it's not up to you what
you're going to see,
sight swears by you...
and means it.
there's the well, there's you--
now draw because you're
thirsty.
you can see all the way down--
a cylindrical depth opens
a dark eye.
which opens a darker one--
the water begins to appear.
washing its wobbling face
to present to yours, circlets
of light peaking dualistically.
body languages, words
placed in conversations, and
silences adhere.
a Rembrandtian lighting descends,
leaves an organic trail of
freeze frame shiftiness.
there you are, there he is,
there she is...hit with the queasiness
of being Seen.

women will

create a wild

to run into...

from barren

love.

to clear the

way.

the light that lights

your world is already

hopelessly in love with you.

the more you fall into

that light, your world

breaks open worlds away.

my dearest know

when to leave me

be--super intelligent

drifts establish real

relationships.

i heap that reciprocity--

upon a sky i call our own,

a rainbow whose arches

pout the smile of simultaneity.

one that

seems to leave us  agreed on the life

we share.

she rests her hand

upon her chest,

and fans her face

with the other one.

standing on a terrace

watching the *** of sea

and sun--her lover at

her melt.

i prop up

against

deep space...

strumming its

blackout

chords.

to avail visuals

of sound.

heartbroken waves

washing away~

the build up of silt
in this riverbed,
primed the overflow.
as a hit nerve channeling
itself, scribe to nuances
of ground.
in a rush of emendations
attempting to free will.
sharp as an accusatory
finger point, then handfuls--
things get asymmetrically torn
in half.

you're shivering...
come in from the
warmth--
arch the doorway
with your halo.
flies are filling with
white ink--
minding the curve.
rebreaking open.
grant, grant, grant--
is not a command!
purple planting purple.
you're as perfect as
rainbow-fizz on a
churning limb.
Bardo-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do.
March means makeup--
caked characterizations
filling the colors of roles.
my best line ripped to
shreds.
rending wash of razoring
edges.
(((stay with we))).
can you remember
the first
time
paths
crossed
without
knowing
they were
parting ways?
fine.

as windows come up for air,
dimmed by the depths of
dust.
vases draw clear distinctions
of water, before a handful of
stems shatter their illusions.
all to clarify flowers, and what
a clarity.
it's there among them, standing
alone in a crowd...April finds
herself.
she's utterly disoriented at the
height of her powers.
she's welcome wherever she may
roam, so it takes a while.

i'm a hectic creature--

revived with splashes of dust.

i listen to hollow wood-knocks

crawl kingdoms not to come.

i smother the flute, slash the lute--

wave off the wine.

lick-out the candles whose almond

flames punctuate the succulent feast.

i lay under that long wooden table,

hand in hand with dark...patient as

bacteria.

listening to rats chew, then burst

out into hysterical laughter.

sending those bubonic slicksters

crashing plates--jolting forks, knives

and spoons...scummy fur on end.

to no end.

shinin' rain fallin'

from a cataract blue...

blind ends on down.

Modigliani's eyes

of Jeanne Hebuterne.

lost in a forehead's

kiss...her eye made

single.

the lamp that lit the

canvas.

it's strange--

like dancing together

after the music's stopped.

miles apart.

the sound of a house

settling, alienated furnishings

binding together for a home.

the dance slows, anticipating

hesitation.

intuiting those that crammed

fear into uninhibited space,

for some measure of step.

control.

so she stretches her neck to

get a glimpse of him as if in a

crowded room--feeling virtually

smothered.

he never loses sight of her...it's how

she'll trust in being drawn to him.

The Furies
break the rain's fall,
for a drink to spring.
opening wide with
predatory accuracy.
hungering more than
hungering things.
to blush their pallid
cheeks, with a hint of
life.
this go round, of this
elemental ploy--gathered
thus.
as above ground, blades
of grass may be bent,
certain with intent.
the vengeance of direction,
nonplussed by deed done.
a harrying net thrown upon
worms parading as flowers.
the close quarters of winter's
spring breeds both ways.
the napes of flowers bristle.

when moments halve

their eye, to leer from

a corner.

when mirrors change

out of their glass, without

shardy sounds of motion.

is heard the shuffling of

feet.

neither hurried, nor harsh--

a teacher smoothly guiding

an eraser through a world

of chalk.

feet solid enough to cut a

spider's line, and transparent

enough not to cause contrast.

a tone dials itself...

(burred vertebrae)

just another ghost

looking for a pawnshop.

cruelty is a fascinating ability--

a self-injurious extension.

a need to broaden the pain.

instead of harnessing it till

it becomes unbelievably beautiful.

akin to loving arms around a spasmodic fit...

if it breaks

loose and hobbles away.

let it do it's thing, maybe next

time then.