sleep broke her intervals

disproportionately this morning--

so i held her hand as this body tired.

it was when i came across my mother,

and thought from her truly.

kicking inside that belly, breaking our

heart--my egoless globe.

i part so many ways with my daring to

say...i realized her this morning.

between the prow

lowering its head and

raising it--the absurdities

of individuality overtake

the deck.

indeed the boat must be

drunk.

absorbing dissolution while

floating on it.

It's like holding

on to a poem you

couldn't memorize,

while your phone's

battery went dead.

finding a pen in an

odd pocket of your

school bag.

to write your palm

into being, at the back

of a half-quarantined

bus.

to forget about the poem

by force of poems that rubbed

it out.

holding on to things.

Wassily Kandinsky

rested his spine against

a corner wall, tapping

his third eye, saying:

I do believe in spooks--

I do, I do, I do.

Oz the factor.

what happens when

two people, the floundering other--

are caught staring at something

vague as life?

riddled with the holes of damnation,

to see through forgiveness.

to hold on to such a connection a

moment more, might mean death.

it's so easy, but so hard to see--imagine

being seen, if you can...

as april's breath blows

on her lover's cheek--3d

printed webs wear the

faces of impossibly long

symmetries.

wherefrom lint ball spiders crumble

and tuck in the eight of their legs,

reflecting the eight apples of their eyes--

sliding up or down on that

unbaited breath.

my sister sent me a smarting

pic of livestream Greek Orthodoxy--

three hundred something were watching

the resurrection.

the masked altar boy to the left rapt in

ritual, leaning down to retrieve revelation.

the priest at the head whose turned back broadened

the unaswerable, sung thru unsmelled incense.

backed iconically by Byzantine saints saying their peace.

brandishing the goldest silences you

never did hear.

just after noon,

lightning blindsided

a sky on white end.

which no one may have

seen, except a glistening

thick of rain.

as it fell like a needle that

played a record before

touching it.

now when the silence of the

urban sprawl dialates, and its

shell becomes an exquisite ear.

the whiny cries of newborn

pigeons raise from the tops of

air conditions and terraces.

pint size helium balloons releasing

sound.

i caught a rare glimpse of one

of these choristers being fed beak to

beak by its mother.

its whittled white face and crown of

grey, contrasted by the steel storefront

sealed shut.

as sight lowers and lowers

its light, fathoming footfalls down--

cast and dangling.

the prey of a finely sliced

path, onsetting rigors of a hell.

leaves rustling like black moths in

the crosshairs of invisible fires.

frosted tree stumps with cauldron

bellies having and rehaving their full

of seasons.

the air smells like stars gone out, tormenting

personal astrologies--till unwritten.

it is there the forest tears at its growth to lose

selves already lost--proceeding always at the

end of the middle's beginning.

it is where Virgil is a step ahead of Dante, guide

in the flesh of the only orientation.

sometimes walking home

from work after midnight,

you feel like Travis Bickle

in a surgical mask.

sounding...

first response blowing off of

land's end.

watching those that watch

watch you--brave the dark

of this city deity.

left to its own devices.

the mind voices

an intersecting ether of passage--

where vocal cords fluxed.

to conceal or reveal.

the variational

cut of the throat's stem manifolds

the flower.

mouths and manifolds the flower,

as the heart falls like a hatchling from

a nest.

its blue eyelids pinned shut, its wings

stuck to its sides.

to the heart of the intersection--mindless,

voiceless.

i read somewhere that when

they discharge a patient, that

has overcome this Taker.

there is a local hospital that

plays: "Here Comes the Sun"

by George Harrison.

there are true healers among us.

this intelligence

that no mind's dervish

can dizzy into enclosure.

only knows the circle that

crosses into another, more

growing out of than not.

one can drift away to this,

lose oneself to unbent lines

made manifest, circles in pure.

while walking the line.

the wind wants at its will, as it's

scornfully whorled--undoing the

cricks of facades.

an attentive hearer can be stung by

the lashing beads of rain rounding

still points.

gusty sheets of seventy miles an hour--

timed out, wrung out with a twist.

astonishing confessions that hold back

at the precise moment of truth--as if to

say: bear with me, as i bear with you.

only when you have

been truly imitated,

will the first of your

last rites be administered

by an art.

not your own.

rendered perfectly

enough to never have

existed.

an impressed moment,

an impressed moment,

an impressed moment.

a cloud-centric

sky is shafted...

crying unto spots

of land.

that suddenly

appear more real.

almost like magnifying

glass to paper.

this passed friday that was Good--

as observations of darkness covered

a chosen body that fell upon the time as it is.

i heard the woman next door to me through

paper-thin walls listen to the solemn

chants of mass.

offering up voices of sacrifice, G*d in the sound

of agony.

i used to hear her husband cough violently from

smoking complications, and this passed friday

that was Good--i heard her sense of isolation

compounded.

i sensed how heavy hung her loneliness, observing

the darkness covering that chosen body.

now the rain mimics the

sound of bird bones

settling in their houses

of feather.

or just as easily the other

way round--yet there is no

mimicry, just a connection

made.

that neither in their whole really

need, except it is good to allow for

such things.

in a time where wholes are taken

away, without a sound.

this epithalmium of tied serpents,

as Now y8u may kiss...

immemorially lingering.

sprung forward by the circuit curve

of embrace.

pronounced by resuscitations of light,

mythos of mind-body.

unborn in an amphitheater.

as white relieves itself into black, and

black relieves itself into white.

Pound:

"the age demanded an

Image of its accelerated

grimace."

Onoma:

an ovoid, yokeless plenum.

(fissures of negative space

playing chicken.)

drills shrilly nosed into plywood

as storefronts were shuttered along

the walkway.

hazy tapwater sunlight diluted the

dogwood tree planted at center.

as a patch of pigeons were thrown

above it, whose wings became black

sticks across its white blooms.

frantically searching for the old man that

would normally feed them.

up ahead that brolic, mustachioed Puerto Rican

street vendor has been unstapled from the

sidewalk--his unheard cadences hustling the

numbers off watches.

across the street they have

removed all the rims from the

fiberglass backboards to dissuade

basketball.

the court looks like a minimalist

exhibit, a perfectly ordered space

of rubber band tension.

across the street to the left, the church

doors are plastered with Covid 19 literature.

there's a makeshift crucifix of branches

fixed to the railing on the frontsteps, swaddled

in a purple robe, and spindly greenery.

there's an inebriated man beating the tree in front

of the church screaming: I'll ******* **** you!!!

he's beating the tree with such force a smokey dust

flies off the large granite stone, every pound laced

by hateful invective spreads with theatrical clarity.

not long after a woman knelt on the steps and prayed.

it was Sunday, today is Monday--almost precedent

setting at the mere mention.

flame...

pituitary almond,

smokeless lisp

of silence,

kept.

up and out of your

own, articulated

breath.

breathlessly gone--

melting canonizations.

gaunt pools of suns.

relit.

at unevenfall The Usuper snaps

open a stripped black umbrella, anticipating

an ocean of rain.

downed hard, underneath his half-bit face, Bacon's

1946: "Painting".

layed down for the groundswells of buoy bells.

his heavy footed dance discombobulates

the chest of tides, thickened to molasses.

clawing inlets that flash the Stygian

wounds of his sands.

the sound of one

hand clapping, keen

enough to know which.

two minus one, minus one.

surreal as the silence of

Fellini's film: 8 1/2.

the opening scene of

that commuter pile up

tunneling vision, one of the

collective body ****** out.

flying over cars, then bound

by a rope at the ankles, freefalling

on to a beach.

descending upon

windthumbed playbills on Broadway.

straight faced

april anounces the

fool's on the house--

and that visting hours

for the Spring Museum

are subject to constant change.

due to indoor spectators.

turbid rusts murking

the lens of a tiger eye stone,

slowly set down.

plucking the harps of

wandering minstrels with

triple vision.

singing the prowess of dusk's

burial.

a vermillion serpent

with white smoke wings

and light yellow eyes,

slides off a stone cloud.

a fainting phantasma of

unheld height, meets a

stream of milk precisely its

length and width.

issuing midpoint between the

sky-ground.

knocks in its eyes, and

dislodges its jaws for an aeonic

drink.

her stardust hands

animate trains of thought,

by rapidly flicking through

a glossy black covered magazine.

with glossy blank white pages.

her nails spiraling in control,

nimble enough to split hairs.

gathering hunters.

in some waiting room.

her hands have since passed on.

bird calls have sharpened,

if geometric lines were

sounds fixed with razor surity.

piercing diagrams (dwellings) that

are no longer drown out, but pause

an opportune dawn.

depositing songs of solitude, that

play across what would have been

an invading force.

in between raggy clouds

a moon-sun swollen together,

is deliriously exposed.

a bubonic boil lanced by inverted

rays.

its stank gape, a fleshed out eye running

raw.

a plastic bag crackled

in a tree, a dog's bark

bounced off buildings.

venting vibes, haunted

by how it overspilled

the block.

led streetlights squeaked

their peeps in cool night air.

as a bunch of drug dealers

got wind of a score just outside,

robbing a rival faction at gunpoint.

so said the dt as he came in with his

notepad asking questions.

with the mta

bit to the blue collar,

buses absent themselves.

so you watch time burn

holes in the schedule.

hold your breath till embers

beam out of ash, numbering

your route.

as you read a lean text thru

the shades of a low battery.

a reminder you forgot the

food your mother sent you.

trekking back because you

know you had to eat from her

hands.

food made with truly medicinal

thoughts--there's no social distancing

momma.

a substrata of dawns

chiseling out white marble nudes,

undressed in crumbling

refinements.

posing long enough to be fully

clothed.