as of his greyship...

Gotham a smattering wore,

granite tone, pick a hue and

play it.

Self--possessed, samadhi some

say.

founding flowers, saxing

jazz.

finding their voice, wowed

by improv.

beat boxed to a pulp--that Kid

that has it in him.

to straighten out his guts, for a

walk on some tightrope.

from here to here, name the place.

deferment of streets.

poetry's kunda-line

fast awake.

snake-bit tail hard enough

for a soft shed.

skinned alive in dead patterns...

a search history.

the lake set thick

winter's irrevocable bone,

the moon's floodlit interment

frozen feet deep.

from whose bottom she

figure skates.

her blades carving maneuvers that

illustrate the unabating turnings,

of an upside down world made upright.

watery blue mirrors paling before her--

her hair let fall, bound in bunches, directs

the violence of her elegant abstractions.

yes--that unconditional love hubbub

made of the fallen face of your poetry.

its guarded theatrical departures, when

was mustered a deep, deep reading.

such timely bashfulness come to unspread.

such sacrifice at the behest of your artificer's

eminent domain.

your poetry itself has become repurposed property,

silly...

somehow i always knew i'd live you

apart from myself--and in using myself

as an example of how you go about

things in life...you de-serve to be alone.

you've done nothing noble on both ends--

and if i say neither here nor there, understand

loneliness should be your destination.

to take upon yourself the zero that is the

shortest distance between two points.

know thyself--as you confided of that place

that brought you to blind drunkenness to be

withstood, now calls for you justly.

never was its unshared silence more de-servant.

you will undoubtedly be told otherwise by he

who is as afraid to be alone as you.

which does not make a true pair of you, the divergent

road appeared and was bypassed.

a wolf that's afraid to be alone, can only cry wolf.

if my poetry caves--

vacuums the black out

of its hole.

to clear what's forever

caught in your throat--

making singular the invocation

of entry and exit.

beating blots to the presence

that sits, and denies being

there.

how a sanctum's desecrated--

pervades pure dark with enemy

divide.

forgive me.

red hot wax, seal of revulsion.

a morning peck on the critical

mass of your night.

neither girl, nor woman--but some

other phylum.

some pathetically behorned Nordic

malformation running fantasy.

breaking out in despicable rashes of

behavior--begging the sum of holiday.

a thrown wind come to inhibition...

rags to the tainted shroud of wouldbe suicide.

encampments to chameleonize, lie-configure

***** itch rock n roll.

by the powers that be--cessate, sink a one man

stone into earth, as pledge your loyalty.

boon, bane and bardo--

chrysalis twitch.

manning the butterfly--

a late riser, the mirror

well smoked.

lifting to the clearest of

occurrences, daily do big--

come of thee.

nightly do little--come of thee.

chanting breath, build up extinction.

as the non visible bones

that shape skin--the solitude

of a mountain chain.

spared from the polite aversion

of eyes, tight-lipped kisses on the

recesses of cheeks.

broad as the forehead's contemplative

point of no return--the mind eyed

of its own.

our getting on staggers off, pregnant

with a series of blows that space

maintains.

leaning on aberrated projections, a fatigue

of personal worlds.

circling streamlets, blinkered black

horses--hooves struggling out of clay

casts of muck.

crescent scythes screened silver thru

the characters of trees.

strange as the sounded line of a lark's dozenth

betrayal.

dawning.

landscape/cityscape/dreamscape--

stir and shake thoroughly till change

occurs.

Sol scheming Luna in like a Trojan Horse--

tarot card tricks, a step from, a step towards

what cannot be escaped.

blind test runs through predictable results--

industrial barrels of spilt milk, a stampede

of elephants in your living-room.

for all the fanfare slackening the sense of unworthiness

and self-hatred.

you've never been more put on the spot.

come the whole rest...

when broken waves crawl

their seismic shiver, veiling

the mouth of her shore.

then unveiling her mouth

as horizontal creases fade, and

retract her ocean.

come the half rest...

time and again between her

veil and ocean--sounding water

on sand, sand underwater.

the refined line of what's fully

given and taken.

come the quarter rest...

quicksilver life-reviews of light

on water, silent sound's grainy skip.

the offkey cries of galls.

purposeful hands setting

a table--lighting sealed by

the approval of Old Dutch

Masters.

the wrought passing of plates

before they're passed.

a homely kingdom, a devoured

morsel--the speck in a viewer's

eye.

aerated frame, darkened sphere

revolving.

night boxes fit in to

one another, too big and too

small to come of anything.

yet contain sleep.

this blood kept warm to hover

over.

this mouth breaking open when

stuffed with silence--to call out

some urgent matter.

that echoes in the Minoan labyrinths

of waking ears.

tainted bird nests

in shred-house ciphers.

sallow backlit terraces

of skied lines, wind up

wind.

jack n the box buildings--

melee incongruities.

abandoned workzones on

every other corner.

Perhaps you're

in a place where

no reflection suits

you.

almost like an indigestible

life force.

lumping a stone's throat.

as overrich

paeans trouble

your deadlock.

how disconcerting to be

known for what you are.

if what lives, has moved

out.

no human being should've been

made that painfully aware of your

transgressions.

i guess the truth loved him enough

not to spare one detail--of which

completely broke him.

now you think you can mend him.

it must stick out like a broken bone

penetrating skin.

i feel for the man, i'm no animal.

you should have saw him to more

faithful arms, and made good on your

word.

for this i have lost all trust and respect

for you.