When we're slated to meet--

there's a comfort I may affect.

Adaptability unable to flounce

change.

The central cast of leaves

murking rust--with the eaten

asides of crows.

Offer chills.

Sedimentary

clouds glean

sunglasses.

Racked with pairs.

Unable to reflect  a

stone giving up a

mountain range.

A tupla shouts for joy.

An aerial view

of black.

Out-concentrates

a bed.

True to bodies.

Brave enough to

meld.

Corners are round.

People follow.

An open scare.

Queens is incense.

Something about

hearing Jewish

children calling

their father: Abah.

Abah.

Made me want to

put them on my back.

Would that you could

stand in place of me,

that I may recall myself.

Bit head to toe.

Static drops in longhand.

Revived right there...

where it so happens.

A silly tulip slipping

out of mass.

I could see where

you let it alone.

I wanted more of

that for you.

For no reason.

Trying to bless

first-person.

A continental push

off a shelf.

A string of bubbles.

Piecing salt.

Voyuers can be very

compassionate.

A perimeter spins

down, a corner sticks out.

A leaf folds over.

Transpiration has nothing

to do with fear.

Absolutely nothing--

have you noticed what's

been erected lately?

Its alabaster soma flicks

off a navel plug.

Beauty keeps what'll never

be born.

Never ask how it can stand it.

It really never took

long to find out what

deigns my stuffing.

What's sits in here

like fertilizer, already

doled out to a far off

land.

It feels great to steady

the juggling hands of

my Mother's polarity.

Trust ain't an agreement.

The moon still

waits for a crater's

response, like: 'go

easy on this one.'

Which?

Outside influence...

was once:

rat-tat-tat-tat.

NOW.

Shadow extras

crawling in, at lights

out.

Undetected clay.

Courteous enough to ask

after exhausted hypocrisy.

Which was more impactful

than service without the

asking.

the great attractor

can put pertinent

pauses in hamburger

meat.

to assuage pertinent

sweat.

not like that.

the unimaginable has

already fled.

mahogany ******

muscles smile at the

taste of lemon.

recline.

Rote iron should have

you know--bilocation is left

back.

There's something weird, out

& about.

Already there.

Knowledge always wants to

graduate.

How did that singular It, know

that?

To...

have at unscathed fearlessness.

As fundamental as poetry.

Staring at a wall the perfect

height,

so an unblinking hole can fester.

Made the same way a bird is.

If it ever flew.

Air pulled toward an underside.

Fully able to fly what's there.

An extensive collection

of bars,

house carpety fur.

Feeling for an animal.

Dying to be let out.

Storage don't kid,

about what deals force

in bulk.

There's no figuring

a little bit of a

thing.

A white string lets down a

a reversible star.

Right on the frozen belly of

a desert.

Flowers of no kind cinture

its long glow.

A wild man points high,

then low--what forever beams

below his feet.

Oceans of waking sand, thrice-lit.

A heart's pocket bearing a face.

Good with bones.

Loving, love more.

Every hermitage is a

definitive rush,

killed by peace.

A morning stretch--

with neighbors that

made it to the same

place.

Please don't fidget.

A sun-dried fish

caught in a fan,

lifts silence.

Its expository

burn marks.

Fed.

A breeze pops thru

the top of a cloud, that

shapes a sky.

The way a face replants

during sleep.

Natural life is okay.

At an intersection that

makes mock-Am.

Dyed changes toyed with

choking ambiance.

There--both sides of these

eyes caught a crossing.

A pile of black boxes,

emptying a physique.

All left open inside.

They easily recognize

you when their houses

let them out.

It's arguable whether a

stranger has more import

than a confidant.

It's hard to disinfect water.

They're always from somewhere,

affecting the need to ****.

Hurting a matter because a sufficient

warrant has not been issued for

their arrest.

Basho weeps

wildly as his

lover pours

green tea.

When asked

why he weeps,

he says

nothing until

his cup is full.

Full.

All he could

muster, was that

he was not

weeping.

Openly denying

a Truth that will

never call him a

Liar.

Square a jaw

for what the universe

wants for you.

Become aware of the

reason you drop

objects.

Then cross a street

without looking.

Propose a step to

vinyl warmth.

It's holiday season.

Slow enough to tell

someone they were

meant to be there.

Based on you.

Purple starts you

off with a

color.

Until you can

watch serpents

sleep on their

sides.

Missing a purple

spot.

Purple is obsessive.

Jesus woke up

with straw-imprints

on his face.

Breath that would've

pleasantly surprised a girl.

He stretched like:

'no, what were you

saying?'

airing out a **** good

listener, his lips glassy

with a sip of water.

his beard reaching out

to live in.

what

leaves purity alone.

how many bats have

to rot into the furrowed

brows of the earth,

before conceiving

spookiness?

midnight upholstery

dipped in fangs.

posits two faint droplets

of blood on a

sterile swab.

deep dark secrets

set in fast.

If only ****** were a

watershed moment, lust

could unhand flesh.

More desperate than

mark difference.

She wouldn't have to

undress for hours, before

leaning into plumes of

perfume.

To somehow become

evocative of scent, let

out as no respector of

what it will color.

A cat on an armrest

outlines a blank, English

postcard.

A fireside retinue,

shedding the tails of mice.

Set down between what

wants to look again.

If only to think of a cat

without eyes.

A garment placed over the

shoulders of motherhood,

smartly unfolded.

Still enough to watch the

structured collapse of time.

A cat on an armrest.

The buttend of fabric,

divvying up a spine--as would

the caretaker of balance.

A page too delicious for

turning.

Memorizing the real meaning

of every word, sat beside

another.

Unpetted purrs.

Let be furry patterns

returning to the world.

Which try in earnest to

convince one, that a cat is

on an armrest.

Loathe to be seriously

observed, there like a pungent

burp.

Suggesting the badness of

manners recalling food.

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.