the aesthete is
crucified by
a series of
reflective drops.
as images slow
enough to hold.
the chalice
is raised,
and the heart
goes
down
smooth.

you're shivering...
come in from the
warmth--
arch the doorway
with your halo.
flies are filling with
white ink--
minding the curve.
rebreaking open.
grant, grant, grant--
is not a command!
purple planting purple.
you're as perfect as
rainbow-fizz on a
churning limb.
Bardo-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do.
March means makeup--
caked characterizations
filling the colors of roles.
my best line ripped to
shreds.
rending wash of razoring
edges.
(((stay with we))).
can you remember
the first
time
paths
crossed
without
knowing
they were
parting ways?
fine.

athwart is the resolve of combatants...
I Am and Am not.
untold purification rests at both sides.
unresponsive leverages grow
the Circle.
were it not for the staying power of me--
these brackets of vision would
not quake as they are set.
at half staff, neither country nor body...
invoking athwart.
consanguinity that is the meaning
of poetry's verbose transfusion.
heir, heiress, universe--a haunting
inheritance Whole.
I Am a sprightly idiot found out amid
the galactic cauldron.
hellbent gods and goddesses plucking
stars from my hair.
doctoring my itch.

faux pas...gramophone flowers
spur onward the tramping
boisterousness.
the Mansion whose stuttering
rooms bear an ***** each
for their elephant.
reconnaissance of voice
vibrates the fateful lifeline...
an exegesis unto chosen hearer.
hear me...hear we.

last night was so
white that doorbells
glowed,
off busy streets.
spring snow ringing
them all.
such a heavy white,
to fall like a cast from
a form.
at the first touch of
light.
you had to of been there,
and you all were.

gentled away where
sound's
called  forth from a
heap of black stones.
taste bittered to sweetness
in un-name.
mouthing.
late sight blasted red,
in the passion of its
rose.
it cannot be, yet is--
ash peppered finely
as space unto a toppling
sky.
all in all hail, gone to gone--
forever's betrothal cycle.
holding peace.

it was Hamlet
that worded
a worm from
a robin's beak.
a portrait pink
sliver left to
riffling greenery.