Poe sits like meat locker Tummo,

in a flake's firepit--giving off snow's incense.

with his vest unbuttoned, wearing a t shirt

of Antarctica's: True South flag.

his elegantly racked face thinking of the seven

archangels, how all their names end with an: l.

necessitating the tongue to reach the mouth's roof.

his: "Philosophy of Composition" ceases dissecting:

"The Raven"--evermore (True North) is the same as

nevermore (True South).

the ****** trank of autumn duskiness--
creature features letting trees grip closeups,
that stand for a protagonist' last day.
screeching ques overexerted by alpha predation,
as horror's head classically wedges out from a
tree's hip--the day after.
flies walled in the gizzards of crisscrossing birds,
& an homage of costume flowers discarded
on damp mulch.
a cutthroat lack of resolution all along.
the inadvertent image of a grin below a chin--
drawn by creatures with their pointer fingers.
a slack-jaw totem pole augmented by an audience,
a stake driven into trackless woodland.
sleep paralysis on a  19th century canopy bed,
tightly drawn--changing with leaves.

convening floorboards grok the mover--

pitchy with unwanted presence,

as if the rapping light of a poltergeist.

alienated by the epiphenomena of their

own home, a hair-trigger mashup.

an implicate order "Truman Show" with

boundary issues, the nervous exhaustion

of omega pointed out.

deemed reductive overhead, & so on.

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.