Iterations of rain leaves

everything dry.

Upsetting sound oversensitive

to direct hearing.

The curtain calls of a crow

clearing its throat.

As if to speak.

To mislead.

The living wait of many.

An unbestowable image, a

soured standby.

Being what night goes without.

What's withheld is somewhere,

skirting light.

Met forcibly by what's different.

The broken discipline of:

''not noticing".

There's no suffering the

moronic applause in old jazz

recordings.

They bring to mind the applause

of: The Westminster Dog Show,

as stately rounds are made--

or was it to keep certain musicians

from nodding on smack?

A denizen of horror, a master of

ceremonies--bleeds out the sprinting

digits of a million clapperboards.

Relativistic rods of light showcasing

windows to faces that shouldn't be there.

As his corneas drop like glasses of

nightly milk startled by nonlocal

trespass.

He manages a robe that appears to have

been thrown on the fire of film.

His slippers split fake leather, as they

sequence what inches toward harm--

a screen's inn.

Which waits to reap a seeing.

His ears stock ashy twitters that scale

grizzly discoveries, like beef in a cow's

stomach.

Knowing that one staring at the back

of one's head, guarantees the back of

one's head being stared at in a theater.

With the proviso that there is no front

row (in reality).

He screams in the shower, not because

the water is too hot or cold.

There's something about a

death-obsessed animal sounding through

plaster & piles of brick--coupled with the

whole-body barks of a dog.

Which he loves to play back, as if a

third-party listener.

Dawn leaves a reminder, like the

circled total on a Chinese Food menu.

Lacing a vacant hole through the

crusty black loop of an earthworm,

scorched on black pavement.

Shall we say: advanced first light?

The animal nuzzle of dead land

in denial.

Which has turned cool of a sudden--

as the  inside of walls stiffen to

what's behind them.

Alas the shadows of hulking

addresses may be placed.

On what most certainly evades a

neighborhood, not to mention

an area.

The wilderness designated it,

it knows where all the bones are.

A "Being John Malkovich"

spot check--

like dropping a star from a

highchair.

Black side up.

Stuck to a closeup

that flattens a scene way out

of reach.

While negotiating comfort

on a squeaky recliner, a tiny

rubik's cube solved solidity

in a forgetful pocket.

With its insistent dimensions,

paradoxically driving color

toward isolation.

As if to challenge egoic

alignment, itself a sentimental

unit that was part of a garage's

purgative wave.

Having been mindlessly

salvaged from what survived.

Nervously pawed & identified

by a poet who was contemplating

the nature of hatred.

The real thing, the sort emotion

doesn't know what to do with.

Just as a tiny rubik's cube was

rediscovered in a forgotten pocket,

arrogantly insinuating.

Hereby charmed & burdened

with hatred.

Let it house & astonish hatred with

the speed of off-color assemblage.

I front my dust, to taste the rosy

cud of lightning's fever dream.

As a vine strikes out against a wall,

the whole of wind is removed from

the mouth of silence.

While bodies of water gloss over

the passing of fish, who become

tense.

When flesh is left on bodies to

indicate taken seats, the same seats

light gives up.

To a garden gate drunk on its hinge--

that gathers a garden like: here today.

Where midnight makes up for lost time,

to meet you as someone known

completely.

Followed by savage denial of the fact.

It can be utterly

gut wrenching to watch

how the inside joke

shared with those closest

to you relates to the

world.

Knowing what you hope

you know of them, as they

feel for cold footing.

It had the spirit of a deleted scene

in an awful film, whose overemphasis

showed why it went away.

It had nothing to do with the reality

it was portraying, that's how defeated

her statement was as she made it.

Unable to stand out, she couldn't

break a leg--relaying that her ex

insisted she was share-worthy.

A triangular feeding frenzy, swapping

possession for a piece.

As her lover thought to himself--she's

unfit to lower a bathroom seat for the

women he's been with.

It's something like,

Caution: Crucifixion Ahead.

The sign's up, but it's too

much effort.

I mean, it's only you afterall--

so poetry takes a whack here

& there.

Being misunderstood is

usually designated by

terrified little orbits.

It's not a state by any

means, that would

require their clearance.

They hate that you are

comfortable with being

far more than you let on.

That it's very intentional.

That they're not worth

explaining anything to,

that's when it's best to be

misunderstood.

They want to be thankful

for sure mystery, but are

not.

Darkness avoids absence to

keep from falling.

As the cold spots of roses turn

to purple irises, of distant royalty.

That curve the mirrors of trees,

which climb out of windows.

As grass lands between moon's,

cut by light drumming on a persian

rug.

Where one cat sees another first, as

summer pools a galaxy.

Her moving heightens the

golden-tiered sounds that outlie

sleep.

Just as her body calls him back to his

body, summer speaks into his ear.

A lizard flicks against the ground,

like: you saw right, I rock this clime.

A flat breakout pose to freeze his

break dance--scales popping like a

Queens fruit stand.

Scimming the brickwall of a Garden

Complex, whose plants were chosen

by a Board's retirees with hospice blues.

Hail-chaff sun drinking ***** with

desert abandon, lopsided kiddie pools

bungling shallows.

As the laying of blacktop gets behind the

sun.

Sunday ******* popped into

his head.

He had to write about a:

Sunday ******* & didn't know why.

While rain showed streets photos of

itself--he thought about a

Sunday *******.

It was already dark out when it popped

into his head, which made it more

interesting.

Then it came like it was always there,

it was Father's Day.

Already bored by the subconscious irony,

he pouted at the Sunday *******.

Monsters don't really evolve, their

horror does.

They don't find themselves thru fear.

One never thinks of them in embryonic

fluid, but pushed out of a bramble.

Unquestioned middle age.

Moving by way of unprocessed screams.

A mass that blocks the whole movie

screen, densifying epiphany.

A domestic situation in an abyss,

as record states what lives alone.

He tidies up places animals chose to die.

He was lost inside the currogated

dents of a water bottle, when he

realized fingers did the same to him.

Feeling that someone loved him for

the role, is when he became one.

The lingering concern

of perfume's inner distance.

The clapper of a black rose--

a deepsea downpour.

A submission graceful

enough, as not to have been.

Is when her scent's allayed,

rends those.

As the horde scandalized: The Oscars
for best village idiot, Jezebel captured
kindness & did things to it.
As they fumbled & bumbled to be looked
after, to come to mean no harm--Jezebel
opened an underground soup kitchen
for her generational curse.
They all came with their bowls, coveting
the recipe.
Jezebel made kindness smile for all the
wrong reasons, like she rehearsed at
home--or else.
Jezebel did whatever it took to discipline
the dark arts.
Worked a burning candle inside her, to raise the pitch of words.
Then fell on a blank page like a bored
tormentor.
Where poetry did everything she said.
She cackled as village idiots were charmed by her words, & the odd ****
that said: Who, me?
Until a Jnani slurped down the bowl, named every ingredient & burped.

Nightfall grew out of itself, like the

vigil of a vigil.

As Central Park was corraled between.

Everyone stuck around, because it

wasn't their time--like those two.

Led out to where nightfall could go

no further--there was just what stood

stood for it now.

There they stood next to one another,

letting go of hands for the first time.

To hear a cello command Bethesda

Terrace.

As soon as it came to life, it bellowed

lifetimes--one let go into another.

Its sound made archways the height

of what passes through.

Its unbearable ache grew in them.

The burden of nightfall was theirs alone.

They knew it--they just did, now there's

no coming back.

The outdoor chess table they first sat
across, was a kingdom's polarity off the
grid.
Moments before Manhattan tethered its
faintest sway--her face stumbled.
Went side to side, revealing it can live
with anything--because of how much is
dead.
The world grabbed her by the face, as she
smiled.
A well ordered paranoia always about to
drop something, a red-faced frustration
an excuse me away from unrecognizable.
Her burnt out awe pained him, because
she didn't believe it.
How she cherry picked disappointment
when he'd become overly natural, which
she mistrusted.
During a sketchy phone call at rush hour,
she temporarily lost sight of him.
When he relieved a crowd, she told him
she thought he abandoned her.

Hecate holds her stomach,

shuffling the locus of her feet.

Humming how their rhythm

goes, is how darkness stays

calm.

In there are plans Hecate

never went thru with--

now even the moon won't

have her.

Head down, marked by

threes that can't get over

that one.

The cheese-chastity

of her slit, let out

her face.

As she pressed the

purity of prayer beads

to her lips, like a

***** on the lam.

A tractor trailer whose ramp was used

as a slide for a fair, was parked on the

street.

Its Fifties signage read: Rapid Slide.

Azalea Pink, Forest Blue, Vanilla White

outlined its lettering.

Holding up its right to advertise a range

of feeling.

By a familiarity that never arrives--

waiting around to appear like it belongs.

It was chance nostalgia under a grey sky,

no longer wondering at screaming

children.

Awe shucks--there's Tater walking like
a duck on a highwire to Apple Bees.
Taken by the hand--dressed like an
unembodied expression, thrown together
not to be naked.
Layers notwithstanding.
Tater was holding his hand, not sure if it
was her own.
Tater was making a go of it--leaving a
slug's salty death on his palm.
Tater was getting so wet her inner thighs
glazed one another.
Conversation was natural enough to feel
like a muted reprieve, intimating loftier themes.
Comments on random homes were not
about worth, but more about auras which
translated to aesthetical judgements.
As Tater & he tempered the material world thru their cross-read dynamic.
Seated at a particular window-booth, as
per his eccentric placement for food ingestion.
A booth lit so bright, one could perceive
the emotions of dust motes.
Tater promptly excused herself to the
bathroom--where she admittedly cleaned
him from between her legs.
Tater took to the booth again, considerately propping herself up.
Then the pendant lamps followed her
mood like a bird of prey across the sun,
when it was directed outside the window
by her gaze.
As Tater offered that it was the day her
ex's mother passed.
He couldn't help feeling that it was put out there, as if a nun ripped through grace to get to appetizers.

The stock fire of

biding whispers can't

speak of Truth--

which never takes

the path of least

resistance.

It takes everything

with it.

Jezebel purposely loses the little girl she
chaperones.
Taking great pleasure in watching her
face become stiff with desperation.
Lunging from concealment, scolding:
'Why are you always doing that?!'
So a confused cruelty can match up tears.
Jezebel "lost touch" with daddy for the
equivalent of a life sentence & blamed it
on her ex.
Let bedridden daddy lay in raccoon ****, as the confidences of a forest kept him company well over a decade.
Jezebel wondered why daddy didn't share
a box of chocolate when they finally
caught up.
Jezebel once said her ex looked at her like
a little boy across the room, that she
wasn't his mommy--that neediness was a
turnoff.
Which became Jezebel's twisted leverage,
her revenge on daddy.
Even placing a quote at the bottom of one of her poems, that celebrated the
breaking of a stoic (referencing her ex).
As she initiated an affair.
All stemming from the hardy stead of an
eighties photograph, a little girl kept at
bay with a dolly.
Right before Jezebel became daddy's
supposed power grab.
Sat in front of enormous plates of pasta
she had to finish, forced to separate
portion from proportion.
"Daddy, daddy, you *******, I'm through."
Are you Jezebel, really?
As you seek to avenge that photograph
through men, pose them for that power
grab.
Jezebel knows better now, right Jezzy?

An apocalypse has

always been

the anticipation of one.

It's how we reveal ourselves.

There are people petty enough

to cut the cord of a lamp when

throwing it away, so someone

else can't use it.

Now imagine the same kind of

person seeing the world go on

without them.

A storm is more than a

diffused gathering.

Its deteriorating conditions

occur way before weather.

It tortures tension with its

own fever pitch, like a fool

with room to grow.

A storm potent enough to be

G*d's blind spot.

When stars become

a burner account--

they attempt to keep

tabs on where they

went out.

Not understanding

there's no longer a

need.

That a one way

account, is a one way

account.

Making it the loneliest

it can ever be.

The afternoon sunshine was ambiguous,

& not for lack of.

It was from there that a strangeness did

more than parody the noncontextual.

Its impressions were so sudden in their

completeness, so altogether different

than what experience was

approximating.

Was that these impressions were of

themselves so overwhelming, or was it

that they overcame the ones in place?

It stood to be another Self, crammed

space & disregarded time.

It was a great sadness guiding away

melancholy, a record playing beneath

sunlit water--a terrible assault on

intuition.

A moment alone as water muddies,

ahead of a significant change.

Comes the high discernment of what

won't be suffered.

The very life of it returns to be  

mercifully obliterated.

A frenzy of trespass righted, where

lines weren't.

A witness stripped of sides, swears by

seeing--to speak the unspoken.

A warrior cuts to first loyalty.

Never denying what is, never settling for

what is not--all else is premature death.

Earphones can conjunct like wrong

planets--isolating a soulless listener.

Forced to hear dissonance, noise plugs

that give what they get.

Awkwardly excreting too much

information, owned by goodliness.

The whole bus reacts as if something

is passing through.

Music's ****** paralysis, at harmonious

odds--prohibited flight.

The stank roots one puts down when

caught, the sorriest excuse for being.

Music doesn't play to everyone, just

because they press play.

It knows whose listening.

Innocence quietly leaves in the

middle of the night--knowing when

she's become an imposition.

She's more than welcome, but her

presence hurts--her lightness is too

heavy.

She always means to stay, but goes

because of what she means.

The worst proclaim her, cursing their

parents for putting them here.

As they prodigiously corrupt

everything they touch.

They think themselves majestic

creatures, that must flee back into the

treeline they exposed themselves from.

Wearing leafy masks of misconstrued

radiance.

Being at a safe distance from themselves

is all that matters...

taking cover long enough to feel like

a victim.

These are the ones that curse innocence

under their breath, as they duck.

A vessel becomes the

planchette of depths,

moved by the underbelly

of a storm.

Drawn all the way out,

to know how it's seen.

The bloodless spelling

of its own name.

The unrivaled emergence of a rat's

snout, struck pose of filth en vogue.

Fetishistic tastes--garbage's face-sitting,

shadowy specificities for arrival.

The procession of bumbled streetlights

breaks its leash, newfangled cheese

teefs held in contempt.

Cutting down anything other than

rat-hood, waste's deconstruction.

Its greatest character complexity is

escaping self-hatred.

The disparity of a fine line suddenly

metastasizing.

Made to live as if offending the wrong

existence, beating whiskers in

disintegrative trickles that issue:

all clears.

Meticulous nomadicism.

Eyes that have figured a way out, but

get caught by a body, which repeats like

a mistake if seen.

Photographer's darling, showing more &

more & more dente, with the attitude of

a dork osmotically permeating a book.

Clamped shut.

An equanimous snort from passing away.

A monstrous intelligence helps

up a grin, like a running start

that never ends.

All in the course of observing

what's bold enough to be that

hideous.

Pursued by its condition, survival

makes no excuses.

Crowds are somehow pleased, but

not convinced--even offer welcome.

Akin to the dark side of the moon

left with her legs held up.

Saints talk down certain fruits, under

canopies in waves of nausea.

Their ridiculous commotion muffling

the repeated warnings of moonlight.

Fruits like the propped-up ripeness of

shattered skulls, feel nothing for the

earth.

Trees like dead stopped cranks of

musical seasons--take no rest of

themselves.

Branches stall between wind & shadow

to point out what hangs.

Enough to make worms arrest their

wriggle & die of their nature.

These fruits that come round, while

betraying invite.

Happy decay nestling its cheeks on pits.

Grass should never lie with these.

Hands should starve reach, mouths

should utter: close.

Lightning drowned

its boiled quickening.

Its baptism's wielded thirst.

Sword unto water, water unto

quintessence without name.

Bubbles like a black dress

that meant to confuse its open

conduit.

Charms in cloth, cloth in motion,

motion in dance--downs the guard

of rain.

The silver flood of a star that crosses

its star.

Quartered water, reflectionless

water--spoken over in dead

containment.

Spells that do not spill from their

dead containment--hide the clearest

face from stars.

What's hidden hopes to poison

another's quintessence, that they

may become that dead containment.

Water sees this, water Knows those

blessed by its quintessence, its sheen--

its Fish.

Sees to it that those that curse die slowly

by water, jerking & sinking where a

fish would be.

Late autumn afternoon 2012,

shadowbirds on white gold--Mayan

rascality in the air.

A Polish starlet wearing a Twenties

cloche hat, detonated an all nighter at

our door.

Her fur coat & dress also shared cocktails

with Fitzgerald, as she shook a bouquet

of roses at blind gossip columns.

Our door opened to makeup's fidelity to

rawness, alcohol's turbulent fumage

here & there about her person.

Was made to understand that her lover

was inside, that beyond me was her

very reason.

The silk linings of bat wings spilled out

this address, what was stated to the

contrary was only absorbed by unfocused

determination.

The American dross of Polish

bereavement spoke in fits, hexed fluency.

An nonnegotiable wait volunteered her,

her lover was bound to come out, as

authorities were bound not to be called.

From the second floor window, all things

shiny converged on her with gruff

frequencies & thickening uniforms.

Police stood beside her & set in, as she

got into schoolgirl trouble.

By the time medics took over she was

submerging her private island.

There she was, being strapped to a

pristine white stretcher--her cloche hat

tipping itself.

Her doomed outfit secured like *** roast,

save for the bouquet of roses that hung

out & clotted from her right hand.

As the stretcher popped up it was like

her soul was going to leave her body,

rose petals struggle-strewn across it.

We take up such an insignificant amount

of space, we almost don't exist.

Always in some out of the way place--

out of the way because lives are

particular enough never to meet.

Even if they do, we are ****** rumors

sporadically confirmed.

Kept by alone time.

The earth is only as large as particular

lives, no more significant than that.

What is the Atlantic Ocean to you right

now, or your neighbor for that matter?

You can't find little old me, I can't find

little old you--Yet.

I submit that if one that insignificant can

delineate existence, than a person on the

earth--is not about a person on the earth.

As we feel our way thru the unreal, we

notice the symbols we deal in can't

cover their meaning.

The way a day's events come

back to you the way they Really occurred,

not the way they had.

Most believe it the other way around.

It's more faithful to its illusion after the

fact, which were "events" in infinite

space, like the summersaults of deer in

headlights--already struck.

A short on eating alone as it happens--

truth in real time.

One watches oneself discretely, as not

to growl.

No one can take the food away--it can

be consumed in an environment that

reflects oneself (home).

Which can be distracting, the more full

of **** one is.

It's to stare out--over or under chewing.

Then sigh without peace.

Peace was supposed to be there, expected

even--but eating is too pure an act to

make concessions.

There are those that fill their mouths with

the truth of their lives.

Their faces obey what goes down, as if

giving their mothers a chance to turn

away.

What they consume, consumes them.

What should be sacred & pleasurable

grabs them by the throat.

Letting them know when they can eat.