A ravenet nods & bristles ebon--negative

two thousand & twenty-five years thru

its scryed vision.

Gone before: 'Be gone!', therewith a

daemon at the ready.

Wraps roots around treetops, as a Garden

burries its Sky.

Flower wind spinners act as galactic

corkscrews, hypnotic wind of

clockwise-counterclockwise rotation.

Dialing in to a split, that the daemon

unhypnotizes, which turns into a green

jello synthesis.

Its genius of holism added unto.

The charming prosody of atmosphere, is

metered by the daemon.

As plastic table cloths flap & paper plates

flip--the ravenet clacks its beak.

A soothing habit it visits when

atmospheres & Ages commingle.

An oval daguerreotype window scene,

bordered by frost on a blistering day.

A white horse juts its jaw, as it receives

freedom's lash.

Whose distance is already satisfied.

G-force grins bear its large teeth at the

diplomacy of elements.

Below the frigid shade of bridges built

over deserts, eight kicks pace to the

torsoed toss of sand.

No more than a whole in want, spooked

by unbroken thunder shaplier than its

pounding hooves.

Its stomach distends with a flood of gas,

glugging to combustibility.

As it catches fire's metaphor, igniting

catch-me-if-you-can fingers all over it.

While night repudiates night, to where

passage is way behind, or way ahead  of

brilliances inconsistently ticking above.

In sound there is time, in time there is

distance--here there is no telling.

Just a white horse eating a purple carrot

out of a poet's hand.

Pan's pipes lift, as Syrinx passes off

a river.

When the wild is put out again, canting

a vaporous red--a metallic hitch thrusts

wet wood.

Rupturing stones & married dust shun

shoots, taken in by a full revolution.

Their beat back glow mimes blooms,

a faint vision for a clear one--Pan's

hoary notes.

It's well to lie down in the dimly

remembered--to sign out its cross.

There without moving, coming back--

as from passed what one can see to.

Spread out & up against, there where

the hallowed becomes.

Marked by fire's burnished throne,

not to be succeeded.

The fruit of rot is without kind--it needs

to be stomached.

It needs to be bore thru, kept way down--

till it smells like a baby's head.

Appetite's opposite has clothed the

pickiest animal in edibility.

Entertained by how it is left out, &

itself spoils--uneaten.

Five out of five unlit stars.

More decadent than tons of unharvested

food.

This body wills itself to the feeding of

lions.

There was a bunch of folks typecast for

a forthcoming wave of salvation.

Off a main road, crawling on their hands

& knees at the outskirts of a forest.

Spangled like descaled fish in snapping

shrubbery on an ungiven Sunday.

Relatable as asking for directions to

somewhere you have no intention of

going.

An excuse for interaction, to ascertain if

there was a need for it.

If the almighty will convince you to go

there through them, a testament to need.

An errant flock did, they all converged at

the outskirts of the forest--sanctimonious

horns honking on high.

As they stumbled to stumble upon one

another, weeding out the Ides of March--

handfuls!

One hundred of them, fled from their

subordinance to a Centurion, free as

toddlers on fire.

An unstoppable meta-whoosy forage.

When the NYPD availed themselves, a

higher up saith: 'What's this, the freakin'

catch & release program--let's go people!'

Suddenly there's the desire to feel

everything I was about to say--but didn't.

All the unnoticed word-inhales, to the

waved off no-nothings.

Not given vent, just reexperiencing

all that courseless inexpression.

What was discernment's wisdom

guarding against to build toward?

One's confronted with heavy empirical

alterations--had the needle met fabric.

What sensation would that unvoiced

crest produce?

Precarious as sharks pacing storm bands

over warm waters--the unsaid developes.

With that, I direct it back to thirty years

ago today--what would that interaction

feel like?

Based on the assumption that nothing

cataclysmic occurred thirty years ago

today--though certainly not in relativistic

terms on both days.

It's astonishing how pertinent

information can omit dates while

pointing at them.

Even if I were to ditto the date with

different years, their currency may as

well be in The Ferryman's pocket.

He's not even laconic on such musings,

though he does take a shine to them.

I should like to **** AI to such musings.

So a lifetime of stifled articulation would

burden the climate of this day thirty

years ago--now.

Would I be alive, live where I live, call

who I call--write what I write?

Say...no say?

I didn't.