(Here’s a song I wrote while I was singing)

Here’s a song I wrote while I was singing
that other one. Joseph’s dream of grain
begat six intermodals stalled in Missouri
O stuttering constellation the poem was
called a breathing upright animal
O waking upon the social blue prairie
In which this day I simply write to
Joseph’s dream of trains shaped like
chat piles of vermillion running doe
Good tidings are heard from far away
As in laminated on a brochure of phlox
Slotted on reproducing mica-flecked ribbons
Near non-dairy creamer, jug of Simple Green
Where adjacently, I, shifting blood from cock
Waiting in wind for my dog to shit on chemicals
Designated cold grid for us, then two men buried
Themselves in each other behind this gazebo
I heard them I saw their pores becoming so
While I was singing this song I was driving
Dug myself out of this private edition
The road explained a feeling of highness
Despite a slight complaint of rain the
Sound the color of adolescent wishes
That’s what I remember of the memory
That’s how I’ve seen time change: pushing it

(I echo a lot between)

I echo a lot between
the mountain so purple
and the almost rose of it
Of the internet’s dimension
abject and stammered glades
of torrefying numbers

Where I’d find dust
where the dream
Takes me for a color to a color
Sharpens the liquid net
A search engine at my feet, braying
Always on the Ohio Turnpike
From Youngstown to Bryan. $22.50.
“We will gain significant efficiencies”

Where I was sad to be justified
Shook my piss out on the cake
Today is running into each other
hard candies in a crystal
Plastic over doily over fake oak
Which do go off in any direction

I lost my sanity to become more
Wonderful. Okay, make
more things