torn pigeon wings mashed on a sidewalk,

loath to square a foot.

clarity stunned to drifting, a pale blue

blotch of sky--evening's vignette.

the smoky mouth of a panting wolf, snaps

closed with a lick & a sigh.

the moon ails under an aggressive form

of illusion, smiles bravely for a slow

shutter lens.

as a moment says: I am in a clock, but not

of it.

these last leaves do something to keep

falling, even after they come down.

it'd be ridiculous to envision the outward

appearance of oneself thinking, only to

be lost in a lack of resemblance.

when the writing of poetry occurs--

i'm occasionally a spectral robe on a hanger,

hooked on to air.

i get wet across state lines & whisper the fall,

of the same system that will reproduce

different raindrops overnight into

tomorrow.

we're highly conversant, but its point of

contention is overnight into tomorrow.

it'd be ridiculous to envision itself while

raining, as well as our divergent paths.

only to be lost in a lack of resemblance.

mania's omphalos--drags around its
umbilical cord, like a gas pump.
while belting out the first emanation.
a circle's radius clamps shut, as a
wilderness picks at its navel.
black iron gates come down on clouds,
a blizzard accumulates a spiritual reality
far more physical.
even if you're barred entrance, there's no
such thing as waiting.
just a stuporous death by holiday--like
standing across a room expanding with
space.
to a foggy window wiped clear, revealing
past lives vivid as the partitioned
properties of neighbors.
a minotaur hopping fences--suddenly
pressed against the window.
as if covered by distance, not covering it.
straight from a snowy frieze, its circuits
of agon.

thin ice' palette, when dissolving

into water--is starlike.

the quaternary of a bed does the

same with a body.

a dreamless state can reflect

this, as the horizontal meets the

vertical--indelibly so.

even if stars aren't visible,

you're aware of them on some

level.

a lower plane is a higher plane,

to a lower plane.

just as a higher plane is a lower

plane, to a higher plane--etc, etc.

a hilltop bore its **** to locals, where
they come from flat to: "that".
confronted by vantage, familiar as their
own physique.
their feedback loop of disconnected
realities, locked in its grasses.
the signage of a leaf, connoting nyc parks,
Sheriff of Nottingham's badge.
produced before peripatetic schools of
philosophy.
sunset's prolusion to hypnotic suggestion,
took effect.
as if an infant walked more ***** than
royalty to his bedroom door.
opened it a crack, then quarter way.
where light of mind/sunlight/bedroom light,
assumed the quality of that early rising at
sunset.

at the very least, another life can be

eked out--by what goes unnoticed in

any given day.

a thing will always change with the

perceiver, even color is colored.

the sheer overawing & unquantifiable

detail is as matter-of-fact as imagination

itself.

begin & end anywhere you choose--

even though there's no beginning or

ending to the interactiveness.

light rinses her hair on a taxidermic
dove, sat like wooden wavicles on a
shadow planet.
persued by a scented black candle that
smells of unfillable holes.
as a woman prospects a circumference,
tells herself she came for the music--
not the food.
an angel born of mistaken identity,
walks through the blueprint of a garden--
& is told: 'you didn't touch a thing.'
as with the involution of ears, spirals
whistle like rope thru snake skin.
an evil repellent of sorts, or a courtesy
to superstition.