Why does food taste worse when we make it ourselves?
We’d shrivel up and die without the stuff off the shelves
Why do our inventions unravel like poorly spun balls of twine,
Which we dish out anyway, and cut with a comforting bottle of wine?
Would the wine be so special if we had grown the grapes?
Or would it be stale and feel out of shape?
No, nothing we make ever seems real…
That’s the primary reason why everyone steals
Nothing’s remarkable about a tagged apple on a stand,
But it suddenly turns golden once it’s contraband
I love, those pasts related to you
Won’t be stranded in the river of memory
I’ve tried untying eyebrows, smiling
My head down, it’s the fermenting brown
My head up, it’s the peppermint tray of marshmallows
People talking letters from flowers
The business card of spring is the circling swallow
The world moves in giant’s balanced steps
All the sweets in a pink world are pictures in the same tone
If you can talk you can sing, if you can walk you can dance. .
Nothing takes you out of a dream like waking up in a nightmare.
Let’s begin with skin, indurate as paint on a doorjamb,
chapped lips to cheek and collarbone, cool
hands round warm waists, caressing locks
that glisten like pennies from fountain pools;
In rapture lies a woman fashioned by the heavens,
edges still unsanded. The turn of the sea
bows the curve of her shoulder. The marble cannot yet
feel the marbler, but even fair Venus was not born free.