I come down the road with two arms hanging

This

poem is that is no poem this

pulsar the poem is

swaying like the end of the century, singing

songs of clouds

and microchips.

Bye, planet!

Bye, American trees!

There is nothing on your dripping red hands but the folds

of your anxious

face.

I grab a chair

and then a cooler one

as the century sinks

into its tub.

Close all the windows, shut

all the doors.

To weep too loudly

is to be seen as a fool.

It's like summer and you are on the moon

The more I stare at your video the

more I’m going to throw it back at you.

It’s like it’s 1995 all over again

and you are in your room spacing, listening

to the sounds of moon

passing moon: “Oh hai,

I am on the moon.”

“Oh hai, I am on the tour Eiffel.”

“I can’t stand the rain, bluer

than bones,

or the moon, shining

like a picked lock.”

But the clouds

vanish and the stars vanish

and the earth

vanishes, leaving only these voices

and that rubber moon.

You call

and call but no one picks up the phone.

Space is a mouth full of suicides.

Space is a room full of roses.

Do you hear me?

YOU ARE ALL IN REAL SPACE!

Then you wake up naked after it’s rained.

You wake up from your hard life.

You wake up your wife.

This lamp is your lamp

Bombs on our backs, crumbs

in our eyes we

gather. We gather as if to slay

the gorgon Medusa, her hair

a mass of tumbling stars.

Medusa, glove

among the candles,

grave among the rocks, touch

not your breath to the screen.

Dying is basically the same

as becoming a tree—just quicker

and more emotional.

Medusa, paddle for hours.

Look at a leaf and pee.

Death is

only the middle, sweet

as a sky with its crows.