St. John of The Cross sets off motion detector

lights in the unconscious--which it cannot

unsee.

a state of being whose night still walks, turns

the turned, inside out.

the feeling of having been before, is where

you are, feet lost to the difference.

as if there's no self to fulfill prophesy, Christ

is also a night owl.

a noseless breather, skeletally pug--

(pura oblivio)

smells the cooler end of air like rubbing

alcohol.

as a moldered dog would thru a dingy

screen, watching a raven that dances

in a series of flops.

the mock-break of wings in a caw of

exilement, as the secret passageways of

leaves fly open.

an exploding tv dinner--in a microwave,
on a **** tube.
then the Tetra-like gridlock of a channel's
spectrum, the air's breathing spell.
Robert Johnson turned over as a raw lick
at the crossroads--his voice & guitar digging
a hole in vinyl.
the bluesiest devil exhorting: 'you're almost there
Robby--I'll tell you when to stop.'
a crackling breakthrough lifts an emphatic warp.
meaty hands holding balloons & cotton candy,
having a good day above ground--as other
meaty hands check their raffle tickets for the
winning number at the fair.
which's a special house visit from Pogo the Clown,
who'll have a staring contest with anyone present,
then leave.
the following was filmed in front of a live studio
audience: hived crosshatchings, rashy doubles
(2/1-1/2)--the rippling harp of daydreaming sitcom
characters, keys in each cloud they want to throw in
a bowl.
Robert Crumb's existential countdown from zero, his
neurotic flashback-flashforward Americana,
what-to-do-nowness.
out-drawing suicide, perhaps play tenor banjo in
the South of France...

black noise gentles out calls to weakness--

the exposed bellies of private animals, in

discolored night.

profuse as a Garden of Gethsemane--eaten

away by a hard alphabet.

they are the thing that needs to be said.

spines like blowing reeds going through the

motions of unofficial prayer, subdividing

stations of living quarters.

a tower viewer careened by a tourist,

trying to find their center.

the adverse effect brought on--somehow

being too scenic, a fake hyperrealism.

which becomes the irrational fear of concurrence.

not unlike: 'G*d you scared me, i didn't know you

were there!'...

as so the tower viewer stays positioned by

sudden disuse.

clothes start to feel like skin
on skin--the exclusivity of bodiless
wings, sickly sweet refreshers.
air's first cold stare at fire, the scent
of its rough *** carrying a harvest.
a charred basket left at an open field.
scared crows anatomizing he who
goes there--same as a stranger in a
fallout with light.
always last seen, & unrecognizable.
where trees follow him--with inward
resolve.