a ravening intensity wants an

ongoing plane after peak experience.

there's a lopsidedness that slinks off

what evenly secures bliss.

this faithful deformity starts to show

up earlier & earlier--before arriving.

thru the inevitable dread of what it

will throw off.

a jittering small white feather

set to the tip of a branch.

seen through the derelict watch

of unclean windows.

the tractionless, extra light scratches

of a waterbug on the wooden floor.

the monstrous ingression of traffic

heard in a truck's gasp-growl.

we're waiting for confirmation:
something has happened, its movement
already went thru what braces for it.
spun hands over praying mouths--
a finished dark pushed all the way back
& then some, held up to itself.
where a treeline fills in its watchful deepening, as it's pulled downward.
ankle-high smoke comes out with the
audacity of ****, ripped away from
starving fire.
a drawf rolls out of a playing card, to
measure dimensions.
wearing a jester's hat with no bells--
his field of vision gadging his height,
interlocks with curious fear.
tracing around the wickedness that was
recently there.
wind up hares ***** up their ears & fall
on their sides.

as holiday lights are relegated to festivus,

or the process of elimination--the eyeing

discomforts of the last to go.

there's evening air traffic--which implies

congestion, accurate in the sense that a

plane brings the sky with it.

a double negative, straightening out how

it should sound--from how it sounds.

the outdistance of a thing that shouldn't

be there, that's nothing but there.

the spiking rondure of a printless blurb

from reel to reel, as spot-on

abandonments of sky.

sky--the unabandoned.

where does that leave the hearer?

upon hearing the magnificence of

counterintuition upon hearing.

ice too is structured, I have witnessed its
appalling unbrokeness for longer than I
care to recall.
as with the guiding principles of
silverware, conversation should follow.
any misapplication would be as rude as
one cut off midsentence.
the mark of polite society is cultivated facade without imposition, hitchless
ritualism.
****** muscles uncramped of miseries,
poise is how stock is measured.
yet there's Michelangelo's: David, even
more poised with his pecker's forbidden
talking point.
tonight we exchange the currency of one
year for another--as the fog goes about its
yellow life.
no yellower than these so tight-lipped
about teeth.
the first time it happened, tobacco smoke
stratified layers of breath, cologne & perfume--letting fall delinquent unwash.
they all spoke at once, their features grew till they were competing panoramas.
as if they continually crawled out & came
for me with their airless truths.
how I learned to see with one eye, use the
opposite hand natural to me, balance on
one foot--to disalign with their choreography.
I increased that split second, I lingered upon it, caught others stitch a seam.
I saw the easeful converse of skulls make
stark headway, stiffly tolerant of arms left
raised in toasts.
the polished hatred of servants complimentary with movement & stationariness.
fool, martyr, poet--isolate any of the above & I will be indistinguishable from them.
it is I who lowered my guard, not they--throwing my nerves into the pools of impregnable circles.
hard at the art of hearsay, a one to one with a King--one with no dynastic
trickledown.
I drank from that chalice on New Years Eve--white flannel trousers rolled up.
masticated peach in my stomach, my ankles cuffed by a shoreline's puzzle piece.
splashed in the face by a mermaid's tail,
as to revive me from an undreamt year.

emerging cowls from densifying

mists, hanging around featureless faces.

instantly recognizable strangers

of pain, walking barefoot on snow.

leaving footprints that stalk that

downy white straight to the hearth.

givers and bearers of all its variety--

shattering circulations of its lifeblood,

cold to the touch.

they come for those whom they come--

without exception, and are known for

all that they are.

a mind (non-possessive) offered

a body (possessive) the unco

outgrowth of the following.

writing left to right about a heart

hung like the skinned head of an

unseen animal.

its long bath slowly drained--

staring down at sawdust like gold

shavings.

it is both true & untrue to say a

heart will not rot in a chest.

she's on a saint kick...

ready to take in another's

spit rolling down her cheek

as a sensory experience.

hard-soft bud detachment.

therein lie the greatest entanglement--

being nothing without pandering to

the stripes of motions.

is One for The Ages.

what if variability,
secondhandedness of perception--
captured the significance of crossing
paths with another animal.
at home.
where food & shelter play nice.
above all else, heir to what's human--
above all else.
more ingenious than a one-to-one basis,
as what stands in place of what stands
in place.
produces masterful portraitures--of what
also stands in place of what stands in place.

Himalayan projection screen,

undulant sea tones brushed by

silken zephyrs.

devoted parameters of mind,

stroked wide open by jasmine.

a yogi's hands coming together

at the chest, at the forehead, over

the crown.

Ganga fore-tears in tumults of white,

precisely when she was given to flow.

Shakti pregnant with afterglow,

lifegiving--unbroken in labor.

I photoed a clod of earth shaped like

the sole of a sneaker, on macadam

asphalt.

An artifact made palpable by the

swarmy crush of gravel.

Left to harden, as its sneaker went

off to something far more particular

by design.

How reality comes across.

the grand inquisitor

of magick--leaves no

trace of stardust in its

pockets.

to say bagged particulates,

is an understatement.

freed to backhand speeds

of light.

imagine receiving a

summons from what's

wide of open.

while finding yourself

locking eyes with a

complete stranger.

Jezebel's been skeletonizing True Crime--
plethoric to the degree of Richard Ramirez'
breath, a fellow halitosis sufferer.
especially noting the forensics of love, as if she
could inspire such extremes.
a crone's rotative head, turning the screws of
invisibility--hypervigilant of a kind of danger that
won't even consider her.
there's a poet Jezebel reads in that manner--a darkly
handsome force at her throat, willing to lay it all down.
poems like a shadow's outer space--right there, yet
coming after her.
Jezebel's delusiveness  hurls moondust at this poet's
absence--generous enough to have pleasured her.
as since her deterioration expects the worst, so the poet
writes her off as dead--which she literalizes, poor thing.

the prehistoric glacial kettle pond sat

there like a sorceress--her bent mirror

pulled at your guts.

bored by the freezing spell--as one would

a predictable lover, her twisted mood

kept ice on ice.

the wetness of cruel enticements blew

blue smoke over its humiliated

seriousness.

as the afternoon paraphrastically

butchered a Bible verse, mallards

untaped their bills in gaseous protest.

the treed hills that sunk at the sight of

her, resounded a chopping block

earthiness.

then a schmear of seagulls undid their

bony gate, as for insurance purposes

above.

when a bench's favorite bench took down

sunset's late cancelation.

a spider's minced eyes--

studded gemstones

whose beaty twinkles

reflect suspension.

immaculately pinned to

the molding that draws

down the line of a corner.

in a room where two walls

meet--the imperceptible

musicality of its web, playing

a number to be consumed.

clothes start to feel like skin
on skin--the exclusivity of bodiless
wings, sickly sweet refreshers.
air's first cold stare at fire, the scent
of its rough *** carrying a harvest.
a charred basket left at an open field.
scared crows anatomizing he who
goes there--same as a stranger in a
fallout with light.
always last seen, & unrecognizable.
where trees follow him--with inward
resolve.

the moon's fail-stop of reinvention

leaves her an amnesiac.

chipping away at her goldenly drawn

rim of remembrance, as if a China

plate.

holding a full serving of curdling milk.

black collars pulled upward--a cold

confessional's steady clip.

a pouncy underneath-it-all making

for dark corners.

as observant been-theres liken public

privatude.

unattached to distance, the way of the

walk becomes more cathartic.

wet nostrils raw enough to smell city

lights.

a den waits & will change with what

returns.

no doubt shreds will be made of any

blessing & curse that try to cohabitate.

Bark wore & tore as rings got plastered--

while Trees were indignant.

Unable to get as much distance as they

pleased, they stood for it.

Root systems grow differently than

crowns--there are also lies under their

roofs.

Shade is not their relief, but their reality.

Winter shade is closer to the matter.

Which's but one of the spiritual tastes

they leave in my mouth, especially when

hunger feeds them all.

Welcome waits on disuasion, to gain

another opening.

Lifts this minor note to prominence--we

only think we're rewriting gospel truths.

--AND YOU (the nus) fell with plangent

perversity, pointed back at lastly!

Put out light out there, as Rembrandt did

in: "The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Tulp".

strike forces

of energy

come to lift

the banner

of Suns

become

One.

crept over

by the most

transparent

clouds.

at death, life is relived--all of it.

we've died so many times that even if

each previous death were a hand clap,

that would easily constitute a lifetime.

near-death experiencers sing of a few

minutes that seem like a few hundred

years.

that's what occurs when eternal presence

toes linear time again.

it's to compute that crossover, what three

minutes of clinical death would be

relativistically quantified to.

the hard numbers would whiten hair.

imagine how many earth-years one

spends on the otherside between

incarnations.

those figures are for poets.

fiery encirclets--

ground's birthmark

of night.

ash the skin of

smoke.

long since slithered

upward into

its unseeable

hole.

in 2008, i found myself

in a disgustingly sterile

non-rustic library in:

Jackson Heights Queens.

think a toolshed meeting a

hospital.

on an exceedingly poignant

whim, i cracked open a glossy edition

of: Rolling Stone.

encountering an article on the passing

of the late great: David Foster Wallace.

i tore out the article, & shoved it in my

pocket for a deeper read.

overt sentimentality

can only afford

the appeal of a naked

beggar but once.

too little to clothe itself--

till it's not.

Park Avenue's rubber flood, its mastered
whoredom.
Hermes' passage, whose sonorous cleft
is repeated after--until its vehicular
usurpation is complete.
As if an anciently overdubbed rite.
On Oct. 4, 1986, Dan Rather was making
his way home.
His kindly signed-off face was fully
dimmed, as the American public filled in
the blanks of a broadcast.
Able to speak when spoken to.
Did he scrub off Live Makeup, or leave it
on?
Early autumn air was warmth's incorrect
remainder, intimating a tailorship that
cooly spun off Mr. Rather.
As his profile heightened, so did his
senses--beelines like rulers.
Eighties NYC was characterizing its deity, horns running up facades--Yeeping.
Dan's gentlemanly earnestness, hueing
his lips with delivery--while being stalked.
Nick-of-the-eye holograms of cityscape
intensity--a closed plan of attack that
already conquered variables.
Karma's streetless address of supposed
firsts.
Of foes, feet & frequency--homing in on
Dan, three dots about to connect.
Not that it couldn't be, but that it could &
would be--Dan was about to sweat-up his
suit.
His large eyes maintained innocence as they tried his skull like a fish on deck:
"Kenneth, what's the frequency?"
a voice asked.
Repeatedly this question was posed,
as feet & fists reached out from each word.
Mr. Rather clocked in the jaw & kicked, saught refuge in a building lobby--
"Kenneth, what's the frequency?!"
Two of Manhattan's Men in Black took turns tweaking a radio dial.
The staticky melee blipped, booped &
zipped straight out of an unfeeling
extraction of alien information.
There was CBS' voice of reason,
rained down upon by a white beam logic.
Mr. Rather's signal eventually came in
clear, as he was helped up, asking: 'Who
on earth is this Kenneth fellow, what of the frequency?'

a fabric

is slowly severed--

its stitching bumps

porously.

its amalgamated hues

blur a dream sequence.

an incumbent world

edging towards slaughter.

swearing it was there at

one time.

a piece of night slouched

over--swiveled in the silk

of anonymity.

its emerald sword impaling

the earth.

to the degree its core became

a bud.

what's easiest to

draw free hand--

a circle, a square,

or a triangle?

independent of

their shape?

there's a lycanthrope

with broken silver cords

attached to it.

leaping over a dropped jaw--

that has eaten out of draggy

dream sequences.

wearing the moon's doppelganger,

as noise canceling headphones.

to hear a packed howl, whose

lead is followed.

an immediate deadlock--off into one
another, the clear poison of reflections
that see.
as if windows to the inception of
windows, down to square flecks.
the luciferian tableau of mastered
masters falling in hate.
all that can be known is the other--to
expose is to be exposed, thereby
becoming the exposed.
daggers dually plunged, a victoryless
savor.
somewhere there are two mirrors--they
are aware of that, but no longer know
which is which.
rain's silver streak twists glassy skies to
a crooked flash of white.
the surging filth of shadow selves crawl
for privatude, in that hellacious unboxing.
now space itself cannot be the intermediary of opposing mirrors.

too far afield...

winter whose borderless

transfigurements hold

stiff successions of land.

rapidly aloft and kept in sight--

every streaking nook in light and

out of mind.

budding and sprouting with what

will come again.

a vinegary ripeness dabs fall's thirst--

an unnervingly tasteless demeanor

prevails over trees.

the strength of passing facts at their

feet, unprotective of experience.

what witnessed dwindlement looks like,

without appeal.

as for the rest, that stands to regard--

an understanding without imposition

will move across a prior transparency.

winter nears.

diecast leaves sheer off

their windblown sounds,

from the concreted spans

of their cycle.

as trees roughen their

sketches for night-callers

come unexpectedly earlier

by the day.

the seductive tips of their knives

flirting with menace, who turn

on a dime to the puncture wounds

of stars.

a globular aftermath for the moon

to split her shell in.