she's on a saint kick...

ready to take in another's

spit rolling down her cheek

as a sensory experience.

hard-soft bud detachment.

therein lie the greatest entanglement--

being nothing without pandering to

the stripes of motions.

is One for The Ages.

Paganini left angels

with laryngitis, as he

ran his bow across their

throats.

till they voiced the devil

of him, hexed where he stood.

to be branded by the common

knowledge of admirers.

so what did Paganini do with

that hex?

he used the power of its persuasion

to part Europe's legs.

do you wipe stardust from your

paws to enter greener pastures?

howling the mixed business of

planets, as matted wool coughs

up your mouth's ****** reading?

your sight black clad in broad daylight--

body monolith grey, split faced.

burning eye peeking from the sides of

trees, forsaken clearing.

evading the sole possession of your

truest fidelity.

nature is a respecter of stealth--until it

is not...enter a greater stealth.

cabin fever--

snowed out labyrinths

reconfiguring, think:

The Shining.

Santa's trailing laughter.

the orange arms of a

fireplace giving and receiving...

as one cozying up to themself.

with periodic cold drafts breathing

on deeds done.

that which secludes to find...

chestnuts roasting from within, smoke

offerings.

soak her in...adjusting her ***

on her tHrOnE, biting her nails

and masking the mask.

kicking away like a newborn

Christ, modeling the couple--

rallied, tinseled, and ribboned

round by the support of family

and friends.

spine sending apologetic signals

all over the place, both friendly and

unfriendly radio stuff.

as a patch of snow splats and

melts on her crown.

yes, This is Christmas...

the ones that get away

will continue to do so, it's what

they're meant to do.

wildly flashing their silvery

contingency plans.

though sometimes it's when

they think they're only going

for a swim, do they drown.

that might be also what they're

meant to do.

it has only begun, this embryonic

shadowplay--an art that promises

to search and destroy.

lines like pavement cracks where rain got in

will be writ--the seepage of what was

suddenly cut off from clouds.

one by one, the Terrible One must account

for rain gone wrong, where all will be revealed.

at first cryptically, then literally.

a silhouette will disintegrate like pepper flakes.

a bridge made of flowers

lures travelers over

dark waters.

where they come apart--

given to ways that come

into their own color.

decorous stretches where

bodies float, and scents

pleasantly scream.

Ophelia's revenge.

as the frames wound down,

singling and singling out...

becoming uncomfortable

with our dance--you began

to forget how to move with me.

losing your commitment to the

necessary motions.

~Thus~

i offer you a volatile twirl, readily

volunteering to be a bad dancer.

so our leave may be taken of one

another.

poetry is not

a frugal matter...

it's like being at a

Greek wedding where

plates are smashed and

money is thrown.

at the two birdies wing

to wing.

have you been quickened

enough, to see what takes on a life of its

own?

united in a mirrored

hallway just for You?

then growing cold enough with divide  to

breathe on a mirror that stepped out

of what showers upon you?

reaching out your pointer finger to write,

just write--on the eye sockets of glass?

sure you halve.

when you commit

words enough, you

break down their meanings.

you love them thru the hack.

faithfully smoothening

that roughened patch.

heartfelt defense of gibberish.

babying the baby.

truly placing the birthplace

of a poet.

biographia.




'

configuring pieces make

me laugh...guess I'm loose

in the dome.

Mikey boy, do me a solid and

tighten up those figures of

yours.

make sure it stays on the up

and up, here's my open arms

just in case.

sometimes you speak so

directly to one another...

you come to speak indirectly.

just to backtrack what knew

not a jot of difference.

then comes the extraordinary

strength of that man, that

woman.

coming together to part at all

times.

for as long as it holds.

splashes of craziness paint

the blood of the wine--

blotch and splotch a bed

tirelessy made and unmade.

love's fevered rouse bolting

up, bones not knowing what

hit them.

scratch that--they know what

hit them, hence the craziness.

do you have the

chops to be with

The Word as it dies?

poet a race human--

imbedding a chest...

left  to its own devices.

let it alone.

spoon feed me digestible

moosh...baby me.

all i ask is that you look

into my eyes like your

life depended on it.

then we can have something

for once.

where your foregone movement

might make me hold your hand.

strong enough to be beat to death

by memory.

they'll be no attestation

to the fool hitting gold--

seeing where you didn't

know you were coming

from.

dons The Kid's shades...

cutting up the bellies of

water to prophesy.

there's no refutation of

the truest born.

if you ever dared to watch

it go on...you might not

be here.

i wonder at the flower cut

at the stem, whose unresponsive

sheath of bloom's pulled inward.

how longing dies of patience.

her head dipped in sunlight with

imperceptible touches of fade--

magnified green stub in limp water.

my melting fingertip upon her curling

petals, raising her chin for a moment

there.

we exchange all we sourly miss, windows

away--with what shines through.

Bugsy Siegel walked

unto Vegas' desert and

saw: "Twenty dwarves

doing handstands on the

carpet."

then scratched his *****--

knowing he could rig dust

before it comes back to itself.

suckers aren't docile, they

only if only think big.

the glass half empty

welcomes a ghost--

to walk its rim.

round and round

without end.

having stopped

drinking when

half full.

for fear of such

a haunting transparency.

the retaining half allows

for its existence.

rather than the cup quenched

of philosophy.

Bodhisatva's know

best.

G*d fordid they should

breathe the breath

of the detail that precludes

them one wrung shy

of ascendancy.

they'll make loyal disciples

of their delusions.