a grain of sand,

on some desert

night.

decided to expand

just enough.

to become a fisher's

ice hole in the Artic...

on some day.

where it remained

dark.

Night is a spacemonger, more about what

can't be conceived than what can't be

seen.

Not only on some level, it's what gets into

stars when they counterpoint.

Starting from a brilliantly aborted

distance, whose distance never gets

beyond what Is.

Which covers the same distance as what

Is Not, that's how far.

They are to be named in the way that one

forgets a name--but knows it.

The stars, that Is.

Similar to the things he's doing tonight

that have nothing to do with his name.

As there are ways that it unhappens--

there's more distance in the thought of

what he's doing, than what he's doing.

As some New York Jazz plays.

The sax's notes are even cooler about the

whole thing.

a vaporous sheep,

unnervingly  

speeds across peripherality.

manifest as a thing

effacing a productional line--

blurbing black.

in a commotion of energy.

Buddha didn't get lost

in the floweriness of

the sermon, even with

all its silent splendor.

only one attending ray

pointed at it, suffice to say.

while Buddha held

himself up to the attending

rays...knowing he would

never come back.

When stars become

a burner account--

they attempt to keep

tabs on where they

went out.

Not understanding

there's no longer a

need.

That a one way

account, is a one way

account.

Making it the loneliest

it can ever be.

out of the beak of

a ****, Peter denied

Christ.

crowing triality.

his beard whitened.

a messy paint job.

he kept frequenting an

open air

bizarre .

of sideways--reaching

down for something.

then looking straight up.

transfixed.

as news spread.

no helium...a full-bodied, hundred foot

Frankenstein.

drunkenly leaning forward--with hands

that look as if they're set to strangle.

guest-appearing at: Macy's Day Parade.

ill-fitting black suit jacket, overblown

shoulder pads--spewing said hands at the wrist.

prominent fade marks at the back, that spread

down to highwater black pants.

meeting 19th century Dutch clogs.

two-ton screws spinning in his temples.

his stitches splitting apart, against plum-purple

confetti...

analogous smears

of last-seen birds,

on the headband of

dusk.

wrapping around

a dispensing third eye.

sleep forsakes

me--craving

forgetfulness, too many

human beings have

died for this time,

their place.

Saints talk down certain fruits, under

canopies in waves of nausea.

Their ridiculous commotion muffling

the repeated warnings of moonlight.

Fruits like the propped-up ripeness of

shattered skulls, feel nothing for the

earth.

Trees like dead stopped cranks of

musical seasons--take no rest of

themselves.

Branches stall between wind & shadow

to point out what hangs.

Enough to make worms arrest their

wriggle & die of their nature.

These fruits that come round, while

betraying invite.

Happy decay nestling its cheeks on pits.

Grass should never lie with these.

Hands should starve reach, mouths

should utter: close.

finality is an incipient keeper,

it knows its airs.

will see them to their high

appointment, with events already

at play within the kingdom.

which has conspired a-no-turning-back.

there's no outwitting a crown, whose

wits were lost therefore granted.

Struck by a moment, without

etiquette or unit--a man bears

his own resemblance.

His forehead spots him.

To keep in touch.

This wasn't always the case.

Light can do without features.

This is becoming abundantly

clear.

Despite the man, even if

given to it.

Call it a great shift.

across the street they have

removed all the rims from the

fiberglass backboards to dissuade

basketball.

the court looks like a minimalist

exhibit, a perfectly ordered space

of rubber band tension.

across the street to the left, the church

doors are plastered with Covid 19 literature.

there's a makeshift crucifix of branches

fixed to the railing on the frontsteps, swaddled

in a purple robe, and spindly greenery.

there's an inebriated man beating the tree in front

of the church screaming: I'll ******* **** you!!!

he's beating the tree with such force a smokey dust

flies off the large granite stone, every pound laced

by hateful invective spreads with theatrical clarity.

not long after a woman knelt on the steps and prayed.

it was Sunday, today is Monday--almost precedent

setting at the mere mention.

i met myself--and it is possible

for completion to go on existing

as if it never happened.

want nothing from no one, to

receive your essence.

an island is not an act of defiance

against an ocean, it too is an

isolated everything.

that will read deep as it is read.

everyone dies alone, no one dies

alone--no matter what.

in between raggy clouds

a moon-sun swollen together,

is deliriously exposed.

a bubonic boil lanced by inverted

rays.

its stank gape, a fleshed out eye running

raw.

The outdoor chess table they first sat
across, was a kingdom's polarity off the
grid.
Moments before Manhattan tethered its
faintest sway--her face stumbled.
Went side to side, revealing it can live
with anything--because of how much is
dead.
The world grabbed her by the face, as she
smiled.
A well ordered paranoia always about to
drop something, a red-faced frustration
an excuse me away from unrecognizable.
Her burnt out awe pained him, because
she didn't believe it.
How she cherry picked disappointment
when he'd become overly natural, which
she mistrusted.
During a sketchy phone call at rush hour,
she temporarily lost sight of him.
When he relieved a crowd, she told him
she thought he abandoned her.

I-I will be sharper to

words grown dull, I-I will be duller

to words grown sharp.

Even...

though they can bludgeon

or cut.

Even...

though they can kiss the

eyes of peace.

the lifeblood of this wound can

issue at any moment, I-I am

reading the flow.

praise be, to know when it is

interrupted...

Monsters don't really evolve, their

horror does.

They don't find themselves thru fear.

One never thinks of them in embryonic

fluid, but pushed out of a bramble.

Unquestioned middle age.

Moving by way of unprocessed screams.

A mass that blocks the whole movie

screen, densifying epiphany.

A domestic situation in an abyss,

as record states what lives alone.

He tidies up places animals chose to die.

He was lost inside the currogated

dents of a water bottle, when he

realized fingers did the same to him.

Feeling that someone loved him for

the role, is when he became one.

The light on the

windowsill rests

like the lips of Buddha.

mantram, good and

morning.

he repeats the most

uncanny things, without

breaking a pause.

mantram...good and

morning.

somewhere there is

dark,

mantram good and night.

In the valley of candles, not only one

view is harvested.

Sea changes too bright for coordinates

flicker & throw around the smoke of

place.

A place is never truly known apart from

places--their spirit passes a cup.

A place is as precious as The Self, which it

fully identifies with thru preservation.

The Self is fixed to place, a place is fixed

to The Self--in honor.

Of fixed transcience.

Home can be a strange place, a strange

place can be home--the fare of place is

fully paid.

Go freely to become remote from where

you were, which is still where you are--

who you Are.

The spirit of place passes its cup, drink

in the view.

What do you see in the valley of candles?

Perhaps a killer taking tea.

spooked horses will run on two legs--

shinier than unction.

growing pale with the first idea of a

horse, which was the beast of their

apocalyptic burden.

a scream will re-enter their wide

necks, as if it never left.

they listen for it in every sound they

make, an open-ended edginess that builds

in them.

as everything is interconnected, the

apocalypse is akin to a traveling circuis.

which is to say that a place called earth,

is infinitely implicated--but by no means

exclusive to an apocalypse.

as is any other planet.

Truth remembers Truth, reveals itself to

itself.

Untruth forgets Untruth, reveals

itself to itself--as total destruction.

the idea of a horse is the same as the idea

of earth, ideas as pre-creation.

Being misunderstood is

usually designated by

terrified little orbits.

It's not a state by any

means, that would

require their clearance.

They hate that you are

comfortable with being

far more than you let on.

That it's very intentional.

That they're not worth

explaining anything to,

that's when it's best to be

misunderstood.

They want to be thankful

for sure mystery, but are

not.

intelligibility quotient:

meaning.

from the late Wallace Stevens

made early:

rattapallax.

Hecate holds her stomach,

shuffling the locus of her feet.

Humming how their rhythm

goes, is how darkness stays

calm.

In there are plans Hecate

never went thru with--

now even the moon won't

have her.

Head down, marked by

threes that can't get over

that one.

mother karma

sits so patiently, her

nimble fingers tangling

and untangling growing

pains.

with a song so still it barely

leaves her lips.

Lightning drowned

its boiled quickening.

Its baptism's wielded thirst.

Sword unto water, water unto

quintessence without name.

Bubbles like a black dress

that meant to confuse its open

conduit.

Charms in cloth, cloth in motion,

motion in dance--downs the guard

of rain.

The silver flood of a star that crosses

its star.

Quartered water, reflectionless

water--spoken over in dead

containment.

Spells that do not spill from their

dead containment--hide the clearest

face from stars.

What's hidden hopes to poison

another's quintessence, that they

may become that dead containment.

Water sees this, water Knows those

blessed by its quintessence, its sheen--

its Fish.

Sees to it that those that curse die slowly

by water, jerking & sinking where a

fish would be.

An apocalypse has

always been

the anticipation of one.

It's how we reveal ourselves.

There are people petty enough

to cut the cord of a lamp when

throwing it away, so someone

else can't use it.

Now imagine the same kind of

person seeing the world go on

without them.

eight gutted rattlesnakes

neatly wrapped around

a Saguaro Cactus.

bound like a barren

hostage.

extreme temperature

fluctuation installed a

potent strain of darkened

arts.

strobing moths, the breadth

of a baby's open hand--

off the air as quick as their

first debut.

pinned to every needle.

no human being should've been

made that painfully aware of your

transgressions.

i guess the truth loved him enough

not to spare one detail--of which

completely broke him.

now you think you can mend him.

it must stick out like a broken bone

penetrating skin.

i feel for the man, i'm no animal.

you should have saw him to more

faithful arms, and made good on your

word.

for this i have lost all trust and respect

for you.