it turns out the other point of our

triangle is worthy of more respect

than you.

don't dare misconstrue this reckoning

as a flattering plea.

walls rumble as they close in, don't worry--

nothingness will survive.

the uniqueness of your scent, rapidly

signaturing fear--with nails bitten off like

sunflower seeds.

as your latest stuffed animal summons the

courage to come to life--just so it can run away

from you.

flawlessly repeating what it was taught.

try playing air guitar on the

breaking wheel--you're certainly not

rock n roll sweetheart.

spat out by silence & apathy alike, you

hide under a bed--with a wanna be girl's

voice, reprimanding nightmares to play

fair.

hold your ears & grit your teeth--harken

back to the number of fruit flies you've

rescued from speedy oblivion.

it'll all go away just for you, again--no it

won't.

the sidereal undoes the bandage around its

eyeless sockets, looks under your bed--cross

at seeing you clearer than ever.

the awful fatigue of leashed wrath--

the devourment of all other emotion.

one of the most frustrating & loneliest

primacies.

a lion's infrasound shaking the housemates

of organs & bones.

a reiterating plain, onward straight to onward--

a massive drain at its center.

stymied blood let out, down it--a red waterfall

transfusing the earth's gut.

enough physicality was overlooked,

for what resided beneath--where's

what resides beneath?

yet there's this walking around--in

the naivety of out there.

which occurs undeservedly, the

step count of a coward.

the ten block radius that was mockingly

cited, was just the preliminary of loving

that residence.

an extremely contented focus.

now that radius will not grow, because

hatred has been foisted.

the moon's fail-stop of reinvention

leaves her an amnesiac.

chipping away at her goldenly drawn

rim of remembrance, as if a China

plate.

holding a full serving of curdling milk.

the whiff of a prize pig on a

dank, misty morning--corn stuck

in your teeth.

let us make a shroud of that mist

as your intent, minus mystery.

the pudge of situatedness superseding

promises.

squeals of self-love slobbering on

squeals of self-hatred, the later

should be your siphoning state.

dis-gus-ting...

die of those deaths,

hunt them down--

scar their spheres.

canvas their haunts,

while they too sleep.

a varmint on an iron bed,

sips at intravenous blood.

while coasting the dining

room ceiling of an abandoned

Antebellum mansion.

aboveground tombs loose at the

tooth, blow humidity.

saturated enough-- to disperse

moisture under street lights,

dense as to wetten the face of

the expired varmint.

more business woman than


poet, the whole corpus of said


poetry shows an assessor.


more project than passion.


clandestinely checking  in to see


if coexistence with your supposed


unconditional one may be profitable.


the real poet stands by their words


nomatter what.

twittering mice that fill

their stomachs with

molding.

a hole unto a hole.

lentil-eyes, skull-******.

meteorological models

behind: "spaghetti-diagrams"--

(the potential paths tropical storms/

hurricanes will take.)

were with: Jackson *******,

pre-internet.

splash-painting a vapid loss

of service, before programming.

a sensorial Kingdom transpired

along: Ocean City, Maryland.

its village shops rang the bell of

a scent that any verity of incense &

ginger, long to touch.

shelved starfish, baby sharks in a

jar, (blue-eyed) along strung shells

in the shape of a spiral cone.

twirling.

Arunachal's south-facing

Shiva: is Ramana Maharishi.

Who went into states of

Samadhi in the lone retreats

of a temple, at the base of:

Arunachala--ravenously dined

on by ants.

Picasso's: Madame Moiselle

looks like a trapezoidal

crime scene--lamps turned

over.

highlighting gesturing ******.

in 2008, i found myself

in a disgustingly sterile,

non-rustic library in:

Jackson Heights Queens.

think a toolshed meeting a

hospital.

on an exceedingly poignant

whim, i cracked open a glossy edition

of: Rolling Stone.

encountering an article on the passing

of the late great: David Foster Wallace.

i tore out the article, & shoved it in my

pocket for a deeper read.

poppies smatter

their color, on

the emerald of

any risen city.

Kurt Donald Cobain's

hair, is still being

combed by a perfect

audience.

the Greek translation

of: Worry, is a narrow

field.

worth wearing black

for husbandry--

leaving an umbrella

to absorb rain in its

place of holding.

snow obeys weather,

even being fingerprinted

for quality assurance.

hail does not--firing down

baseballs in sweltering heat.

having dealt meditational

applications of paint to the  

foregoing walls of a bedroom.

a more youthy white cracked

open over aging eggshell.

all the same, as if uniformly

sheen.

try as it may, a paint roller leaves

a frumpy stripe from corner to

ceiling.

begging for brushwork.

it's an intimate little chat with

striving perfectibility.

Shakespeare sowed his

mouth shut, no mirror--

just thread and needle.

blood worming out of

every stitch.

the fuckery of: very well--

indeed.

peasants piled thick at:

The Rose Theatre.

moved by the comeuppance

of healed lips.

an orangey-red plastic toy
tugboat, the size of an eight
yr. old's palm--is pulled out
to sea.
painting by number via ripple,
glowing like a stubborn ember.
it briefly idled in your standardly
sized sand bucket--bearing the
likeness of a ripe watermelon's
skin, streaks & all.
cemented by wet sand, to
its rim--sand ***** performing
ancient writhing.
sort of like greyish Ronzoni shells
copping a dance.

a brook lends the

smoke of:

Patchouli.

a sparrow soaks

like a piece of

bread.

irresponsive to

water.

it may be remiss to state

time to plaid blue sheets

of sky.

especially when unasked.

while leaves hovel over

patchwork.

gothic appraisals of vanquished love--

an auditorium at maximum capacity.

a vampire standing ***** before every

wooden seat.

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

of night--breaking the neck of what turns

back, in pindrop hollows.

all hissing simultaneously, at the girth of

loss, trembling with elation.

there's something about

a cardinal, flitting across

saturated woodchips after

a downpour.

as if throwing back air in a

looksy of: fly.

whose tree cover tantalizes

a resonance that treats the peace

between wetness & color.

sometimes there's an existent

persuasion, that shadows individually

agree to blend in, As.

that is--they enter.

you know they've entered, having

conjured them, too well anon.

a merciful mark that appears &

disappears--hiding for your sake.

known by import, that which seeks

the gratification of seeing...but not

being seen.

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

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

Jeane-Baptiste Grenouille,

hypocritizes nostrils--till not.

a trifecta of le parfum:

Vieux Boulogne, dispensed by

Halitosis over a stony low tide

at eleven-hundred degrees.

a la corps (ego doner).

an optician runs a light over

a butterfly, enmeshed with

mulch.

a shaft of light emitted from

forest ground, that the sun

knows nothing of.

no more prescient.

than a birdcage flung unto

a wire over an intersection.

its dome rushing its base, its base

rushing its dome.

a lattice of bars that are struck as

they strike.

hung against the contrastive

sky of Giorgione's: The Tempest.