Onoma 16h
city heat in hard

black attire, superconductive

glow of a serpent chasing

its tail.

asphalted lay of holy land--

whose bedraggled pulse snorts

in bloody laughter.

roadside augurs fester while

tying the laces of traffic, through

passed out archways.

bird's beaks are broken open,

in mad waterless monologues.

as the nucleus of this wizened apple,

casts oblique shadows... for curly cue-ing worms

flirtatious doom.

sped billboards imminently flattening the world,

under a Columbus-blue sky.

going, going...gone!

ice cream trucks mangle dueling theme

songs, sloughed off by sensational tides of kids.

distraction's lustful lick, an informationless

tombstone busy with curves.

here, whole-body shaves of renouncement...

and steady showers of salt, will make

worthy the truest Himalayan meditation.
Onoma 3d
when moments halve

their eye, to leer from

a corner.

when mirrors change

out of their glass, without

shardy sounds of motion.

is heard the shuffling of


neither hurried, nor harsh--

a teacher smoothly guiding

an eraser through a world

of chalk.

feet solid enough to cut a

spider's line, and transparent

enough not to cause contrast.

a tone dials itself...

(burred vertebrae)

just another ghost

looking for a pawnshop.
Onoma 5d
sacrum bone,
crematory pyramid--
shramming orange.
passion's seat jumped on--
the ground giving
way, the world
donned at the overlook...
a most humble service

examining upside down
the base of a table--
while blindfolded with
a shroud.
whose two right legs
offer an incomplete
radial urgency.
there shall be no succor,
the cup shall not
be passed.

the musculature of
survival, taking the
form of wilderness.
standing on, and in
place of an animal hide rug--
whose dead hair's rising
in response to a voiced
it is finished.
*Francis Bacon, Irish-British figurative painter, circa 1944.
Onoma 6d
so much selective attention

to report of--

that the date's been omitted

for more than awhile,

despite numeric girth.

though an uncanny

guesser of time,

to the minute.

a startled rabbit

in a clearing.

snared and prepared--

to be called an

acquired taste.

what to do with all

these acquired tastes,

these refinements?

wait and see.
Onoma Jun 10
where's my baptismal


i mean--

like a child using my


where the fuck is it!?!

a glug is in order.

if nowhere is to be found,

then my Mother herself

calls out a name with no


a promissory note, chewed

to death.

by prominent teeth,

persistently white.
Onoma Jun 6
it's not up to you what
you're going to see,
sight swears by you...
and means it.
there's the well, there's you--
now draw because you're
you can see all the way down--
a cylindrical depth opens
a dark eye.
which opens a darker one--
the water begins to appear.
washing its wobbling face
to present to yours, circlets
of light peaking dualistically.
body languages, words
placed in conversations, and
silences adhere.
a Rembrandtian lighting descends,
leaves an organic trail of
freeze frame shiftiness.
there you are, there he is,
there she is...hit with the queasiness
of being Seen.
Onoma Jun 5
about the blade--

continually fished out,

lying limply in the

hand when out of its


taking an unsuspecting

stab at breath, there's

so much of so much in

there, how not?

as what kills prefaces

what's worth killing for...

all that gluey light stiffening

with a count that's lost.

to be a good human being,

is an excruciating simplicity--

few make look easy.

though rather doggedly...

these eyes dole out their

encouragement: just try, just

give it a try.

then watch the feet move.
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