how to come away with your hands clean

preparation-less and
rolling into walls
i
go
very hungrily, forward

to ledges where
the dipthongs
lure the fishes to
our boats

forgetfully thirsty
worthlessly giving
holding
my hands out
into empty air

oh never to come clean

these fevers over nothing

now diving boats and bells and whistles
take my voice from me

Polite Tornadoes

Dream:

Albert Finney was the architect of this other world I lived in that looked a lot like the moon except it had oceans. Tornadoes came in through my front door and went out the back. Al ruined the place by picking up old cruise ships with cranes and dropping them on the land to dispose of them. We needed to figure out somewhere else to go.

I didn't write that last poem

But I did write this:

All things tactile take their leave
And how we are suspended
Each calm, unwrestled
Talking of sand,shells,stones

Wondering what is He
Finishing with
Who are We to ask

We
Hanging
Between each a song
Booming forever
To our crowd of stars