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.

A cabinet/room of curiosities,
Kunstkammer--fringe stuffs.
Let's (said 17th century affluence) retire to a den of delicious: now-where-weren't-we.
A space of sea legs, a space to clutch a
ceiling for balance--amid the perverse liberties of imagination's selves.
A continental doubletake at reality,
magic objects from the greater world--
another world.
Bouncing off the walls, cluttered proof of the unknown--unsuccessfully watered
down by familiarity.
Objects, things that shouldn't be there--
as if they overstayed the second to be gone.
The haunts of the greediest awe, the
pacts of Faustian must-haves.
Stretched juxtapositions of
taxidermic parrots, speaking
prehistoric bones that turn into the weapons of witchdoctors.
Alchemical globes turning over Abraxas
to geographic purification periods--under
scrutinous van **** beards.
Tortoise shells emanating the wooden
knocks of a tribe's forest family.
Leatherbound books ornate as gemstones, seemingly lived-in by hermits.
A perfumer's castle of scent upon the
next cloud--a zephyr's afterimage.
Scents that were whole lives distilled of
continuum's essence.
Cabinets of curiosities, tried the
peculiarities of their cocked-brow sitters.
Quietly thinking them a peacock's dressing room compared to their changeability.
The cabinet's gestating stimulation conjured appetites fit for their creator.
These cabinets of curiosities were often
unsupressable aphrodisiacs, voluptuous
women would softly roundout sin.
Lick, **** & bite into fruits as their curves swole with feathers.
Where flesh was made & remade again,
lusting after itself in exitless release.
Those who solitarily sat in these rooms
by candlelight & glowed beyond its glow,
gained the graces of darkness.
A space where natural light aspected
exotic variety, a space where a waking
dream outdid itself.
To recoup & assess a fraction of the things
that exist in the smallest hours that region the earth.
These modest places to withdraw, wandered into what became museums.
We've always sorted these cabinets.

In the valley of candles, not only one

view is harvested.

Sea changes too bright for coordinates

flicker & throw around the smoke of

place.

A place is never truly known apart from

places--their spirit passes a cup.

A place is as precious as The Self, which it

fully identifies with thru preservation.

The Self is fixed to place, a place is fixed

to The Self--in honor.

Of fixed transcience.

Home can be a strange place, a strange

place can be home--the fare of place is

fully paid.

Go freely to become remote from where

you were, which is still where you are--

who you Are.

The spirit of place passes its cup, drink

in the view.

What do you see in the valley of candles?

Perhaps a killer taking tea.

Miraculousness without incident

garners suspicion.

As if the ordinary leaves something

out--of course it doesn't.

Nonevents are interested parties.

Which translate to cogito's media

circuis, bringing in a sleepwalker

for questioning.

Not quite with a suit jacket over their

head, but more like hapless self-escort.

The way they're put together doesn't

track, because they're not in love with

the heartache that puts it together.

A sleepwalker is only a sleepwalker if

at the end of the walk, they don't punch

the radio dial forgotten on full blast.

Which's to say all the innocuous detail

becomes a painful recap of creative

correspondence.

At every turn it's: What do you make of

it?

How not.

There where I was told not

to go alone.

I became the probity of light.

Dark spots & the gnashing

of teeth.

Smiles at a different angle.

The forefront at my back.

Absolutely lost in what I stand

to Know--I will tell all.

Starting with the first person

I See--myself.

To that which sees me for what I Am,

let me be known for what I Am.

Lest I take shade under another life.

There's no judgement worse than

contraction, I refuse to let death be a

forced expansion.

Let what cannot be hidden, be my

strength.

Rolling out of bed, will be rolling

out of bed.

It was never given me to yoke being

with covetousness.

That second doing wants to fall from me.

Desperately so.

In the call is what prepares for it--spreads

me out with it.

A prayer's rush is not knowing how it

goes.

I'm certainly not the only one.

We're going to walk out of here this time.

I followed cruelty home after it

did unto another.

I was so certain it knew it was

being followed--that I felt followed.

Conscience is to know the feeling,

how well?

I had to see what cruelty does with

itself, the psychotic breaks it

undergoes.

Not to be cruel.

It's when birds gain currency--

advancing as something pale

or other.

The thin chasm of beaks hurt

to hear, their sounds

aren't as early as spring.

They're not there.

An hour or so after a witch

undressed in front of a mirror,

piled on the floor.

Bottom lip quivering with

unwholeness.

That I elbow standing for the

toilet & face front, totally

deaf to the story arc.

For bed to remake sheet-angels,

that will never get me.

On a trail long led away from what

it leads to.

Large wet leaves bent down to those

led.

On the back end of a rain, that already

considered itself over.

Left behind the basic goodness of a

cool breeze, effortlessly lifting the

forest.

As if edification let out levels of vibrancy.

Those led to observe peak vibrancy.

There again, large wet leaves realized

they were in place to greet--expended all

greeting.

No more abrasive than a pulse, that

gave you some much space you wanted

to give some back.

That's when large green leaves

became so responsive, that their

expressions made you see as what

moved you.

On with them--humor them, round them.

That night should recognize the tribe

of them.

The Watschandies of Australia, chancing

ceremony--as not to be spit out by spring.

To be there is to proclaim belonging,

where earth chooses a spot to open

herself.

As she digs out their gleaming eyes,

before they dig into her.

A ditch surrounded by bushes, symbolic

of female genitalia--absenting

themselves to chant: womb.

From there a fire, a round, a ditch's dark

unto darkness.

Spears in their hands,  phalluses pulling

them along what bushes seize upon--

into the night.

Only when magic outdances the dance,

& a chant's circle heaves--spears are

raised.

Return throws into a ditch--as fertility

throws her head back.

I exist in that I

do not--

I'm always

away from me.

Now.

As always,

an infinite

being.

Whose every

moment is deja vu.

So far beyond

noticing every

detail.

As if nonexistence

blinking into

being.

Teeny tiny hands let it be--

between

the furniture & music of a piano,

It

developes the taste for a certain

texture.

How relatable.

As frequencies turn my beard into

dancing flies.

It comes into focus...

another absentminded midwife

wearing a cupid arrow headband,

loses balance.

As a body of water sweeps away

broken glass.

The way things point out that there's

nothing there--there's really nothing

there.

While the depth & duration of that

nothing is saved, when we come back

from It.

Midwifed by the nearest thing you

could poke.

As if patiently positioned for a

photograph at every stage of life.

Right now.

The promise of stillness.

Directly facing the greatest

composure.

Indeed.

Today I was poured upon while

speaking to someone in the same

burrough--that said it wasn't raining.

There was so much rain in their voice,

that I didn't feel the rain.

I walked with a purpose that came from

the ground offering itself twice,

never one to rush initiation.

Having heard the official stories of where

people are in their lives, I did what a

main character does when he covers the

distance narrated to the present.

I walked home.

A transplanted room, an impressionistic

mockup of one's most stayed dwellings.

The one slept in during dreamless states.

Sighs, dragged chairs--the floors eyes

pooled on.

Light's weather, now light only--dark's

weather--now dark only.

Moved by a solitary motion, unable to

curry favor with *******.

This is rest above ground.

Swept center of center, that

contemplation saw spread still.

Passed cobwebs that rave about walls--

per pearly-faced spiders,

reflecting the silk of absolved breath.

Where music bundles up to play

higher rises--lower falls.

Evolving still lifes of vases cut off by

water, won't speak flowers aloud--

holding tight to their dried reach.

A masoleum's window is a depressed

medium, that clings to rain & snow as

a window to another.

Here bones are harder on coffins,

magnetizing their display to cautionary

tales without endings.

No--a masoleum's light comes after, right

before you.

Its way of Showing you out, if you

shouldn't be.

Struck by a moment, without

etiquette or unit--a man bears

his own resemblance.

His forehead spots him.

To keep in touch.

This wasn't always the case.

Light can do without features.

This is becoming abundantly

clear.

Despite the man, even if

given to it.

Call it a great shift.

The kitchen faucet ran its length

in three parts.

A glistening silver speckled white,

followed by water--then its

detached sound.

It somehow rocked me with how

the world as we know it behaves

in eternal accordance.

Shaking it off shortly after.

I'm a waiting line--a repetitive grand

scheme.

Idle thoughts light each other's candles--

Buddhas line my intestines.

My sight offends karma, even the

darkness behind eyelids creates

pandemonium.

Holiness cuts in front, & sometimes lets

me ahead.

Perspectival sin allowed to ooze from the

dots of die I suppose.

As a blind test reveals that only by

going mad, can one gain on the mind.

All I ask is that there's some semblance

of sleep when we fly from bed.

A ghost obsessively launders a sheet--

to be mindful of form, before donning it.

A timeless washing cycle.

As if a solutionless problem lie between.

It narrows down its enormity to a sheet,

because it notices without being noticed.

Despite another form contracting with

fear upon noticing it.

It knows it exists, but one-sidedness

doesn't suffice--it's more a matter of

one-sidedness than loneliness.

Its power of seeing is not met with the

power of being seen.

Disequilibrium haunts the ghost.

Though it's noticed just as much as the

sheet--if not more.

Whereas the sheetless ghost of it--is a

sheet in a more refined realm.

I milk a stewarded greenery's enriched

concentration--then lick a sybil's face.

To tease the topographical

inaccuracies the spirit drafts, ones that

give it character.

Watch an eagle recommence Seeing by

dipping a wing in blood--to mark the

other half of circular flight.

All while ******* a button I didn't

know was missing--as its charming little

void grows reactively.

The ground runs sideways,

like the legwork of a tide carried

away by flowers.

Peopled stems that say it's all a

blur--gain ten pounds of

moonlight when they clarify.

Wearing the look of a spoiled

surprise party.

Planes of adjusting light stack thin--

too slow not to meet crookedly.

A broken window on an apple's cheek,

in line with a branch.

Not a sky in the sky--not even a

shadow's deflated ego, but a far

greater eater.

There's a world left out for just that--

which one exactly?

Would you know a horror movie from

the flashes on a vacant seat?

It's like death taking a pass.

Where letting go, goes.

In a substantially backed corner,

stranger than the safety of deep

thought--a spider throws off a dot.

In a house in part, sunlight lets on

in the same way.

As the sound of temperate beams

throw off a house.

The complete history of violence, down

to a body--exhaustive & neatly shrouded.

That eerie Jew beat like a girl, & made to

embrace Rome on high.

A Roman-made example, in a tomb like

a political safe.

Chesty guards outside, pre-fall pawns

dreaming of: food, ******* & drink.

There he was, darkened by every sickly

white stitch.

Told--head to toe.

Our stiff moment subject to memory.

More of desperate search standing in

for belief again.

Light that knew not, now knows

salvation is what it lights.

The truth & the way & the life.

He had to go through everyone, the

culmination of our works.

Then walked his body through stone.

Squinting into all we'll ever be.

If we wore: swords, guns, guillotines or

nooses--they wouldn't stick like a

crucifiX.

Your Father picked it out, knew it'd suit

you.

Sort of like a gift you always wanted, that

you almost gifted to Gethsemane.

Recognizable even if never seen before.

The most loaded & alighted symbol, that

could stop silence.

Make a place of no place anywhere.

When you were nailed to all those

places--the track you heard in your head

ran the length of The Holy Spirit.

Your Father closes all the lights & listens

to it now.

'It feels like today Son...'

It Is.

Night is a spacemonger, more about what

can't be conceived than what can't be

seen.

Not only on some level, it's what gets into

stars when they counterpoint.

Starting from a brilliantly aborted

distance, whose distance never gets

beyond what Is.

Which covers the same distance as what

Is Not, that's how far.

They are to be named in the way that one

forgets a name--but knows it.

The stars, that Is.

Similar to the things he's doing tonight

that have nothing to do with his name.

As there are ways that it unhappens--

there's more distance in the thought of

what he's doing, than what he's doing.

As some New York Jazz plays.

The sax's notes are even cooler about the

whole thing.

They saw to it no one asked where

They were.

Their absence may as well been a

handheld camera to the sky, shaking the

focus to indicate They were still there.

Tidily odd as peace's indifference, a

season ago.

They've made of it, does it show?

Now animals simplify spring fashion--

the smell of heat taken from its source.

The wild commands: DRIVE!

Come out--COME!

While reflections are saught as often as

unobserved appearances, like self-image

in coitus.

A skewed trance.

A halo falls thru its circle,

has no memory of its

circle.

Hovers over the top of

a head.

The stagnant expanse

of an abyss--pure enough

to be of.

Until a wanderer lets

wandering go ahead.

Capped poles blown

open.

The finesse of grace

makes a candle flame

seem like a heavy

breather.

As if many wholes

hence--something's

different.

Over a hell-shack of trees,

that seclude an April

winter.

A tickle of dogwood like

a dry Japanese cough--

leaves the dimensionalized

hanging.

Bardo Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do.

The seating of cafe patrons saw minds

measuring space.

More exact with the inexact, as to

encompass something of mind.

A fine drizzle g spotted greenery

outside, as beaping horns coincided with

the draggy swash of an espresso

machine.

Producing the skidding sound of

tractionless tires, which momentarily

made one scan the street for a collision.

The circular logic of round tables were

inescapably bright.

Cropping up in the middle of

conversations after closing time.

Thus completing the orbits of business

hours, with missed crumbs more

profound than takeaways.

The spectra of superimposed motions

continue to creepeth forth.

Think the beaded string of a raindrop,

strung over since the first rain.

Similar to the cut of silver chords--

sounding the arpeggios of a rainbow.

Beside the birds of A Feather.

As Maat weighs in--Once & For All.

Warmth ran off a blue blade,

exposed from a suncoat.

Out for choiclesss tenderness.

As it broke to define a piece of itself,

to drop by degrees--to become cold

again.

A touch of rain for another reason.

Simply grey, with no in between--

withdrawn again.

Sudden as blooms--there again,

keeping their half of the blade.

Untraceable.

I photoed a clod of earth shaped like

the sole of a sneaker, on macadam

asphalt.

An artifact made palpable by the

swarmy crush of gravel.

Left to harden, as its sneaker went

off to something far more particular

by design.

How reality comes across.

I'm convinced

the day that doesn't

live me, will be my last--

like: 'We just met & I feel

as if I've known you my

whole life.'

I'm not much of a talker

anyway.

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?'