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Show me art. Jumpstart my heart. The wind is gathering in force Tomorrow the planes will come.

But my heart is set on. My heart is set on magnificence a maudlin love song that sounds like Wind chimes being guided by doves. All of them. What says love cannot love.

It becomes immersed in abstraction. Or, it’s a divinely simple arrangement What wants to say love but can’t.

A wingspan full of love. Hovering in the dew. There’s a bottle of perfume posing the question of object permanence. A submissive seeks abject immersiveness. Divinity seeks multiplicity. I’m in love with the scent of myself. Let’s drink perfume to health. Let’s toast to oneself. Here’s the unfolding of a symbolic thank you. Thank you dove. Perfect wakefulness with a blizzard in the eye.

Pretty girl, attractive face, haute dress The perfect antidote for seasonal depression I’ll make laugh wildness with my impressions. I’ll impress her with my irrepressible sense of loving recollection.

Darling let’s turn this country into a museum Let’s turn this country. We are making monuments— Monetizing moments and masticating a Monet Oil paint tastes great in the sauna.

The banknotes had been printed with expiration dates They bore the faces of men, all men. I was pulled over in Los Angeles the sheriff swabbed my bills for cocaine residue. I asked him who his father voted for and squirmed out of a field test. This is an elegy for Shawn Mortensen He partied in a tuxedo until noon.

We’ll print our names on a succession of smaller adhesions and leave them stuck in places more subtle than before. It’s how we are training eyes.

I left a small dot in the optometrist’s office, left it hovering in abyss. A phantom sense Ringing on the bridge of my nose. Finger tracing the outline of hoop earrings. There was the smell of a maple syrup scented candle. Held my tong on the tongue looking down the unbearable breath of nothingness. I’ll go to the park and stand on my head and come back to the bookseller when I am literate. My love is a long corridor into worlds folding into and out of. The world is flat.

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Post another poem?

We’re facing the same star

It’s convex shaped aluminum

Suspended in the night sky

the underside of a ladle.

The handle is trailing off.

A man drapes a dead rattlesnake

around the neck of a bronze cop

A cop hangs a black suicide.

A gun larger than a cannon is turning

onto a force smaller than a pea.

The eye is in the barrel

Barreling through the universe.

The eye is a bullet.

The barrel is jammed.

The iris is shooting light.

Bertolt Brecht is crying tears of joy

and writing a play in a poem

A poem is in a paper shredder

Eating dinner with new forks

The brass is rusting in the hands

of scrap traders.

A boy is in Tennessee

Jumping on a trampoline

Watching the world burn clean

In sun-soaked puddles of kerosene.

He hooks his eyes on the stars

And blows out his birthday candles.

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#hi

are u just a shitty poet who always writes shitty poems?

hi, I'm troy mcclure

Every politician is going skydiving this election season. The suitors have packed the parachutes and the event Will broadcast live on international television. Air Force One has been chartered for the occasion. These brave men and women will be brazen, and exalt their policies with whatever decorum keeps Their hands from trembling. Every home in the nation is full for the crisis moment, that which gravity has been wagered. One hopeful is recalling stories of his grandfather A paratrooper in the 505th regiment who deployed over Sicily, Our politician is feeling sickly and Hopefully slumped over in heroic stupor. Justin Beiber is hosting the event In a Lanvin tuxedo Hair thoroughly slicked back in a pompadour some spectators will cry about His Canadian citizenship But this young man has been fine tuned. Another from the Republican ticket is saying prayers To his Christian God. He's trembling and looks like the Can of complimentary seltzer he's been drinking. His fear is beading from his bloody heart. His theatre school didn't prepare him for such a drama Our candidate is a real believer And wondering what impact this Will have regarding his stance on Reproductive rights. From the satellite centers in Texas we see topologically the streets are filing away the parade's dissipated and begins turning inwards from the zeitgeists hands to the proletariats Innards On one empty corner sits a frisbee disk and a child's sandal At another intersection is a large foam finger. The flickering projection of junkies dragging their dying bodies toward the next fix are the last Thermal signals. After the commercial break they will jump, Holding hands with party rivals These courageous puppets will land In a desert and no currency shall Ever bear the mark of their face. They walk away unscathed having Experienced the death of their own vitality. The country is in love.

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