when wind pops the ears

of water, a deep listening

breaks open a rain too

steady for mouths.

hail rubbing off on sleet--

then snow flaming upwards

on its escape ropes.

clear to top down respects,

paid to trees moved longhand.

a raven lays prone before

a remote tree line--flapping

its wings & kicking its feet

like old clay animation.

taught as thirteen black

leather hides passing as the

sky above.

it came up from the earth to

furiously swim across the

ground.

having become the splintered

dolor of shadow--a sun's

standstill, its one off solidities

of self-reflection.

held to secondariness.

the drive in pistachio of Frankenstein's

forehead--whose smiling wounds of

sutured shoelaces break open black & white.

a widescreen closeup, as his voice suddenly

booms through parked cars with foggy windows

rolled up.

a grunty-moan, a 1931 Aum--turns the screws of his

doctor's Hitleresque inflections, with pronouncements

of aliveness.

the rock-a-bye creaks of pickles in patches forced to

escape from their animal traps.

as the parking lot empties in a hot wheels like mashup--

couples turn on their radios to normalize.

where every station broadcasts Frankenstein's 1931

outre' Aum.

i'm found out

at work.

a radio talks

it's ******* RARA.

a desk fronting.

real work ain't

got time for that.

especially when

a syndicated radio

station burps a

commercial that tells

you, you make 35,000

decisions a day.

as april's breath blows

on her lover's cheek--3d

printed webs wear the

faces of impossibly long

symmetries.

wherefrom lint ball spiders crumble

and tuck in the eight of their legs,

reflecting the eight apples of their eyes--

sliding up or down on that

unbaited breath.

there's a giftboxed

star, 7 by 13 inching.

funny-crumpled,

aquarium-doused

in purple sparkles.

suave in its wriggly bed.

exempt from color.

finger-tipping explorations.

of: You-Shouldn't-Have.

as flies juggle around

a riff of silence--a beat

is pardoned from time.

those little eyes smiling

at the wind-down of April.

where the tremulo of a

web string supersedes two

tree limbs, and undocumented

little birds stay at beauty's bomb.

a ravening intensity wants an

ongoing plane after peak experience.

there's a lopsidedness that slinks off

what evenly secures bliss.

this faithful deformity starts to show

up earlier & earlier--before arriving.

thru the inevitable dread of what it

will throw off.

among trees a perfect mound

of earth harmonizes deep into

their song.

a break in the thick of them, wild

with survey and anonymity--that

to a faint heart would repeat thereon:

I Am lost.

its dome is consecrated by moon-milk

midnights, reflecting leaves that shadow

a wind that fits and unfits them into

one another.

yet to the fateful one standing thereon

repeats: I Am found.

one night outside of itself--

it came to me a pitch too black.

open eyes might as well of been

closed, and vice versa.

the first thing that came to our mind

was death, which did not pass.

if it was to be survived, it would come

through the intervention of time...

slowly or speedily creeping out of its

unseen hole.

as with the boundaries of desolation

made out by a will to life, where

aloneness takes on the character of

otherness, absent from that company.

so was it night or death, or other that

filled in the blanks of aloneness as it

withdrew its thrall?

what was left there was a refuge which

had sought a refuge from what sought

it, and what came together knew it would

never be alone again--even though that's

all it was.

between the prow

lowering its head and

raising it--the absurdities

of individuality overtake

the deck.

indeed the boat must be

drunk.

absorbing dissolution while

floating on it.

standing under a pinetree--
large zeros, zeroed in on
smaller ones.
till a bee's buzz was sourced.
a bumblebee banging against
a marble-size hole in a bough.
with every aerial fumble,
a buzz's bang--
the sound of baited breath.
till it cleared the hole with a fluid
wedge, its bulbous but pulsing.
its blinking black sheen eaten by
the hole.
as my mind ratiocinated: access
granted!

a table knife files its teeth

across a stale loaf of bread.

left imbedded enough to

be concealed by the crust.

its handle juts out, reharnessing

a grip that is no longer there.

a dusting of breadcrumbs line

both sides of the knife, &

an absentminded return to visibility

on the table.

a clock hanging on the kitchen wall

fixates on this discarded still life--

concentrating its repression.

bending the nail that sends it to the

floor--as an accompanying piece.

during the: Teatro alla Scala's

opening night (August 3, 1778).

Antonio Salieri's opera:

L' Europa rinconoscuita, a

chandelier so happened to

crash down...because all the

attendees were staring out at

one another with binoculars.

at the same time.

seated by the bedside of a

said street...a flower girl hunkers

down a misreading of color, that

claims family to spring's own.

Chaplin fidgets takes--wala, and it's

ramifying  light years in black &

white, yin and yang proposing to

one another at the same time.

rumpus of a penguin-footed mage.

production costs haunted by the

obsessive revisitation of a moment in

time, that only the right take could

liberate.

rheumatoid arthritis of bad directions,

as skyscrapers nicked by forwarding

motion.

a car door interrupts soundlessness.

the syllable of a first fold--emitting off a local

screen.

Charlie's obstinacy from the first flit of onscreen

voices.

the flower opens...the flower girl smiles.

more overpoweringly than she weeps.

supposedly confusing Charlie's purchase,

offering change to an unwitting elderly gentleman

that enters a car whose door slams, startling

cinematic history.

too spare for the things she thought she

couldn't see...

as it were, Charlie could not abscond

from the blind flower girl.

he actually fired and rehired the same

actress.

she finally doused him with a flower ***,

as he attempted to sit beside her.

today the sky thinking it's falling

will say to the ground: I want

you to have this, I see so

much of myself in you.

whereupon the ground will reply:

as I do you, thank you.

white on white, drawing a clear

blank--ever grateful.

snow today, so they say...

a quartet

plays across a

horsehair.

(you can't even

see the bow coming).

despite the bloomage

of attendant instruments.

Die at the mouth,
live at the eyes...
nominal head
downed.
Action Painted
by misfiring
nerves...whose
spasmodic dance
choreographs
days...on...end.

a fire the height of a mountain

experiences insomnia on a bed

of ash.

imagine if that mountainous fire

were split in half--verticality met

with an ashen horizontality.

which provides for a Dantesque

floodgate of ascending & descending

beings.

now the coming of essence--

tassels of gold dangling

from branches.

wed wide.

the heart rate of purple

coming to a dead stop...to

present the continuum of visage.

a momento, a leaf--in a ziplock bag.

welling with permanent season.

trod earth--a settling altar comprised

of truthful faces.

staring back.

canticles of revolution fit for

four ears.

profuse with secret...unhanded.

a dervish begun.

two nostrils sharing

a vat of India ink, in a sealed

off cave.

before the Himalayas stood up

& spread out.

a dragon made an egg tardy.

one rough puff thru those nostrils.

a perfectly parted wind gust, as much's

a wave.

caught fire in the reels of graphic novels.

Ruth...for these appendages, it's centuries survive me, this
here in now...mummified.
From head to toe, pulling foot in front foot funnier all of the time.
A cartoonish yaw supposes balance, curates art's gravity.
Based loosely, tightly on everything--this ground I'm to be found
on, this body I'm to be found in, is tinged.
I send you footage, grainy touchstones to dispose of...they
quantify, there's no place to put them.
Millenary eyes are not to be trusted, every time they're revisited
a quantum leap transpires.
Advanced beings we...mingling, letting **** fly barely above ground--
but we're from up...there, out there.