The sun has her heart on setting, and so takes an impetuous bow.

The mountains open trees like umbrellas, to which their budding wildlife gather under.

High above the lamplight district, a cluster of crows assemble on a wire, taking a vote over which direction to take wing.

The grumpy locomotive steams ahead, hissing at its schedule and the possibilities of further rust.

A lady of style, turning on her heels from the salon, swears to the heavens she'll get even if anything ruins her hair.

And you, just this morning...

waving goodbye to me from an upstairs window with a smile, but silently praying I will return to you alive and in good health.

Dying is not a crime
But for playing God
I'll probably do time

Pretty little euthanasia
My disconnected phone
Always going home

That open window
To the fire escape
I am the center of a lake

The kids next door
Liked to play with me
Now we don't see them anymore

Time is the wrinkle
On my otherwise nice life
It keeps secrets
It places blame
It determines value
It comes with cost
It measures war
It holds out for love
It reminds me
To pick up the kids
From school at noon
Reel me in, tune me out
I'm at its every beck and call

The road not taken
turned out to be
the path of least resistance,
and easy street
the highway of tears.

Who knew?

circumference
area
radius
locate where i end
and you begin

protons
and neutrons
inside this atomic nucleus
our energy levels
hover in the clouds

how can't we fall
for the rotation
of this sphere

this densely
structured wonder
of our assembled love

I dreamt I still knew myself the moment you turned your face to me

you were about to enter a very personal space: a diary, a dream journal, a shoebox of love letters, a suicide note, the angry ramblings of a madman

Standing on the bridge where we're no longer suffering, the dream exhaled

and joy found eternity running over the closing frame, floating away in every direction where time intervenes

~
the night starts here,
the night starts here
in the dunes,
fixed in time;
incipient waves falling into place,
their subtle purpose
to roll over and sing;
the fountainhead above us,
like it's above the shore,
attaching softness to a shell.

we blew on a dandelion
and the whole world disappeared;
love is a mysterious shape,
love is a remembered rhythm.

I have trembled
my way deep,
I'm a guest in here,
drinking at the stream,
seeking bliss in
the plural homemade kiss:
peppermints and orchid rain.

we please the night,
we please the night in interlude,
and it merrily leaves us that strand
of pearls called "good morning."
~

Ashes of my son
in this bottle
wash ashore
to remind us the years are fragile
and too quickly they're no more

Strands of my daughter
on this brush
remain a lovely brunette
and a none-too-kind truism:
we begin to die from the very outset

A stone's throw is all we have

Earth is in orbit.

I can see it in the window.

From the window of this
Conflict-free
Facility.

A crew of
Four souls

In gravitational symphony.

A crew of
Four colors

Ad rem and
Unsegregated.

The vastness of space
Brought us together.

What's the transmission?

"Why can't the world below
Live like this?"

~
Who can circumnavigate Avalon's depository and the palpable swoop down toward earthier terrain?

Yet, here I am.

Where is your gravity taking me, Kahn?

This building is an invitation, and I am humbled in this sense of arrival. The books are stored away from the light. So a man with a book goes to the light, the serenity of light.

And therein lies the hidden meaning.

But you won't let it become just a building; you want it to remain much a ruin; it's all somehow sinister in its celebration.

Occasional distraction is as important in reading as concentration.

And I'm reading between the lines in a corner carrel, looking out at academic crop circles; I grapple with each texture: it's this combination of imposing austerity and weathered familiarity that you seize upon to make your current landscape hospitable.

This building is an instrument, creates a sound in my head akin to music; and this music remains a glowing source of solitude, all driven by a desire to be hidden but sought after—a celebration of all things lost and unnamed.

Here I find closure by opening a book.
~

Oh dear!
--
So sheer!
--
No coverage
In the rear!

The story here is oddly familiar:

Many say COVID-19 was quiet, but friendly, and stayed mostly to himself.

Occasionally, he and his wife, CATCH-22, would get into it, but nothing that involved the authorities.

Others, however, say it was just a matter of time before he blew up.

Of course, no one said anything until it was too late.

All those interviewed for this story refused to be named for fear of being targeted.

What a surprise!

Not to string you along, my dear

but we cannot simply cut ties with the past

even the inconsequential have its consequences

You might outlive regret, but that doesn't mean all is forgiven

The doctor's not in
But he makes housecalls
Especially upon young ladies
Who read one another's sacred
Journals, hoping to steal dreams
Dreams of callipygian
Dreams of tryst
Dreams of embrocation
Dreams of frisson
Each able to be held
In the hand, but
Lost to the wind
Father Physician
Is a savior of sorts
Curing them of all their ills
Yet, only for a day
Tomorrow the mind
Shall play tricks on them
Once again

~
A mix of
Startoucher
And Venus in furs

A minor astronomical event
Between luminous beings

Timean sparkles
Fast atoms escape

And in their wake
Baby satellites to bear
~

Young spark

Slipping on the shoes
Of a thespian,

A walk about
Wonderland,

Yet, in a fog
You lost your father
On final approach,

The twinkle
Of your light went out,

In quiet step,
Tenderfoot,

Turned
One degree
Too far,

And lost you were
Upon a London flat.

Birthday girl,

It's not your fault.

Just as over the course
of a year, the seasons change,
inevitably, over the course
of life, a woman's body will change.

The photoshopped
supermodel on the cover
of a fashion magazine
is an 'ideal' that does not exist.

While the allure of
youth & vitality cannot
be denied, neither can
the appreciation for time & experience.

It's the honorable path
walked by
all maidens
& matriarchs.

A path that comes with
blemishes,
cellulite,
scars & stretchmarks.

Wrapped
in every
shape,
size & skin color.

Yet, it's these so-called
'imperfections'
that render her
fascinating & unique.

A paragon of feminal
physique, so luminously
patterned &
intrinsically beautiful.

Taken by the reckless wind
Lost in distant clouds
         And here the fall of her hair
         Tethers my mind to the sky

Man.
Woman.
Ghost.
Little wind in their sail.

Boat.
Watercraft.
Impulse.
Limited space on board.

Free from heart. Free from clothes.
Drunk together for a swim.
Errant, disinterested kiss, planted
under the keel.
A sparse ****** isosceles is struck.
Parts are muted and slit-eyed.
Parts are surface tension.
Parts are counterparts.
She pulls away, running below deck
and vigorously brushing her teeth
before weeping.
The razor of night struggles to sleep.
The sharp object thrown overboard.
No one wants to be first or last.

"We're out of words and moons and stars, there's no tenderness in us..." she said. "When did our love become the stab of ultimatum?"

~
"memory runs back farther than mythology."

two years,
two months,
and two days,

in a cabin they built
near Walden Pond.

on a mission of gravity,
the heavens forming a spotlight
on centrifugal force,
abroad the hollow mind,

chronically untethered.

"I went to the woods to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms..."

this ship's captain was an architect,
but her starblazing failed
to break ground,
so this life is now a structure settled upon sand,

and way out yonder,
where there is
no blade of grass,
just weeds growing out from under the floor.

but her daughters are
grinning magnets,
passionate machines.

"copy that?...," asks Houston.

she takes a long, hard swallow,
the shadow of a bell
inspiring the astronaut in her
to shoot for incapable stars,
but the bell she hears now
is that of an alarm clock
telling her it's time to wake up:

shoulders straight.
hands free.
arms strong.
fingers stiff.
chronically untethered.

she's not looking for new days,
she is a new day,
compacted out of water,
tired of changing real estate
and showering with
other people's success.

those loud kids, her kids, play
down the hall, in the beehive.

radio jargon's on full blast too
and telling her where
to buy and sell today's instant pleasure.

she's busy now with self-stimulation,
Betty Dodson Method,
then mixing orange powder
with 100 year old whiskey
kept in the lunar module:

it's a spacewalk to eternity, faster-than-light:

she sees broken pool tables
and backyard swings.

she sees 'ordinary'
checked off on the calendar.

she sees 'happiness'
hiding in an old photo of Murphy's Camp.

she wakes to
her husband, Houston,
in a holding pattern,
she feels him moving, whispering,
and touching something
far off inside of her,
but not moored
in a specific time or place.

in search of where
she now exists
(if she even existed at all),
her memories feel artificial
in that she lacks
the emotional attachment
that comes with
actually having lived them.

there are no answers, no choices.
only reactions.
it is always going to be
that broken state of things:
these days of heaven,
chronically untethered.

"only that day dawns to which I'm awake. there is more day to dawn, I suppose. and like us, the sun is but a morning star upon being dreamed into existence..."
~

Dear diary:

Land sakes! Leofric cannot believe I carried through with it. But indeed, today I rode naked along the sparse, meager streets of ye old Coventry.

And whilst my long hair, let down for the occasion, did provide me a jot of modesty; alas! a strong breeze I am most certain granted uncivil eyes to plainly see my top half is much ado about nothing.

Nonetheless, an even more discomfiting fear shall be if some peeping tom espied his fair countess to be no natural blonde at all; just a fare-thee-well lemon juicing, miracle bra wearing charlatan.

On the plus side, I did achieve quite a lovely, even, 'no-lines' tan!

~
The method is slow
And probably dangerous

From your telescope
Fewer and fewer places
No advancing horizon

Are you rendering again?

Two miles of uncertainty
Too much undergloom
You don't remember his face

It's war of attrition
A home for you
No place to run
No place to hide
To live is to die slowly
~

Ink
blots
impossible
knots
testing the limits of
a circular drive
one hand on the wheel
the other copping a feel
of his passenger mate
dutifully nursing her neonate
foot goes down
to apply the break
fracturing fingers
is what it will take
to lessen
the voice
avoid
the slade
move
the mountain
tell me, don't floaters
eventually get flushed?

Driven by red
riding hood,
wheels of eternity run
hot and cold
along the tracks
in her arm.

Around the bend
there are jigsaw
pieces of a puzzle,
scattered as destinations
once towns and villages,
now fodder for
the migrant beginner.

According to fable,
there's a wolf at the door,
home is no longer
a worthwhile rendezvous,
but a trap of origin.

Misery is a train ride,
a stray fantasy,
lingering in the wilderness
of her fractured mind.

She sells her gold bracelets,
for she needs
the dark coal,
she seeks
its deep freeze.

She can then
be many things
along the journey,
just never
a connection,
never a permanent signal.

~
if you're feeling sinister tonight, come inside the darkroom. picture yourself pouring over mental images of a demure young botanist, loitering around the trapdoor of nostalgia, kissing someone new for the first time.

now imagine she is conscious and clustered in titillating blur, her smile beachy and airborne, with only the slightest suggestion that something troublesome is lurking underneath.

can you see her double exposure? totally tranquil, she poses with an arsenal of poisonous plants, as if she’s already slipped their venom into your tea.
~