Lightning drowned

its boiled quickening.

Its baptism's wielded thirst.

Sword unto water, water unto

quintessence without name.

Bubbles like a black dress

that meant to confuse its open

conduit.

Charms in cloth, cloth in motion,

motion in dance--downs the guard

of rain.

The silver flood of a star that crosses

its star.

Quartered water, reflectionless

water--spoken over in dead

containment.

Spells that do not spill from their

dead containment--hide the clearest

face from stars.

What's hidden hopes to poison

another's quintessence, that they

may become that dead containment.

Water sees this, water Knows those

blessed by its quintessence, its sheen--

its Fish.

Sees to it that those that curse die slowly

by water, jerking & sinking where a

fish would be.

Late autumn afternoon 2012,

shadowbirds on white gold--Mayan

rascality in the air.

A Polish starlet wearing a Twenties

cloche hat, detonated an all nighter at

our door.

Her fur coat & dress also shared cocktails

with Fitzgerald, as she shook a bouquet

of roses at blind gossip columns.

Our door opened to makeup's fidelity to

rawness, alcohol's turbulent fumage

here & there about her person.

Was made to understand that her lover

was inside, that beyond me was her

very reason.

The silk linings of bat wings spilled out

this address, what was stated to the

contrary was only absorbed by unfocused

determination.

The American dross of Polish

bereavement spoke in fits, hexed fluency.

An nonnegotiable wait volunteered her,

her lover was bound to come out, as

authorities were bound not to be called.

From the second floor window, all things

shiny converged on her with gruff

frequencies & thickening uniforms.

Police stood beside her & set in, as she

got into schoolgirl trouble.

By the time medics took over she was

submerging her private island.

There she was, being strapped to a

pristine white stretcher--her cloche hat

tipping itself.

Her doomed outfit secured like *** roast,

save for the bouquet of roses that hung

out & clotted from her right hand.

As the stretcher popped up it was like

her soul was going to leave her body,

rose petals struggle-strewn across it.

We take up such an insignificant amount

of space, we almost don't exist.

Always in some out of the way place--

out of the way because lives are

particular enough never to meet.

Even if they do, we are ****** rumors

sporadically confirmed.

Kept by alone time.

The earth is only as large as particular

lives, no more significant than that.

What is the Atlantic Ocean to you right

now, or your neighbor for that matter?

You can't find little old me, I can't find

little old you--Yet.

I submit that if one that insignificant can

delineate existence, than a person on the

earth--is not about a person on the earth.

As we feel our way thru the unreal, we

notice the symbols we deal in can't

cover their meaning.

The way a day's events come

back to you the way they Really occurred,

not the way they had.

Most believe it the other way around.

It's more faithful to its illusion after the

fact, which were "events" in infinite

space, like the summersaults of deer in

headlights--already struck.

A short on eating alone as it happens--

truth in real time.

One watches oneself discretely, as not

to growl.

No one can take the food away--it can

be consumed in an environment that

reflects oneself (home).

Which can be distracting, the more full

of **** one is.

It's to stare out--over or under chewing.

Then sigh without peace.

Peace was supposed to be there, expected

even--but eating is too pure an act to

make concessions.

There are those that fill their mouths with

the truth of their lives.

Their faces obey what goes down, as if

giving their mothers a chance to turn

away.

What they consume, consumes them.

What should be sacred & pleasurable

grabs them by the throat.

Letting them know when they can eat.