a six story door,
made of compressed wood--
darkish brown.
upright & unhinged.
shantytown openness.
riddled with keyhole
porousness.
no doorknob.
warped with catalogued
moisture.
a dust pile of bricks
resounding its architecture
in a tumbleweed breeze.
a pod of suns swaying overhead,
like 70s billiard lamps after a
brawl.

Jeane-Baptiste Grenouille,

hypocritizes nostrils--till not.

a trifecta of le parfum:

Vieux Boulogne, dispensed by

Halitosis over a stony low tide

at eleven-hundred degrees.

a la corps (ego doner).

an optician runs a light over

a butterfly, enmeshed with

mulch.

a shaft of light emitted from

forest ground, that the sun

knows nothing of.

no more prescient.

than a birdcage flung unto

a wire over an intersection.

its dome rushing its base, its base

rushing its dome.

a lattice of bars that are struck as

they strike.

hung against the contrastive

sky of Giorgione's: The Tempest.

overbleached flies

kickstart empty space--

recalling the aerodynamics

of UFOs.

thru the buffered streaks of a

living room window, creating

an oddly euphoric tension in

a neutral observer.

Leucothea applies Bavarian cream

to her paired slit, tending to it with

the waning crescent of no moon.

as oval handheld mirrors base the

trim of their metals on the philosophy

of ornateness--perhaps Gold.

gripped by nymphs, whose fingers

flicker off when oceanic shatters

gurgle up from temple steps.

a swan slowly swims

across her proportionate

lake.

extends her neck across

it.

nods her head, without

drying off--& disappears.

a mattress wrung

like a sponge--

dreamt concord

between symbolic

peoples.

coolly half past, a

roman numeral.

twisting the compass

needle of a humming

bird's beak.

trumpeting the wakeup

call of a flower.

holes dig an abysm--

an abysm digs a hole.

No!

a hole digs an abysm.

where

mounds of ground, seem

imposing as the abysm.

an aboveground abysm

made of holes.

then there was a glossy

pine box--

whose hidden face brings

down what refills.

a poem is committed to memory, as it
scales Mt. Olympus.
gradually disjunctive, abstracting enough
to become lost in the mind of Zeus--a
jealous Zeus.
as its Muse wails for what the poem forgets,
whose balance lie in the height she's composed of.
Zeus knows of this, Zeus watches this.
reciting the poem that committed itself to memory,
in the ears of its Muse, while mock-dancing her.
as the poem is guided by Poet & Muse--to
remember forgetfulness, integral to what pulls it
upward without thought.
scaling an entirety as an entirety, the poem comes to.
Zeus turns a cheek to this, the poem in memory of
the Poet manifests him--at the height of Mt. Olympus.
a lightning bolt leaves Zeus' hand, as Poet& Muse undress.

what if variability,
secondhandedness of perception--
captured the significance of crossing
paths with another animal.
at home.
where food & shelter play nice.
above all else, heir to what's human--
above all else.
more ingenious than a one-to-one basis,
as what stands in place of what stands
in place.
produces masterful portraitures--of what
also stands in place of what stands in place.

it moves--having thrown open

its crusty eyes, unable to see passed

itself.

fat enough to live off itself--another

helping of world, it moves.

by itself, for itself--presence first,

as shamelessness wanders.

a sty within,  relocating to a sty within.

not knowing what's not to be named

of its beasthood, to preserve the absence

of its beasthood.

a glorious revulsion, that as soon eat the

star of the wisemen--once its stomach feels

uncomfortable.

phrenological markups

around a seraphim's

shaved head.

found the contoured unevenness 

of gross neglect--in regard to

human case studies.

after exhaustive High-hand

groping.

subject to the penal code of a

gargantuan pipe *****--where a

single note could signify any number

of years--even before sentencing.

a gypsy has the
horses of her
caravan
sit like
schoolchildren.
while she suckles
on a rabbit foot...
unpacified.
then uses it to
scratch an itch.
taking pleasure in
giving the moon
her evilest eye.

a broken column tilts at a forty five

degree angle--bulging earth at its

base.

its top resembles a snapped femur,

whose opposable reflection streams

along a murky sky.

unaccountably driven to its lone feature,

starkly confessant among a hill's dry grass.

an Orphic marker bowing to the downriver

strum of a lyre, that carries...

a harpy.

silvered & gilded--

feathered & tarred

in an illuminated manuscript.

yay to the irony of feather

weighing down feather,

uglier than awkward.

forced out of a gewy shower

of pitch black.

as said harpy begs flight to fancy

her, from the humiliation of

chance-posterity.

where she's granted with a sloppy

flop onto the page's margin.

down the main aisles of a movie theater,
cranial malformations of popcorn are
crushed.
the brittle knockabouts of a cannibal's
unstrung necklace--left to the ritualized
red of Hollywood's carpet.
the flashlight of a theater attendant stretches
out its beam, to pinned concentrations.
just as the movie screen becomes the bubbling,
gaping hole of burnt film.
the projector let through, flickering back its raw
form.

inappropriate laughter from caches

of silence--

contextually disembodied.

weird people weirded out,

the pressing matter of face-economy.

stuck to its numbing anesthetic, the

unnaturalness of skin snubbing skin.

while on friendly terms.

a gusty whip of pages,

read clear as a

goat's bell collar.

what deflowers snow--

this stack

of monthly grimoires.

broken open

by penetrative invocations.

as leaves slowly begin to

bake.

lightless cessations

underground--pushing

against the crumpled

lightning of roots.

sparking its sensitive

wires that blow open a

casket like a safe.

a cold spot

in a

bottomless

ocean--

can be felt

more often

than not.

there's always another version to put

out--deny identity among the crowd

one generates.

--are you who you say you are?

is the constant question circulated by the

crowd--one to another, as a version of the

same one.

as one would say: peace be with you, in

church--to the ones nearest.

except this is a multiplicitous self-interegation--

which refuses identication, therefore peace.

melancholia loses its voice after

the unbroken rasp of its whispers--

are stripped naked by the oppressive

vapors it possessed to temper.

lordly & nonemergent--walked thru

the walls of its mansion, into rooms

that bear the sound of drizzle.

hallways of bounding sunlight, stunted

by dense clouds.

an inexhaustibly long queue of

devils, decked out with their spin on

evil.

mugging their motherless faces--

all holding a  bouquet of black velvet

flowers.

some noshing on them, some thwapping

the devil in front of them over the head.

filing one by one into a small yinmn blue

room.

to take headshots for sacred auditions.

a table knife files its teeth

across a stale loaf of bread.

left imbedded enough to

be concealed by the crust.

its handle juts out, reharnessing

a grip that is no longer there.

a dusting of breadcrumbs line

both sides of the knife, &

an absentminded return to visibility

on the table.

a clock hanging on the kitchen wall

fixates on this discarded still life--

concentrating its repression.

bending the nail that sends it to the

floor--as an accompanying piece.

a ravening intensity wants an

ongoing plane after peak experience.

there's a lopsidedness that slinks off

what evenly secures bliss.

this faithful deformity starts to show

up earlier & earlier--before arriving.

thru the inevitable dread of what it

will throw off.

there's a tap on dark's back--

ad infinitum.

it always turns around in response.

as if at the edge of a bed--the stimulus

of this gentle touch is the light it can

see coming.

let X=(a sky)=(The Sky)...flying monkeys

clogging it, duress above a forest

canopy.

whacking wings & weighted feet descending

thru the pieced puzzle of top tier leaves.

raining sloshes thrashed with *******--

the sound of their flock's forced entry.

free for all guttural whoops on the forest floor,

formidable wings spread and withdrawn every

which way.

no apprehension of Oz's legendary four to be

had, just a new settlement long after their ruler

turned into a puddle of water.

let X=(a forest)=(The Forest).

eaten by her own stride, city blocks

half-lit as country lanes, her gloomy

covenant with diurnal & nocturnal

coup de grace.

a notch taller than short, stick-thin,

dragging around a hag's last birthday--

face bald as an egg.

tattered habit--cowl over her head...whose

black cloth drapes down as if producing

antiquated photographs of oblivion.

a strong wind gust rips back her cowl--

loosing petals from the cherry blossom

wreath she wears, as it rests crookedly.

as a serpent sleeps ahead of the

departed.

limp under flashes of yellow.

stretched to meet the ground it will

cover throughout its incarnation--

without moving.

its blood icily curled up into drifting

*****, trickled over by warm effluxes.

a stone in its mouth, a rose in its stomach.

peeled away.

this outward ****** that visits

us--after cold buckles when its

interminable rites have been read.

this visitor--right from the heart,

going right for the heart...throws us

into that central fire.

April is concomitant with the abrupt

feel of flame, all dormancy goes up.

stalled light--

a pallid break not to make

day.

forever this--bedridden grey

staring out from the world.

clay roused from cinders--twitching

before disjointed  movements.

similar to 19th century electric

shocks administered to deceased

frogs.

a realm of colorblind variances to

wakefulness--densify the fog of these

peoples.

whose trailing opiates of sleep rapidly

play their eyes beneath lids--smudge marks

on a colorless palette.

wasps scratch at windows with

long poisonous splinters, blanked

backward by a clear barrier.

not often detracted.

sideswiped by illustrated

howls blown as gradients of

emptiness.

spitting sparse raindrops, &

wearing the fragrantly cocktailed

rub of a garment out of doors.

vivid to the sense of smell, as if

brought indoors.

a shadow marionette of an

anthropoid, is controlled by superstrings.

it is bound to the outermost groove

of a blackhole, whose last audible

recording sounds from it.

exclusively sent down to the surface

of deep sea oceans across the earth.

occasionally overawed fisherman will

see the performance of its danse macabre

when dawn's most brilliant.

becoming incontinent when hearing the

extinction of sound via song.

letter block houses form a word--

every time one of its occupants guess the

word death is thinking of.

absurd as in their manner to define--

these naked giants that rise with the salt of

the earth & fall with the rain.

unable to miss one another thru tinsy niceties

& fashionable rags.

hide becomes the operative word, like: applause

to a live audience.

spot-check survival prods at their peace--as auric

toxins coarse & compile like bowel movements.

as if they're put to: The Question by Grand Inquisitors...

tortured until they confess: I'm fulfilled.

an archway with ivy bangs, glass cuts

another archway with ivy bangs.

dangling from the foreheads of a gothic

tunnel.

magnifying feet that have masticated

undergrowth & path.

the metamorphose of a human animal,

whose keenness still rings in the ears--

while ****** into the pressure of the tunnel.

a soundproof & sound-enhancing paradox,

that spacewalks limbs.

coupled with the aerodynamic windbreaks of

cars, riding the back of its modest overpass.

then the emergence to a connective forest

path--as if cleansed before a consequent

afterworld.

a spider's minced eyes--

studded gemstones

whose beaty twinkles

reflect suspension.

immaculately pinned to

the molding that draws

down the line of a corner.

in a room where two walls

meet--the imperceptible

musicality of its web, playing

a number to be consumed.

Botero's ballooning

figurations parade

into Giacometti's studio.

greeted by emaciations

that seem cast in disheveled

breadlines.

as with a vomitus

start from bed--

the melted voices of

the mind moonlighting

the wee hour of a body.

sectioned off from what

retired it--so countercurrents

of alarm may impress

something that has happened.

though not yet.

ruling planets cut thru

the screen of midday's midnight--

juggernauts with blowing foghorns.

super-schizoid percolations of color...

the earth herself posing as a spinning

sitter, whose turns are fed to the

paralytic lucidities of turns that will be.

yet there's no turning to be had, when she

hatches.

the screen suddenly seals--midnight's

midday...& thru the screen's holes

serpentine wavicles enter the potentia

of billions of breathers.

sallow outer shells of lamplight

shiver fragile lines of light--

to the wall.

hardly palatable to the clam juice

residuals of late light, airbrushed

by a rain even more coy than a

fine mist.

as afterbirth-roots are fleshed out

by a chill, insisting on leaping

backward more than a few weeks.

twelve pointed hats

lower over the silver pan

of her High North reclusion.

set down.

she stir fries the vegetative

chants of a clockwork coven.

an aroma fills the forest...

the unachievable balance between

decay & delectability.

the ground/sidewalks/streets

are usually checkered fluctuations

that accelerate into vortical pits.

then are spit out.

as if not being where one is--

consequentially proceeding toward:

having not been.

yet, as it seems currently...the weight

of the entire world settles, & an

existential foothold shoots blocked

information thru the crown.