how many projects

sunday is a metaphor for summer climbing
against a railing made of socks
the scent of sage, a fine mist against my neck, a splinter
in the bushes a cat wrangles, squawking
lemon candies against my tongue melt like
the sound of orange, melodic but campy
Gerald points toward Detroit and I disagree about the socks
they are made of cotton like candy, fluorescent shades
or maybe they were pastel, muted tones of sugar
crystallizing, god damn sugar molecules
clogging my pores

this is not summer
this is a monday and the clash of visual
detail pertains especially
to a kind of counter logic
what remains after rain on the sides of buildings

she said, "hey girl" and I replied, "sexy" and
"anonymous film making might somehow include us all."

the flamboyantly shaded treasure of hope, against all odds
surfaces like a dead body weighted with rocks
I will sing you this lyric with the back of my throat, if you listen
call me ish and I pursue
what will come to include a variation in texture
a predilection for carnivorous limbs, a bout of national
security amplified, and the giraffe
(or was it an elephant) will speak
promising a stratefied logic on film, like a weekend at the movies