clay boutonniere

in a kiln.

plague doctors in

beaked masks--

retrieving the semblage

of a carnation.

with golden sporks

the size of spatulas.

split three & a half ways.

prattling beaks.

untrue north's

chronic darkness

sinks into the

soft spot of the

newborn savior's

skull.

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.

you find a completely empty picnic area--
showing up dressed as a widow.
black kerchief wrapped around your head--
tied at the chin, a predominance of cheeks
with a buggy-bulge of purple horn rim glasses.
barefoot with a black dress on, obscuring
splatters of sweat: back/*******/paunch.
holding an ice sculpture of a fruit basket on a
ninety degree day.
you spread a white sheet & set it down, as
large ants congregate on this succulently
carved chunk of ice.
you then get naked, save for the black kerchief--
as if undergoing a strip search in prison.
sitting Indian style--chanting the sutras of an
emotional *******, while periodically licking
the melting fruit basket to sate your thirst.
until one of the large ants bites your tongue.

at unevenfall The Usuper snaps

open a stripped black umbrella, anticipating

an ocean of rain.

downed hard, underneath his half-bit face, Bacon's

1946: "Painting".

layed down for the groundswells of buoy bells.

his heavy footed dance discombobulates

the chest of tides, thickened to molasses.

clawing inlets that flash the Stygian

wounds of his sands.

between the prow

lowering its head and

raising it--the absurdities

of individuality overtake

the deck.

indeed the boat must be

drunk.

absorbing dissolution while

floating on it.

tainted bird nests

in shred-house ciphers.

sallow backlit terraces

of skied lines, wind up

wind.

jack n the box buildings--

melee incongruities.

abandoned workzones on

every other corner.

this outward ****** that visits

us--after cold buckles when its

interminable rites have been read.

this visitor--right from the heart,

going right for the heart...throws us

into that central fire.

April is concomitant with the abrupt

feel of flame, all dormancy goes up.

an exhaustive compilation of

audio skips, left on replay in an

empty room.

would emptiness scramble for

that room--after the recording ends?

as if reflexively concealing itself from an

entity that suddenly emerged.

a sibilance that broke with no break.

its own recording picking up where the

recording ended.

the way stagnant water resembles a fish

out of water.

Jeffrey Dahmer

scratches at a record.

skipping in a freezer.

as hands touch.

the sudden interest in

gross matter.

the crackle of blackbirds...

between raindrops,

endowing snow.

the final quarter of a drawn

curtain.

the metaphysics of a morning

wound can not be dressed,

the pain is sharp because it is dull.

as if nose to nose with a flamboyant endpoint.

boldface, as with confidences surrounding

its gaping matter.

the not quite of it, the slanting deck of a ship--

with the horizon waving stupidly as

you slide backward.

sea legs, land legs--and the obsessive stickler

that sorts detail to come of a haphazard nature.

by one intrepid discoverer panoramically queasy--

disconsolate and setting.

apologies come in

advance of

movements.

narrows of traits,

waving off silencio~

from the pens of beaks--

overblown to the flock

of a black bird.

come premature spring

shoots ******* on tufts

of wet snow.

sempiternal archways

reifying sound.

a whole body moving--

before it stops and looks

back beneath different

weather.

a banding host, purely

cut off from the

visitation of wind.

The wheat of Elysia is let go's sway--that

drops Aphrodite to her knees.

Where she watches sight spread around

her head, winnowing golden dancers.

No more that they may--they are, about

the girl that's never to go.

Yet goes, in search of the longer way that

brings her out.

Who is heard coming as silence to

silence, which turns over the horizon.

Aphrodite's heart feels as if it's doing a

headstand, with upside-down birds

emptying the contents of the world.

Where she lie, other than the world--

as the perceptor of real space.

She has a craving that expecting

mothers couldn't eureka-mouth together.

Perhaps her most significant

beautification, beginning to see what's

seen in her.

As Aphrodite says to herself: die a

moment, spring forward--after flowers.

I'm still needed, I must go back--how

many times have I done this?

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.

a varmint on an iron bed,

sips at intravenous blood.

while coasting the dining

room ceiling of an abandoned

Antebellum mansion.

aboveground tombs loose at the

tooth, blow humidity.

saturated enough-- to disperse

moisture under street lights,

dense as to wetten the face of

the expired varmint.

an ambrosial garden

giving off remembrances...

the whole lot of seasons to

lifetimes.

scents that trip the turn of a

bloodstone to its inward sun.

the let-go of paradises Christed

to their consciousness, married

to otherness--then no other.

first the feeling of having been

there, then that feeling relieved

of having been anywhere.

do you wipe stardust from your

paws to enter greener pastures?

howling the mixed business of

planets, as matted wool coughs

up your mouth's ****** reading?

your sight black clad in broad daylight--

body monolith grey, split faced.

burning eye peeking from the sides of

trees, forsaken clearing.

evading the sole possession of your

truest fidelity.

nature is a respecter of stealth--until it

is not...enter a greater stealth.

holes dig an abysm--

an abysm digs a hole.

No!

a hole digs an abysm.

where

mounds of ground, seem

imposing as the abysm.

an aboveground abysm

made of holes.

then there was a glossy

pine box--

whose hidden face brings

down what refills.

the snow we received seemed to put all

its effort into indenting an unfinished

paragraph.

something about depressed levity &

footprints.

which called for Chopin's: Nocturnes--

that flapped with yellow caution tape.

which sectioned off a massive burial

mound of Christmas trees, heaped

individualities brushed white in a

parking lot.

how memorably Chopin played to their

lying positions, clean cut stumps sticking

out from weighted litheness.

cut, dressed, posed & tossed--the

overstayed welcome of hysterical

merry making.

one could almost see every single pine

needle in the scent they parted with.

Chopin knew just how to reach them

with his sensitive phrasing, getting into

those frigid hollows awaiting pickup.

a black marker ricochets

in a box.

signifying.

uncapped to the noxious

sweet of vandalism.

an outdated television...

a still of watching.

a split screen triptych

drafted to a finish.

on sight.

an attic box, sniffing a

roof.

stars crust as their facsimiles

bleed through,

twinkling halls of mirrors.

both blind and unblind to the

same reflection--stones warming

to serpents.

all the lights left on, backed by all

the lights left off...

objects are the adjectives of ghosts--
always after common identification,
their cumulative presences.
an altogether unique eeriness,  
generating an intuition that stands for
what they outspan.
museums for ghosts--transfixion to the
extent of becoming that object, whose
power of attraction is equally mysterious.
so much so that the passed on, can pass on--
from unoccupiable time...light replacing a
period piece thought to be current.