landscape/cityscape/dreamscape--

stir and shake thoroughly till change

occurs.

Sol scheming Luna in like a Trojan Horse--

tarot card tricks, a step from, a step towards

what cannot be escaped.

blind test runs through predictable results--

industrial barrels of spilt milk, a stampede

of elephants in your living-room.

for all the fanfare slackening the sense of unworthiness

and self-hatred.

you've never been more put on the spot.

The complete history of violence, down

to a body--exhaustive & neatly shrouded.

That eerie Jew beat like a girl & made to

embrace Rome on high.

A Roman-made example, in a tomb like

a political safe.

Chesty guards outside, pre-fall pawns

dreaming of: food, ******* & drink.

There he was, darkened by every sickly

white stitch.

Told--head to toe.

Our stiff moment subject to memory.

More of desperate search standing in

for belief again.

Light that knew not, now knows

salvation is what it lights.

The truth & the way & the life.

He had to go through everyone, the

culmination of our works.

Then walked his body through stone.

Squinting into all we'll ever be.

Wassily Kandinsky

rested his spine against

a corner wall, tapping

his third eye, saying:

I do believe in spooks--

I do, I do, I do.

Oz the factor.

A ghost obsessively launders a sheet--

to be mindful of form, before donning it.

A timeless washing cycle.

As if a solutionless problem lie between.

It narrows down its enormity to a sheet,

because it notices without being noticed.

Despite another form contracting with

fear upon noticing it.

It knows it exists, but one-sidedness

doesn't suffice--it's more a matter of

one-sidedness than loneliness.

Its power of seeing is not met with the

power of being seen.

Disequilibrium haunts the ghost.

Though it's noticed just as much as the

sheet--if not more.

Whereas the sheetless ghost of it--is a

sheet in a more refined realm.

a serenade

in and of itself

is the melody

of a saint.

so in love with

the unrequited--

that there is a heart

for every note.

sure heirs to confusion--

form a majestic, medieval

circle.

saunter met with danse.

the plot shifting floorboards

beneath their feet.

to the lute of John Dowland.

a swan slowly swims

across her proportionate

lake.

extends her neck across

it.

nods her head, without

drying off--& disappears.

The finesse of grace

makes a candle flame

seem like a heavy

breather.

As if many wholes

hence--something's

different.

The unrivaled emergence of a rat's

snout, struck pose of filth en vogue.

Fetishistic tastes--garbage's face-sitting,

shadowy specificities for arrival.

The procession of bumbled streetlights

breaks its leash, newfangled cheese

teefs held in contempt.

Cutting down anything other than

rat-hood, waste's deconstruction.

Its greatest character complexity is

escaping self-hatred.

The disparity of a fine line suddenly

metastasizing.

Made to live as if offending the wrong

existence, beating whiskers in

disintegrative trickles that issue:

all clears.

Meticulous nomadicism.

Eyes that have figured a way out, but

get caught by a body, which repeats like

a mistake if seen.

Photographer's darling, showing more &

more & more dente, with the attitude of

a dork osmotically permeating a book.

Clamped shut.

An equanimous snort from passing away.

bent by light--

the curve,

a patient etherized

upon a table.

doubtless Thomas, do you

prefer hello or goodbye?

at once the examined

and unexamined life.

stiff and lithe with

preoccupation--spread thin.

the forensic

line preceded by sentinel: X.

standing in place for the name

deemed by law competent enough

to undergo...

the perceptual spider cracks

of mirrors crawl silver,

through thin cloaks of dust.

trapping and feeding on

glints of light, clarifying

distortions.

jumbled schisms, fragile points

of impact...rearranged.

held together bolts of lightning

that still reflect the whole mirror.

you're a brilliant lover--below pinned down at the brink, above pinned up at
the brink.
circles to the contrary--more perfect than
circles, broken out of with an ache.
so susceptible to more reciprocation...
curled talons holding it.
you have no recollection how you got up there, the sky is synonymous with you--
not the other way around.
it's enclosed to the contrary.
your freedom retention pulled completely thru air--feathers band to your flesh, wings band to your will.
it never occurred to you as an active force--which's why it belongs to you.
you're already where you appear to be
going, one sees--but one cannot see you there.
it feels too **** good, only you can hold
it.
you're probably waiting till your eyes close to let it out.

meteorological models

behind: "spaghetti-diagrams"--

(the potential paths tropical storms/

hurricanes will take.)

were with: Jackson *******,

pre-internet.

splash-painting a vapid loss

of service, before programming.

turbid rusts murking

the lens of a tiger eye stone,

slowly set down.

plucking the harps of

wandering minstrels with

triple vision.

singing the prowess of dusk's

burial.

to say to oneself, i've seen that movie--

know it by heart secretly.

as if everything has been taken away from it, you turn away.

that which has somehow sworn art by the

book of your life, cast out the frame of a window.

that silver conclave of a screen breathing motion.

subjugated by the recapitulation of memory,

always the richer for impressions.

thanked with the shellshocked brutishness

of a beast, scouring for a spot to eat and

be eaten away alone.

overlays of attention--revisitations if you will,

or will not.

with nothing left to confess but wanting nothing

from possessable experience.

a variegated necklace is

torn...stuck to its dashes

on a window.

an unseasonably stifled

cry--fast on heels, aching

joints conscripted to the Ides

of March.

three-inch distributions of

scarcely expanded pinpricks.

all aslant, as to the right.

if you've numbered among
the living, then you've numbered
among the dead.
opening and closing different pairs
of eyes, not knowing how long they
were opened, nor how long they
were closed.
(a numeric collapse detected)
--yet here you are now, again...
numbering among the living, to number
among the dead.
a flickering light switch in the different
houses of the same soul.
which creates a near seamless optical illusion
between life and death.
almost by force of all the dreamers of bodies and
souls--this is the cream.
the place where houses meet inside the same walls, to
be unhoused, essentializing experience
once and for all, all at once, if for a moment--
of which may never have existed, Zero.

A tractor trailer whose ramp was used

as a slide for a fair, was parked on the

street.

Its Fifties signage read: Rapid Slide.

Azalea Pink, Forest Blue, Vanilla White

outlined its lettering.

Holding up its right to advertise a range

of feeling.

By a familiarity that never arrives--

waiting around to appear like it belongs.

It was chance nostalgia under a grey sky,

no longer wondering at screaming

children.

a free horse

offering its back

to a chief.

as mane & headdress

go mad with the force

of a direction.

Native America~

when a rainbow's

story arc is magnetized

by its downward slides,

cut off sharply by blue.

pouting the stupefaction

of illusion.

its reflection upward slides,

repenetrating the sharp cut

off of blue, now smiling the

stupefaction of illusion.

the rainbow's story arc completing

its circle out of the blue.

vampirism is

the mistrust of

light being metabolized

by its stomach.

I followed cruelty home after it

did unto another.

I was so certain it knew it was

being followed--that I felt followed.

Conscience is to know the feeling,

how well?

I had to see what cruelty does with

itself, the psychotic breaks it

undergoes.

Not to be cruel.

Long Island is a spellbinding

piece of topography.

twin-forked onto the tongues

of a northern Atlantis.

as if St. John spread a puddle

renowned for its light.

ripple-proof.

If we wore: swords, guns, guillotines or

nooses--they wouldn't stick like a

crucifiX.

Your Father picked it out, knew it'd suit

you.

Sort of like a gift you always wanted, that

you almost gifted to Gethsemane.

Recognizable even if never seen before.

The most loaded & alighted symbol, that

could stop silence.

Make a place of no place anywhere.

When you were nailed to all those

places--the track you heard in your head

ran the length of The Holy Spirit.

Your Father closes all the lights & listens

to it now.

'It feels like today Son...'

It Is.

the wind wants at its will, as it's

scornfully whorled--undoing the

cricks of facades.

an attentive hearer can be stung by

the lashing beads of rain rounding

still points.

gusty sheets of seventy miles an hour--

timed out, wrung out with a twist.

astonishing confessions that hold back

at the precise moment of truth--as if to

say: bear with me, as i bear with you.

a little silicone monk--a baby boy doll,
wise beyond the years of any say-so.
convincingly timeless.
a meditation mistaken for controlled
derangement, the smell of silicone--
exempt from olfactory free association.
mysterium membrum virile by production, bald-body austere.
an earth plop, feet out/hands out--as if
to be raised up permanently.
left eye sealed shut, its slow illusory swell.
right eye's blue slot stuck to what sped open.
a myopic forest pushed out, its almost fake nature--now where's the would be
foundling?

Ahab festoons the Atlantic--

with scratch off chartings.

manning the privatude of a

deck, filled with men & the

tonnage of whale diet.

auspices of oil lamps.

open as water to wind...

Moby's reflective girth.

white with disidentification.

the stillest object or atmosphere may

appear to lack motion--but never

presence.

paradoxically, there's motion in the

greatest stillness--because it possesses

presence.

empty space has the most presence, it

needn't establish a dimensional

relationship to be so.

presence is therefore not dependent on

observability, neither is it independent of

it--it's simply present.

the eyes of a painting may follow you

across a room, just as eyes in-between

you & a painting may follow you across

a room.

even illusion has presence, as seeing was

believing.

remember--the dead outnumber the

living.

there really is no privacy--only the ego

may care, egolessness doesn't blush, yes

you're being watched.

the way that you'll witness a body (yours)

oversleep life--without judgment.

the bridge between the seer & the seen is

presence, which's to say seeing from &

back from to--simultaneously.

thus I present a bouquet of roses to

empty space.

The colossi of oblivion derive their

stature from what cannot be followed.

Twilight's pallored collapse gripped by a

leathery leaf, a pair of checkout keys on

a blear nightstand.

A mouth private about age gargles with

salt, then drags slippers away.

Lone headlights go off into a self-effacing

whoosh, an incomplete: bear in mind.

Then a heaviness is quietly told to be

seated, as if by a priest.

When some diabolical cleverness works

garlic cloves into a brain, as one grins

like a holiday lamb.

Evils that slur the speech of sleep, eight

hours of crime scene photos--fighting off

The Prince of Peace.

Where the colossi migrate as a state of

being, bring forth signs & break off into

smaller groups.

Until all that is left, can't be followed.

I exist in that I

do not--

I'm always

away from me.

Now.

As always,

an infinite

being.

Whose every

moment is deja vu.

So far beyond

noticing every

detail.

As if nonexistence

blinking into

being.

Her moving heightens the

golden-tiered sounds that outlie

sleep.

Just as her body calls him back to his

body, summer speaks into his ear.

ice casts itself as the dissuading thorn of

paved surfaces.

what water was doing--its last pompeian

motion.

absolutely bitter definition, that frames

attention around feet.

especially after dark, its scalpy deposits

overexpose dingy refractions.

the screeching halt of crystals & their

aura of preservation.

all of which seem to make what it covers

softer.

it's an immersive study that rewards

those given to exaggerated walking.

with that said--I was prompted to

abruptly look up into a random home's

living room.

greeted by a freshly painted aquarium,

whose colors undermined breath.

I must've felt the fish staring at me--

it was two hours of frozen communion,

to that.

The kitchen faucet ran its length

in three parts.

A glistening silver speckled white,

followed by water--then its

detached sound.

It somehow rocked me with how

the world as we know it behaves

in eternal accordance.

Shaking it off shortly after.

a substrata of dawns

chiseling out white marble nudes,

undressed in crumbling

refinements.

posing long enough to be fully

clothed.

Bhairava outpaces

his hound, headhunting

ignorance with his club.

he who is a speck of Shiva's

last touch, as that blessed gate

and devoted keeper.

where none can pass if one is.

Teeny tiny hands let it be--

between

the furniture & music of a piano,

It

developes the taste for a certain

texture.

How relatable.

As frequencies turn my beard into

dancing flies.

It comes into focus...

another absentminded midwife

wearing a cupid arrow headband,

loses balance.

As a body of water sweeps away

broken glass.

The way things point out that there's

nothing there--there's really nothing

there.

While the depth & duration of that

nothing is saved, when we come back

from It.

Midwifed by the nearest thing you

could poke.