your mustache became your

mouth's permanent hibernation--

"Thus Spoke Zarathustra"

no more.

your brows fell down on your

cartoonishly crossed eyes, fighting

to get a last good look at you.

as if a cradle's starry

revolutions counted you out.

your snowed in smock neatly tucked

in for posterity.

your sister's doting hands trailing off.

to where that mare waited in a flurry of

blows--so it could saddle your mind.

the ground palms darknesses & pours

it over my head--it shouldn't be so

easy to forget a name.

think an impromptu baptism with

shades on.

it's how one sticks out to another

world--a monolithic displacement,

undeniably there.

always prepared to say a few words

about the body's warmth...

followed by: I wanted you to have this.

he knows it as something emotions

are herded into--like savage first contact.

that blurs to protect identity, blocky

skintones discombobulating

b movie shame.

highjacked without being plastered

everywhere.

or the naked motions that play catch-up

behind glass shower doors, as if wrestling

with a dagger.

not necessarily protecting identity--but

what comes after it.

much like initial snow that stalls right

above the ground--for an entire winter.

to be walked through with the fragile

care of floating styrofoam.

so gravity can anticipate itself & maybe

understand.

all beholders see beauty now--

in an eyeball.

the gods were entertaining, there it was

like a mint after an imperial feast.

with more presence than a whole body.

it can blink once for yes, & twice for no--

if only to break up omniscience.

it is swaddled in mulbery silk, that

creases complexity smoothened to

simplicity & back again, as in a wakeful

sleep.

a gift placed in a self-luminous white box,

more benevolently pensive than milk.

whose fourfold hatch will unbox, to see

what was seen in it.

could you love an eyeball?

the fog tweaked its percentage of

visibility--as if to pull London across the

pond.

on my left periphery, headlights turned

black rails into a sudden downpour of

spaced glints.

elegance without inclemency.

further down, the upper floors of a lofty

apartment building wore the unreadable

glow of a mothership.

its discursive headway of private agendas

contra-fog.

then fog contra-smokescreen, carpe

noctem coordinates of drones following

suit.

as if high strangeness stooping to our

level--the field's too unfied for that.

nonentity's curvature won't

return from its hermetic seal.

moved to envelopement.

as someone turning a corner,

that you'll never see again.

its depth & volume wound all the

way (an unknown).

despite this side of its curvature

making it so (a known).

something among billions of six

senses coincide to keep it both

sealed & unsealed.

curvature canceled out--shelved.

I eat for three, I must be showing--they take care to plump me up with elite takes on food-a.
*******, dust, ****, *****, glass, staples, *****--you know.
a pizzazz that heaps years on to their vidas,
finally cutting the key to the teeth of their monsters.
I see those glued to the veil, struggle like flies to avoid what I singlehandedly spawned.
A hatred that runs so deep it almost comes out as love, the potentency of its vacuum is unmatched.
I know how many thorns are on the crown, fashionably so--like any good dramatis personae, I try it on.
the wrists & feet are a bother of fixity, I'm still spreading my gospel--no Paul, just three of a kind.
I have been dutifully informed that I am a danger to myself & others, that I will most likely spend the rest of my natural life in confinement...
"for the criminally insane" is too long-winded, I prefer: behind bars.
I may be a danger to myself in here, I've endangered many out there, & there are some for whom danger is over.
These are but minor logistics, I offer them such a prismatic sacrifice, a darling rarity to be carried out like a festive procession.
I Am: The Who's Who, whose seasons will never be canceled--I Air.
I Am a slow cult suicide--I run the risk of rays, I encircle before they encircle.
I will  encircle them once more, as all good things come in threes my friends.
You must know that I've abstracted them in blackout blood all over these padded walls, like Francis Bacon's studio.
his murderers' kit of paintbrushes clotted & snapped, forgotten in turpentine.
I would rather they do it to themselves, think of one buying rope for the purpose of straightening up a tree--only to **** up its posture with their weight.
hanging there with burdensome repetition, ******* by proxy.
they've all gone limp with oppression, they know not what they do.
I must whittle down three possible outcomes: Nicholson's Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will commit professional suicide by sampling the flesh of his underlings like hors d' ouevres.
Ledger's Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will separate a blade from its handle, into Three of a Kind--
will commit ******.
Phoenix' Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will commit suicide.
well...from Gotham to urban areas all over the world, iconography of: "Three of a Kind" is handed out & sold.

I can't hear the voice in my head, because I affected changes in the way I spoke since I was able to manipulate its medium.
I never thought about it--another incarnation just toyed with my vocal chords.
as if my foundation knew it would tilt what sat on it.
I was compelled to make sure that I would never know myself, its origin hissed like pissy holy water.
all the rest that crank out humanity would revise their approach to fiction because of me.
it was never enough for me to know that I too am God, I could never share my image, yes--my image!
of jellybeans & colored time capsules,  let me dissolve in this sugar cube!
I'm astonished that I was unhanded by so many once touched, they will thus feel the chills of my mania without the ability to shiver.
this will dull them with empty-handed inspiration, they won't be able to walk through deep-freezes of cloud to ground lightning.
how the psychologists circle-**** to me,
I really want to symptomatically convince them out of their misery.
I lower my gotcha-green head like a worry sick Madonna for them, all this superfluousness authenticates my unknowable selves.
now to my voices, how do they sound in my head you might ask--well who's asking?
I talk to & at my selves, so the voice is most certainly vexed--but in a whiney & nasally way.
it's an exorcise/exercise in futility to describe, nonetheless...I always sound like what I'm looking at, I can sound like a chair.
It's all the voices inside that do this--they don't like company so they become it, anything external basically.
it's reflexive & creatively fruitful, you should hear the voices in my head during vows of silence--they both regurgitate & originate.
I'll gift that can of worms to the head, head-shrinker...picture channeling a phone book into the ear of a whitehole.
I can speak in an assertively calculated voice on a slippery *****, that gains the footing of trust, I favor that one.
I also do famous serial killers when I'm most peaceful, it helps to fertilize the soil.
I need to cultivate one for the books, premiere it right here--the egregore of this
eyeless capstone.
I gouged it out in plain sight--I have a voice for that too.

Joker is confined at Arkham State Hospital--he's an amalgamation of: Nicholson, Ledger, Phoenix.
the essence of these portrayals will fluctuate as would a possession.
the following will be written with all three in mind (no specification)--the reader is free to infer which, there is no incorrect imagining in this case of psychosis.
greener to the pasture hair, cropped short & feathered on the right side--shoulder length scraggles, that stream oil from a receding hairline on the left.
**** pillow-talk padded walls, an experimental recording studio--millenia of disassociative voices.
institutional-white disciple wear, beneath a straitjacket that can be tricked open.
he takes to contemplatively stalking the room's perimeter like John Nash's doppelganger outlining university grounds for sanity.
suddenly sawing himself into boxed halves, the pros & cons of junked minds.
then stands at attention as if absorbing the insults of a commanding officer.
he's unmuzzled, but his iconic makeup was polished off as an immaculate castration.
licking his lips like a perverted lizard, hot for his cold bloodbank--a cleaning product salesman's ear-engulfing grin.
a: Try Again mouth swallowing beanbags.
an overdeveloped feature, circled red over & over like a happy accident--boo!
a cosmetic surgeon's: Project X, a scorned *****'s unevenly applied lipstick spread around by a passionately hateful kiss.
now just a presentable choirboy with a hardon for the whole mass.
a choppy quack rolling into a chainsmoker's weepy guffaw, self-heckling giggles of bozo persistence.
a hung jury of tears snorting & spitting out antecedent laughter--reeled in by a forced seriousness that believes its deadliness.
as comfortable with one-way humor as a malfunctioning parachute, that dead silence that breeds bat symbols.
contrary to the funny wastelands of his surveillance footage, a notoriously unprivate life turning cameras on themselves.
three of a kind, says he without saying--each having explosive dance offs, while cutting into unrelated dances.
the lighting in his room is as changing slides, that look for patterns of behavior,
with a misleadingly stark evidential buildup.
a Joker--that Joker needs a smoke, that Joker stares up at the cameras, motioning to guards.
his eyes are dead set askant, with a backtracking deviance slyer than a meat hook without a carcass.
a drowsy pick-me-up, melting with baby's candy, a cocky knower of inner names.
whites like wet dreams of glory-holes.
a feminine ruefulness that signals overkill before the ****, eyes that victimize rehabilitation.
brass that will be unaccountably drawn to them like Poe's: "The Tale-tale Heart."
a gaurd un-maximizes security enough to slide a cigarette into the Joker's mouth, then removes it.
the Joker looks up & disentangles a plot of smoke--then smiles sheepishly at the gaurd.

the sky was crookedly airlifted by BC & AD--as two strangers walked toward one
another on a sidewalk.
wanting to appear polite, they both delayed choosing a side in which to cross paths.
consequently--they both chose to do so mere feet away.
a blend of of irritation & awkwardness held them right before they veered aside.
recent memory is hardly history, so any unlearned lesson may not be doomed to repeat it.
their day will be comprised of more subtle & overt disparities as this.
surely there was a place from which they emerged & will return to--in which they encounter themselves in a similar fashion.
a place of fanatic familiarity, a place where things don't dare move--as not to
displease their master.
a place where a degree's dereliction would rack them subconsciously.
who knew homemaking could be a dark little art.
even if you subvert personal history & the world from which it hails--you've still done nothing.
the most controlled environment, which one has to work hard to interface with as a: "known"--doesn't sit tight.
its alchemy uses this life, this world--for starters.
whereas subject & object keep crossing paths as different subjects & objects.

it was done through you on April Fool's Day 1876--Offenbach, Germany.
even so, irony is for the pairers of unlikelies, wowed by what poetic mystique they can milk.
you were carefully stacking fresh copies of the first part of your magnum opus:
"The Philosophy of Redemption"--on the floor of your apartment.
the weather must've been hiding evidence of winter, with sloven chills hasting its spine.
a raw cusp of bipolarities, like an unwelcome lovesickness.
you were winter for thirty-four years, its
last will & testament.
it was ****** upon you with your mother's ****--no one could see where that would go but you.
as far as death can go as a religion, it got into you as the only purifier.
there was Phillip, death & its world.
it was more than the transitory triteness of a: "living-death", you were its absolutist.
you gave nothing time to transition to that inevitability, death was--inherent & imminently supreme.
constance with no need of reminder, this
rootless seed durated until your philosophy was realized.
strange was the way that had you, finding it appalling for heads to rear at the way you were--you published under a pseudonym.
outside was a pregnant music box, atypical sounds made by soundlessness.
your four walls unfortified, they stood after the fact while before it.
you stepped on to the stacked stair of your philosophy--to the word.
as you were given to a noose whose knot
tightened with more confliction than you.

Artaud consults a witch doctor, as

chicken wire winks around a martian

sand dune.

a screen experiences morning sickness

during the moon's live feed.

who's busy drumming in-between her

knuckles--as she squeezes through tunnel

vision.

just to see Pythia rolling on the ground to

put herself out, in preparation for an

offering to Helios.

a sallow pouch of poultry skin with an

egg in it.

to exchange her all-seeing blindness with

Helios'--as his: "Nerve Meter" twitches.

a shadow comes off her when she forgets

to lie in wait--as one when there is no

one.

submission as much as movement,

answerlessness in the praying--grace in

the lack of sign.

the tentative quality of the miraculous,

as if something to be settled on--what's

everpresent.

a pearl white necklace worked

backwards, soft round breaths on the

curve of her spine.

every pearl a grace period...Fur Elise.

a little silicone monk--a baby boy doll,
wise beyond the years of any say-so.
convincingly timeless.
a meditation mistaken for controlled
derangement, the smell of silicone--
exempt from olfactory free association.
mysterium membrum virile by production, bald-body austere.
an earth plop, feet out/hands out--as if
to be raised up permanently.
left eye sealed shut, its slow illusory swell.
right eye's blue slot stuck to what sped open.
a myopic forest pushed out, its almost fake nature--now where's the would be
foundling?

a vinegary ripeness dabs fall's thirst--

an unnervingly tasteless demeanor

prevails over trees.

the strength of passing facts at their

feet, unprotective of experience.

what witnessed dwindlement looks like,

without appeal.

as for the rest, that stands to regard--

an understanding without imposition

will move across a prior transparency.

winter nears.

an almost normative nonchalance to his
absurdism--as if it's just fine because he's
doing it.
there he was, making good on what was
not--rather than what was there.
wala's quick brush of a gestured once-over, where gravity sank.
left pinky claw in his mouth, with the false modesty of a centerfold.
the frills of nausea knotted by abject terror & stage fright paralysis, was the confection of his presence.
buddy boy Beelzebub standing in the living room like: 'what do you think?'
a red-light district glow about him, Tartarean yarn's hypertrichosis, curly Tim Burtonesque horns.
unhealthy *****-colored eyes, with
see-no-evil reptilian slits & fangs that ate
their punchline.
he just stood there--coring out a cave of
grandiosity, then leapt to the refrigerator.
turned it on its head by tapping his claws on the freezer door, a little hunger strike.
grabbed the magnet of a Monarch Butterfly, forced a few flits & dropped it
on the floor as with the lot of them.
tip-hooved back into the living room & said: 'the lamp's bulb in your study needs changing--it's been driving me bat-**** crazy, I need you to see clearly so I can manipulate your knowledge.'
'Pretty soon you'll have two pulses & two heartbeats.'

you're a brilliant lover--below pinned down at the brink, above pinned up at
the brink.
circles to the contrary--more perfect than
circles, broken out of with an ache.
so susceptible to more reciprocation...
curled talons holding it.
you have no recollection how you got up there, the sky is synonymous with you--
not the other way around.
it's enclosed to the contrary.
your freedom retention pulled complety thru air--feathers band to your flesh, wings band to your will.
it never occurred to you as an active force--which's why it belongs to you.
you're already where you appear to be
going, one sees--but one cannot see you there.
it feels too **** good, only you can hold
it.
you're probably waiting till your eyes close to let it out.

a hermit well to the bone--dressed like
a beast in the birthright of elements.
lies four times removed from breath,
with his back on a stream.
puddied face wrinkled like a treestump,
frizz-bale beard, a kingdom's expendable.
stiffly resolute with communions of
sunless light, all he let live--lives him
hereafter.
untouched by the temporal, the long of
his lay will be discovered during the long
of his lay.
a whistling wodnesse will come like
Ariadne's thread from castle walls,
Boschians will leave no sympathy card
from the blazes.
the hermit will have simply been a
feature of the landscape.
if want was a thing at all for him, it was
to be as it is.
his decomposition will be as his favorite
verses, revisited while coming away with
newer & deeper meaning.
a holy pandemonium in a most unlikely
place--a bird for every other bird that
passes it on.

morbid curiosity is a luxury--the art of
the Middle Ages lifts the ground to meet
its vertigo, as huntsmen signal toward
the observer.
the gamey odorousness of fear downwind.
nerve endings drafted their maps, unable
to find a way out.
dread gathered wood & chopped it untiringly.
reacquainted shame scrambled for leafage again--under a greater Fall.
a potion goblet for every kind.
a unicorn on a green velvet hill, became
visible in the current of a squirrel's tail.
there was never not magick.
though digression can be as quiet as an
exiting servant.
depictions of persons hardened as they softened, a very peculiar ethereality.
the look of snow as soon as it stops.
a bud held tight in one's palm, just as
it's about to bloom.
it is this, from crown to soles--what a
mottled column of light to move in.
from nobility to peasantry, something
burst in on clay--they couldn't be natural even when they felt they were.
animals do not take a headcount in a
burning stable, they even forget to say grace.

they had to exorcise it--that thing in the air, that thing in the water.
earth, then something other--that's how
it happened.
not the dance instruction of a tarantula to sweat out venom, but by the lived
eschatology of medievals.
worked off in mass dances (tarantism)--
till exhaustion/death.
as if they were the herd of swine that
evil spirits were cast into.
the Gadarene demoniac which Jesus
eighty sixed, caught sniffing around tombs, en route the left-hand path.
bells rung by flies, leeches bled out the: I, flames ran up the: I--heresy!
blood/yellow bile/black bile/phlegm--
the slop bucket fluids of: The Four Humours.
corresponding to the four dispositions, the four ages, the four elements--a feast
of fools attempting to psych-out wodnesse.
as medievals finger-pointed in their sleep, exacerbating toothless drool while
giving over a name.
smoky villages trampled with commotion, then nothing--closed doors taking on a
life of their own.
peace like a frozen juggler, beside a breathless flutist, you could trip over prayer only to look up at an inquisitor.

cold is the most seasonal--the only

condition of: The Alone.

its savage independence blisters with

maturity, assures a begrudging respect

& admiration.

it's the embodiment of nothing but

what is not.

where the senses are taken one by one,

as with the last to go--you can hear white.

its solitude is hand-picked by what

cannot withstand it.

nothing else smells so fresh as it touches

your bones.

torn pigeon wings mashed on a sidewalk,

loath to square a foot.

clarity stunned to drifting, a pale blue

blotch of sky--evening's vignette.

the smoky mouth of a panting wolf, snaps

closed with a lick & a sigh.

the moon ails under an aggressive form

of illusion, smiles bravely for a slow

shutter lens.

as a moment says: I am in a clock, but not

of it.

these last leaves do something to keep

falling, even after they come down.

it'd be ridiculous to envision the outward

appearance of oneself thinking, only to

be lost in a lack of resemblance.

when the writing of poetry occurs--

i'm occasionally a spectral robe on a hanger,

hooked on to air.

i get wet across state lines & whisper the fall,

of the same system that will reproduce

different raindrops overnight into

tomorrow.

we're highly conversant, but its point of

contention is overnight into tomorrow.

it'd be ridiculous to envision itself while

raining, as well as our divergent paths.

only to be lost in a lack of resemblance.

mania's omphalos--drags around its
umbilical cord, like a gas pump.
while belting out the first emanation.
a circle's radius clamps shut, as a
wilderness picks at its navel.
black iron gates come down on clouds,
a blizzard accumulates a spiritual reality
far more physical.
even if you're barred entrance, there's no
such thing as waiting.
just a stuporous death by holiday--like
standing across a room expanding with
space.
to a foggy window wiped clear, revealing
past lives vivid as the partitioned
properties of neighbors.
a minotaur hopping fences--suddenly
pressed against the window.
as if covered by distance, not covering it.
straight from a snowy frieze, its circuits
of agon.

thin ice' palette, when dissolving

into water--is starlike.

the quaternary of a bed does the

same with a body.

a dreamless state can reflect

this, as the horizontal meets the

vertical--indelibly so.

even if stars aren't visible,

you're aware of them on some

level.

a lower plane is a higher plane,

to a lower plane.

just as a higher plane is a lower

plane, to a higher plane--etc, etc.

a hilltop bore its **** to locals, where
they come from flat to: "that".
confronted by vantage, familiar as their
own physique.
their feedback loop of disconnected
realities, locked in its grasses.
the signage of a leaf, connoting nyc parks,
Sheriff of Nottingham's badge.
produced before peripatetic schools of
philosophy.
sunset's prolusion to hypnotic suggestion,
took effect.
as if an infant walked more ***** than
royalty to his bedroom door.
opened it a crack, then quarter way.
where light of mind/sunlight/bedroom light,
assumed the quality of that early rising at
sunset.

at the very least, another life can be

eked out--by what goes unnoticed in

any given day.

a thing will always change with the

perceiver, even color is colored.

the sheer overawing & unquantifiable

detail is as matter-of-fact as imagination

itself.

begin & end anywhere you choose--

even though there's no beginning or

ending to the interactiveness.

light rinses her hair on a taxidermic
dove, sat like wooden wavicles on a
shadow planet.
persued by a scented black candle that
smells of unfillable holes.
as a woman prospects a circumference,
tells herself she came for the music--
not the food.
an angel born of mistaken identity,
walks through the blueprint of a garden--
& is told: 'you didn't touch a thing.'
as with the involution of ears, spirals
whistle like rope thru snake skin.
an evil repellent of sorts, or a courtesy
to superstition.

cold *** stews dumped from

tenanted clouds, on spasming tar.

dank breath breathes all over

glitchy raindrops--why i wear

cement shoes to ween off of

puddles.

as a black cat's wet fur effuses

the crunch of fish bones.

its Louis Wain aura hits me with

the engrossment of movies lost

in movies.

we're waiting for confirmation:
something has happened, its movement
already went thru what braces for it.
spun hands over praying mouths--
a finished dark pushed all the way back
& then some, held up to itself.
where a treeline fills in its watchful deepening, as it's pulled downward.
ankle-high smoke comes out with the
audacity of ****, ripped away from
starving fire.
a drawf rolls out of a playing card, to
measure dimensions.
wearing a jester's hat with no bells--
his field of vision gadging his height,
interlocks with curious fear.
tracing around the wickedness that was
recently there.
wind up hares ***** up their ears & fall
on their sides.

the tongue's stethoscopic clacks
in ears, tug at the throat &
against teeth.
not a word.
a rusty lighter's pried scratch--
too thick to spark.
no wind, coincidentally.
still--there is consciousness.
the flight patterns of micro details
touchdown on different but
functional timezones, all in a patch
of pavement.
cars pass & the body remains
unbroken.
the ratio of tinted windows seen
thru, is in simpatico with the end
of a day.
though the edge of the world
plummates along--i hang back &
stroke a jade lion's tail.

the omni-plumage of the

earth's curvature, is sculpted by

a constant unturning.

which sunbeams pass through--

to stall in perforated mountains.

as if taking tissue samples of gods.

he paused at an intersection--with a
pedestrial roundup at his back.
an orange hand's superhuman staving
power instigated a muted version of:
"Waiting for Godot".
then an orange sleight of hand's
arrhythmical numeric funnel, bumped
into a walking lime figure.
he then turned around as if wrested from
consternation, having thoughtfully
weighed the group dynamic of intimate
friendship.
almost like moonwalking with Nintendo One graphics, he paced their unscripted
diaspora.
blockade-wide arms outalking his mouth as he stated: 'you know what...you guys should go without me.'
what followed was the hammering down
on a crosswalk's piano keys--that melted
into a pending desensitization.

an immediate deadlock--off into one
another, the clear poison of reflections
that see.
as if windows to the inception of
windows, down to square flecks.
the luciferian tableau of mastered
masters falling in hate.
all that can be known is the other--to
expose is to be exposed, thereby
becoming the exposed.
daggers dually plunged, a victoryless
savor.
somewhere there are two mirrors--they
are aware of that, but no longer know
which is which.
rain's silver streak twists glassy skies to
a crooked flash of white.
the surging filth of shadow selves crawl
for privatude, in that hellacious unboxing.
now space itself cannot be the intermediary of opposing mirrors.

oceans converge & breach a single

surface--roll toward me as a globular

bulge comes up to be fed.

the shiny sweat of a vicarious void

slurps as it snarls--chases its own face,

that refuses to wash off.

it is then i fall back on what i truly am--

with a look of acknowledgement.

there's such a buoyancy to what aligns

depth.

the icy reception of fingertips pawed

on a face of intellectual mortification--

more like vacancy at the height of

its powers.

ie, ascriptive energy can be destroyed.

arguably the same as extremities

touching dissolution.

with that--today felt like an accidental

penmark on the back of a canvas.

it is not worth mentioning that today is

not over yet, seven minutes remain for

this contradictory statement.

streetlights stood like counterintuitive
candle snuffers, or surgeons passing
out with their headlights on.
as with that which cannot be named, the
broader sense of any word: wind.
linearly gone, its goneness blew in tandem--as if direction's not to be believed.
with no sound, if it weren't thru things as
they were--yet sound became of wind.
there is no clarifier of these obfuscations,
i myself was held as responsible as the
night.
black hood on, with all the solitariness of
of a walk wandering into something far
more in its element by extension.
coldly slumped over, leaves ripped away
from, then to--(disambiguation)?
not quite.

albification comes

over ether.

when strangers

walk by--

holding their peace

like failed seekers.

this particular rain rode out

all obviousness to its absence--

then fell as what is left of a life.

making it impossible for any

stock to be taken--because of

its perfect consideration.

as if a reinforced hug to aversion.

one was reminded that there is an

outside with no reprieve, & that

one can be in two places at once.

when you're made to sit with It,

you don't know how you got there.

a mind (non-possessive) offered

a body (possessive) the unco

outgrowth of the following.

writing left to right about a heart

hung like the skinned head of an

unseen animal.

its long bath slowly drained--

staring down at sawdust like gold

shavings.

it is both true & untrue to say a

heart will not rot in a chest.

Thanatos--are you standard in your
procedure?
that is, do you exert the precise force an
individual requires to be pronounced
dead?
are you negligible with some, completely
unaware of your strength?
leave no dust for dust to come to, as you
would the like of: nothing.
do you keep the lives you take for yourself--how would that work?
you should have been dead the first time, but you didn't die--you took a life & ran with it.
you never stop, do you--which's to say you're infinite, that word afforded  bad poets.
the way that looking at checkered shoes
feels like the makings of a headache.
Thanatos--i suspect you're more than
submitted anatomy, you've never once
rejected a submission (in the end).
nor will you this poem.
you are winter here, & i know you see in snow--what about elsewhere?
Thanatos--what if i told you that you're
somehow a lesser god, subordinate to
Gd of thy Gd.
i'm yours--but in an unfaithful way.
you whose exotic collection of
Mahasamadhi is like a cat nap with
elevator music.

space has always heard disembodied
voices--then mouths eventually
opened with shocks of sound.
when that involuntarily comes across,
incantations are dwarfed--meaning to.
as if through a corresponding row of
numbers, that give way to unlikey
shapes that compliment one another.
a cluster of grapes resting on the hip
of a naked woman, lying on her side.
light-canceling curtains purporting
the birthplace of darkness, net
motions loose as color left scheming.
though nothing stirs--per se.

the ground suffers vertigo--its
differential of wake to silence.
Christ walking thru twelve minds,
whose perception of him do not vary--
xing out a stain glass fish with a diamond.
then unto variances...exposed capillaries
uprooted by hosted light, like wiggly
ocean plants on white stones.
following a needle's twain, to the pupil's
ecliptic.
a Gravitron's light years blaring Classical
Age mockeries.

an elderly man in Prague threw out
his Sunday paper, in the same trashcan
he always does--for a sense of order.
a northern mockingbird still lies dead
on the steps leading to our basement
door.
the epilogue of two November nights
tried to convince the third not to show
up an hour early.
the I Am caught a red leaf while in full
stride, then let it go a few steps later.
pumpkins with carved faces are
disappearing--while uncarved pumpkins
may see another month.
the Atlantic now wears Long Island like
a sleep mask--as a Great White draws
elusive parallels under cold waves.
a broken plate was found to
symbolize the connective tissue of
character development, in a bargain-bin
novel.

a witch's death mask turned up on the black
market--rumored to have shrunk herself, leaving
behind a thumb size cast.
ending up on the living room wall of an elaborately
detailed dollhouse, conjuring the whole transaction.
remanifesting like rot's backhand--her nose touching
her crutched chin, which conceals a sunken mouth
frittering away two teeth.
she pokes around the dollhouse with her *******
bouncing off her knees, as phlegmy laughter trickles
***** down bamboo stalk legs.
her *** is a wrinkly retraction, covered by strands of
white hair that appear fished-out of her skull.
she's just fertilizer patch, wet & wild about hell playing
dollhouse--& how wearing the death mask seems to
say something about her, even while pretending.
she must leave a few telling traces, so she peels off nursery
wallpaper--with leafy apples between slow to learn letters.
throws a black *** on a fireplace, making its flames shoot
up & fall like a timed fountainhead--caressing it as an
expectant mother would, the very joy of a spellbook.
until her fingers blister, and their swirlingly green prints
can be deflated--worshipping how dead skin clings to life.
then she slips into a plastic mirror & begins squeezing
blackheads from her overarching beak, until wormy ****
sprouts from the mirror.
flicked off into a limnal-drab sink, then climbs out of the
mirror & wills all her hair to shed.
exiting into the greater house to observe the man who
purchased her death mask sleep.

a rumpled gentlemen with his head on a desk--
the bent light of his mind snaps with an
aberrative upthrust.
Goya's: "The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters"--
as bats fall to fly with a staggering jaggedness, the
twilight goes underground.
they're a flexuous miasma above the gentleman's head,
or like snakes climbing the glass of an aquarium.
a leathery dark with a bald purple gleam, smoked
clean through.
reveals the wickedly behooved whites of eyes,
expanding with what will be consumed.
this kind of sleep does more than warm death over,
the sleeper is made to watch himself do things--with
no electric blue escape route.

an amateur photographer waits till a room fills
up with degrees of connection--as people move
relative to prattle's false starts.
just when the deep space of universal greeting
collapses into conversation, the room's undulant
field registers unnatural spikes in noise level--
like supercells on a radar.
as if language showing first signs of fluidity, met
with the straitjacketed primitivism of listeners--
itching to go from zoo-like soundings, to being
seduced by the traction of their own voice.
at this the bluffy segue of wineglasses are tilted off
a tray--their long necks & lippy vaunts sparkling
to an ear-piercing parse.
a lens glares out of obscurity, as if the blue
shorts the blue--to blink back right there.
recoiling hands spastically thrown around deformed
hubs--with an anesthesiologist' catalogue of faces.
our photographer's delectation came from seeing it as
the discordia of the fifth wall.

Poe sits like meat locker Tummo,

in a flake's firepit--giving off snow's incense.

with his vest unbuttoned, wearing a t shirt

of Antarctica's: True South flag.

his elegantly racked face thinking of the seven

archangels, how all their names end with an: l.

necessitating the tongue to reach the mouth's roof.

his: "Philosophy of Composition" ceases dissecting:

"The Raven"--evermore (True North) is the same as

nevermore (True South).

the ****** trank of autumn duskiness--
creature features letting trees grip closeups,
that stand for a protagonist' last day.
screeching ques overexerted by alpha predation,
as horror's head classically wedges out from a
tree's hip--the day after.
flies walled in the gizzards of crisscrossing birds,
& an homage of costume flowers discarded
on damp mulch.
a cutthroat lack of resolution all along.
the inadvertent image of a grin below a chin--
drawn by creatures with their pointer fingers.
a slack-jaw totem pole augmented by an audience,
a stake driven into trackless woodland.
sleep paralysis on a  19th century canopy bed,
tightly drawn--changing with leaves.