Chafed sticks forested--
lunar sliver threads tied them up
as to bundle with conviction.
An angel gone rare loaded the
forest upon its back...slumbering
birds shook awake midway to
heaven.
Played through the angel's lattice
of light, their throats the musical
prodigy of their carrier.
Darkness went off the air...static
was the break of a pieced together
sound barrier.
The earliest rustles of echoic being
ran down the place all spaces meet.
Such uplift is not imaginal, but the
all-encompassing care of...things
trying the patience of their mold.
This is the desolate you...daylong
giving birth to the search party of
you...that rare angel shaking free
the residents of desolation midway
to heaven...for a song...just fine
with spending itself--you on you.

Face stung by depersonalization, caked and gobbed
makeup so eyes of two can tower anonymous.
Round and round, makeup descended, blood runneth
cold...blood runneth warm.
Clown's base rigor mortis white contrasted by pools
of blood-red.
Upturned lips to smile, downturned eyes to cry.
Nose...of a consummate drunk, or irritated swell of
tissue-happy crying.
****** motion spent in a capering given to the clown's
colorful daemon.
Bloated aerodynamic garb giving the birthday-suit
room to free fall the roles it was cast in.
Clown...pinch...perfect...overdone, multicolored
burning bush wig at home...ever at home with clownish
head.
O clown--built by laughing tracks, and the hollow of
broken peanut shells.

Consigned **** crows these hours...
graffiti sputtered on the wall,
capturing the nervosity of its vandals.
The overpass' heavy respiration of
fugitive traffic kept on.
Incoming evening made senseless
overtures...to a time and place that
knows death grows more libidinous as
light dims.
The long way home knows a longer way--
as the black of rats mend distances...
everything seems close enough to bump
into.
To stub the mind's light against...
and against...the subconscious and its
raw maladjustment.
An arm lost to its length, a foot lost to
its step...ingested and digested by hours
that cannot fend for themselves.
So dreams improvise, as eyes close
by degrees...a tonic to what refuses
unveiling.
Almost as if one stood hushed in a
darkened hallway...staring at a skeleton
key in its lock for hours.
Unremitting flashes of lightning creating
the illusion of its turning...the door
opening.
Thus, the tension of what's done and
undone--the visiting hours of apprehension...
of which the consigned **** crows.

Caught at love, left at love...
incorrigible passions overextended.
Who so, and how so came to be--
he/she entire, given to it.
Who, what afforded them the singsong
of the heart's blood?
Slight mouth to utter of it, kiss upon it...
these heights were weathered to syphon
singular Source.
Foretold of but once, gaining unfulfilled
prophecy by all born of it.
Love itself a labor of...all labor back to itself.
An incentive took to our core in advance
of us.
Beyond all sound retreat, love has been our
steadfast apocalypse.
As was lent purgatory, divisive pathways atone--
as holds true love Is, and love Is what bore
worth loving.
The soul has been fetched from start to finish,
breadth bare love.

There's no sullying its consternation of him in her,
her in him.
A downy black of exquisite precaution...pops its
ruffled heretofore and floats.
As if a night cocked back its neck to calculate the
trauma, longingly poised as a swivel of mottled
blood.
The black swan's eyes fork some bygone coruscation
to their very top...as if in the throes of demonic rapture.
Whereby reality's moments of lucidity seem to catch
frozen frames in want of editing.
Thereupon...as there it is, as there it goes...the black
swan subsumes, wears the guise of regal unnaturalness.
A betokened freak loosed...loosed...so...softly, at
maximum indifference...O black swan.

The dreamless anterior, where from the
dream vacated.
Of all intersecting lines bursting the star
of their hub--deemed the twilit Hand at
all starry hubs and their creatures.
Withheld till set upon a particular
realization, that this may think of that,
and that out of this.
Integral as a stone lifted from its mountain--
wailing for the kingdom of dead weight.
If a stone could thrice  cry out and away
from the dreamless anterior, the vacated
dream is both nothing and something...
the dreaming posterior.


World...world over, through...as it is, might
gathered.
Space gathered unto itself, and space
gathered unto itself...adamant dream of
deathless artifice.
Of all the seeming till becoming...a world, the
vast accumulation of what it gathered unto
itself.
Thing upon thing in service of things, the
seamless Whole...world, world over, through...
as it is, might gathered.
World so wanted you for itself, yet world I
am unto myself you might say...and so it is.
There's no world but through you, you and you...
that, that and that.
The lone psyche of everything is a world--world
over, through...as it is, might gathered.
By that lone psyche what world must be gathered
by might, over and again...relents a Whole,
conjoined dreamers All...seamless our world by virtue
of the many who dream it.

...Dissipating
snowflakes
abandon
a
body
of white...
memory.