till it grins then you turn it
upside down. You do the hokey pokey 
and you give yourself a hand, now you have
three hands, jackass.