muscles work by accretion
pulling up a sod lawn
the oldest job is the sun's
I am dreaming of garlic
the wind's fingers are ringed with leaves
I am incarcerated
I have discovered the uses of leather
I have no thoughts at night
the squirrel's body I left is about gone
its belly perforated like a colander
I hear music blow by from the southern basin
I masturbate in the avocado tree
I sunbathe in the reservoir
I have a transistor radio and a magazine
I am dreaming a menagerie of impossible women
I am waiting for the sun to smooth these marks
a rose bush in the cold is the angriest word
my fingers are starting to curl
the wheel is about to pass by
the water will be cold the sun bright
I will have a new friend he will be me I will ignore him too much
I can hear the soundtrack
at the moment the dancer's fingertips
I don't stand up very much I'm truly wealthy
the sun bows my back like a warped plank
my eyes see everything like the semi-precious stones at the Yosemite Gift Shop
my eyes are black stones and see diaphanously into blackness