What you see flying
toward the center
is just smallpox ducking—an extinction
playing limbo. The aphrodisiac
evolves in that one-step of a space
that caps its own salary
and reduces money to the demolition
of history. We don’t let the ashes get wet, 
as in the indentured fire
in the convex lake of the evolutionary.

This is a statement, a capella, packed
with a multiplicity of shoes. I can see
you trying to grow past that octopus. Floating,
the kind of thing doers do. 

We view the surface differently, don’t we?

                   The color of the water throws me off a bit. 


Look past the earth tones; you’ll see
the soul being sipped
and inhaled 
by mothers who sometimes wear the masks
of phantom limbs. I have a mask, 
one that takes itself off
after arguing with another mask
about the future of an idea
shelved high with its own identity. 

                   I’d take any of these monsters home
                   as long as one of them has a condom. 
  
                   Less dogs are dieing because of your profile. 

Look past my eyes. You’ll find an old-fashioned
love song and an empty glass 
that has freed itself
from waiting. Is it possible


I’ve seen you before before, as in, 
                   the lifetime as a canned good.

If we were together, we wouldn’t be able 
to see at night. I certainly
hope, though, we’d be 
able to transfer the next animal face, 
to the next city and wish for a different kind
of happiness to pull out of the nails of childhood.