a brook lends the

smoke of:

Patchouli.

a sparrow soaks

like a piece of

bread.

irresponsive to

water.

it may be remiss to state

time to plaid blue sheets

of sky.

especially when unasked.

while leaves hovel over

patchwork.

gothic appraisals of vanquished love--

an auditorium at maximum capacity.

a vampire standing ***** before every

wooden seat.

in the dead of, in the dead of, in the dead

of night--breaking the neck of what turns

back, in pindrop hollows.

all hissing simultaneously, at the girth of

loss, trembling with elation.

there's something about

a cardinal, flitting across

saturated woodchips after

a downpour.

as if throwing back air in a

looksy of: fly.

whose tree cover tantalizes

a resonance that treats the peace

between wetness & color.

sometimes there's an existent

persuasion, that shadows individually

agree to blend in, As.

that is--they enter.

you know they've entered, having

conjured them, too well anon.

a merciful mark that appears &

disappears--hiding for your sake.

known by import, that which seeks

the gratification of seeing...but not

being seen.

an entourage of black & white monsters
rabidly collapse--on a mall's glassy floor.
itching away at pixelation, retaining the
right to crudity.
the mall's scent marketing spreads its
delicious mist around yellow hazard signs,
methodically placed around hinterland's
embattled fringe.
the horror vacui of a mall, full stop.
the Art Brut of the disciple that got away,
having escaped from a ****'s forth crow, or
Judas' Romanesque royalties.
the unnoticed figure that whistles apart the
mall's glass ceiling, rubs his eyes to reveal
St. John of Patmos ******* out the soupy eyes
of lambs.
shaking free an extra large fountain soda from
Christ's right hand--dissolved by flavor.
denominational puddles rising from the mall's
glassy floor, as Christ hacks up demonic roars
as he's assailed by children.
whose parents wander off to ***** a voluptuousness
that sheds their hands, all over the place.
a pendulously oversexed wash of half-baked
******, as if a feather could be roused from an
indeterminate wing.
the adjourned high courts of dream.

a six story door,
made of compressed wood--
darkish brown.
upright & unhinged.
shantytown openness.
riddled with keyholes to the
degree of porousness.
no doorknob.
warped with catalogued
moisture.
a dust pile of bricks
resounding its architecture
in a tumbleweed breeze.
a pod of suns swaying overhead,
like 70s billiard lamps after a
brawl.

Jeane-Baptiste Grenouille,

hypocritizes nostrils--till not.

a trifecta of le parfum:

Vieux Boulogne, dispensed by

Halitosis over a stony low tide

at eleven-hundred degrees.

a la corps (ego doner).

an optician runs a light over

a butterfly, enmeshed with

mulch.

a shaft of light emitted from

forest ground, that the sun

knows nothing of.

no more prescient.

than a birdcage flung unto

a wire over an intersection.

its dome rushing its base, its base

rushing its dome.

a lattice of bars that are struck as

they strike.

hung against the contrastive

sky of Giorgione's: The Tempest.

overbleached flies

kickstart empty space--

recalling the aerodynamics

of UFOs.

thru the buffered streaks of a

living room window, creating

an oddly euphoric tension in

a neutral observer.

Leucothea applies Bavarian cream

to her paired slit, tending to it with

the waning crescent of no moon.

as oval handheld mirrors base the

trim of their metals on the philosophy

of ornateness--perhaps Gold.

gripped by nymphs, whose fingers

flicker off when oceanic shatters

gurgle up from temple steps.

a swan slowly swims

across her proportionate

lake.

extends her neck across

it.

nods her head, without

drying off--& disappears.

walls exasperate--

a brick rightly

placed below the

earth.

remotely milk.

a mattress wrung

like a sponge--

dreamt concord

between symbolic

peoples.

coolly half past, a

roman numeral.

twisting the compass

needle of a humming

bird's beak.

trumpeting the wakeup

call of a flower.

holes dig an abysm--

an abysm digs a hole.

No!

a hole digs an abysm.

where

mounds of ground, seem

imposing as the abysm.

an aboveground abysm

made of holes.

then there was a glossy

pine box--

whose hidden face brings

down what refills.

a poem is committed to memory, as it
scales Mt. Olympus.
gradually disjunctive, abstracting enough
to become lost in the mind of Zeus--a
jealous Zeus.
as its Muse wails for what the poem forgets,
whose balance lie in the height she's composed of.
Zeus knows of this, Zeus watches this.
reciting the poem that committed itself to memory,
in the ears of its Muse, while mock-dancing her.
as the poem is guided by Poet & Muse--to
remember forgetfulness, integral to what pulls it
upward without thought.
scaling an entirety as an entirety, the poem comes to.
Zeus turns a cheek to this, the poem in memory of
the Poet manifests him--at the height of Mt. Olympus.
a lightning bolt leaves Zeus' hand, as Poet& Muse undress.

what if variability,
secondhandedness of perception--
captured the significance of crossing
paths with another animal.
at home.
where food & shelter play nice.
above all else, heir to what's human--
above all else.
more ingenious than a one-to-one basis,
as what stands in place of what stands
in place.
produces masterful portraitures--of what
also stands in place of what stands in place.

it moves--having thrown open

its crusty eyes, unable to see passed

itself.

fat enough to live off itself--another

helping of world, it moves.

by itself, for itself--presence first,

as shamelessness wanders.

a sty within,  relocating to a sty within.

not knowing what's not to be named

of its beasthood, to preserve the absence

of its beasthood.

a glorious revulsion, that as soon eat the

star of the wisemen--once its stomach feels

uncomfortable.

phrenological markups

around a seraphim's

shaved head.

found the contoured unevenness 

of gross neglect--in regard to

human case studies.

after exhaustive High-hand

groping.

subject to the penal code of a

gargantuan pipe *****--where a

single note could signify any number

of years--even before sentencing.

a gypsy has the
horses of her
caravan
sit like
schoolchildren.
while she suckles
on a rabbit foot...
unpacified.
then uses it to
scratch an itch.
taking pleasure in
giving the moon
her evilest eye.

a broken column tilts at a forty five

degree angle--bulging earth at its

base.

its top resembles a snapped femur,

whose opposable reflection streams

along a murky sky.

unaccountably driven to its lone feature,

starkly confessant among a hill's dry grass.

an Orphic marker bowing to the downriver

strum of a lyre, that carries...

a bundle of strings,

murmuring skyward.

(think) deep sea tentacles--

deflating/reinflating.

bioluminescent

balloons in a jellyfish's

transparent wet suit.

a clown out of character--

constructing a model circus

from scratch.

a harpy.

silvered & gilded--

feathered & tarred

in an illuminated manuscript.

yay to the irony of feather

weighing down feather,

uglier than awkward.

forced out of a gewy shower

of pitch black.

as said harpy begs flight to fancy

her, from the humiliation of

chance-posterity.

where she's granted with a sloppy

flop onto the page's margin.

down the main aisles of a movie theater,
cranial malformations of popcorn are
crushed.
the brittle knockabouts of a cannibal's
unstrung necklace--left to the ritualized
red of Hollywood's carpet.
the flashlight of a theater attendant stretches
out its beam, to pinned concentrations.
just as the movie screen becomes the bubbling,
gaping hole of burnt film.
the projector let through, flickering back its raw
form.

inappropriate laughter from caches

of silence--

contextually disembodied.

weird people weirded out,

the pressing matter of face-economy.

stuck to its numbing anesthetic, the

unnaturalness of skin snubbing skin.

while on friendly terms.

a gusty whip of pages,

read clear as a

goat's bell collar.

what deflowers snow--

this stack

of monthly grimoires.

broken open

by penetrative invocations.

as leaves slowly begin to

bake.

lightless cessations

underground--pushing

against the crumpled

lightning of roots.

sparking its sensitive

wires that blow open a

casket like a safe.

a cold spot

in a

bottomless

ocean--

can be felt

more often

than not.

there's always another version to put

out--deny identity among the crowd

one generates.

--are you who you say you are?

is the constant question circulated by the

crowd--one to another, as a version of the

same one.

as one would say: peace be with you, in

church--to the ones nearest.

except this is a multiplicitous self-interegation--

which refuses identication, therefore peace.

melancholia loses its voice after

the unbroken rasp of its whispers--

are stripped naked by the oppressive

vapors it possessed to temper.

lordly & nonemergent--walked thru

the walls of its mansion, into rooms

that bear the sound of drizzle.

hallways of bounding sunlight, stunted

by dense clouds.

an inexhaustibly long queue of

devils, decked out with their spin on

evil.

mugging their motherless faces--

all holding a  bouquet of black velvet

flowers.

some noshing on them, some thwapping

the devil in front of them over the head.

filing one by one into a small yinmn blue

room.

to take headshots for sacred auditions.

a table knife files its teeth

across a stale loaf of bread.

left imbedded enough to

be concealed by the crust.

its handle juts out, reharnessing

a grip that is no longer there.

a dusting of breadcrumbs line

both sides of the knife, &

an absentminded return to visibility

on the table.

a clock hanging on the kitchen wall

fixates on this discarded still life--

concentrating its repression.

bending the nail that sends it to the

floor--as an accompanying piece.

a ravening intensity wants an

ongoing plane after peak experience.

there's a lopsidedness that slinks off

what evenly secures bliss.

this faithful deformity starts to show

up earlier & earlier--before arriving.

thru the inevitable dread of what it

will throw off.

there's a tap on dark's back--

ad infinitum.

it always turns around in response.

as if at the edge of a bed--the stimulus

of this gentle touch is the light it can

see coming.