it's June###

(if you lie awake,

trying to pronounce June,

in NYC).

****-whacked by flies.

a handball court taking

pains to paint both wall to ball--

black and white.

halved in cold heat on impact.

with a glop of grey.

sparing players with a stroke.

as the backs of blue buses melt

and bumble, into a wealth of streets.

sanitation blowing those types of kisses.

with wheels going round and round,

de-ranged with reup and rot.

what is it to watch

a single green leaf

become a Geisha...

reflecting the sunlit

transparency of another

leaf?

as if it were her own

silhouette.

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.

calling all nyc empaths,

whose mindspace's

grating like a subway overpass.

the noisome level of this ghostabout,

whose reminiscence slithers against the

doors of Passover.

booming rushes with no hour,

a freak composer sounding

down poised instruments.

with invisible motions.

the acoustics of darkened stages steadily

stirred by an incredible silence.

of a growing audience meditating

without distraction.

a tawny meat grinder pours

a lion away--serengeti stains.

a geographic mismatch thoroughly

named.

making the current burn of a sun

accountable--of forgettable reds.

the girth of abomination--made right

by incontinent law.

a fellowship of claws--subdividing

weight.

only to realize what it takes to weigh

anything.

granular stink--superlative scratches

fed to rifts of pixilation.

lost footage between padded paws--

periodically indifferent to flies.

Where others beat--
you touch...
a beautiful order.
Put in motion
when neither you,
nor I were looking.
We accused one other
of being godlike at the
same time.
As all is well remained
in the present tense, till
further notice went
unnoticed.
Some call it peace.

there's an emphasis on

hands melting like the

wax of unlit candles.

reaching out.

the stifled coughs of a

pew's darkness  can be

heard, along with the

smell of freshly baked

bread.

Rembrandt works his way

through a crowd, to where

icons live in paint.

with no need of restoration.

all rights reserved...

"Beau Is Afraid".

Ari Aster's idiosyncratic

interpolation,

of: "Hereditary".

writer/filmmaker.

who spoke of its gestational

period (in an interview).

ninth to the month.

immuring a pop up watchtower.

unbricking shapely shadows,

that refuse to puzzle over

the downtime of words.

space has always heard disembodied
voices--then mouths eventually
opened with shocks of sound.
when that involuntarily comes across,
incantations are dwarfed--meaning to.
as if through a corresponding row of
numbers, that give way to unlikey
shapes that compliment one another.
a cluster of grapes resting on the hip
of a naked woman, lying on her side.
light-canceling curtains purporting
the birthplace of darkness, net
motions loose as color left scheming.
though nothing stirs--per se.

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.




'

seated by the bedside of a

said street...a flower girl hunkers

down a misreading of color, that

claims family to spring's own.

Chaplin fidgets takes--wala, and it's

ramifying  light years in black &

white, yin and yang proposing to

one another at the same time.

rumpus of a penguin-footed mage.

production costs haunted by the

obsessive revisitation of a moment in

time, that only the right take could

liberate.

rheumatoid arthritis of bad directions,

as skyscrapers nicked by forwarding

motion.

a car door interrupts soundlessness.

the syllable of a first fold--emitting off a local

screen.

Charlie's obstinacy from the first flit of onscreen

voices.

the flower opens...the flower girl smiles.

more overpoweringly than she weeps.

supposedly confusing Charlie's purchase,

offering change to an unwitting elderly gentleman

that enters a car whose door slams, startling

cinematic history.

too spare for the things she thought she

couldn't see...

as it were, Charlie could not abscond

from the blind flower girl.

he actually fired and rehired the same

actress.

she finally doused him with a flower ***,

as he attempted to sit beside her.

a google earth stalker hovered &
zoomed in on localities that predicted
his frequency like an equated John.
fanatically checking for refreshed images--
that he may feature as an action shot of
undiscovered talent.
the quirky habituation of her long distance
fix, a savant's out-of-body experience.
a rendezvous' autopilot, more accurate than a
dreamt address--a gooey **** driving fingernails
into tight fists.
despoiling the lifelines of palms, eyelids cracked
open like blinds voyeuring on the closed door
policy of the indecent.
now she jams her zipper, while hopping in &
out of bed with self-mythology.
alone with her body, or alone with another body.
she's back on google earth again, fastidiously
searching for an appropriate potter's field.

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.

at an underground club's

coat check--a crow's ticket,

stubs a raven's number.

a raven's ticket, then stubs

a crow's number.

their coatrack boasts avian

extinction.

dungeonesque clanking, subterranean bass
shadowing his 6ft. nine in. horror-addled gait.
the bizarro treble of: decapitation/necrophilia/
dismemberment, introduce Ed Kemper to spaces
he lays comparative disproportion to.
neck like a Great Dane, drowsy bookish eyes
smeared behind circular glasses, decisive comb-over,
& walrus mustache.
his intelligence quotient test herded him where
geniuses reportedly dwell.
monstrously sidestepping from where things can't be
measured--murdering his mother & her friend, along
with six female co-eds (not to mention his grandparents
on a prior youthful conviction).
now imagine Ed, plain old Ed--taking a load off in a
soundless recording booth in prison.
clearing his throat & reading into a microphone--
hypnotically translating into a cavernous monotone.
jarring the listener to heightened attention with emphasis--
seventeen audiobooks were recorded by Ed Kemper for:
The Blind Project.
how ironical for such an elocution to bleed through--
in this way.

as parks take very long walks

of their own, spring can't seem

to recover from Her confession.

way up there with an extremely

changeable blue, entangling Siamese

twin kites.

where she devours color--dragging

out fresh kills offering life.

what's plain sight of a clap of thunder--

over riled steads of land.

then comes the softest rain of be-fanged

Buddhas slipping from branches.

downed and open mouthed--keeling over,

to resemble what is Realized.