Such pastel
leaves lodged in such tight
sidewalk nooks.

dragons fight
autumn colors man
on mushrooms

Here stands a black crow
in the middle o’ the road.
He don’t give a fuck.

I saw it in the warmly cool cast o’ cobalt,

spreading its sparks ‘cross the sizzling sands o’ clouds,

folded into a thousand gowns

with candied drool dripping from its hungry mouth.

On damp noons,
Jack without his light,
still smiling.

I caught it in the pumpkin-colored pine needles spread ‘cross the streets,

rubbing gainst the off-black concrete

& the black puddles o’ oiled grease

swimming in burnt-brown leaves.

In acid lakes
peanut butter rows
sour apples.

Where the torrents make the maples blush mulberry grape

while others crouch back into the shadows powdry gray.

A leaf slaps its hand on the stain-smudged chalky pavement

so hard the blood rushes to half its otherwise anemic digits

till unexpectedly the gusts shoos it ‘way.

¡O, I’m dumb!
I almost forgot
the mushrooms.

When the natsu no tsuki makes way for the aki no tsuki to come,

cut bloody crescent cold,

spirit-snatching owled-eye beacon,

its drenched-blade forests feeding mold

till the trees & cities are splattered with orange,

& collections o’ bright colors captured by candies foraged.

& now we can forgive

winter’s cold,

spring’s drops,

& summer’s burns—

Now finally can my ol’ props be unearthed;

time to pull red crops for all they’re worth.

Now so stuffed with
so much sand worms,
fin’lly, it’s time
for just desserts.

Sorry, fallen leaves—
though you’re prettier than greens…
blame civilization.

They don’t like the taste o’ my tear-soaked beef,

WHAAAR WHAAAR WHAAAR.

They only want chips that crunch with shiny teeth,

WHONK WHONK WHONK.

I’m sick o’ that hideous beast.

That dick’s like last week.

It’s time to clean

that which collects fleas.

¡Texting it in!

¡Texting it in!

That’s what you get when you spend all your attention on fresh lint.

I’m sorry—

you deserved better,

trash bag leaves.

“¿What d’you think he’s thinking?”

“He’s definitely implying something.”

“¿You sure?”

“Def. ¿Can’t you totally see it?”

“I always sucked @ language arts.”

I’m sorry—

your dessert’s butter.

Trash bag leaves.

“I’m boooored.”

“You’re only whining ’cause you’re losing. You’re always a sore loser.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to play anymo’. You can’t stop me.”

“I’m telling.”

“¡Shut up, tattletale!”

“I will.”

“I don’t care. I told you, I don’t want to play anymo’, & you can’t stop me.”

That was the last they heard before the officer found his body hanging in Aokigahara.

¿Want me to talk ’bout the moon ‘gain?

You always savored that gin.

BOOOOOOOOOO.

[A can flies & punches me in the nose.]

They peeled off my latex glove face—¡gross!

When you leave a mess,

you should always scrub.

What what.

I’m sorry—

«you deserve nothing,»

all believe.

So the walrus wails its songs e’ermo’.

He can shove a rancid cactus up his assing fuckhole.

In bubbling magma
my flaky flesh melts like snow:
summer inferno.

Accompanying music.

Forest Frenzy
scent
in my backyard.

Starry dreams
pink & baby blue:
morning moon.

Schließlich kommen
Blätter und Erdnussbutterschokoladenriegelpapier
zusammen endlich.

Finally–
leaves & peanut-butter-chocolate-bar-wrappers
together @ last.