Story of trees. Wait until.

A roof over your head. A home unreachable.

A corn broom sweeps the solar system for gemstones. A travelogue runs on stomach acid. My enemies live in love. A phoenix furiously corners into a driveway.

I climbed a tree. I could hear computers hum up there. I could hear a radio in my mouth up there.

All delusions have details that are provided for. The face of. The amount of.

A house is on fire. The cucumbers are fire-retardant. My nose is itchy.

Most machines are bodies that run on projective modeling. Also called astral mass marketing. Also called a nebulizing diffuser.

The universal context becomes: to belong means surrender like a stone signals arrival. Like a pillow invites facelessness. Like an angel wields a leaf blower.

Europa is a bond of long-standing surrender. Generations of trees gather their own species. The hero of the family is a faceless Viking. The washing machine downstairs takes twenty years.

When do updates stop? I’m still a basket case with erect bloodlines. I see now how carvings were meant to be tenderness passed down as errant rituals. I imagine bedridden creators. I imagine barefooted translators.

Someone somewhere re-writes Shakespeare upon the flesh screen of abjection. It’s close to what’s now important. ‘Anger at’ one day mocks city planning. A city garden tucks into corporate fundamentals. We can hear emotional ambulances wail the name Jane Jacobs. We catch flashes of Kensington Market vulnerabilities.

Someone had to say the answer is baseball. Someone gave out free shoulder hugs. Someone used some rope to put together a ladder. They called it a higher form of love but we all know what it was.

Dedicated to a shadow.

Here again, accents. My flat foot codifies pieces. Something breaks. Or is it small rocks pinging against fiberglass?

A Colorado piano. Channel catfish backwash a crisis. My shoes are my friends.

Please, I'm here now. I misplaced my. I forgot every single.

Trigonometry praises Samson's jawbone. My new suit’s waiting but I step out of the shower to coordinate expulsion. If it were a film in slow motion. If spooling helped Hanover.

Sister to sister dialogue is a silent invitation from the margins. I want the exchange without the time emotions require. Disconnected cousins drink water from different glasses. Placemats define the trajectory of a family. Drapes serve dementia. A difficult clay cup dries.

Banishment from the table with an orchestra of closing scrolls. The time for liberation passes and then waits for a new enflowerment.

I have a memory: money flowed freely from my throat and I used it to buy a waste of space. I heard waterways sing all night and my eyes were pockets of green gauze. There was a marriage in a park. My heartbeat inflated an air mattress. A banner in the sky read, "Eat Shit, Artie!"

All I can see is spray-paint on the horizon. I travel with guilt in the gearbox. Surprising because I used to walk everywhere and pause (or at least slow down a bit) before the forever sadness of bungalows. I came to know how people live in them to starve out hidden manuals of mourning. Different than grieving. Miles from monorailing.

It takes two lifetimes to understand how a sentence is only about how it sounds. This makes music as fundamental as something dental. As rural and smoky as when Darlington biker gangs ruled the sideroads. The ones just kissing the shores of Lake Ontario east of the Hydro Fields. IBM played out chance operations over there. The grafting of moments onto centuries.

A boy saved up his quarters for a potato gun over there and maybe it was the first and last time psychobabble saved the day.

I'm devastated how quickly the leaves change from saucers to scavengers.