Flinstone Vitamins' **** gush of fruity

dust, had an upside-down

convalescing taste.

Very much like the pre-attendence of a

body learning to show up.

A plastic red binder with checks &

minuses.

Birth trauma fluorescent lights

reabsorbing impact against iron mesh

windows.

Jittering along patterns of early

education, somewhere to decipher the

hand let go of.

Which sometimes led to unsophisticated

cruelties on behalf of survival.

A windowless classroom can't properly

educate imagination, windows are

quiet recharges for the retainment of

information.

How the smell of cafeteria food felt far

more personal because it wasn't

homemade.

how every: classroom/gymnasium/

auditorium/cafeteria/playground could

sound like a sqwaked-apart conversation.

Its coronal call.

Prostrated by a whistle or blowhorn from

on high--just when we were trying to

******* tell one another that it's really

a Mystery School.

as a serpent sleeps ahead of the

departed.

limp under flashes of yellow.

stretched to meet the ground it will

cover throughout its incarnation--

without moving.

its blood icily curled up into drifting

*****, trickled over by warm effluxes.

a stone in its mouth, a rose in its stomach.

peeled away.

the fog tweaked its percentage of

visibility--as if to pull London across the

pond.

on my left periphery, headlights turned

black rails into a sudden downpour of

spaced glints.

elegance without inclemency.

further down, the upper floors of a lofty

apartment building wore the unreadable

glow of a mothership.

its discursive headway of private agendas

contra-fog.

then fog contra-smokescreen, carpe

noctem coordinates of drones following

suit.

as if high strangeness stooping to our

level--the field's too unfied for that.

you see how famished new yorkers

are for communication now.

virtuosic conversationalists extra,

extra-ing it up--soothsaying the disaster

of a hot minute.

beat by the path, and genuine as ****...

tidings through folding streets.

held still for what's administered.

rats brazenly showing their faces, as in and

out of step as the rest of us.

the mad dash of a coast that's clear.

with diametrical opposition.

watchers of robots

walking spastically,

we are poised to

forgive our century.

X as spot.

the hard half-double always

floats its drop before popping.

being is the utmost command--

even it goes blind when it points

to what it is upon what it is not.

there is a way, there is always a way.

light too unified with dark, dark too

unified with light as no other.

original face to original face.

could it be, is it really you--is it really me,

is it really us and no one?

Aum Namah Shivaya~

There was a bunch of folks typecast for

a forthcoming wave of salvation.

Off a main road, crawling on their hands

& knees at the outskirts of a forest.

Spangled like descaled fish in snapping

shrubbery on an ungiven Sunday.

Relatable as asking for directions to

somewhere you have no intention of

going.

An excuse for interaction, to ascertain if

there was a need for it.

If the almighty will convince you to go

there through them, a testament to need.

An errant flock did, they all converged at

the outskirts of the forest--sanctimonious

horns honking on high.

As they stumbled to stumble upon one

another, weeding out the Ides of March--

handfuls!

One hundred of them, fled from their

subordinance to a Centurion, free as

toddlers on fire.

An unstoppable meta-whoosy forage.

When the NYPD availed themselves, a

higher up saith: 'What's this, the freakin'

catch & release program--let's go people!'

it's best to

know a country

boy.

between clicks.

before cities spur.

a cold spot

in a

bottomless

ocean--

can be felt

more often

than not.

parousia pickles

dragons.

their lithness can

thrive in that

storage.

vice versa's feral

cat goes about.

using the wall-to-wall

layout of this neighborhood,

to her advantage.

dragging the voice of a

medieval hag in heat.

around.

she surpasses her own

startle.

by how she registers.

Pound:

"the age demanded an

Image of its accelerated

grimace."

Onoma:

an ovoid, yokeless plenum.

(fissures of negative space

playing chicken.)

Windows rise to scatter dead skin--

an electric cool removes layers of

mustiness.

Pitting rooms against themselves,

held accountable for their confines.

As inner eye contact is maintained,

the respect winter taught--so far

afield that flowers happen.

Almost like Mary showing--hands on

her back.

Just as a sparrow lie leaf-like between

two pages of air, illustrating itself in

someone's gut.

canvases recognized your coup de

pinceau, as the easel teetered.

an energy field so kinetic--its excitability

still cannot restrain the subject matter.

as you bit down ******* your pipe,

squeezing paint directly from a tube on

to the canvas, it lumped light years.

just as you slow-cooked your hand over

a flame, to know how a flame feels.

wore the blood-wheat beard of dusk, to

be fired as a preacher.

went coal-faced, cool & damp as the soul

of a potato.

learned to draw without drawing, like

answering a knock on wood.

watched the belly of a ******* swell

with stones & rubbed it as your own.

you knew not Vincent, as they didn't--

how could thirty-seven years of merged

light know?

how could the bullet in your belly know,

how could the crows over the field know?

how could the ear to the wall of the

Yellow House know--the same sound the

sunflowers you cut knew?

the ones you went into a vase with--the

housewarming that unsettled Gaughan.

the artist colony of two, its more than

complete history.

the taste of  paint & turpentine,

withdrawal from coup de pinceau.

baptized in the frigid waters of an

asylum, so your senses could deliberate

on a verdict.

unanimous as the bandage around your

head, Theo!!!

hiding the ear you handed another

*******, a ****** shell to listen to.

suddenly you came pouring in from

everywhere.

The cheese-chastity

of her slit, let out

her face.

As she pressed the

purity of prayer beads

to her lips, like a

***** on the lam.

as every candle holds

its gaunt station with no

epiphanous head.

the temple stands at the

mercy of days, with no

word from the messenger

whose sign in coming began

the act of worship.

Fictional characters never earn their

end--which's to say being killed off by

their author.

I know because I have set about to ****

off my own fictional character--who has

earned his end.

Suicide would be too literal, he's rather

literary.

I'm sorry Mr. Bloom, Shakespeare did

not invent the human being--he survived

his characters, not himself.

Phenomenal progress has been made, by

virtue of this being written.

You see--he's not transparent, nor is he an

open book, yet he tells me what I look

like.

The one that sees through him at all cost.

As if an entire jail population reached

thru bars to mirror other inmates.

Who could contend with so many

features?

Changing with every thought &

interaction--his slow death is natural, it

cannot be hastened.

It's more accurate to say that this fictional

character is dying, even when no one is

reading.

It was during a frenzy of  being written

while writing, that the two were

authentically enjoined.

To this might I add, the throes of death

are not dead.

phoebe, your pooling face glides

along a swan feather smile.

solitarily reflecting between two

swaying columns.

musing fluid sheets of indigo ice,

starring first and only thoughts.

your secret mappings, long lost as

at a distance--if it weren't for your

brilliance.

with the mta

bit to the blue collar,

buses absent themselves.

so you watch time burn

holes in the schedule.

hold your breath till embers

beam out of ash, numbering

your route.

as you read a lean text thru

the shades of a low battery.

a reminder you forgot the

food your mother sent you.

trekking back because you

know you had to eat from her

hands.

food made with truly medicinal

thoughts--there's no social distancing

momma.

A cabinet/room of curiosities,
Kunstkammer--fringe stuffs.
Let's (said 17th century affluence) retire to a den of delicious: now-where-weren't-we.
A space of sea legs, a space to clutch a
ceiling for balance--amid the perverse liberties of imagination's selves.
A continental doubletake at reality,
magic objects from the greater world--
another world.
Bouncing off the walls, cluttered proof of the unknown--unsuccessfully watered
down by familiarity.
Objects, things that shouldn't be there--
as if they overstayed the second to be gone.
The haunts of the greediest awe, the
pacts of Faustian must-haves.
Stretched juxtapositions of
taxidermic parrots, speaking
prehistoric bones that turn into the weapons of witchdoctors.
Alchemical globes turning over Abraxas
to geographic purification periods--under
scrutinous van **** beards.
Tortoise shells emanating the wooden
knocks of a tribe's forest family.
Leatherbound books ornate as gemstones, seemingly lived-in by hermits.
A perfumer's castle of scent upon the
next cloud--a zephyr's afterimage.
Scents that were whole lives distilled of
continuum's essence.
Cabinets of curiosities, tried the
peculiarities of their cocked-brow sitters.
Quietly thinking them a peacock's dressing room compared to their changeability.
The cabinet's gestating stimulation conjured appetites fit for their creator.
These cabinets of curiosities were often
unsupressable aphrodisiacs, voluptuous
women would softly roundout sin.
Lick, **** & bite into fruits as their curves swole with feathers.
Where flesh was made & remade again,
lusting after itself in exitless release.
Those who solitarily sat in these rooms
by candlelight & glowed beyond its glow,
gained the graces of darkness.
A space where natural light aspected
exotic variety, a space where a waking
dream outdid itself.
To recoup & assess a fraction of the things
that exist in the smallest hours that region the earth.
These modest places to withdraw, wandered into what became museums.
We've always sorted these cabinets.

seven times the

most natural light...

under the three-count

of a dark spot.

Summon-mad incense goes out searching

for a transcendent nervous system,

taking on different qualities.

A serpent lies coiled under a Golden

Helmet, that's made of depthless return.

Sleep is different, it is no longer where

waking comes from.

Waking is different, it is no longer where

sleep comes from.

Light lays down rising.

Sometimes eyes open up there, & a

depthless return shows one the figure

of its speech.

It is not the body.

an orangey-red plastic toy
tugboat, the size of an eight
yr. old's palm--is pulled out
to sea.
painting by number via ripple,
glowing like a stubborn ember.
it briefly idled in your standard
size sand bucket--bearing the
likeness of a ripe watermelon's
skin, streaks & all.
cemented by wet sand, to
its rim--sand ***** writhing
as they did with dinosaurs.
sort of like Ronzoni shells
copping a dance.

Perhaps you're

in a place where

no reflection suits

you.

almost like an indigestible

life force.

lumping a stone's throat.

as overrich

paeans trouble

your deadlock.

how disconcerting to be

known for what you are.

if what lives, has moved

out.

Sunsets are eminently confronting,

they're second to last page epics that ask:

'Were you a part of what went down?'

As entropic & inertial forces hash out the

unlived, concurrent with an insatiability

that pleads passion.

Trusting that your passion's retreating

with those pastels--that you could &

would die, but not just yet.

It's like the psychiatric intake of a patient

that's kept from creating, their ******

need the same as sunset's cry wolf

apocalypse.

It's like fighting to stay awake for

something indispensable to your being,

that whatever's underneath sunset must

match up.

Otherwise it'll feel like glimpsing

sleep-prompts while wearing synthetic

skin.

It is only surface succor--one should spit

out the passifier & eat grass!

Innocence quietly leaves in the

middle of the night--knowing when

she's become an imposition.

She's more than welcome, but her

presence hurts--her lightness is too

heavy.

She always means to stay, but goes

because of what she means.

The worst proclaim her, cursing their

parents for putting them here.

As they prodigiously corrupt

everything they touch.

They think themselves majestic

creatures, that must flee back into the

treeline they exposed themselves from.

Wearing leafy masks of misconstrued

radiance.

Being at a safe distance from themselves

is all that matters...

taking cover long enough to feel like

a victim.

These are the ones that curse innocence

under their breath, as they duck.

Every single Hemera, I roam in chapter

42, Ishmael's aghast perception of

Moby ****'s whiteness.

Having bartered with Ishmael, I threw

myself overboard--he is no longer afraid.

I, in memory of a white whale's belly--

ever & the same.

Ask for me & they will tell you, more has

me, leave it at more--mystery provides.

I've a hankering for white, they may say:

'What's wrong with that man, what's he

staring at?'

How white orients.

White is, if peace is pleased--which means

nothing can disturb it.

That can be too final for the unsettled.

I suspect there are many more Moby

***** to come, so be it.

I may find myself as Ishmael did,

watching another throw themself

overboard--that I might not be afraid,

so be it.

White is, if peace is pleased--that's what

that belly taught me.

The bellies will grow larger & larger--

in white, out of white.

Nothing but upturned eyes, given over &

glistening--never think a beast unnatural.

That's what allows for proportional

girth, when a Moby **** is spotted.

Suddenly there's the desire to feel

everything I was about to say--but didn't.

All the unnoticed word-inhales, to the

waved off no-nothings.

Not given vent, just reexperiencing

all that courseless inexpression.

What was discernment's wisdom

guarding against to build toward?

One's confronted with heavy empirical

alterations--had the needle met fabric.

What sensation would that unvoiced

crest produce?

Precarious as sharks pacing storm bands

over warm waters--the unsaid developes.

With that, I direct it back to thirty years

ago today--what would that interaction

feel like?

Based on the assumption that nothing

cataclysmic occurred thirty years ago

today--though certainly not in relativistic

terms on both days.

It's astonishing how pertinent

information can omit dates while

pointing at them.

Even if I were to ditto the date with

different years, their currency may as

well be in The Ferryman's pocket.

He's not even laconic on such musings,

though he does take a shine to them.

I should like to **** AI to such musings.

So a lifetime of stifled articulation would

burden the climate of this day thirty

years ago--now.

Would I be alive, live where I live, call

who I call--write what I write?

Say...no say?

I didn't.

a serpent with a head where a tail should

be--& a head where a head should be.

strikes at G*d's will, at their own will.

as if paradise never knew what hit it,

its vicious turn of color.

color that gave it away--to be

captured & sold to a reptile

enthusiast for an attractive sum.

then two frozen rats went to a

terrarium's white light again.

lowered by their proud owner,

whose hands were prey of prey.

raptly puppeting an unconscious

symbolism, that saw them eat as a

family & die shortly after.

imagining it was the other's head,

that impingement on will--

(it was really rat poison).

now nothing but black sand's

sparkling cloak boiled down to

a questionably human skull, & a

large piece of driftwood with two

heads blocking both ends.

with a slothfulness that begins to stink.

whereupon he incisively

quoted: "Hypocrite lecteur,

-mon semblabe, -mon frere!"

Thy will be done, oddly enough.

The invisible makes the final appearance

of what's irrevocable.

As Amen is undone by invocation--that

Amen cannot be invoked again.

How nothing moves on from nothing.

From the invisible there are untold

visibilities.

We indeed die to, to be--which's the

emptying out of Kenosis.

Just as the sky empties out, to be--Amen.

Arunachal's south-facing

Shiva: is Ramana Maharishi.

Who went into states of

Samadhi in the lone retreats

of a temple, at the base of:

Arunachala--ravenously dined

on by ants.

A half-buried face on an ocean floor--

predates the clumsy concealment

of horseshoe *****.

As if a canonized saint rolled out of

bed, the tide's last drop on his undecayed

tongue.

Perfectly pronounced: Tiktaalik, with the

authoritative oddity that begets name.

Not with a sonic catastrophe of bubbles,

but the clear carry of a church.

As a Tiktaalik obediently headed onshore,

his face turned to mirthful sand.

sometimes walking home

from work after midnight,

you feel like Travis Bickle

in a surgical mask.

sounding...

first response blowing off of

land's end.

watching those that watch

watch you--brave the dark

of this city deity.

left to its own devices.

cold is the most seasonal--the only

condition of: The Alone.

its savage independence blisters with

maturity, assures a begrudging respect

& admiration.

it's the embodiment of nothing but

what is not.

where the senses are taken one by one,

as with the last to go--you can hear white.

its solitude is hand-picked by what

cannot withstand it.

nothing else smells so fresh as it touches

your bones.