I astrally projected to the flat depth of a

specified sky--emptied out with upturned

eyes.

saw lightning come down like a cracked

body.

I heard no-sky move & the earth sink.

electric ants colonized me back to my

feet, on forest ground starving for dead

company--as the living lag between:

let there be light.

there was the same crack of lightning

that passed through me.

the supine speed of itself on snow,

motionlessly making brilliances more

exceptional.

turning snow ashen by comparison.

my awestruckness took longer ways out

of me to approach it.

as if reaching down repeated the initial

impulse to touch it--which felt like

translucently warm skin fresh between

worlds.

it was to hold an imaginal hand more

real, all-knowingly possible.

all the way home--I held a blinding let go,

I couldn't let go of.

the plan was to stay up all night & look at

it with the lights out.

purposeful hands setting

a table--lighting sealed by

the approval of Old Dutch

Masters.

the wrought passing of plates

before they're passed.

a homely kingdom, a devoured

morsel--the speck in a viewer's

eye.

aerated frame, darkened sphere

revolving.

i attended the funeral of an angel--

not an extraordinarily virtuous human

being, but an angel.

it lie there as a solid beam of light.

wings condensed to a blinding soar.

then the demonic condolences came

rolling in, as the space around that

beam of light transfigured.

thick and hard...the nausea of no way

home, was captured by a flailing incense.

that flowed downward, emitting no scent.

A knot tightened to where it cannot be

unknotted--will grow too slack to secure

a shoe.

Don't cut the shoelace, the shoe has

character now--what was an initial act

of laziness will yield more effort.

Use it to walkoff smooth exits, all the way

to subsequent entrances.

Except, turn around before entering--&

walk all the way back to unsmooth

entrances.  

It's imperative that you state: I was here.

Otherwise only dead grandmothers can

undo such knots.

no more raw

than the cloisters

of breath.

a two-way mirror

that enlists a wind

to one end.

morbid curiosity is a luxury--the art of
the Middle Ages lifts the ground to meet
its vertigo, as huntsmen signal toward
the observer.
the gamey odorousness of fear downwind.
nerve endings drafted their maps, unable
to find a way out.
dread gathered wood & chopped it untiringly.
reacquainted shame scrambled for leafage again--under a greater Fall.
a potion goblet for every kind.
a unicorn on a green velvet hill, became
visible in the current of a squirrel's tail.
there was never not magick.
though digression can be as quiet as an
exiting servant.
depictions of persons hardened as they softened, a very peculiar ethereality.
the look of snow as soon as it stops.
a bud held tight in one's palm, just as
it's about to bloom.
it is this, from crown to soles--what a
mottled column of light to move in.
from nobility to peasantry, something
burst in on clay--they couldn't be natural even when they felt they were.
animals do not take a headcount in a
burning stable, they even forget to say grace.

Van Gogh ensconced

to a yellow journal.

whose reportage

curls the toes of stars...

something like airliners

coupled with the streaks

of speeding boats.

carving sediments.

there comes an

awareness, so unto

and heavied...it alights.

slouching down on

a cross, so stark against

its white sky.

remaining at the foot

of  that hallowing

ground.

always hit by the first

drop.

a pigeon encasing

its chest.

extends a bassy

trill.

shimmying on the

lid of a dented ashcan.

pecking in & out with:

yellow/red/blue marbles.

(in no particular order).

classic Wonder bread.

It's when birds gain currency--

advancing as something pale

or other.

The thin chasm of beaks hurt

to hear, their sounds

aren't as early as spring.

They're not there.

An hour or so after a witch

undressed in front of a mirror,

piled on the floor.

Bottom lip quivering with

unwholeness.

That I elbow standing for the

toilet & face front, totally

deaf to the story arc.

For bed to remake sheet-angels,

that will never get me.

shadows sway in

column form--as

a welled up bird blows

its voice.

her shoulders roll...

with that voice, broad.

sojourn--knot to knot,

tied.

strongly.

bedeviled ratios succumbing

to the nausea of a grasp.

come the whole rest...

when broken waves crawl

their seismic shiver, veiling

the mouth of her shore.

then unveiling her mouth

as horizontal creases fade, and

retract her ocean.

come the half rest...

time and again between her

veil and ocean--sounding water

on sand, sand underwater.

the refined line of what's fully

given and taken.

come the quarter rest...

quicksilver life-reviews of light

on water, silent sound's grainy skip.

the offkey cries of galls.

the ground suffers vertigo--its
differential of wake to silence.
Christ walking thru twelve minds,
whose perception of him do not vary--
xing out a stain glass fish with a diamond.
then unto variances...exposed capillaries
uprooted by hosted light, like wiggly
ocean plants on white stones.
following a needle's twain, to the pupil's
ecliptic.
a Gravitron's light years blaring Classical
Age mockeries.

an inexhaustibly long queue of

devils, decked out with their spin on

evil.

mugging their motherless faces--

all holding a  bouquet of black velvet

flowers.

some noshing on them, some thwapping

the devil in front of them over the head.

filing one by one into a small yinmn blue

room.

to take headshots for sacred auditions.

it moves--having thrown open

its crusty eyes, unable to see passed

itself.

fat enough to live off itself--another

helping of world, it moves.

by itself, for itself--presence first,

as shamelessness wanders.

a sty within,  relocating to a sty within.

not knowing what's not to be named

of its beasthood, to preserve the absence

of its beasthood.

a glorious revulsion, that as soon eat the

star of the wisemen--once its stomach feels

uncomfortable.

a brook lends the

smoke of:

Patchouli.

a sparrow soaks

like a piece of

bread.

irresponsive to

water.

light rinses her hair on a taxidermic
dove, sat like wooden wavicles on a
shadow planet.
persued by a scented black candle that
smells of unfillable holes.
as a woman prospects a circumference,
tells herself she came for the music--
not the food.
an angel born of mistaken identity,
walks through the blueprint of a garden--
& is told: 'you didn't touch a thing.'
as with the involution of ears, spirals
whistle like rope thru snake skin.
an evil repellent of sorts, or a courtesy
to superstition.

all beholders see beauty now--

in an eyeball.

the gods were entertaining, there it was

like a mint after an imperial feast.

with more presence than a whole body.

it can blink once for yes, & twice for no--

if only to break up omniscience.

it is swaddled in mulbery silk, that

creases complexity smoothened to

simplicity & back again, as in a wakeful

sleep.

a gift placed in a self-luminous white box,

more benevolently pensive than milk.

whose fourfold hatch will unbox, to see

what was seen in it.

could you love an eyeball?

flame...

pituitary almond,

smokeless lisp

of silence,

kept.

up and out of your

own, articulated

breath.

breathlessly gone--

melting canonizations.

gaunt pools of suns.

relit.

They're blue in the face, vitally

impeded by the implications of a

a misstep.

Requesting cleanup in aisle two.

Gladden them with it, draw it out--

torture the itch good.

Give it to them, release them from

wicked thrall, crowd a crowd to

distribute feelies.

Remind them how good otherness

looks at its worst.

Your public needs you to come apart

like there's nothing to see.

It'll prove useful someday.

an optician runs a light over

a butterfly, enmeshed with

mulch.

a shaft of light emitted from

forest ground, that the sun

knows nothing of.

no more prescient.

than a birdcage flung unto

a wire over an intersection.

its dome rushing its base, its base

rushing its dome.

a lattice of bars that are struck as

they strike.

hung against the contrastive

sky of Giorgione's: The Tempest.

wide water broke in white tones--a baby

is somewhere in there.

kicking around down there, twinkling up

there.

surrounded by animals telling him they

were once human.

his father is good with his hands, but

never touched his mother the way other

fathers touch other mothers.

wisdom in white tones, a few men were

moved in place--to find what was already

found in him.

he could smell the body odor of

centurions far differently than his

parents & the animals that surrounded

him, their scent made him convulsively

weep.

then out of those white tones emerged a

breast, also bursting with milk.

followed by the prolonged musculature

of a porcelain like serpent.

with fibrous cracks scraping to its mouth

as it bit onto a ******.

a ******* invisibility--except for the

blood running from its eyes, with every

gulp of milk.

as if to mock his mother, with maternal

evil.

a broken column tilts at a forty five

degree angle--bulging earth at its

base.

its top resembles a snapped femur,

whose opposable reflection streams

along a murky sky.

unaccountably driven to its lone feature,

starkly confessant among a hill's dry grass.

an Orphic marker bowing to the downriver

strum of a lyre, that carries...

it can only be called hell after the fact--

it's impossible to entertain otherwise.

so what the hell is hell to you then--that

takes too much energy.

art imitates nothing, you can't even

pay respects to yourself.

as inertia's demoralizing vigil goes from

you laying there--to watching yourself

lay there, when being that body is too

much.

back & forth--totally indifferent to that

back & forth ever again.

seasons are a knocked over lamp, a

collapsed shade--a meal tasted in parts.

after-weathers.

a bed & a hovering vitality,

superintelligently breaking down

Zoloft.

finding yourself in the shower & realizing

there are basic steps.

that light hurts--not as it would a

vampire, but one late to its call.

caked in something earthier than mud--

you could taste it & it's sickening.

light not the absence of, dark not the

absence of--just absence.

as if overnight you say: now I'm going to

take physical paralysis for a walk.

it was advanced age at eighteen years old.

it knows everything about you, you are

made to know how it feels.

it turns out the other point of our

triangle is worthy of more respect

than you.

don't dare misconstrue this reckoning

as a flattering plea.

walls rumble as they close in, don't worry--

nothingness will survive.

the uniqueness of your scent, rapidly

signaturing fear--with nails bitten off like

sunflower seeds.

as your latest stuffed animal summons the

courage to come to life--just so it can run away

from you.

flawlessly repeating what it was taught.

Dostoevsky's nerves were a massive

plasma globe poked at by surplus genius.

a spidery fry in a garbled clump of

hypersensitivity--to unrealized

characters.

the crystalline dryness of St. Petersburg

snow taken from the top--unremittingly.

as a depressurized silence sounds a ******

miles long.

Fydor's thumping fireplace, blinkered by

tight flashes.

Icarian quill cocked & expressly warning

at the dangers of his deep sleep.

a bevy of notes strewn about, for the

benefit of a sympathetic reader--if he/she

should discover them.

notes that safeguard against a premature

burial, his uncontrollable: Taphophobia.

that he should be allowed three or four

days to sleep off death--before actual

interment.

at nearby train stations purple lights

were installed on platforms--which

further mystifies locality.

astronomical figures are a given, but are

grossly underutilized.

wait for it...wait for what?

every sound is the echo of another sound,

no sound is forgotten--neither is silence.

canines & felines hear each other's

hearing.

this sip of coffee is a brew for every

grain--the aftertaste of individual

conjurings, whose compaction is like

pastless deja vu.

or these hands that wear a cold draft to

the wrist, the rise & fall of phantom

gloves.

left palm indented by a spiral notebook,

right hand holding a: ProHealth pen with

two spotty contact numbers & an

address.

gratis pen omitting impertinent

information, while writing of it--sort of

like a loosely based fractal.

do these walls overthink me as I think

over them, while playing egg hunt with

the five senses?

an imaginary friend finds all five,

each with cracks that appear as if

painted.