I arrive at a point
It is elliptical
It is motioning
Many clocks
It is peaceful
And perfectly cold

I am aligned straight as an arrow

It comes like roses full of thunder
It comes like ravens and Van Gogh

It comes
Like
The
Last
Night
Of
The
Earth

I am sending up
My vacant cloud

It stinks
Like a flood
Rushing

Into many birds

I am
Cobra light
And fuming

The yellow leaves
Wink and wave
Their little mouths
Open
To rain
      December 09 2020

The moon, cold and unattainable,
Hangs over the Earth's edge,
Unfaithful in its last light.

In another world
Children hit a tether ball
Around a pole,
Creating a brief, elliptical year,

The weightless, unclarified light of the sun,
Lies like a lover over a lost city,
Westward windows go up in flames.

And here, where the swan revolves in the moon phase,
A black pool invites its cold depth
The night is fixed in motioning stars.
            March 17 2021

Shh- swirl the golden cover art
Naw-its the sound of aluminum foil
Redux- it ain't Lucky Strike cigarettes
Nothing- but the swill of oil
In Lieu-of ten cent bottle return
Except- Oregon and Maine

I am the water,
The second wave of summer,
A tsunami,
A wall of gray wind.
I am night,
Behold! A black sheet of rain.
Hobbled over the bleak and red ants of fire;
Baring a becoup of wild thyme and sage.
And all that exists is terribly near us,
Like you my dark light, my love, my rage.

I am in the aerials,
Where the birds have their burials,
Down among the rushes,
Where the warm blood pulses,
I haunt along the hallow,
Where the river follows,
Weaving through the branches,
I put the birds in trances,
And live among the brambles,
Where the river rambles,
I am the Olden One,
I am the Second Son,
Spread along the stones,
I sleep among the bones,
Down where the mud seeps,
Down where the earth sleeps,
I am the poison arrow,
And I love you to the marrow.

The day flutters like ticker-tape
I smile like Buddha
Unzipping the night
A pocketful of whistles

A dark ceiling of stars.

The needle is threaded
Night wide open
The engine cranks over
A cello of moans.

A tattle of gold
My ways of turning
To ripples of silver, a hush.

Was it you who bring
Red lines of lupus
A world of wheals and whirs.

Through the terminus
Blue walls of morphine
A corridor of trains
A thunder of hosts.

Buzz of blue flies
Slip through the eyelet
Me gluing a matchstick of men.

The days drag behind
Seven hours in a sack
Spilling stars
Through a *****'s blind eye.

Unloosen the screws
The singing of prisoners
The clouds fall away
The snow drips impossible light.

Trundling through shadows
To a lone stone wall
Along a ridge an old Yankee farmer tended 'til he died
Slowly overtaken by time
And the wild bloom of flowers
The stone wall crumbles
Back to the field
Silent as the dry passing wind
Only the sound of a river washing stones whispering
We were never really here.

This serpentine shadow.
A ticker-tape wind.
It's a new constellation.
Planets pulse like an idea.
A gathering squall spells out our fortune.
Everything disappears in a wall of gray.
It's not a new form of suicide;
Its as empty as space
And twice as cold
In a dark with no stars.

Toward morning I draw the first words
From the place I came yet cannot return
As night crawls back to the hills

Pain is a bright room
Lit in florescent
Here the needle is turning

I wish for the waking of other worlds
The stars are all broken
The ghosts of time pass through me

My eyes are waiting for me in the dusk
I feel my way toward them

I'll find my name written in dust,
There again, I will meet it.

Jacob over the bridge town proper,
Gas lit streets, a string of yellow parking lights
In a slow fog turning to threads,
Barely remembering their colour.
Waking to predawn gloom
The town looks small and elderly.
I light a cigarette,
Spy the old Yankee town.
Here, there be Tygers
Night races up the steeple.

Watch the wheels and whirs,
Long welts lines like lupus.
My God Man, I'm responsible for this mess.

I thought I'd vacuum to pass the time.
Must not have heard the phone.
My tried and true,
Welcome to the desert.

Lets get started.

The first thing you'll need
Is a well-honed upper body.
Or a shirt.
Do I **** the ending?

The familiar phrase ran up the jaded alley.
Who do you think settled the valley?
The lazy bees outside the window?

The futile logic of the exercise?

Waiting on the circadian rhythm,
Millions of years in the making.
Old Ted Kennedy died this week,
Made me what to play a dirge
To The Three Kings.

I fear the new ones ain't as friendly.
Brandishing sticks instead of branches.
Blessed be the Peacemakers,
They will be called the Children of God.

I got your back, what'd say?
I brought it chapter and verse.
The peace frog forming in
the midst
This strange August.

Switching the jeans for basic black
How urbane the lesson.
I should have turned on Randolph,
Had to wait for Ohio,
Turning on Rush to the buzzed suit
Crossing against traffic.
Two on the way, one on the way back,
Looking for the self-park.

Splendid Desolation,
Daddy done drug up the rear
Its like this from here on out.
Nothing but green along Michigan,
A right on Congress,
Two on the way,
One for the way back.
See the Glory of The Royal Scam.
                    *
         Sep 03 2009
   (For Walter Becker)

Never mind the silence,
Bring on The *** Pistols
With they're vitriol
And jugular vein jutting
Out when they sing
Probably spitting on the first row.
The chicks dig when the singer's spit on them.
They get quite emotional with fake anger and wild gyrations.
Captivating they're audience.
But I want to know is
When are you finished,
We got a V.A. function going on tomorrow,
And by God I see one of your band members passed out in the front with the paying customers. And your CD not selling at the door and please clean up the puke when you leave.

the last wind of November
lashing the trees,
unseen rain racing the tiles
the wind rises and echoes
the clouds
the old trees and whithered
with dark branches
gnarled, bent over like an old woman
clutching a rosary at evening mass.
the rain whispers to the sodden silence
as clouds race the half-moon
and the sea is unknown.
is rain falling on the last place on Earth?

I have broken cups to bring to the rummage sale,
They come cheap off the highway.
Their chipped and worn clear through
Like the thin veneer I wear.
But their good for holding it all in.
I've dug holes filled with regret,
Misunderstanding,
All those sorry trips.
Soon it fades like a slippery dream.
Never blinking back the oncoming darkness.
Fathoming this wake
In the last of the flood.

This silent pen,
This flowing aromatic
This spare confessional,
This alchemy of light.

And you light a cigarette,
Prowl the room like a leopard.
And the trains run east to west,
And somehow this comforts you
On the way to your other gig.
And the sun roars against the window,
Your face,
Gliding up the road.
And you think of Yeats,
Shelly, the Shaw Of Iran,
Perestroika, Persian rugs,
Brahms And bikinis,
And you know your friends,
Watch your enemies,
Keep a checklist,
Forget the checklist
As the woman with the legs
Crosses against the light.

And the lights come up,
The movie's ended.
The streetlights shine in the mist.
You walk to your car,
And rain dots the windshield
As cars hiss up the street.

Letter to self: Roman Numeral 17 drug up on charges unrelated to the home invasion on Milwaukee Avenue-seen fleeing with female.
Learned secrets of the Serengeti. A catch torn to pieces. Note: Roman Colosseum desecrated. A raptor in the fan blades.
A diamond in the zealous.
Man, don't ride dem bones.
Some doo-*** ditty- bop of Saint and sinner, stewbums and deadbeat killer clowns.
Open, thy cup runneth over.
Loosen the ties binding to the bone.
The Rorschach Tune-Up Allotment Sale Now Through
Apocalypse Day 7.
Memo to Bixby: Gyroscope Hot Tub Blowout relaxing the flow chart boys uptown. A filtered out flummox of impedance Bixby, Jimmywalk spared the lewd and lascivious. Spike the routers Roman Numeral 17 seen in vicinity, Apocryphal papers flown to Helsinki. Eradicate memo with extreme prejudice. Yours Turner.

A silence consumes the cold depth of winter,
I wonder will death be as silent as dusk?
A cold room unlit in shadow
Winter holds the the small death of loss.
The cold comes taking birds with it.
Finches and sparrows nettled in branches,
Worry for the hawks ravaging claw.
In dusk I leave no trace my shadow.
My spirit gone to wind by dawn.

And it switched my man,
Ain't one found of his bones
Creaking in the closet
                         Upstairs,
With the bare bulbs and spiders crawling the dust
Of the night show
                     *

1965- you're the protagonist with your analyst at 280 an hour,
50 minutes on the shrink watch.
Staring in the oblivion of Tuesday.
                      *
And you remember 1942, and your ****** and your scared,
And you hide in the ***** dens.
You don't smoke it, you just low,
Knowing the hopheads won't hurt you.
And the old man can't find you here.
You wait for him to leave for work.
Because you wanted to **** him.
And you swore he'd answer for those moments.

I crawled into the belly of the beast,
It smelled of beer and *******.
It was as empty as a billion dead suns,
Hell between the tavern walls.
Sleeping off the new job at the cleaners, or the road crew, or the factory,
Whoever was hiring.
Happy to see your sorry *** go.
Picking your friends as you picked them clean,
Or they used you,
And you all went down together.
And you meant to shine like the stars,
But you spaced out to Pink Floyd instead.
Coke and voices and beer on the table,
You rode to the sun and shivered on the moon.
The glint of the mirror, coke on the table,
And everyone babbling at once.
And the coke runs out and you look like hell,
And someone cuts you a line And your somebody again.
Opening a beer in a cheap motel,
You come down as the day comes up.
And you dare not look at yourself in the mirror.
You smell like hell and your three quarters there.
You walk out the ***** motel
And the blind eye of the sun
Draws you back inside,
Back into the belly of the beast.

Where the trains run parallel
I run the perimeter,
Looking for a way through This heat covered flesh.
A new kind of madness
Invades my brain,
I cannot describe the freedom
****** on the edged of the rim.
A subliminal contract
With no strings attached.
All the clouds run counterproductive,
Its a new kind of system.
I've jammed all the frequencies,
Only radio transmissions
From 1953.
Caught in the warble,
I'll drop the pill in the vat,
You'll will feel it momentarily.
You will surrender to its properties,
A fugue of dark wonder.
You will enter it's pinkish light,
You'll hear your Mother's voice from the womb.
You'll not transcend this new kind of madness.
You'll fall into it light a cliff diver in Yucatan,
It will be your friend,
Your great undoing,
Clock towers and spires will Resolve your transmission.
You're in curved space time now,
Nothing can touch this unlimited freedom.
There will be no further interruption.
Come with me now to the place of still water,
Let me show you the shape under the sheet.
Can you smell the rain?
It's an acid bath of elation.
Isn't it buzzing in your toes?
I've factored in retrograde,
Will be there within the hour
Them we'll see what else transpires along the realm.
We'll kick Baal down the steps,
Get him wobbling down
Where all the trains run backward.
The Christ figure will blind him,
Bind him in sackcloth and ash.
It will be a celebration
I figured in the overload,
Put it through sine and cotangent-
Then it's all peaches.
Like coming up for air.
It will be a beast,
A bull, a drama.
It will be a fly in the ointment,
And grease on the rails.
It's a symphony in the speakers,
Where nothing floats but saucer shaped thoughts.
Stick figures hang from a tree,
You'll wish to be one of them.
You'll want to swim in it,
Through it, into it.
It's a blue filter night dream.
A cerulean blue blaze of pixel
It will drive your dreams to monochrome.
You'll lose 27 minutes upon reentry.
You'll be through the stars.
It only requires gasoline and guts.
I drew the schematics straight out of nowhere.
They filtered down from Central,
Forgetting new Area Codes
I dreamt up last Sunday.
Its Arkansas in the sun,
It's a page witch dance,
It's ****** with a mallet,
It shines to a T.
Wait by the phone for further instruction.

The poem arrives same as last week,
It's shirttail sticking out
Slurring of meter.
It knows form like the Devil knows Christmas,
Your free spirit simile
Has more holes in it than Sonny Coleone.
Ballads, sonnets and well metered stanza
Wake hungover in flea bag motel,
With empty beer cans dribbling prose.
Johnny Flip The Finger
Burps out and ending.
Checking his pants he finds 3 crumpled ones.

A silence consumes the cold depth of winter,
I wonder will death be as silent as dusk?
A cold room unlit in shadow,
Winter holds with it the small death of loss.
The cold snow comes taking birds with it,
Finchs and sparrows netted in branches,
Worry the hawks ravaging claw.
In dusk I leave no trace of shadow before me,
My spirit gone to wind by dawn.

Now splashing through fire,
Now burning in water,
Night all drunk up and moonlit.
Now I'm insane and stare at wallpaper
The way one looks at a Piccaso.
And the worms sing my bones.
Birds fly fire roses open like smoke,
And words thread hot needles like wire.
I pray for California,
I pray for rain,
I pray a quick death
As a spider crawls up the wall.
And all the tunnels go down in the dark,
As we go down in the dark.
And I ask for a cup of myrrh,
And I'm handed a snake instead.
I dream like London
And blue carbon gas.
I float through alleyways of wine soaked fights.
Ravens cluck the hour,
The bottom of my soles.
Jesus sleeps in Nebraska tonight.
Adam and I both fall to dust.
There's a stone in my heart,
A fly in a frenzy
There's Tulsa and crab cakes
And 3 for a dollar,
And something for the little lady.
Watch a drunk slam into 7 parked cars
As the world go as mad as a roach.
While old St Benedect dreams in his shoes of endless
Bikinis and bottles of beer.
And my bottle goes Blam,
And I pick up another,
And I go with it.
My mind is a symphony now
Of wire and spit spray
And I go with it,
I go with it,
Into it now, Into the terror,
Roaring, Roaring, Roaring.

Trundling a shadowed vale
To a low stone wall
Along a sloping ridge
An Old Yankee farmer
Tended his field til he died.
Slowly overtaken by time and the wild boom of flower
The stone wall crumbles
Silent as dry passing wind.
But for the sound of a river
Washing stones
Whispering we were never really here

Soon it is over and dust covers pages.
You come to the page with blood on your hands.
When you turn around its always the past.
And rain falls forever somewhere.
Inside we empty the minutes to hours,
And the days are horses running the hills.
I wait by the door of unknown tomorrow,
And gaze at the past's unsettling dream.
This ensemble draped in scarlet begonia,
I breathe night's intoxicated hour,
As all the days have fallen to dusk.
In days of dripping sinks and emptied vases,
As the hours used up are spilled from the cup.
A sheen of rain falls on the living,
As the dead dream of Heaven no more.
A whisper of wind scattering pages,
A church of words built from the ground.
Where's my specter, the color of silence?
Caught up in echoing air?
Where are the Exiles, they're hands smeared with berries,
Do they witness to a choir of clouds.
A lute of dark birds gathered in shadow,
As wind stirs the dry husk of leaves.
A void overtakes the yellowing pages.
A dark house consuming my winter of words.

But how can that be?
Was it the law that caused my doom?
The wrong I don't mean to do, I do anyway,
Though every higher thing Within me,
Screams at this outrage...
Led to be a monk,
I fell from the top rung.
You're fate at your fingers
( yeah, I'm at war with those too).
I'm my own martyr in motion,
At war with my wanton ways.
But I got a woman in the other room- know what I mean?
She tries to keep me out of Romans 7,
But she only gets me in deeper.
Ah- between the pills and drama,
It's psychotropic Hades before your eyes.
Seems I have to have it by 4,
Or it's a bumpy ride all the way home.
It's a Tilt-A- Whirl, a real wild ride.
This Act of Contrition,
I've surely brought on myself
Nowhere in Romans 7,
Do you go it alone,
Yet there remains a certain isolation,
A turning away.
Even in the presence of others,
There's an aloneness,
A shrinking of the spirit.
Crying out to Him,
I sometimes only hear the wind.

At the bottom of these stairs,
It's shadow looming over light.
And the only shadow I fear,
Is the one I leave.
Is there a way out?
None you see from here.
Alas- 2 10-325's,
Climbing the dark stairs to the bottom.
Zoom, here goes nothing to Nowhere.
Where's God's love in the depth of addiction?
Closer than the sin I wear.
I offer my sin, and take it back up again.
Romans 7, my salvation and my despair.
Making mud pies in the alley
Than castles on the shore.
How far I've wandered To find where I am.
As darkness knows no presence other than it's own.
I know this other light,
And Who Within it Dwells.
His name is Peace,
He who comes to to set the captives free.

Insolent candy pop skull,
Easy on the eyes
Short on stature,
I get your final comedown.
Here, behind the nape of neck,
Exposed to blue sun-
Pruning the Sycamore for full summer.


It all moves in contemptible silence.
I rigged it from the go.
I see the sun once more
Along Amelia Avenue.
Such is the slant
Drawn up in low light.
Here comes a lover moon
Rising in dusk;
Where every Mother's Son
Hangs a weary star
On its crescent.


Night, with it's visceral lassitude Adding
Insanity to it's notion.
I'll say it's random,
Not much lately,
But enough anyway.
I saw a dream once,
Falling like light in a doorway
A tulip dying in drought.

Its all tickety boo
Mnemosyne,
All the squirrels go swingeling along.
Here, have another.
How did you hear about yourself?
Perhaps from the flatware,
They all had lunch one us.
Voluptuous potato pancakes
In pickling brine.
Who would draw up such schematics?
Prudent farming engineers, that's who.
My lesions are legend,
I know them all by name.
They came up all Humpty Dumpty.
It configured a conflagration,
It was like a coming out party
We took up a collection,
It was a formal gratuity-
Like graduating from Radio school.
Who said "ALL ****"?
Sounds uppity at the cocktail convention,
With the swaggering lounge music.
Its really quite benign,
Like sipping soup through a straw.
Its been factory sealed for your protection.
It's safer than a school of sleepy piranhas.
Have I blown the 9 hour interview?
I wore my best Captain Crunch uniform,
It's standard issue.
I checked the latest at Phlegm Central,
They said I best check my shirt.
Then we had light refreshments.

Later that Century,
I was feeding the current machine.
Greedy Son Of A. B!#ch,
It was such a de-happening.
It became much to empirical.
Like a month of Tuesdays every other weekend,
That's the price to be paid
When you haul it up. Snaggletooth Mountain.
It was bemusing, if not hunderstruck.
We crossed into the International Sinus Zone,
From there it got a bit hazy-
All the trains were late.
It went well with the weather.
Cletus wore his camisole nightie,
While I was in my haberdasher hair shirt.
It effulgent, in mocking undertones.
It's peanut pastime of reinforced paint peels.
How does that make me an irregular object.
Let's all get up and March
To the swinging sounds of Sherezade,
Forgetting your conscience as we sidle along.
Hold up the Opera while I make up the lyrics.
How do you turn this **** thing down?

If were lucky, it's all a terrible time.
Tattered goldfish smearing the bowl.
Its more a failed distraction,
An instinct driven drama,
It's like fish swimming in anxious sleep,
It's lame excuses and narcotic visions,
All these trippy hours.
Chopin lurking in shadow.
It's the all organic experience,
I brought nothing but light off the levee,
The stink of Reynolds Aluminum,
Copper and mud.
A thousand noxious cars passing the window,
I don't mean to meddle,
Like a drunk hag hanging on your sleeve-
But where the hell is Shambhala?
It's such a drag doing penance in a bathrobe,
I hear Pharisees and jailers are there,
Doing straight time in Purgatory,
Tinkling like a million bad dreams.
It's rusty bells in little black cups.
Sorry about the clock tower,
It warbles electric.
It's use to substandard time.
I'll perch a Screwtape Letter.
It's obtuse when hungover.
Baal and Beelzebub boogied for the coast.
It's a pestilence of petunia,
A trip to the triage,
The same lame reaction.
Assuage with me to the vat of ammonia,
Its a train leading to Leipzig,
It's Brahms Nocturnal Dream In A Minor,
It's a mansion on the moon,
An olfactory schism of the senses,
Stealing time in half-hour segments,
A volatile mixture metered for meltdown.
Eponymous splotch of illustrious nails,
Railed to the cross one by one
Pilate washed at the sink,
He was clocking in overtime.
I've assembled mirrors to my hobnail boots,
It sluices the sunlight
Gets the light dancing every which way.
Its like being at the circus,
It. So captivating.
What hour is it?
I come awake to a tomahawk tapping.
I'm historically hysterical,
An unknown tangent.
The factory affiliate controls the production.
He measures the sunshine in fabulous droplets.
Let's grab the Metro for a ride through the ghetto,
While you draw designs on lovers faces.
Counting backward from zero to one.

Arcane wove the gray
Before morning,
A windscreen of fronds
And muzzling bees.
Birds weave they're own dreams
Littered with red berries.
All the words have dissolved now,
Disappearing in green *****
Avenging the clouds.
The day's final doing,
A rapturous melody
Of audible wind.
In this vale
I'll smoke out the sunrise,
Dawn limping along
On one bad foot.
As earthworm and frog
Form they're own pact,
Dividing the pond and
Lilly patch between them,
They share they're own secret with the sun.
We grieve our loss
As dry husks we sheave
From the plow.
We have assembled together
Here in our nightshirt,
To remember old Clancy's field of ghosts,
Quaking night dreams
Of voluptuous roses,
The winnowing echo
Gathers the storm.
Autumn waves dark wands
Chasing the gray winds.
Where will it go,
Can I go with it,
Will I remember
Who I am this time?

First it's a fish,
Then it's a rock,
Then it's an island,
Then its a play
For all the neighbors to see.
Then it's ready for the plucking,
Then it goes down easy,
Then you know your ready.
I let in the sun,
It died in the lawn,
Then I drug it out
To the frozen ground.
First its a dog,
Then it's an elephant,
Then its a cobra
Asleep in the sun.
First it's a lesson,
This is the sum
Of every blazing summer
And every wicked winter,
A blue orb circling
The last lonely sun.
This is my weapon,
This is my tool,
This is the place
Where my Mother lies
And does not complain
Of wind or weather,
Or rain or sun
Or the change of season,
Or sun or moon or lack thereof.
Its a fact born of fiction,
The truth and the lie,
Its glass in the alley
And chains gone to rust.
It's the last dream of childhood,
A dream of witches,
And a dream of earth,
It's ice cream stands
And cold shakes,
Its a dream of my Father
In 1967,
Its downtown
And cops and taxis,
Whistles and buildings,
Ice and slush
And black and white
Photographs of sad smiling children.
It's a moonrise
Orange and ominous,
A double locked door
And voices in the hallway,
Police and sirens
And blood at the scene.
This is me on my deathbed,
This is you sleeping,
This is the hour
That becomes you,
The minute that
Becomes me,
This is the second we share.
This is time moving backward,
This is a speck
On the sun,
This is an island,
A rock,
A fish,
Nowhere,
Nothing.

Tracing the hour,
The distance I follow,
Wands and Auroras,
These echoing phrases,
These expiates of shadow.
Angels and Sailors of far of seas,
Ghosts ships of carrion,
This unknowledgeable surrender,
This last ember,
A blazing Supernova.
This rung down the ladder,
Barkok and Liszt,
Stickball in high summer,
Unraveling spector
Of chariots and Pharaohs,
Matresses of mourning,
Days of black shoes,
Pairs that tread the same dirt road.
Venturing clouds,
These invisible evenings,
A burned mound of wheels,
Converging signals
Alinged to one.
Horses braying a symphony of dust.
The end and the beginning Never touching the middle,
Straddling curve space time,
A stratosphere of clouds.
Cobweb hung planets,
Their rings revolving
The shining simmer
In the final arc of sun.
Just outside Nebraska,
Down Highway 1A,
Charles Starkweather Haunts
Gretchen lost ghost.
The dark specter residing
In old Elmer's cornfield,
It moans and shudders
The grave hours passing
Like strands on a string.
Bombardiers blasting
The last metal gun tower,
As Churchill railed the invading Blitzkrieg,
Sending out the Valiant
To apocalypse the hour.
Long rainy seasons,
The trees weeping
The last wilting flower's lonely despair..
The rim of the hour
Dialing shadows dreary filing
Down corridors of clocks,
A Canticle of stars, the dark night revolving,
One billion Angels sing to the light.

A pale horse riding
Atop a dark Vista,
Knowing what name
Is writ in the dust

Eschewing lineage
Of Abel's dark brother,
Red roses bleed
In Neptune's cold sun.

Here at the bottom
Of Mickey's lost hour,
All rails terminate,
The end if the line.

The pen is my muse
A linier connection,
Writing Mozart's
Concerto of rust,

An ill wind finds
It's way with the weather,

A muttering stranger
Lost in the rain.

These bleating words coming
In hollow smoke signals,
Chittering of nothing
Drunk on the stoop


Pinned to your sleeve
Like a hag in a *******,
A crumb for the gods
So easily amused.


Dredging the dregs
Of one's own possessions,
Setting them down
In buckets of rain.

A sad reminder
Rimmed with compulsion,
A harbinger skittering
Alone in the dirt.

Here in the mill
Stinking of textile,
Memories haunt
A crumbling wall.

No need to mention,
It comes when it wants to,
A brutish devil
Whispers obliquely,

I cannot remember
What dream I've become.

I kneel in the night,
The tigers surround me,
Strange dreams in half- life
Blue saucers of sun.

Here in the dark square,
Ring up Odessa,
It presees the future,
So fast and so numb.

In the depth of the Maelstrom,
Abyss in the darkness,
Hollow upon
A billion blood sea,

As fish swim Lakes
Black at the bottom,
Ghosts of oblivion
Dance in the clouds.

Twice what it's worth
Is half it undoing,

No I remember
What dream I've become.

The hoofs and horses burn in the twilight,
As you count breaths between the stirring Of bees.
Oncoming traffic like a beads on a string,
The Woodworker's rasp,
The beekeeper's screen,
Diamond headlights,
Oncoming rain,
A transparent light,
The stirrings of leaves,
Gravity ground in a ceiling of sky.
In a dry place, the Oracle's
Lost meaning,
A hole in the center of the Sphinx blind eye.
I ply my hand to broken wheel moonlight,
A servitude of stars,
These muttering clouds,
A musty collection of shanties and shacks.
I caught the last sleep to black and white rails,
Slap boards passing, a flickering screen,
In a a theatre of stars and orbits,
A string hang on a ceiling so sweet.
As dogs and birds welcome Blue Heaven,
JESUS SAVES plasters Route 10, Is it West Mex or East Tex
Or is it the same?
Dark buttes, silhouettes, bare bulbs and bugs.
Ariels deep in dark desert valley,
The scent of box elder set in the sun.
The Oracle of day draws you in deeper,
Like a reptile burrowed in the heat of high noon.
A trial by fire, a light like no other,
What wildflowers lurk in the Devil's dark garden?
Witch grass and juniper smelling like rain.
A limestone Chateaux dreary long hours,
In a place surrounded by four walls and a bed,
Scavenging shoes in the dark of the day.
Black spiders in closets hunt along runnels,
A quivering fly caught in a trance.
A brief disconnection,
Ten thousand night and five Fridays ago,
So said the tombstone to each blade of grass.
Gravity Good Mother, teach us a lesson, tied to this tether,
This searing vibration,
A rust belt corrodes the American Dream,
As gulls wheel industrial blight.
Cherry Blue Jewel, the last drop of water,
Glass curtains cover the winnowing storm.
Twilight and half moons,
Long shiny autos,
All the starlets rise with the night.
Pieces and fragments, in abstract arrangement,
Aged black men fishing rivers of cattails.
Asleep in the dusk, a tinkling currant,
My own echo leaving a hollow in air.
Times emollient, 5 beads on a string,
Pharaohs and Pharisees,
A beekeeper's screen,
Shadows caught in a quivering dream.

In a time without clocks,
I dial the sun,
All these sketches drawn
In the dirt.,
My grief is among them,
Drawing dark clouds.
These mechanics of night,
The stars are a whirring,
Relics and rust, sand belts of ruin,
How does one fathom such loss?
This felicity of loss,
Why pander such madness?
At the rim of hour,
The sky holds no grievance,
The orchestra mimics the fifth movement if time.
They wave to the sentries,
The stars have all vanished.
Skylarks and Seraphim
Flit the high wire.
The stone farmhouse,
Still life in winter,
A decanter of dreams,
What were we saying?
Hands move in the motion of dark clocks of ruin,
Picture framed ghosts,
Sure they dark wonder,
Adjoining shadows of dreary
Dark rain.
Cobweb hung night dreams,
Rooms full of clutter never waking the day.
Vespers hung on a string of no stars.
Trembling already, God strips me naked,
Walks with me to a river of stones.
Shadows mingle around us so mottled,
While other shadow gather,
We remember their name.
Never touching the other,
They flee to the darkness.
Unraveling clouds, they witness to others,
In hieroglyphics boxcar of rain.
Wheels turning, the dark engines rumble,
Ghost sparks and whistles,
Through hillbilly towns that have no name.

Fro and yaw,
I've taken on water,
Jamming the frequency with static.
A strange adjustment of ratchets and pawls.
Hot Cherry, bane of my life,
I get your final comedown.
Some feely f#€k encounter,
**** the story,
It's here,
And here, and here.

Moonlit, the silence of dirt,
I've got to tear down these walls,
You swore it was Heaven,
The way the carwash was lit
With the last of summer,
A blip on the cosmic calendar
Wanderlust.
Everything pales in the plain,
Silverfish run under the streetlights,
Put it all on dust radio,
And it comes down when it **** well pleases.

It all pales in the noon,
Some obscure ghosts,
Brandy Alexander's in the moonlight,
Practiced Pretty Boy nod off
At the bar,
Some swimming nighttime dark Enchantress,
Vexing succubus, Waking
To the stench of smelly sheets
Drawing in this manifold nightmare,
Red toenails and blood wisp at midnight.

Like a hollow drum I pound,
Pierced and yellowed
And worn clear through.
There's a fog along New Gloucester
And a monster prowls the highway,
Running along darkened trails,
******* what light there is.
It has some fact and form,
It's mostly obscured by clouds,
Hiding in the scrim of a bare field,
It moans the hour of waking.

Suffer the children to come to Thee,
There lies the Kingdom of Glory,
While I bide my time in this Habit,
Cinched up tight for your disapproval.
I may mire and muck the proceedings.
I'm like a train wreak at noon
And a wheel turning in the sun.
And I'll mercy your begotten Laury,
And ****** away the light.

Weak words like tea in an old woman's cup,
There here amongst the clutter,
Perhaps in this room with a broken clock,
An old wristwatch,
A dusty beer bottle stood on end.
Broken records with pirate songs of old,
More a distant cry,
A mournful calling.

O sure, I've spent time on the Du Da Ranch,
Dreaming potato pancakes,
A Denver with coffee.
Who said time would sneak up like this,
Nipping at our heels?
Stealing time like a thief.
It's a swan in the lake,
A spider in the room,
Shoeboxes of old photos covered in dust.
A rusted ***** stuck in the jamb.
Bleak moments in the rain,
Holocaust survivors in grainy images.
Here comes Herman Goring
Dressed as Santa,
All smiles and candy for the children.

It's a mad dash for the Happy Trails Back Home.
Venus, my baby, tell me
Something on this naked night?
Good God Night Love,
Grab the rails.
It's a dinosaur running the highway,
Overloaded from Michigan
To Indy City,
Funky info to nowhere.
I got another Disco Mania Movement
All drew up in my mind.
Nothing in the pipes, no matter,
No more pizzazz along the avenue,
Kinda lay out and lay low,
Get my drift,
While I pick dead man's bones one at a time.
I got 209 of em-
What's your story?

It ended up a free for all
After the hotdog eating contest,
A maylay to the left of the stage,
As Steppenwolf
( one blind guy and four nobodies) sputter through
Sookie Sue
As someone jumps onstage
And turns it into a real Fourth of July
       7/ 04/ 2005

Fill They may, fill the fulcrum,
Fill the feather dream.
And my bane is my doom,
And my dream is the desert,
And the horses blaze beyond
El Dorado,
13 months revolve in the moment,
And the moment is calculated
In that thereof.
As bees circle flowers
Erupting the earth,
I fall into a new type
Of madness,
Drawn in spires and suns
And dark whirring clock towers.
Ghost ships in fog dream the doldrums,
They creak and yaw
Their dead sailors inside.
And the moon never shines
In the blackness of noon.
Corolla, Corolla,
What do you bring?
Candy dirt, black lillies
And bugs in the sun,
A relish, a treat for boweevles to sup.
A stir of leaves,
A wish of wind,
One house below,
One house above.
What dark matter,
What sensuous core,
Red dreams of roses
Spread on the floor.
Alone at last, my name the dust,
I construct this tower,
A tower of rust.
Here I burrow among
The twigs,
A being asleep in the fulcrum of dusk.