 So, I don't know if you noticed outside, did you see a mural that was on two poles? So I collaborated with artist Megan Wilson and I have a poem that's on the mural and I'm going to begin with that poem. It's called Flower Instructions. One, blanket the streets with plum blossoms. Rest body against warm concrete. Find rose petals on sidewalk. Glimmer of the memory garden. Two, follow the trail of invisible bees. Nectar guides for the lost ones. Fling lasso into summer darkness. Hear whistles and megaphone. Three, hold body close to body. Breathe in the greenhouse. Wear wet glitter and silver hose. Lick salt on skin. Four, catch whispers in libraries. Greet strangers with acorns and grapefruit. Remember eyes, ghosts, smoke. Watch brothers as they disappear. Five, imagine a new world. Keep sisters close. Thank you. So, when I was younger, many, many years ago, I used to work at libraries and this is a poem that I wrote when I was living in Southern California. And it's called The Indexing of Sensation. It will be four days until the air lifts to the vaulted ceiling. Jean comes into the library and passes wildflowers into my hands. Put these in water, darling, and have a brilliant day. I push the cart down the carpeted aisle. The repetition of movement is a meditation. Anno's counting book, Mitsumasa Anno, PZ7A5875. The Forgotten Ones, Milton Rogovan, TP820.5R64. The Balloon, a bicentennial exhibition, TL615B34. Maps of countries that don't exist anymore. The archiving of fantasies. The referencing of systems. The indexing of sensation. Thank you. Thanks. And this poem is from Scorn Bone on nomadic press. We love nomadic press. And it's called Are You in the Room with Me Now? My therapist asked, Why Never Cry? I asked myself the same, closing my eyes, a small stye in my vision. As hard as I tried not to cry, I was shy as a child. As I crossed the street with mother, I hid behind her lab coat. The other night, I lost my sight. My throat taught in tight. I thought I might cry. I could hear a couple on the crosswalk. A man doing a handstand. Two kids making plans. Perhaps a chance to dance in another place. I could cross the state line. Cry at the sight of a shimmering lake. My therapist asked, What are you thinking? How does that make you feel? Where did that come from? And are you in the room with me now? In Rio, there is a majestic cross on a cliff. People live in pink paper shacks below. I danced and I drank there. I thought I might die there. I crossed myself, although I didn't believe. You sweat silver tears. You see through pink paper walls. You think your body might be crying now. Thank you. So this is one of the poems that I think is going to be in my book on manic D, which I'm really excited about. And it's called The Diving Beetle. The Diving Beetle. I told you it was a pyramid scheme. You don't remember? We were drinking whiskey. It was spring. You were convinced that if you invested the money that your dad had left you, you would be rich, mega rich. And you were going to buy a house for me in Petaluma. You don't remember? I said you were crazy thinking that beetle juice. Oh yeah, that diving beetle juice would cure all, including everything I suffered from. Insomnia, hives, anxiety, allergies, poor memory. Truly, you don't remember? Well, I do. You were wearing a blue cashmere coat that day. It was overcast. Even the air tasted gray. You announced, I have something to show you. Don't tell anyone. Not even Dakota. Definitely not Dakota. You put your hand in your bag and pulled out a square bottle with a pyramid-shaped stopper. In the bottle was a beetle. Dark brown with olive streaks. It scared the hell out of me. But I remember being mesmerized. What the Jesus, it's moving. Use of the liquid emitted from the beetle's body had a powerful antioxidant and an almost supernatural quality to heal the human body. The bank had just transferred the funds into your account and you were about to write a check to the president of the company. What was it called? Water Tiger. That's right, Water Tiger. Thank you. Okay, let's see. I collaborate often with visual artists and I have a friend named Marc who's a painter and he did a series of paintings which he called Time Machines. This is one of the poems from that series. Time machine. To a place liquid and smoky. A b-boy on the sidewalk long lashed, laughing. Humming birds. A disappearing act. We followed them. The heat in the room. The colors of bees. The blankets and trees. The buzz in the well. Falling quiet now. Hands and eyes. A yellow there and here. Remote spring. Such soft fires they asked. On the shore we pose with sea birds. Oil-slicked, enameled surfaces. Questions. Three drops of pale green. Stay the night. Thank you. And this is a new poem and it's called Another World. Summer brought flowers this fall. We volunteered our skulls. We slept on utopian benches. Sometimes tourists get caught in the crossfire. The burning sensation. We locked eyelids. We held hope. Our bright torsos wrapped in sapphire suits. Don't touch. Please do. Then spring shot wet bullets into our electric skin. Thank you. And this is my last poem. Does everyone know what a durian is? This fruit, yeah. Doesn't smell very good. Okay, this is called Durian. I am the lonely king. Ruler of all. Both sick and sweet. I sit on my throne alone. Wove and branch and leaf. Cloak of spikes and thorns. Prevent touch. Hard husk. I trust no one. Should I crack open upon fall or wall? Ascent so foul and rank. Tremble and crawl. Tremble and crawl. Thank you very much.