an almost normative nonchalance to his
absurdism--as if it's just fine because he's
doing it.
there he was, making good on what was
not--rather than what was there.
wala's quick brush of a gestured once-over, where gravity sank.
left pinky claw in his mouth, with the false modesty of a centerfold.
the frills of nausea knotted by abject terror & stage fright paralysis, was the confection of his presence.
buddy boy Beelzebub standing in the living room like: 'what do you think?'
a red-light district glow about him, Tartarean yarn's hypertrichosis, curly Tim Burtonesque horns.
unhealthy *****-colored eyes, with
see-no-evil reptilian slits & fangs that ate
their punchline.
he just stood there--coring out a cave of
grandiosity, then leapt to the refrigerator.
turned it on its head by tapping his claws on the freezer door, a little hunger strike.
grabbed the magnet of a Monarch Butterfly, forced a few flits & dropped it
on the floor as with the lot of them.
tip-hooved back into the living room & said: 'the lamp's bulb in your study needs changing--it's been driving me bat-**** crazy, I need you to see clearly so I can manipulate your knowledge.'
'Pretty soon you'll have two pulses & two heartbeats.'

the seizuring digits of a grade school  

calculator, forgotten in a pouch put away

for storage.

as the half man/half butterfly morphosis of a Zen

master disturbs the meditation of his master's,

master.

being cut clear in half with his stick, through the

manicured flatness of sand granules retracing

their distinctive sounds.

while they adhere to its rigidity.

time can not apportion

her inelegancies--

know which baby to

steal candy from.

until her framework

of anesthetizing voids

take numbness aback--

with the succor of the

sweetest candy left to

the devices of a baby.

Shiva's central

obsession is being

touched by the

color blue.

open or closed

books chanting

blue.

staunch memorization.

chanting the color blue.

wherein, whereby...

meta-phors sleep with

their eyes open.

the walls

fold neatly

like a napkin

on a  prepared

table.

spoons resting

more indifferently

than knives that

will cut meat.

there's a tower for every watcher,

you're not the only one that sees--

i mean right from where you see.

forget behavior modification reduced

to paranoia-- you're observationally

angulated to a star.

you & a priest may stroll around a dim

screen in your minds, while the priest

guesses who you are.

just as a guard may be picking at his

cuticles while the necks of prisoners

needlessly tingle.

what is it that feels watched--from

genitalia to 665 secrets cutting a key for

the next & last?

the Panopticon creates a surveillance

pressure cooker--which's rudimentary

compared to the supernatural.

who doesn't like a tablecloth

whose interim offers a hand

of marinara sauce--

familia style, sighing before

a spread?

Joe Gallo face-planting a

rhetorical question outside

of: Umberto's Clam House.

he dug beat poetry...

& keeping a lion in his

basement.

drills shrilly nosed into plywood

as storefronts were shuttered along

the walkway.

hazy tapwater sunlight diluted the

dogwood tree planted at center.

as a patch of pigeons were thrown

above it, whose wings became black

sticks across its white blooms.

frantically searching for the old man that

would normally feed them.

up ahead that brolic, mustachioed Puerto Rican

street vendor has been unstapled from the

sidewalk--his unheard cadences hustling the

numbers off watches.

Tower and eidolon, three and a half

times removed--stand still of no man's

land, coiled up in The Alone.

Parashakti...consort, companion, partaker


of Shiva laid down upon her uninhabited


hermitage, and watched as she sleeps.

the way water surrounds the brinks of land--

eating at its sides.

Shiva...tower and eidolon, emptying aloneness

into aloneness.

upon the third distillation, emptiness tears in half.

a half removed from three times.

as Shiva sinks the centers of Oceans that circumambulate

his Ajna, overhanging a crescent moon as a beacon

risen Again.

A peach swallows three dimensionality

to the pit, to peach thus.

White heat sensuously cleaved, then

bound tight.

A searching rash that overspreads

yellow-orange/orange-yellow, too slow

for pounding juice.

The indomitable ruler of unseen flesh--

that loves the teeth it never conceived of.

Resting on a lace napkin driven to

accentuation--on a cream wood kitchen

table.

the razor's edge of a

blackening wave rises to

spread its salt apart...

finely slicing a sky with

no particular height.

as an errand boy of

nothingness is fitted for

a crown.

hyphenating light

in a breaking Heart.

the softening gyres

of silence...comely as

balloons around the

wrists of tree limbs.

reviewing the terrible

pull of a string let go.

a deflated head made

of color.

spotted by a solitariness,

that wind rushes away

from.

as it moves it.

more business woman than


poet, the whole corpus of said


poetry shows an assessor.


more project than passion.


clandestinely checking  in to see


if coexistence with your supposed


unconditional one may be profitable.


the real poet stands by their words


nomatter what.

soak her in...adjusting her ***

on her tHrOnE, biting her nails

and masking the mask.

kicking away like a newborn

Christ, modeling the couple--

rallied, tinseled, and ribboned

round by the support of family

and friends.

spine sending apologetic signals

all over the place, both friendly and

unfriendly radio stuff.

as a patch of snow splats and

melts on her crown.

yes, This is Christmas...

a sensorial Kingdom transpired

along: Ocean City, Maryland.

its village shops rang the bell of

a scent that any verity of incense &

ginger, long to touch.

shelved starfish, baby sharks in a

jar, (blue-eyed) along strung shells

in the shape of a spiral cone.

twirling.

a quartet

plays across a

horsehair.

(you can't even

see the bow coming).

despite the bloomage

of attendant instruments.

the sandy smoke of the

moon, explodes with waves

that rose above dark water.

spreading the ruffled shells

of Japanese fans.

fluttering the nucleic pearls

of her crystal *****.

I read me, she shows.

a rumpled gentlemen with his head on a desk--
the bent light of his mind snaps with an
aberrative upthrust.
Goya's: "The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters"--
as bats fall to fly with a staggering jaggedness, the
twilight goes underground.
they're a flexuous miasma above the gentleman's head,
or like snakes climbing the glass of an aquarium.
a leathery dark with a bald purple gleam, smoked
clean through.
reveals the wickedly behooved whites of eyes,
expanding with what will be consumed.
this kind of sleep does more than warm death over,
the sleeper is made to watch himself do things--with
no electric blue escape route.

the whiff of a prize pig on a

dank, misty morning--corn stuck

in your teeth.

let us make a shroud of that mist

as your intent, minus mystery.

the pudge of situatedness superseding

promises.

squeals of self-love slobbering on

squeals of self-hatred, the later

should be your siphoning state.

dis-gus-ting...

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.

untrue north's

chronic darkness

sinks into the

soft spot of the

newborn savior's

skull.