anything you look at
is a convergence point
of unregistrable perceptions,
rivering.
lightning before thunder,
but don't dare call it:
lightning or thunder, or thundering
lightning, even lightning-thunder.
that which sight has commonized
can never catch it in the act.
of being.
in the: act-act-act...pick one,
and it's already gone--done.
cherry picking is done for us, as
the brain screams ****** ******.

As zeptoseconds strike
their matchsticks against brick
walls, the pith of this waxy
body gleams.
Stiffly unsound in its granting,
vitally huffing its gangly ghost.
As heavy in sound as the weight
of the world unmoved, trying
the vault of heaven.
Scaring birds across the parables
of clouds, eyefuls are swept away
by closed lids.
Wedged between dreams to ooze honey
fuzzy from the bee's buzz.
Of freshly aired confessions
that pre-box their black, after
violently shaking the perfume from
flowers to place upon.

How it was grass greened for little
feet, tickled by their absurd bursts
of joy.
As between tinklings time sussed
out a sun, and the cheeks of
chummy cherubs dimpled like
embedded kisses.
Good as good graces may be in, a
child for all the world stood--newly
made, round as play.
Then one day in its sad, slow way...
something shadowed play.
What sunk that sinking feeling,
and turned magic on its head?
What left a laden cloud to blankly
hug a dreamless field?

Don't exaggerate the price
paid to meet the pay off.
Ms. Magdalene oiled up a
pair of great feet only after
turning a blind eye too many,
to forced entries.
No sooner.
If you give pain a false address,
no one will visit.
They'll leave sentimentally
orphaned flowers at wrong doors.
You won't even answer your own
door knocking on itself, you hide.
As time chisels your sacrificial altar...
candles huddle closer and closer
for warmth, even as they burn.
Surrounded by answered prayers,
growing hungry for acknowledgement.

Have you ever been
pulled over by the culture
police?
I know this culture cop
who loves pulling people
over for self-expression.
He'll wait till you break
into color, and cut you
off at your most emphatic.
He'll ****, burp, scoff--
master craft a discombobulating
smack to your mouth.
He thinks most expression pins
you down to obviousness.
So by definition a lack of expression,
or stifled expression, means
you're not being obvious.
Therefore tolerable, but being obvious, or not being obvious is still
being, trying--expressly.
Watchdog of his own passive-agression, his cagey brooding activated by voices in excitation
of uniqueness.
He's living hard between the lines,
unable to read so to speak, as sing!
My mouthy mute carbon copy
of repression, I'm so sorry--truly.

as rain brusquely clears a
window's record, and a screen
grays the glinting heads of
drops.
as the bacon-brittle bars of a
fire escape press against the
dully scratched green of
distant trees.
melancholy skims the ears,
sews shut their fetal-shaped
holes.