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.

pick one of these

flowers wearing

rose-colored glasses

in red zones.

hold it under your

nose as you wade thru

the miasmic flood.

the cityscape has

broken wide open--

re erected by abandon.

forced perspective

cancelling out the press

of electric buffers, that

usual and inimitable pulse.

shudders a recurring wind

to take itself, flatly declaring:

nothingness saves.

you see how famished new yorkers

are for communication now.

virtuosic conversationalists extra,

extra-ing it up--soothsaying the disaster

of a hot minute.

beat by the path, and genuine as ****...

tidings through folding streets.

held still for what's administered.

rats brazenly showing their faces, as in and

out of step as the rest of us.

the mad dash of a coast that's clear.

with diametrical opposition.

these fire escape bars subdivide

space like a Barnett Newman painting.

stripes running down for a signal,

across these windows.

a thirty eight degree rain, with steely

grey whisks of snowy blind eyes.

shook off somewhere in this full frontal

depth perception, dripping the cagey

dynamics of backdrops.

a present tense of forseeable future

harkening back.

calling all nyc empaths,

whose mindspace's

grating like a subway overpass.

the noisome level of this ghostabout,

whose reminiscence slithers against the

doors of Passover.

booming rushes with no hour,

a freak composer sounding

down poised instruments.

with invisible motions.

the acoustics of darkened stages steadily

stirred by an incredible silence.

of a growing audience meditating

without distraction.

as the river of Lethe

strands the flow of its waters

with immovability.

their source reintroduces a

rain, that meets the surface and

circles.

interrelations of vesica piscis

are fished out of memory.

undone in fine swims.

what is black of the hole of

its center, is the center of all

self-proclaimed centers.

white circumference.

beyond contrived alignments,

and spiritual paraphenalia.

no relapsing stasis, no angle on

the curve, no time to bend.

not even the quick **** of a spirit's

misshapen direction, not even an

after-moment of an annihilatory

pre-continuum.

only the ingressive freedom from

awareness.

not even a purple tint on the most

incalculable black.

the is-ness of blackness never is...

rogue skin

wrapped tight

around black

and whites bones.

***** quarry of

locomotion.

grey samples thickening

through it.

phoebe, your pooling face glides

along a swan feather smile.

solitarily reflecting between two

swaying columns.

musing fluid sheets of indigo ice,

starring first and only thoughts.

your secret mappings, long lost as

at a distance--if it weren't for your

brilliance.

the metaphysics of a morning

wound can not be dressed,

the pain is sharp because it is dull.

as if nose to nose with a flamboyant endpoint.

boldface, as with confidences surrounding

its gaping matter.

the not quite of it, the slanting deck of a ship--

with the horizon waving stupidly as

you slide backward.

sea legs, land legs--and the obsessive stickler

that sorts detail to come of a haphazard nature.

by one intrepid discoverer panoramically queasy--

disconsolate and setting.

unbuilt cathedrals

are cropping up,

their doors blown open

by flying scissor cuts

of night.

ringing round a rosie.

a gathering of ungracious

hosts.

bird-beaked hustlers

selling custom t shirts,

of selfies plagued by

black outs.

as this building

tells 18 stories

to itself, I'm taken

by eyes underlined

by masks.

people I've seen in

their element of home

across stretches of time.

the rest of their faces

are boxed out by windows.

I'm seeing so much more

of them lately, as they stare

out.

huffing through a bluish veil,

decrying the intelligence

of biology.

poppy-headed,

seven's deep sleep--

wide awake.

overtures of fields

in wanderlust.

emerald goes the city.

mud behind the back

of green blades, interspersed

with ****** red kisses.

harlots playing at distress,

as whole bodies come.

seven's deep sleep,

wide awake.

this frazzled loom

come from the eleventh hour--

greenly kinetic and terribly

sibylline.

aches with vision shakey as a

petal of terminal color.

as ominous fragrances are

increasingly seated upon

the air.

spreading their temporary birthright.

as gospel.

wisdom

doesn't know all

the dots have been

connected.

when it reaches out

to make a point, only

for proof it still exists.

nothing postures

more than

egolessness.

nondoership means--

what will be brought out,

will be brought out.

what will be kept in, will be

kept in.

of its own.

as simply as placing down

a glass of water for no

apparent reason.

if you've numbered among
the living, then you've numbered
among the dead.
opening and closing different pairs
of eyes, not knowing how long they
were opened, nor how long they
were closed.
(a numeric collapse detected)
--yet here you are now, again...
numbering among the living, to number
among the dead.
a flickering light switch in the different
houses of the same soul.
which creates a near seamless optical illusion
between life and death.
almost by force of all the dreamers of bodies and
souls--this is the cream.
the place where houses meet inside the same walls, to
be unhoused, essentializing experience
once and for all, all at once, if for a moment--
of which may never have existed, Zero.

stick to tree, marker lost

to the forest.

ariadne's spidery verve of

weave, threading cities lost

to their applied logic.

dense enough to entrap flies--

zigzagging against these

gordian knots.

her mind-eyed computer

graphics unable to simulate

disentanglement.

deep breathing for clearer

intuitions, ariadne breaks down

to the squeaky laughter of spiders.

who thread without threading--

feast on the dainty logician.

here is the

still life of lighting,

stroking its axial

tear.

narrowed by the wake

of the sky it leaves.

cascading Mother unblinking.

cleaving open Father's eye.

skullcup struck by this unmarked

staff, poles made local in the

poem of this drink.

this yoke that sustains dissolution,

unbroken water.

when a rainbow's

story arc is magnetized

by its downward slides,

cut off sharply by blue.

pouting the stupefaction

of illusion.

its reflection upward slides,

repenetrating the sharp cut

off of blue, now smiling the

stupefaction of illusion.

the rainbow's story arc completing

its circle out of the blue.

these shoots that

come as a brood of vipers--

green with the dark

of their dens.

overstimulate the land

with starving life.

upticks of madness, these

sudden rushes.

as we are tuned.

in a city of

rough sketches,

you can see

constant eraser

marks.

in a bid

to get it down.

Buddha didn't get lost

in the floweriness of

the sermon, even with

all its silent splendor.

only one attending ray

pointed at it, suffice to say.

while Buddha held

himself up to the attending

rays...knowing he would

never come back.

Bhairava outpaces

his hound, headhunting

ignorance with his club.

he who is a speck of Shiva's

last touch, as that blessed gate

and devoted keeper.

where none can pass if one is.

from time to time

i look in on the will--

she lie on her side.

back turned, pressing

and decompressing--

displaying the respirations

of sleep.

simulating peace.

though in sync, astir with

my every motion.

facing the wall, i know she's

awake--trying to be strong

on my behalf.

never save the best

for last, it is to maximize

weakness.

even if it be saved for you,

see it as what is--no further.

irreplaceable and found

out by a prolonged sleep,

fear thwarts what passionately

retires.

as i furiously dig up-- bare handedly,

that buried guilt.

sun gazing,

annointments of India--

the glass stained.

habitations of flame

opening the colors

of surrender.

floating permutations

of welcome.

wedged in a steep

crevice, a watchman blindolded

many times over.

slowly crushed by the hours

he keeps--with no reprieve

from such a cover.

impossibilities come of his

eyes, and the blindfold dampens.

his body a violent rattle solitude

cannot shake off, stifled agonies--

lest the stones may hear vulnerability

among them.

an interseasonal

shoal inbroke the surface...

submerging a ripple.

how roundabout the way...

maintaining perfect

distance from a distinctive

ocean.

a cavalcade of rocking horses

laze this chair, entering into a

covenant with crazies.

the rider's chewing over an alphabet

of stale cereal--sore jaw hung

from a milkless sky.

an amplifier's guitar feedback sexes

his ancient ache, gyrations lost and re lost

in the same room.

arms at royal rest, thickening plots at his sides--

a parthena swims through the window.

slowly strutting toward him, opens herself and

sits down on his rising star.

to say to oneself, i've seen that movie--

know it by heart secretly.

as if everything has been taken away from it, you turn away.

that which has somehow sworn art by the

book of your life, cast out the frame of a window.

that silver conclave of a screen breathing motion.

subjugated by the recapitulation of memory,

always the richer for impressions.

thanked with the shellshocked brutishness

of a beast, scouring for a spot to eat and

be eaten away alone.

overlays of attention--revisitations if you will,

or will not.

with nothing left to confess but wanting nothing

from possessable experience.

forelight not for want of thee,

foredark not for want of thee--

essenced Word of breaking lips

loath to void.

as what clings to spacey walls.

outflanked vine throwing off

dimensional shadows.

head come head, prophesied forefront.

disseminations of empurpled grapes.

gourd of psyche, countoured with

drying juices--the letting of outlasted

accentuations.

Caravaggio dying on the run, restating art.

what's easiest to

draw free hand--

a circle, a square,

or a triangle?

independent of

their shape?