Standing above the vent in the hot, hot house

Through my fleece pants

I have long leg hairs;

They hold on to sweat like dew

Burst into air like nothing

The dry vent annihilates the water.

Fixing a house that you’ve rented sucks

Why do I care about the holes in the wall

Filled in holes in the wall from filled in holes in the wall

The TV went here and then the TV went here and then

Every door frame in the establishment is sinking into the earth

Because the establishment itself is sinking into the earth

Holes in the wall look at you funny like

You take the same way every time

Because that’s the only way in

But there’s a back door and

A front door and like

A million fucking windows

Seriously so many windows

The last place had two windows

Two feet from the next apartment

So at two O’clock you would wake up

Because that’s when the sun was like

What are you doing hiding in there

And you were like my girlfriend pays

750 clams to hide in here and I’m just

Freeloading. Just like her two dogs.

And that’s a girl that you marry -

And so I did and now we live in

A house inherited

The bellowing earth burps

Tiny spheres of sandy dirt

Carried up by ants walking

In fine little lines bumping into each other:

Hey watch where you’re going

Hey tone it down a notch we are

All going the same place anyway.

Here is a list of the things I saw:

Apple

Chip

Cockroach

Cricket

Big Slug

Slug

Frog

Grass

Ok thanks. Which way to the Chip

That way

Thanks

Bye

Bye

I imagine that’s what they say to each other

Waving antennae theremins vibrating the air

Tickling the wind around themselves, the

Dance of conversation through the

Superorganism proving the

Complexity of language

For myself at least

The depth of information

Passed from walking neurons

On my countertop seeking spoiled fruit

I spray and suffocate with soap and water

The liquid sliding off the shiny black dots and spreading to the edge

A shimmering, shining surface, a glass ocean of no depth, no volume,

No story or life. The frozen bodies of ants drift like the edges

Of a real organic volume coming to a full stop

Fingertips when the body turns flay out

And curl in when you turn around

Forgetting something inside

The bodies of ants lay still

On my formica countertop

Suffocated from fabuloso

In a fabric softener bottle

Time is the space granted by money between bills

When you can decide the color of your room

When you can decide the color of your eyes

And your future and your life

The moment that you decide is even time wasted,

Time better spent on the task you just decided

Do you think about bullet trains too,

Coated in ceramic white and flying

Blurring air and space

Are they falling forward

Pushed by fancy chrome magnets

That could probably save the world

Or cure cancer or make a new shape for math

Or send a train to portland blisteringly fast

Are they simply falling, perpetually leaning

Into the rails, waiting to take the weight

Of the ceramic coating, the metal frame,

The plastic seats, and the sleeping passengers

To screeching, mach speed impact, that simply

Never arrives? That engineering has put a fist’s space

Between the mechanical snake and its metal race track

Is this reflected, is this train a self portrait, a futurist ode,

Do we topple down the tube so quickly that we cannot see

A single particle we have left behind? That the long fluorescent lamps,

Click off, dismount from the wall, collapse to the floor and shatter

Out of sight, out of mind, out of existence altogether,

Rendered only is the air we perceive and the progress

We may immediately capture, and from what

It progresses; the story does not deviate,

As the neodymium grips the cabin

And throws it with all its earthly might

Down the way

Trying to get the cargo van from home depot

I come into the parking lot and witness a parking lot

With no cargo van. Yet I enter the establishment, I approach

The customer service and rental vehicle booth, and I ask,

Do you have the cargo van, at the moment?

I know they do not have the cargo van.

They know they do not have the cargo van.

Rhetorical questions are awful for department store employees,

For hardware store employees, for those on the job at all -

I ask them, however, because what a more terrifying scenario, imagine:

Walking towards the combination customer service and rental vehicle booth,

And asking, where’s the cargo van. What did you do with the cargo van.

Who in the world has the cargo van. I was expecting: cargo van.

Do you not have the cargo van? Are any of you, cargo van?

I cargo van, but would stay truck.

I thought about writing today,

A few times and about how poetisicm

Is an emotion in my mind, and that poetry

Is just communicating poetically, that language

Is a means of conveying a message and poetics

Are simply the shape of that message, the weight

Of that message, liquid or gaseous poetics, implying

Plasma poetics, derived from the fusion in the sun,

Derived from the nebula from which it come,

Plasma poetics I shoot from my poetry ray gun

Light the corner of my room like amber light bulb

LED knockoff of the real thing, spherical bulb

With billions of pinpoint electrons piercing

The tinted glass veil, threads of existence

Vibrating off in sine waves, cosined

Because this is the real shit right here:

Coiled in the lamp and shot from lightyears

Lightning strike sand to make it quite clear

Poetry I find not in the sand of a desert

Poetry I find in the chance of its storm

Rainwater falls and deposits 10 years

Of flood for the Sahara, and nothing

Nothing inbetween

Since importance is assigned by the individual

Since poeticism is assigned by the singular mind

I derive my most poetic object

A piece of blue glass moon

Struck by lightning

Atop a sand dune

Walker Texas Ranger is the name of my dog. He lies down on my lap in fear of the thunder outside. It is raining. My Fiancee is upstairs. Her name is Faith. She is upstairs with Eko, her dog. We have two dogs and we suspect they have chosen us as their respective favorites. Walker is big, has thick skin like cowhide and is a bit cowardly. Eko is blind, smaller, sensitive but deeply strong headed. I love both of them and I love my Fiancee. We also have two cats we have inherited from Faith’s late mother. Their names are Kokonut and Nugget. Kokonut is slightly feral, not fixed, curious, talkative and defensive of Nugget. Nugget is a fat cat in every sense of the word, but more gentle than her sister. I have learned to care for them but perhaps I do not yet love them.

What is it to love a pet? What is it to offer love to them. There are so many ethical issues surrounding creatures like these. Domesticated and dependent but with so many ways to treat them incorrectly. It’s parenting in a way, but perhaps less demanding, and less communicative. In that right a dog may wind up going to the veterinarian more than some children see a doctor. A child may provide an explanation for their ailments to the best of their ability. Walker runs up the stairs and hops on the bed, shaking out of his proverbial boots, ears lowered, bowing to me as he might an emperor. Eko digs at her ears until she yelps in pain. Symptoms can inform guesses, but professionals can provide the security of - perhaps even take responsibility for - the final call.

Do I feel responsible for the life in my lap? Not for bringing about its life and consciousness. Not for the way it developed, grew, witnessed, reacted, ran, screamed, and trembled in fear before I met it. And not even for the time after it was taken from the ASPCA to a small apartment in Richmond as my Fiancee was responsible for that. Come the pandemic I finally get to be the prodigal dog dad I was indeed destined to be. Walks and vet visits. Play and punishment. I run barefoot across the entire park, through the rain across busy streets, carrying my 80 pound piece of work with long, limp legs dangling, slack neck spilling out of my arms, nose wet, eyes full and black, tail not tucked and daring a swing at the sight of a laughing neighbor.

Of velvet ears and dewy nose

Of square head and long bones

Walker texas ranger,

Please don’t be a stranger

The contents of my fridge

Milk and eggs and lemonade

A beer a cider wait I drank that

A dozen uncooked kroger brand flour tortillas

That I bought to compare to Tortilla Land Brand

Ears of corn Expired Ranch Dressing from last year

Turkey Bacon Parmesean Cheese

The liquid left from Grandma’s kimchi

Grandma’s water kimchi

Spoiled Kale Two heads of lettuce

Two or three mustards a couple of barbeque sauces

Dozens and dozens of packets from taco bell

The emergency McDonalds sweet and sour

Chic-Fil-A Polynesian

Half a cabbage Leftover chicken salad from Pietro’s

Hardened block of white cheddar

Pint of grape tomatoes

The center part of an onion cut vertically

Such that the root and the tip are still present

As I lacked the time in the moment of cooking to

Process the difficult parts; this is a testament to my

Putting things off Capers Massive jar of pickles

Plain yogurt

As I remember there was plenty more

How thankful I am to have a fridge I can forget about

How thankful I am to know what to make of it

How thankful I am to prepare a meal for the one I love

How thankful I am to dine on one prepared for me

The contents of my fridge

The contents of my stomach

The contents of my body

The contents of my heart

My love and affection

The contents of my fridge

Food evokes memory

Food is completely necessary

Food I fancy I make for my friends

Food I fancy I serve at thanksgiving

Last thanksgiving was the last time

Me and my fiancee saw her mother before she died

Last thanksgiving was good but it was the end of someone

Very meaningful and impactful on my life and

Much more so to my Fiancee

I stand and eat in the spot she lay when we arrived

The cold night at the end of November

I look to the spot she sat when she passed

I stand there to eat my breakfast

I stand there in Grace’s house

I wish to imply that every meal that I make

Every memory that I form

Every stomach that I fill

Even the ranch I used

As a dipping sauce for our guests and myself

Pecking at pizza rolls

Even though it was expired

It was still good and no

I wouldn’t dare shrink

The legacy of an incredible woman

To the contents of her fridge

I fancy only to observe

How thankful I am to have been called her son too

How thankful I am to have been bestowed

The contents of her fridge

It has been life without a workbench

Until this day I swear.

I wrote the dimensions of the workbench

Based on the video I saw on youtube

As the fellow who made that workbench

Was too busy making other things to make plans

For the workbench he made to make other things

Making a workbench is perhaps a rite of passage

Making a workbench is perhaps a test of will

Of measurement and investment

The weight of a 2 by 4 will always shock you

It’s a little bit lighter, a little bit heavier

Than you’d ever expect

Wield it in the way a child

Would carry an imagined broadsword

O’er his imagined kingdom destined to burn

Fighting against the future, against wizard and dragon

Fighting against the warp and cup and bow and twist

Of the 2 by 4s I will into a bench

I wrote the plans down on an envelope we received recently -

Asking for donations for ambulance drivers

This made me so mad, because why in the world,

What is a world, that an ambulance driver needs to ask for donations

I thought to myself, this must be a scam. I know I say this out of fear,

But trusting fear a fool does indeed. I’m having an IQ test in my psychiatric examination.

The incident where I said without research, this envelope asking for donations

For emergency personnel specifically ambulance drivers, must be a scam.

I will make sure to mention this and bring the mail in question.

So they can adjust my IQ score accordingly. It will also list all

Of my shoddy measurements, my haphazard drawings,

My shaken lines and scratched numbers.

Doctor green will take these into account.

And ascribe me a diagnosis.

Big dummy.