as flies juggle around

a riff of silence--a beat

is pardoned from time.

those little eyes smiling

at the wind-down of April.

where the tremulo of a

web string supersedes two

tree limbs, and undocumented

little birds stay at beauty's bomb.

a droopy-eyed turtle

dove hangs from a

golden thread by its feet

like a  bat.

cooing to the draftiness

that knocks at the corners

of a room.

inflating the notes of its

tangential silences to cartoonish

size.

a redundant gradient helped to

bursting, by the freshest recruits

of an open crown.

there's an ache for

every ambrosial brick

worked out like a tooth.

so synergistic commons

can band the prolix of

agape...springtime.

among trees a perfect mound

of earth harmonizes deep into

their song.

a break in the thick of them, wild

with survey and anonymity--that

to a faint heart would repeat thereon:

I Am lost.

its dome is consecrated by moon-milk

midnights, reflecting leaves that shadow

a wind that fits and unfits them into

one another.

yet to the fateful one standing thereon

repeats: I Am found.

listening ears forage for pendant

tongues--almost too stingy for

salts of sight, riding a pale horse

of touch.

careening off a cliff where that

pale horse's hooves will timeout

its neigh--digging down at the

porridge of a moonlit clearing.

as trees rebound from their clan--

to close in on the phenomenon of

descent.

root by root, only to look up again.

endowed.

Channel-surfing aisles on various floors

of a library--during a reoccurring dream.

Some sort of active pursuit, along with

knowledge.

The library was at hazard capacity,  

except for when & where I needed

undetection.

The patrons were a cricket invective on

nonlocality, both emanating from &

inhibiting me.

I'm the magnetic pursuant I'm running

from, as I'm repelled forward--everything

in the library is stuck to his/my gaze.

It was as if I commanded: "Get thee

behind me, Satan."--having that already

covered.

Its lighting was like a virus that was

about to possess its host eternally--in

concert with a rainy day.

So figuratively saturated that it was going

to dog-scrap-tear me for its own.

Now as a reoccurring daydream, I pause

to write: imperceptible change astonishes

its sensitivities.

Of all its interminable regulatory rates--

exemplified in the drainage of this black

BIC.

black lip liner

applied by a rose's

flip mirror.

precise enough to

look away--as it

becomes a globe.

puckering smudge

marks on certain

creases.

the weak ancestry of your menstrual
flow leaked its curse under my roof.
as the moon became an aborted
metaphor--a witch left back scavenging
for a grade of being.
making evil little faces with no magical
reserve, froggies caught in your throat.
unintelligibly shrewd pangs clamoring
for screams deep in the sticks.
with a flightless broom dry heaving
between your legs.

a fast has come

where the essentiality

of food, which comes

to mind with all its

delight, is waved off.

for the spine to align

against its brood of corner

walls...and watch night eat

well into day.

nauseous with sight come to

the fore.

an emaciated ego stepped

forth, head to toe

breathing-hole cut in a

life story.

wherein a gilded gold spoon

administered communion

on a host of nights nailed

shut.

warming the belly of the beast--

fattening its ego.

the selfish purview of a pig's

chortle.

a hideousness that could give

breath chills.

insurmountable poems

lie as scarred breastplates

on a fateful hilltop.

spryly gleaming--when

hit by decisive light.

viscera of ochre.

intentions are breaking their

backs while paving hellish paths.

the best of not saying at the height

of meaning, with no where to go.

even too final for the last push.

intersecting like crosses with

light speed visions of forsakenness.

wrought with the motions of what

is promised to pass--but does not.

left with the inability to sit with

breath, nor the poems it generates.

(craggy scowl)

come again!!!

Florestan's pithy down

the gullet of a dungeon.

cohabitation of echoes,

already taken in.

flesh made of their pliant

ghosts.

wie dunkel es hier ist.

notata van Beethoven--

rewrite of Fidelio.

naysay of no sound

entering.

you who know of me,

& approach by virtue

of a circle--for communicatory

purposes.

write it down, so music will

eventually leap off the page.

an ether glove-glow

solidifies around

your hand.

as you catch a

fortune cookie.

the eephus pitch

of  a master.

Western frontiers

bite early, arisen

colors on the Northeast.

(film development).

a landscape drawn out

flawlessly.

as the Atlantic chants thru

the summit meeting of trees--

baring antlers.

whistling a clap after they're

blown thru.

the drawn parallels of birds...

their countercurrents of flow

colored, stark visibilities.

their patterns recognized against

blue seals being opened.

inherent flights always equidistant

to the distanceless, their lifelong calls...

nondifferential songs composed

by other lifelong calls.

an inmost vibration made common,

thus recognized...returned from

branches that fall and regrow.

as if pointing the way.

those malevolent

mittens of botched blood —

reaching out from the pungent

dusk that paints its

locket of twilight.

neck-deep in childhood…

detached from a mazy

network of breath.

bridging the gap of far gone —

with the intermittent

dress-up of a ghost.

stealing into an abandoned

rusty tool shed, peeled

from the scalp of a

backyard.

filling it with baby jars

of soil — damp with

boyhood touches made dark.

now cursing with the tongues

of worms.

embalming the stillness

of a premature leaving —

an act too solitary to

be re-committed.

grass shaken from dust,

a windup box, a perimeter

of playtime.

now punished by that punctual

occurrence —

with a daily limitlessness.

Vermeer tried to

capture, an exorbitant

pearl.

rounding off a grain

of salt.

noble efforts churn.

what i willed was to have said

nothing--made not a sound.

allow words to gain full trust

of their master, yet when the

wound opened all their mouths,

they spoke out of turn from silence.

even though there was nothing

but truth in what cruelty they

formed--i must return them to

their silence knowing compassion.