get off on

fear, just remember

to leave a chill--

like fruit flies avoiding

lightning.

on a countertop.

if only by

contrast to use

the act of self-discovery

suicidally.

boldly proclaimed

by life brought

back.

(judgement is not possible).

(at least for me).

(it keeps happening on the same day).

are you there Now?

here's a parentheses.

one musn't crack nuts in public.

i thought i knew.

the hollowest spaces held to it.

i get it.

Thou~

Stanley Kubrick

stands out for me,

while casting a spell

on Jack Nicholson.

in an inordinate Coloradoan

precipitation of the white stuff,

obscuring the maze of an English

Garden.

freezing the frame of attained samadhi,

Jack's eyes stuck to a sky.

ever tear out

the lungs of a

butterfly?

placing it on its

back, to hear

breath out?

X is just

another spin

of the cross.

there's this

quadrant-monk

finding a good

thing to say.

repeatedly heard

by no one.

light-flash paradoxes

of centers.

expurgation just

came to

swallow this spring.

trying to move

after release.

clusters of bluejays

are attracted to these

climes.

their voice is so harsh,

i confused them for crows.

that sense

of entitlement's

a very funny #,

like Queen Mary

luxuriating in a

bloodbath.

red can get the

best of you when

you least expect it.

passion's a stunner.

i want to lie on the hyphonated

shade of a: first-person-singular.

over the summer of a hammock.

Picasso's:

Les Demoiselles d'Avignon,

was an Oedipal origin story.

breakout ****** manuevering

faces.

Imagine already

trying  to wear a

mask in New York.

no need to complain

about an overcome

air.

already

anonymous.

asking what day

it is from time

to time.

there's a half-sleep

so average,

you could cross midnight

twice without a watch.

midday.

a Shiva lingam

accents The Word.

so black it can see itself.

a touch purple with

communication.

as birds are dyed

by equatorial

tropic lines.

i push this little

island, as far out

as it's willing to go.

opening my eyes

precisely when they're

about to go over water.

to watch it sail.

an upside down vowel.

there are

so many people

dying to be found

out.

while avoiding behavior.

picking for skin.

i come from that

place.

i'm sorry, a smile

bared my teeth.

soley wanting to scrub

the tabulations of pearl.

there's a

superintelligent

schism that now,

right now.

ammends its right

by its wrong.

something a head

could be supported

with.

Christos

walks lilies of

this field...

barefoot.

thawing spring.

falling all over winter.

if there's no

resonance,

there's no

attraction.

a

band waiting

to be shaped

by wind.

averting words

in an untime of

foisted

meditation.

saints perhaps.

to clear resolve.

while denying.

cabins are surrounded

by wilderness made

of dead sap.

that whirled smoke

in the absentia of fire.

don't call as

to yourself,

a poet.

unless you've

gotten inside

the meaning

of words, and

looked out.

there's a math

yea big, can you

account for that

height?

akin to a small

one too big

for drawing pencil

lines.

making linearity redundant.

or one too small to

hold a pencil,

which may be equally

true of the big one.

without equalling.

measuring up

to a bedroom wall.

the grandest cross

that never lettered a

number, that never

numbered a letter.

as my city

emits its heart...

i stroll through

my burrough

like Nasir.

"It Ain't Hard to Tell".

as language slides

derivative syllables.

therefore pure.

i somehow new what

your were going to

say.

purple doppleganger

alleviating the mists of

form, arising from the

haunt of a perfect touch.

perspiring with the feeling of

being looked at.

a room effecting the dominos

of walls.

this poem was inspired by

the cover a childhood book.

i couldn't help

reaching with what prophet

there is to a hand,

upon lips that blow

out the deathwish

of silence.

justifying sounds for

everyone.

a blue jay

carried its voice

before it flew.

there was a rain

that i heard spread

drops upon its wings.

studding a very slow

silver.

leaping at reflection.

with no fall.

innocence

pulled you

out.

with remarkable

stains.

to bathe in duration.

finding what's in a

name.

startled by such a

sound.

it is for

me to now

unpeel from

heavied bodies

of sleep.

to baby none other

then.

services rendering

wakefulness.

a blade of grass

producing.

grasses.

sacrifice bends

for no one in a

canyon carved

by water.

the bedrock of

striated motion.

poring over

a face you can

not place, endears

the lover.

when mounting

stairs are dismounted,

can you surmount

the white of vertebrea.

transpiring Mother India.

i trust you've

humored this...the

notion of a written

letter accounting

for words huddling

on a page.

what did it say without

turning?

there's a madness

asking to verify itself

with every word.

dust motes bleached

blond by shut blinds.

i knew i

had fed hunger

when teeth fell

on a bottom lip.

lifting from imprintment...

the staves of silence

preparing food.

these tides

come with a

care like a mother's

hands folding the

horizon.

morning gave all of

herself while wandering

my wall.

it was where i came to

know poetry was possible.

i slapped that wall like

blue meeting a sky for the

very first time.

i keep giving

away eyes, like an

imperative growing

on me.

a halfway already met.

they're not mine.

a Buddha

is only a core

that has connected

too deeply to see

a way out of it.

i lift death's

skirt, just to watch

her hemline trail

a puddle.

a Japanese branch

watercolors, in a window

intent on looking.

weighed down by birds

always in the spring of

their voices.

alighting contradictory

tones.

a hawk flies

within a man.

pointing him out.

crying aloud

the sky's mouth.

happening to air.

what is it, with no

question posed.

to run reality thru

with dream.

an anatomy representing

itself, aspecting hurt.

fully formed in parts.

There's a time

to read stone like

your life depended

on it...there is a time.

please leave your

doors open to their

windows.

ringing in the light-strands

of newly old years.

I'm a cut out of you.

with no one to fool,

**** it.

let's make it interesting.

watching Kurt's acoustic

rendition of Leadbelly's:

"Where Did You Sleep Last Night".

i kept waking up from a resting

place among pines, wind on both

my cheeks.

finally able to shake off the forest,

with absolutely nothing but love.

unable to convolute green.