How many shadows of
former selves
does it take to fall
from grace?
To wring out the lights
of rungs, scared to
death of heights.
To make headway in
time, is to fall out of it.
Planets are poor markers,
we create their surfaces
to prolong our search.

By bobbing heels, and stunted leap,
bright pride robustly breasted--carries
its voice to eloquently trace these
steady blows.
As the jagged breaks of love dance the
drunkenness of their surreptitious seas.
There's no catching what falls for flight, ill-contained
as if by space challenged...two fleshy fruits, thinned
at the veil, bare love's lovely little worms.

Gelled mint green tipping
sloughed yellows, to
out-dream day...bubbling a field by
and by a blue wind.
Cranking gobbed eyes with no surge protectors.
Reflexive right hand taking oaths of: hello and goodbye...
childlike in the eye of a hurricane's spokes.
Fire truck red, tri-cycled eyes trained on direction
none and all.
Parked above a park's day--the outspread wings
of a hawk crucified to a point still.
A point placed, as it sparks, flakes, falls and chills.

the lights are on,

everybody's home...

the light's are on,

nobody's home.

voyeurs make thieves

of days on end.

making off unclean.

making off clean.

hemmed in by rain,

umbrella's ferrule signals

this silent streak.

bolder than wheels on wet

black streets, mind and body

fall for one another.

flashing pins in drop, who

never register a top or bottom.

this again is spring, in the way

of this world, brought to the

surface to be put in phase for

another.

the street does not wait for

crossing, it'll be crossed--because I

believe there's somewhere I need

to be.

so do flowers.

Who cooked the Good Book,

didn't the man upstairs know

about the man downstairs?

Being everywhere at once,

means having a hand in everything...

and when free come the will:

who, what, where, when, why

play dead?

The sound of a barrel's bottom

scraped, drunk with unresponsive

depths, you can't go back--as much

as go forward.

Here means here.

So why did you weld a gold crown

to this skull, to fence what cannot

be committed to memory?

These ****** rills carrying along

loose change--off with heads, off

with tails!

Free a hangman's odds of appearing

out of thin air...letters trying

words, words trying meanings.

Their poem cleaning up well...

made up to be stared in the face.