BEOUR photos

if you could go to where the sun went down
in the backyards that made you feel
like mountains were made for hiding behind
then you would be a child
on flat land
with only two feet to withstand
you don’t yet know the sun
or how it goes down it mid summer
behind a masquerade of thorny trees
you make mountains of these things
patterns of imagination stuffed in a crimson chest
and you remember as you age
with fact emerging;

every day to you
the chest becomes
more and more oblong

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just below two shoes
underneath a misconceived sky
there is you
inaudible and far from now
where the will for wishes
and the inevitable showing of bones
get buried deep in the advance of day
but for now rest without care
you are a child lightly on the growth
not imposing upon the epistle
of tired men’s heads
single file for the monoliths


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I dated the breeze in old summer trees
by the size of the shorts on people's thighs
in an accompaniment of sampled memory
played through the ancient mircrophone
of an old-aged and worn vhs tape

Dig up the scenes of revelry
There is no other place else to go
The hedons will have their gold
And their caverns

Feel the need to walk?
All for a camera.

If there were one way to leave a lake…
There is never one.

Even when you think about regret?
Especially.

I keep dreaming I am an iceberg.
Sounds like the inevitable watery death.

Fighting my dreams by day…
That’s like threatening the wind.

It seems serious.
Like days you wake wanting something drastic to happen.

…something about having a reason to run?
Typically a rainstorm will do.

Shelter is a store shelf.
Want is a shut window.

How do you know what is valuable?
Treat the sky like its rarely seen.

(Or pictured on a nickel.)


So much ground has been cut clean.
Concrete has potential too.

Speaking of nothing…
I’ve gave up boredom years ago.

Somewhere it is loud.
Even the sun’s gone deaf.

On your way to quitting?
The problem is, more than once.

Kennedy did not kill the hat, by the way.
No, it was the magazines.

Had Josef Stalin dropped into Manhattan with that scarf of his…
They’d make him a sensation.

It certainly brings up notions of god.
…always going where you cant see.

And here I am asking all these questions.
Mistaking the shone sun. Thinking it means yes.

Your window is a morning
And all your silver dollars shine
Were you born in the wild
You would not have pockets

Poverty suspects a poor creature
But, this?
It is just some wild supplanted
For wall and all the trappings

(Now the bird’s gotten caught in an airport
And there’s all that glass ceiling)

He came to realize that a working-man’s worst
was the dawn and a cracked eye
The fear of cloudy sight for a ceiling,
shutters, and all yesterday’s suns

You hear on the television:

“ is it the not-knowing that keeps you up at night?”
“Well, believe me, death is most certainly something to be concerned about.”

(….then something about laying down in the dirt. And bone whitener. )

You know the average height of a man
Is also his burial depth.

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Heaven is the off-white of your walls

and the sky puts your roof to shame