a raven is stitched as

with the leatherbound

trackwork of a baseball.

its beak is like a mangled

dagger, resembling uncut

fingernails for a lifetime.

its eyes are enlarged tapioca

*****, bursting milky residue.

it perches on tree roots--as

it suckles on soil & attempts

to rip its wings from underworld

mending.

the thick of thick,

thickens---the thin of

thin, thins.

as said, in all--as a tree.

as trees.

subject to inkblot cavities of nightly

bluffing.

encompassed by wind--

what the invisible relies on

as a sound which's more

than a single sound.

boar by name, inscrutable.

bit off its mouth, with its mouth--

to get to an apple seated on its

drooling tongue.

enchambered by tusks...violent

snap jaw breaks thru eyepopping

****** paralysis.

somewhere between spit & silver platter...

game & fixings.

the boar was wrenched from the terminus

of sleep--to put back to sleep the festivity

of its flesh.

once made aware of it.

the sound of grainy footage

popping like rice crispy treats--

as time says: ahh.

these open vaults that spare no

detail, change underlying with

permanence.

easily recognizable neighborhood

composites, cramming a wink

with volumes of standing impressions.

the genesis of a:

Crandall Typewriter,

hits its ornamental lettering

in its cathedral.

retouches of frozen fingertips--

made to return to those irresistible

keys.

nook, silken tap--a decisive rake of

blent sound.

seepage of ink on crisp paper.

the sun squares off the tiles of northern

European roofing--with the bucking

prims of tucked shadows.

the shred-throat jellied gurgles of

starlings, rehashing into piercing tweets

throughout the whitening gold of dusk.

the central tutelage of a silence, outlined

by sounds of inbreaking traffic.

there's an ache for

every ambrosial brick

worked out like a tooth.

so synergistic commons

can band the prolix of

agape...springtime.

a string of diamonds liquify

from the film of one less sky--

its absence emptying jewel boxes.

subsiding hushes that return

right before they permanently

fade--as the process automatically

resumes.

slant elegancies of gently ground

diamonds, trying on rain from window

to mirror.

a phosphene vase

draws itself--with

a pastel outline of:

violet purple/jade green/

ochre orange.

Venus' long fuchsia legs

kicking out from its lip.

as she takes root--headfirst.

a fire the height of a mountain

experiences insomnia on a bed

of ash.

imagine if that mountainous fire

were split in half--verticality met

with an ashen horizontality.

which provides for a Dantesque

floodgate of ascending & descending

beings.

during the: Teatro alla Scala's

opening night (August 3, 1778).

Antonio Salieri's opera:

L' Europa rinconoscuita, a

chandelier so happened to

crash down...because all the

attendees were staring out at

one another with binoculars.

at the same time.

a ten foot sasquatch in

Montana's wilderness

listens to Beethoven's: Fifth.

he once found it an open

dumpster in town.

it was a pair from the 80s--

tomato-red in color, those

cottony earmuff-size ones

they used to produce.

he's swaying back & forth,

throwing around his massive

meat-hooks, the way that great

composer would.

Van Gogh's: Yellow House

was one of the coziest dwellings

of all time.

everything was touched with a

warmth, not to mention his

brilliant usage of Japanese

print coloration.

handheld as if infirm...

& helped away--

the period of an endstory

keeps dotting itself.

whilst grinning profusely.

there was something to

sidestepping a book of:

Yellow Pages.

on a scratch of sidewalk--right

after a long soaking.

that yellow tome stuffed with

contacts--wanting to crumple

like a napkin.

no helium...a full-bodied, hundred foot

Frankenstein.

drunkenly leaning forward--with hands

that look as if they're set to strangle.

guest-appearing at: Macy's Day Parade.

ill-fitting black suit jacket, overblown

shoulder pads--spewing said hands at the wrist.

prominent fade marks at the back, that spread

down to highwater black pants.

meeting 19th century Dutch clogs.

two-ton screws spinning in his temples.

his stitches splitting apart, against plum-purple

confetti...

analogous smears

of last-seen birds,

on the headband of

dusk.

wrapping around

a dispensing third eye.

Da Vinci's thrice-grace

inkage, of a likened

fetal-pod.

supplanted in care

of a belly.

overly still with the

behavior of pain.

readying for this world.

sure heirs to confusion--

form a majestic, medieval

circle.

saunter met with danse.

the plot shifting floorboards

beneath their feet.

to the lute of John Dowland.

underground concatenations...

distending draperies.

writhing mammons shrouded

with spittle.

horrified & horrifying unction.

phosphorescent bruises issuing

above ground.

oriental porcelain--

of Van Gogh's: "Blue Irises".

run on fields, overthrowing

horizonal curvatures.

a lily pad spreads

like a blanket over  

a baby.

page book synopsis...

cloisters of illustration.

peculiar lolling in a

rattler.

the creaking bars of

a crib...too tractless

for a tale.

though treasured.

an ashen-blond

maiden, with locks

down to her ankles.

bluish-grey-green

eyes, rarer than their

rocks.

is flung out of a pile of

emulsified leaves--to the

flourishes of an arch.

into a sink's basin, large

enough to be a bathtub.

strumming the eights of

cobwebs...she tears out her

heart, & begins scrubbing

it frantically.

until her hands dissolve to

her elbows.

a free horse

offering its back

to a chief.

as mane & headdress

go mad with the force

of a direction.

Native America~

the rocking booths

of arcades.

rated: R, by pheromonal

happenstance.

inboxed: 17, at full capacity.

pacman & stale popcorn--

that gushes butter down

pipelined necks.

matchmaking with

Elio's pizza--dude!

an eighty-year-old strand

of hair.

dyed purple...too west for

its coast.

every jammed quarter's a

pit boss.

David Lynch banging his

57-Chevy fore-lock, against

glass that contains Wednesday's

bacon.

stealing out of the glass of

a corner store.

candy store--such betrayable

headspace, baggable sugar.

shoot...

seven times the

most natural light...

under the three-count

of a dark spot.

stolid panels

record the tantamount

whisps of a paintbrush.

the nervous punctuality...

of a cherry blossom

reascending the stasis of

its petals.

in the throat of early March.

Long Island is a spellbinding

piece of topography.

twin-forked onto the tongues

of a northern Atlantis.

as if St. John spread a puddle

renowned for its light.

ripple-proof.

a vaporous sheep,

unnervingly  

speeds across peripherality.

manifest as a thing

effacing a productional line--

blurbing black.

in a commotion of energy.