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.

A halo falls thru its circle,

has no memory of its

circle.

Hovers over the top of

a head.

The stagnant expanse

of an abyss--pure enough

to be of.

Until a wanderer lets

wandering go ahead.

Capped poles blown

open.

never save the best

for last, it is to maximize

weakness.

even if it be saved for you,

see it as what is--no further.

irreplaceable and found

out by a prolonged sleep,

fear thwarts what passionately

retires.

as i furiously dig up-- bare handedly,

that buried guilt.

hermes winged head

loudly ***** to activate

morning light.

a swelling ember of memory.

sleep's spindrift treble and static snows...

an interrupted monody.

as the hoary lines of a precipitous ghost,

leave off to step into the man.

Da Vinci's thrice-grace

inkage, of a likened

fetal-pod.

supplanted in care

of a belly.

overly still with the

behavior of pain.

readying for this world.

mummified eye

sockets, bat.

slightly drafting.

the eyelashes of

spiders.

at a loss for legs.

a clear line placed in
an ocean reeled to a shore--
pulp of sands wild with
mountains.

Kunda...the gyrating necks
of underbrush as Ma moves.

mass die off of black birds

freshly fallen into forest fires

that tear off their saffron robes--

~ROAR!!!!!!!~

a dragnet

comes up--

a sample grid of

shorn simpaticos...

waiting to fit into

the ripples.

of an unreleased

maritime report.

as if fore-harnessed,

by the indisputable

anchor of the Atlantic.

The fruit of rot is without kind--it needs

to be stomached.

It needs to be bore thru, kept way down--

till it smells like a baby's head.

Appetite's opposite has clothed the

pickiest animal in edibility.

Entertained by how it is left out, &

itself spoils--uneaten.

Five out of five unlit stars.

More decadent than tons of unharvested

food.

This body wills itself to the feeding of

lions.

a wolf unwrapping

auger shadows--hits a

patch of black ice.

as only a crossroad

loses traction--surrounded

by corn.

then certain scarecrows

hit growth charts of fear.

well above the treetops of

backwoods.

hailing the intruder.

As his lips ripple, he's not on them.

How a ghost is denied intimation--

presuming to speak for him.

Now listens intently, understanding

that silence isn't pretending not to

speak.

That sort of painful loquacity.

Then there are words that speak to

silence--which silence may or may

not speak.

Silence is a word, a word is silence--

their speaking out of turn can **** the

ghost.

i hear the rain try

different lyrical themes,

as if orienting a lost child

fast with tears.

a sounding neighborhood

loosely based on its intensity.

honing in on a whisper of

nonexistence.

a bioluminescent dj scratches

the grooves of a record, as fireflies

drop with the bottom-heavy beat.

popping off neon in half-suspended

city cook, the bricks sweating up a storm.

knowing this summer will be

a live one, a very different animal being

covered with the story of its body art.

think Yeats' beast slouching to be born--

prophet to prohetess.

straight faced

april anounces the

fool's on the house--

and that visting hours

for the Spring Museum

are subject to constant change.

due to indoor spectators.

A lizard flicks against the ground,

like: you saw right, I rock this clime.

A flat breakout pose to freeze his

break dance--scales popping like a

Queens fruit stand.

Scimming the brickwall of a Garden

Complex, whose plants were chosen

by a Board's retirees with hospice blues.

Hail-chaff sun drinking ***** with

desert abandon, lopsided kiddie pools

bungling shallows.

As the laying of blacktop gets behind the

sun.

mercurial illuminations

pray over a space

for you good people.

put together

in some **** good

time.

snap, snap.

splitting jungles to

our cipher.

rationed twists pacing

this boney rock.

tense gone passed

it's penultimate

passion.

littering streets

with the discarded

masks of assembled

misery.

my words speak

louder than my actions.

a guru building an ocean's

wave.

a wave flattening a guru.

in the dead of night it works

gold.

aum has us thusly.

Awe shucks--there's Tater walking like
a duck on a highwire to Apple Bees.
Taken by the hand--dressed like an
unembodied expression, thrown together
not to be naked.
Layers notwithstanding.
Tater was holding his hand, not sure if it
was her own.
Tater was making a go of it--leaving a
slug's salty death on his palm.
Tater was getting so wet her inner thighs
glazed one another.
Conversation was natural enough to feel
like a muted reprieve, intimating loftier themes.
Comments on random homes were not
about worth, but more about auras which
translated to aesthetical judgements.
As Tater & he tempered the material world thru their cross-read dynamic.
Seated at a particular window-booth, as
per his eccentric placement for food ingestion.
A booth lit so bright, one could perceive
the emotions of dust motes.
Tater promptly excused herself to the
bathroom--where she admittedly cleaned
him from between her legs.
Tater took to the booth again, considerately propping herself up.
Then the pendant lamps followed her
mood like a bird of prey across the sun,
when it was directed outside the window
by her gaze.
As Tater offered that it was the day her
ex's mother passed.
He couldn't help feeling that it was put out there, as if a nun ripped through grace to get to appetizers.

Picasso's: Madame Moiselle

looks like a trapezoidal

crime scene--lamps turned

over.

highlighting gesturing ******.

i sat by a bay carrying away bodies, under a

tree hunched over a shore of boulders.

as people came together in temperate weather.

ospreys diving down at clearer water, fish at

their feet--both well on the wing.

the first snow of dandelions underway.

our sun changed position, and the tree melted

diamonds on its leaves.

the breeze came up and away with water, a

mastery seldom seen by eyes--a spontaneous

ceremony of letting go.

only when you have

been truly imitated,

will the first of your

last rites be administered

by an art.

not your own.

rendered perfectly

enough to never have

existed.

an impressed moment,

an impressed moment,

an impressed moment.

A transplanted room, an impressionistic

mockup of one's most stayed dwellings.

The one slept in during dreamless states.

Sighs, dragged chairs--the floors eyes

pooled on.

Light's weather, now light only--dark's

weather--now dark only.

Moved by a solitary motion, unable to

curry favor with *******.

This is rest above ground.

Swept center of center, that

contemplation saw spread still.

Passed cobwebs that rave about walls--

per pearly-faced spiders,

reflecting the silk of absolved breath.

Where music bundles up to play

higher rises--lower falls.

Evolving still lifes of vases cut off by

water, won't speak flowers aloud--

holding tight to their dried reach.

A masoleum's window is a depressed

medium, that clings to rain & snow as

a window to another.

Here bones are harder on coffins,

magnetizing their display to cautionary

tales without endings.

No--a masoleum's light comes after, right

before you.

Its way of Showing you out, if you

shouldn't be.

it's not an optical

illusion when you

see a blackbird,

evened by your blink.

as if underlined by a

ruler.

periodism

charting ****.

Paul Cezanne

confounded the

frontal windows

of fruits.

pairing juices.

in bruising cubes,

warmed over.

an archway with ivy bangs, glass cuts

another archway with ivy bangs.

dangling from the foreheads of a gothic

tunnel.

magnifying feet that have masticated

undergrowth & path.

the metamorphose of a human animal,

whose keenness still rings in the ears--

while ****** into the pressure of the tunnel.

a soundproof & sound-enhancing paradox,

that spacewalks limbs.

coupled with the aerodynamic windbreaks of

cars, riding the back of its modest overpass.

then the emergence to a connective forest

path--as if cleansed before a consequent

afterworld.

a hermit well to the bone--dressed like
a beast in the birthright of elements.
lies four times removed from breath,
with his back on a stream.
puddied face wrinkled like a treestump,
frizz-bale beard, a kingdom's expendable.
stiffly resolute with communions of
sunless light, all he let live--lives him
hereafter.
untouched by the temporal, the long of
his lay will be discovered during the long
of his lay.
a whistling wodnesse will come like
Ariadne's thread from castle walls,
Boschians will leave no sympathy card
from the blazes.
the hermit will have simply been a
feature of the landscape.
if want was a thing at all for him, it was
to be as it is.
his decomposition will be as his favorite
verses, revisited while coming away with
newer & deeper meaning.
a holy pandemonium in a most unlikely
place--a bird for every other bird that
passes it on.