Skulls were honey dippers--that

dripped & drizzled down to

dribbled filaments.

A long line of suns rode a ray, as

a hand went up & a figure

approached.

A bouquet of balloons dragged its

comedown on the side of a road.

Gumballs spiked green space, as

it took on amphibious richness--

while an unsaid curfew lifted from

the ground.

January made any movement feel extraneous, as if something nudged to
haunting irresponse.
Sing Sing Prison was beyond all that, but
never more there--yet not even its
manifestation would have it.
The Mahicannituk (Hudson River)
followed the land two ways--to conceive
more than water.
Ruth Snyder saw that as Sing Sing walled
alive--smothered her prefume, crouched
over lights & coughed out iron.
Queens was a place, this was not--food ate her, water drank her.
A place to make out surroundings that
don't want to be seen, that are put forth
just for deprivation.
"Ruthless Ruth" appealed to her thin frame, dropped it like a hankerchief on
the cold floor.
Almost convincing herself that one's true
nature is unpunishable--as she stood up
again.
"Old Sparky" (name for the electric chair) was seated across from an indefinite coming--its unapproachable presence growing into its features.
Ruth was roaring with the twenties as her lover tried to go thru her--while her
husband wagged his tail somewhere.
So Ruth enlightened his sexless naivety,
with a couple of cold puddles outside of a
long lay.
Her lover (Judd Gray) smacking back his suspenders in answer to a Who Done It.
Their body-exploring-finallys & whispering hot sophications--saw a door
kick open to the rest of the world.
A lot came on in, Ruth needed luxuriating, to writhe on high-end furniture.
See again: "Old Sparky", now it's all about
"Old Sparky"--it was never not about
"Old Sparky".
Led by the hand to a modern-day witch burning, of course there was an audience--they arrived in cathartically shaped veils.
A latched heap, held by safety--holding their peace.
Figuring into the law, & willing to watch
a subcutaneous thunderstorm.
Especially Tom Howard of the New York Daily News, who had a camera strapped to his ankle--expressly told it was for:
Private Eyes Only.
His Life's Work was strapped to his ankle--as The Mahicannituk's current flowed.
He lifted up his trouser cuff & squeezed
the shutter buld, then ungripped it.
The room met the designated height of the switch as it was flipped, its current
flowed.
Ruth conceived something more than electricity, as she made hairpin turns--
blowing toward unsuccessful ejection.
She cocked her head calmly as she watched herself beat leathered husks,
her scalp smoking like twigs.
The witch they came for surged upward, & was restrained as if she were reacting to Latin commands.
If she had the **** for a last meal, a menu put to taste congealed & what thirst there was ran dry.
Tom got his picture, & Ruth was blurrily
venting mid-fry on the front page of The Daily News.
Which read: "DEAD!", the first public picture of its kind.

They're blue in the face, vitally

impeded by the implications of a

a misstep.

Requesting cleanup in aisle two.

Gladden them with it, draw it out--

torture the itch good.

Give it to them, release them from

wicked thrall, crowd a crowd to

distribute feelies.

Remind them how good otherness

looks at its worst.

Your public needs you to come apart

like there's nothing to see.

It'll prove useful someday.

Park Avenue's rubber flood, its mastered
whoredom.
Hermes' passage, whose sonorous cleft
is repeated after--until its vehicular
usurpation is complete.
As if an anciently overdubbed rite.
On Oct. 4, 1986, Dan Rather was making
his way home.
His kindly signed-off face was fully
dimmed, as the American public filled in
the blanks of a broadcast.
Able to speak when spoken to.
Did he scrub off Live Makeup, or leave it
on?
Early autumn air was warmth's incorrect
remainder, intimating a tailorship that
cooly spun off Mr. Rather.
As his profile heightened, so did his
senses--beelines like rulers.
Eighties NYC was characterizing its deity, horns running up facades--Yeeping.
Dan's gentlemanly earnestness, hueing
his lips with delivery--while being stalked.
Nick-of-the-eye holograms of cityscape
intensity--a closed plan of attack that
already conquered variables.
Karma's streetless address of supposed
firsts.
Of foes, feet & frequency--homing in on
Dan, three dots about to connect.
Not that it couldn't be, but that it could &
would be--Dan was about to sweat-up his
suit.
His large eyes maintained innocence as they tried his skull like a fish on deck:
"Kenneth, what's the frequency?"
a voice asked.
Repeatedly this question was posed,
as feet & fists reached out from each word.
Mr. Rather clocked in the jaw & kicked, saught refuge in a building lobby--
"Kenneth, what's the frequency?!"
Two of Manhattan's Men in Black took turns tweaking a radio dial.
The staticky melee blipped, booped &
zipped straight out of an unfeeling
extraction of alien information.
There was CBS' voice of reason,
rained down upon by a white beam logic.
Mr. Rather's signal eventually came in
clear, as he was helped up, asking: 'Who
on earth is this Kenneth fellow, what of the frequency?'

Solidities love to give their spiel on

distance, as anthill multitudes are

dispersed by feet.

To the tune of whole houses jostling

around unissued shadows, armed with

soundless chimes.

Worked up to spit's private tiffs pelting

pavement, tracked onto the vacuum

tracks of living room carpets.

While a little boy getting called inside,

holds up a glass jar to a star.

Sighing hand-swipes of evening reads

drifting off into the context & tone of

certain conversations (the day's).

Space airing out its fringless purity,

clanks with clanking plates--runs with

running water.

Suddenly there's a judicious ring that

dissolves just as it's accepted.

Windows rise to scatter dead skin--

an electric cool removes layers of

mustiness.

Pitting rooms against themselves,

held accountable for their confines.

As inner eye contact is maintained,

the respect winter taught--so far

afield that flowers happen.

Almost like Mary showing--hands on

her back.

Just as a sparrow lie leaf-like between

two pages of air, illustrating itself in

someone's gut.

Where silence loses its sound to

light--light is never unseen.

Nothing is unseen.

Ever have the feeling you can't

get naked enough?

Even though you've never been

naked.

Even glory bears degrees of welcome--

not every wake is left indefinitely.

Try as it may, the ocean cannot

disinherit waves that fail to further

its glory.

Ones own face is too many lives in,

not to appear guilt-ridden.

Mistaken identity is a guarantee--

historicity recycles attributes.

On the otherside of things, one has

enough personal relations to populate

the globe.

Which's why roosters can't unhear

dawns like rehashed blood in tepid

water.

The fog was a cheek to cheek slow dance--

in step with the promise that no one

knows anyone.

It derived intimacy through lifting from

what it was never in place to reveal--

but like plight.

Having been as close as it'll ever be, there

is nothing that doesn't hold back as it

strives for the opposite.

Who's lingering on what it drew in?

So close that it's gone.

Summon-mad incense goes out searching

for a transcendent nervous system,

taking on different qualities.

A serpent lies coiled under a Golden

Helmet, that's made of depthless return.

Sleep is different, it is no longer where

waking comes from.

Waking is different, it is no longer where

sleep comes from.

Light lays down rising.

Sometimes eyes open up there, & a

depthless return shows one the figure

of its speech.

It is not the body.

Post meridem traffic, tightened

congestion--breaks whined like

dogs sounding high pitch

frequencies.

A screen protector discarded on

tousled grass--unevaporated dew

droplets set as Wallpaper.

A fitting tension, sort of like

car pooling.

Sunsets are eminently confronting,

they're second to last page epics that ask:

'Were you a part of what went down?'

As entropic & inertial forces hash out the

unlived, concurrent with an insatiability

that pleads passion.

Trusting that your passion's retreating

with those pastels--that you could &

would die, but not just yet.

It's like the psychiatric intake of a patient

that's kept from creating, their ******

need the same as sunset's cry wolf

apocalypse.

It's like fighting to stay awake for

something indispensable to your being,

that whatever's underneath sunset must

match up.

Otherwise it'll feel like glimpsing

sleep-prompts while wearing synthetic

skin.

It is only surface succor--one should spit

out the passifier & eat grass!

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.

Over eight billion doings factor into this

doing, Disconnection Awareness Month's

moment.

I am saint: Roughly.

A non-excercise, like following your

pointer finger to the tip of your nose--

cross-eyed by its invasive warmth.

My ruling planet Venus supervenes, I

suggest she find a ruling planet.

Right now I **** an angel with kindness,

as she flashes her radiant ***--we both

see an opening.

Who brought what out in whom?

At any point I am fixed, at no point is she

fixed--yet.

She comes by proxy to intercept me.

Her symmetry's between worlds, even

though I run my hand between her

*******.

She rides her distance on my closeness,

we end up where we end up.

When water nicks its flow, I untie a

storm & head into town.

A historical overview of aimlessness

grinds against me, as two gaurd dogs

makeout.

Good on the gleam that fact-checks

feet, never saw a pair of shoes that

didn't want off.

Or a tacky perfume that smells of

wrinkly freckles, hard-to-come-by-air

unable to figure out how to insert its

chagrin.

Sometimes it helps to read aloud what

the body writes, disjointed humming

works too (a runover accordian).

A fast-approaching mass whose

disintegrative reentries start to float

peaceably.

Trying to guess the shoe size of space,

gets harder between the legs.

A market pitch of spring with no target

audience, I suppose.

A fontanelle, a division bracket connected

to other division brackets--castle

battlements.

A stimulating doodle that fills a Mead

Marble Notebook, whose cover keeps the

signal lost.

A banana in a trumpet, lensless

sunglasses in a darkroom.

Dot lightness, dot being--behind the ears.

Lo & lo beheld heads in the way of a

movie now playing in theaters

everywhere.

Where the irksomely awkward exit from

theaters, is witness to an audience's

who's who believing they're characters

from the movie.

Everyone avoiding eye contact, like some

postcoital comedown--secreting greater

star quality.

Imagine if they entered the theater that

way--our comings & goings have such

pole reversals, role reversals.

Hitchcock's bellybutton has a staring

problem, the guardian of this gate doesn't

approve of such rumination.

The invisible makes the final appearance

of what's irrevocable.

As Amen is undone by invocation--that

Amen cannot be invoked again.

How nothing moves on from nothing.

From the invisible there are untold

visibilities.

We indeed die to, to be--which's the

emptying out of Kenosis.

Just as the sky empties out, to be--Amen.

You strew signs that never met chance--

where they arose I was.

I have survived them, now they come

together before me.

You mark me all too well--but it is for me

to send word of my coming.

How it is favor comes with destruction, is

reserved for few.

Now that I have Apollo & Dionysius

wondering at their properties--the

wilderness secures this laurel wreath.

Amor fati, you left it where you knew I

would come upon it.

It was not an act of faith on your part,

what is thought to you that you should

act?

If I swear, it is to myself--that I can no

longer break what I am in you.

I felt when you knew I knew--it was all

up until then, that went away now.

Amor fati is all there is.

Every single Hemera, I roam in chapter

42, Ishmael's aghast perception of

Moby ****'s whiteness.

Having bartered with Ishmael, I threw

myself overboard--he is no longer afraid.

I, in memory of a white whale's belly--

ever & the same.

Ask for me & they will tell you, more has

me, leave it at more--mystery provides.

I've a hankering for white, they may say:

'What's wrong with that man, what's he

staring at?'

How white orients.

White is, if peace is pleased--which means

nothing can disturb it.

That can be too final for the unsettled.

I suspect there are many more Moby

***** to come, so be it.

I may find myself as Ishmael did,

watching another throw themself

overboard--that I might not be afraid,

so be it.

White is, if peace is pleased--that's what

that belly taught me.

The bellies will grow larger & larger--

in white, out of white.

Nothing but upturned eyes, given over &

glistening--never think a beast unnatural.

That's what allows for proportional

girth, when a Moby **** is spotted.

His brooding excellency stepped outside

with a ladle, just so he could declare:

'It's not ready yet!'

The finicky pottage of 718, that is.

One is tempted to take up Joe Gould's:

"The Oral History of Our Time".

It would be a lot like William Burroughs'

cut-up method, but in a colloquial sense.

Judging by the sheer volume of gossip, it

stands to reason that gossipers will

assuredly gossip about one another.

Probably to the same people they

gossiped about, I should like to think

that such plot-driven dialogue could

get lost in elevation.

Where does indeed collateral damage go?

You couldn't have known that I digress,

I digress.

I'd like to say that I'm brimming with

Amor fati.

I don't need a record to have grooves, to

appreciate the music.

This sound is as warm as it gets--meaning

closest to.

A splash of ***** on a curb, a bus stop

window clearly replaceable, four blades

of grass & a future spore.

A needle catches a groove, steaming

broth is forced to gather round.

Bark wore & tore as rings got plastered--

while Trees were indignant.

Unable to get as much distance as they

pleased, they stood for it.

Root systems grow differently than

crowns--there are also lies under their

roofs.

Shade is not their relief, but their reality.

Winter shade is closer to the matter.

Which's but one of the spiritual tastes

they leave in my mouth, especially when

hunger feeds them all.

Welcome waits on disuasion, to gain

another opening.

Lifts this minor note to prominence--we

only think we're rewriting gospel truths.

--AND YOU (the nus) fell with plangent

perversity, pointed back at lastly!

Put out light out there, as Rembrandt did

in: "The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Tulp".

A half-buried face on an ocean floor--

predates the clumsy concealment

of horseshoe *****.

As if a canonized saint rolled out of

bed, the tide's last drop on his undecayed

tongue.

Perfectly pronounced: Tiktaalik, with the

authoritative oddity that begets name.

Not with a sonic catastrophe of bubbles,

but the clear carry of a church.

As a Tiktaalik obediently headed onshore,

his face turned to mirthful sand.

A peach swallows three dimensionality

to the pit, to peach thus.

White heat sensuously cleaved, then

bound tight.

A searching rash that overspreads

yellow-orange/orange-yellow, too slow

for pounding juice.

The indomitable ruler of unseen flesh--

that loves the teeth it never conceived of.

Resting on a lace napkin driven to

accentuation--on a cream wood kitchen

table.

Private worlds expand as we contract--

it begins by thinking of a number &

telling the mind to guess.

A highly ambitious paranoia, a do over

for every correct guess.

Four hands & a gazillion fig leaves later--

here we are, as if denying accusation.

As privacy self-edits for lay readership,

readership is at an all-time low, because

everyone is too busy self-editing.

It seems like heros/heroines barely set

foot on terra firma, before these private

worlds are unceremoniously destroyed.

These gameshow windows lit by private

residences.

I believe this to be telepathy-pains, the

paradoxic response of our collective

doubleness to thwart the internet.

What was once relegated to the realm of

private, is now public--so interiority is in

hyper drive.

Big Brothers & Sisters--toilet bowls must

remain sacrosanct!

Eventually, Idios kosmos will implode

inward--& become symbiotic, fiber optics

is just the safety net of cross-cultural

telepathy.

This doesn't mean I'm going to whip my

**** out & bang a bongo anytime soon.

I saw: evening/blue/sky trisect an

angle--as for their own.

I & the cold let them ahead,

distinguishably alone.

Then came a sussing hiss from above.

A plastic bag caught about thirty feet

high on a Pin Oak Tree.

Both at their emptiest, the wind

almost apologetic.

As they visibly grew out of distinction.

A study the size of a fallen book,

a carpenter's Sabbath.

A broken candle's muddy light--its

austere wimple.

A wooden desk dragged still, a half

still life.

Whose prehistoric scree-roar, sine

waves a crack on the wall.

A medieval ruff connected to a

hand-sharpened pencil on the floor.

Used for measuring the poem of an

unmade chair.

Caddy corner wooden shelf practicing

the faith of books.

As it takes years to read thru sawdust.

The following is an idiomatic coupling

where quotation have marks flapped

away: In the realm of possibility,

everything happens for a reason.

The above sentence seems cogent

enough, but is mutually exclusive.

Which idiom negates the other?

Is the realm of possibility predetermined,

is that the implication--or is it a chaotic

outcome?

It seems completely reinforced by:

everything happens for a reason.

Which of its own seems to imply an

ordered, higher power.

Yet--it also seems completely reinforced

by: in the realm of possibility, as if:

everything happens for a reason, is

what washes up--is the outcome of

possibility.

The former idiom implies a forgone

higher power, & a rawly chaotic outcome.

The later idiom implies a higher power,

& a purely harmonic outcome.

Taken at face value, these idioms negate

one another--yet paradoxically seem to

sync chaos & harmony.

It's almost as if they give rise to a deeper

meaning when juxtaposed.

Fictional characters never earn their

end--which's to say being killed off by

their author.

I know because I have set about to ****

off my own fictional character--who has

earned his end.

Suicide would be too literal, he's rather

literary.

I'm sorry Mr. Bloom, Shakespeare did

not invent the human being--he survived

his characters, not himself.

Phenomenal progress has been made, by

virtue of this being written.

You see--he's not transparent, nor is he an

open book, yet he tells me what I look

like.

The one that sees through him at all cost.

As if an entire jail population reached

thru bars to mirror other inmates.

Who could contend with so many

features?

Changing with every thought &

interaction--his slow death is natural, it

cannot be hastened.

It's more accurate to say that this fictional

character is dying, even when no one is

reading.

It was during a frenzy of  being written

while writing, that the two were

authentically enjoined.

To this might I add, the throes of death

are not dead.

Sunday can be as desperate as Napoleon
escaping from the island of Elba, on a
ship called: "Inconstant".
Factor in cold rain on the back of a winter coat, which can feel injurious.
As you backhandedly swipe to assess
seepage--a punitive glut that glazes your
hand, as if touch acts confused to ride out
reaction.
It's when your hand becomes the total
amount of precip your region received.
All of a sudden it's Sunday again--& I
observed the demographic plunge certain
major fast food chains take in sharing a
location.
No partition, just a judiciously open space
between two legendary counters.
That godawful defibrillator lighting stuck
to the ceiling.
Two distinctive sumtotal aromas that
run thru memories as firsts--somehow
refuse to coalesce, creating an aromatic
fissure.
This undoubtedly stimulates indecision
in customers, which sees a percentage
opting for both.
With the proviso that such diplomacy will
probably ruin the experience.
Or regretting the chain they purchased,
vice versa.
It's not like a food court, which's like a
stadium rock concert--where sound as
scent can get away from you.
It's an up close & personal concert.
That said, something about seeing a few
people eating alone on a Sunday had
such an anticlimactic sadness to it.
They appeared prolonged, adaptively rooted to what's designed to get them out.
They weren't going to leave until the
mindscape of a tray was worked out.

Aphrodite humors snow's request for

barefootedness--as if asking after weight.

Her heels presume no more than the

palms of her hands.

So winter takes her by the feet, & she

needn't endear herself by saying she

could only imagine.

Aphrodite goes on, in a way that uses

her name in vain.

It's all white, but her whereabouts are

whiter--she remains as what has its rest

of a field.

Even snow leverages the sky--while

Aphrodite wiggles her rosy toes on its

plinth.

She could almost topple into their

suspension--though death will come to

its senses.

Aphrodite receives snowflakes the way

a saint does devotees--their hexagonal

identities.

Exiting six exits at once, one at a time--

forming, floating, melting.

That's when snow stares at itself, creating

a glow seen galaxies away.

A knot tightened to where it cannot be

unknotted--will grow too slack to secure

a shoe.

Don't cut the shoelace, the shoe has

character now--what was an initial act

of laziness will yield more effort.

Use it to walkoff smooth exits, all the way

to subsequent entrances.

Except, turn around before entering--&

walk all the way back to unsmooth

entrances.  

It's imperative that you state: I was here.

Otherwise only dead grandmothers can

undo such knots.

Cut outs of printed numbers, surgical

finesses--scotch taped all over a wall.

The feeding schedule of the energy that

arranged them--their repetitive valuation

of motions.

A Dada poem about number theory,

Hugo Ball not by name.

A signifying wall of superficial blemishes,

dyed by the aura of its occupant, the

open-zero resilience of a wall.

A Turin-like flash treatment, that keeps

it from dilapidation.

A numbingly drafty room, a man in a

mink fur coat--smelling of frictional

accounts.

Listens to a storm in parts, between radio

stations--the relevant monster of the

twentieth century.

The Olay of a blowing curtain, thousands

of miles away--its pending atmosphere.

He looks a little like himself, a little like

the people that perceive him--& a lot like

the current atmosphere.

As he wipes the shiny germs of knife on

his fur coat--then slices into a tomato.

An infernal balance of membranous pulp,

a twin theory.

The wheat of Elysia is let go's sway--that

drops Aphrodite to her knees.

Where she watches sight spread around

her head, winnowing golden dancers.

No more that they may--they are, about

the girl that's never to go.

Yet goes, in search of the longer way that

brings her out.

Who is heard coming as silence to

silence, which turns over the horizon.

Aphrodite's heart feels as if it's doing a

headstand, with upside-down birds

emptying the contents of the world.

Where she lie, other than the world--

as the perceptor of real space.

She has a craving that expecting

mothers couldn't eureka-mouth together.

Perhaps her most significant

beautification, beginning to see what's

seen in her.

As Aphrodite says to herself: die a

moment, spring forward--after flowers.

I'm still needed, I must go back--how

many times have I done this?

There's a planet that's been method

acting in my head, passionate as a

coloring child.

Drifting like a sign you can't dispell with

the logic you were looking for it.

It seeks to embody the gross

underestimation of space at large,

without grand aspirations.

As if to ask: is a planet larger than the

mind--the planet says: don't answer that,

I'm inexorable.

As the planet balances on a tenuous

black square--for my sake, on an axial

tilt lending itself to delivery.

The dead of winter walks into the

northern Atlantic, down a sandy

staircase.

So its greatest depth can finally swallow.

It's when a certain procession of waves

come in with nightfall, melding like a

loss of consciousness.

The shore's triangulated sickness witness

to two fluidities, whose synchrony

nightfall denies as it happens.

Just as certain sleepers along the

northern Atlantic have this sensation

creep over them.

I occur to me--like a deep sea methane
bubble.
The one getting away with the perfect
crime, the one that pops into pictures
mid-cheese.
The one that believes the ability to
perceive sixty-four squares is proof of
mastery.
The one afforded views from where the
sun will no longer be.
The one that weather goes to for advice.
The one who demands the provenance of
a day's counterfeit painting.
The one who just left Kant's: "The Critique of Pure Reason" on the set of:
"Rebel Without a Cause".
The one who thinks internal organs are a
hellish realm, conspiratorial whispers.
The one who thinks ending this poem
would be a mercy-killing, yet the imaginative commitment to a deer's
suffering lifts before a gun's fired.
As it were, who I take myself to be--is
unexpectedly confronted.
It's this secret avatar whose
overly-accurate resemblance I no longer
fall for--I have a feel for my Face.
It's gaming diversion, of inner-reflections
hid behind--which I've now turned on the
secret avatar.

Aphrodite sits massaging her temples,

while smelling perfume on her wrists.

Scent's vestige losing memory to

departure, till the dead pick up on it.

You'd think she's perfectly spent, but

she's water's thirst in the flow of her.

The beauty sleep of stones, adjusting

light to their changeable features,

unperturbed by their violent

connotations.

She is the one that tells desolation, she's

glad it opened up.

A lyricality that bursts wild berries in

bird beaks.

Never accusing you of seeing what you

want to see, her nakedness drives her

spiritual veilers to hysterics.

Their dearest Aphrodite will catch cold--

she just eases them off, mad to be taken

deep by being.

Panting at the ribs, you'd think creation

was being licentious.

Channel-surfing aisles on various floors

of a library--during a reoccurring dream.

Some sort of active pursuit, along with

knowledge.

The library was at hazard capacity,  

except for when & where I needed

undetection.

The patrons were a cricket invective on

nonlocality, both emanating from &

inhibiting me.

I'm the magnetic pursuant I'm running

from, as I'm repelled forward--everything

in the library is stuck to his/my gaze.

It was as if I commanded: "Get thee

behind me, Satan."--having that already

covered.

Its lighting was like a virus that was

about to possess its host eternally--in

concert with a rainy day.

So figuratively saturated that it was going

to dog-scrap-tear me for its own.

Now as a reoccurring daydream, I pause

to write: imperceptible change astonishes

its sensitivities.

Of all its interminable regulatory rates--

exemplified in the drainage of this black

BIC.

If the highest state is extinction, then that

means Gd is working toward extinction.

Even if the concept of Nirvana were only

human-centric, then why extinct human

beings--why not further our degree?

Yet for every extinction, there's a

creation, that would make Gd half dead.

Compared to infinitude that half

deadness never happened, if it weren't

for interconnectedness, omnipresence.

Gd's equally invested in apparent zeros.

Which raises absolute Cain when seen

organically--how can infinitude undergo

a growing process to begin with?

What exactly is it, that no longer serves?

Why would Gd introduce extinction to

any of creation, is it a merciful trend

toward undoing it?

What if that were Gd second guessing

it all--what if Gd is slowly undergoing a

dignified death?

Nirvana's: dead-dead.

G*d didn't die-die with Buddha.

For want of phylum, a beast strode out

into the coliseum of self-image.

Having slept without a countable care,

knowing peace is good meat.

Among the famous nows of non-doers,

religiously in alternate futures.

Swear that you remind them of someone,

or something they'd rather not be

reminded of.

Perhaps they've already been alive too

long, but not ahead of any timeline.

Which is always no one's concern, these

bodies that will have to go: number three

(beyond biology).

How many would opt for a slap on the

*** on their way out, to commerate their

way in?

That would be like a coroner pinning

open someone's eyes, & telling them it's

impolite to stare.

Simple truths are too much knowledge,

whereas all other sentient life dies

gracefully.

This beast under-lives & over-dies,

because simple truths are too much

knowledge.

Follow that thought wherever it goes,

with your neighbor's mind--then have a

conversation with a stray cat.

When apathy to apathy came black snow

on a desert, wind forbade sand to

search for it.

Birds fell down & fell down from the top

of the heap, cut to the horizon.

which fell down.

The skyline raises its hands & holds its

crotches.

a little while back, underground--a

woman became a torch that onlookers lit

their phones with.

'That's nothing--you should see this

nothing, wait...someone's calling me.'

An upstanding standoff, as subway cars

bumble motion between flickering lights.

Aligning with cars ahead--as a

momentous wave rolls throughout.

Every other face becomes another way to

look at things--as not to be overwhelmed.

Between every other face, you become

someone else's other way to look at

things.

While an old leather drum lowers heads,

whose irregular beat they impose--just to

feed off disharmony.

A surge of memes going viral, canceled

into existence--everybody will either be

too early or too late.

As his lips ripple, he's not on them.

How a ghost is denied intimation--

presuming to speak for him.

Now listens intently, understanding

that silence isn't pretending not to

speak.

That sort of painful loquacity.

Then there are words that speak to

silence--which silence may or may

not speak.

Silence is a word, a word is silence--

their speaking out of turn can **** the

ghost.

The colossi of oblivion derive their

stature from what cannot be followed.

Twilight's pallored collapse gripped by a

leathery leaf, a pair of checkout keys on

a blear nightstand.

A mouth private about age gargles with

salt, then drags slippers away.

Lone headlights go off into a self-effacing

whoosh, an incomplete: bear in mind.

Then a heaviness is quietly told to be

seated, as if by a priest.

When some diabolical cleverness works

garlic cloves into a brain, as one grins

like a holiday lamb.

Evils that slur the speech of sleep, eight

hours of crime scene photos--fighting off

The Prince of Peace.

Where the colossi migrate as a state of

being, bring forth signs & break off into

smaller groups.

Until all that is left, can't be followed.