The astronomical each to each...
cherry blossomed, gut wrenched...
pink and pent up...an achy nostalgia
given to Spring as always...
for a seemingly perverse furthermore...
be it just shy the dead of winter here, and
elsewhere.
Christmassy...with the idea of a New Year.

anything you look at
is a convergence point
of unregistrable perceptions,
rivering.
lightning before thunder,
but don't dare call it:
lightning or thunder, or thundering
lightning, even lightning-thunder.
that which sight has commonized
can never catch it in the act.
of being.
in the: act-act-act...pick one,
and it's already gone--done.
cherry picking is done for us, as
the brain screams ****** ******.

an antiquarian bookdealer,

upwardly sleeves--Cheshire Cat's

feral litter.

as the front door bell tinkles,

(comparative to an upside down,

apple: Blow Pop).

its soundwaves release the litter,

from the elbow patches of the

proprietor's suit jacket.

its corduroy, thoroughly marked

with their epithets.

as they treat occasional pages as

glue traps--from which they must

release mice from.

please understand--bibliophile by

definition.

where the polite browsing of book

spines--become the agilism of

overattentive readership.

forelight not for want of thee,

foredark not for want of thee--

essenced Word of breaking lips

loath to void.

as what clings to spacey walls.

outflanked vine throwing off

dimensional shadows.

head come head, prophesied forefront.

disseminations of empurpled grapes.

gourd of psyche, countoured with

drying juices--the letting of outlasted

accentuations.

Caravaggio dying on the run, restating art.

chi brought food & form was martialed--

feet struck, feet said: asphalt, feet said:

seawater.

as such a walk harnessed its entirety

before it began.

while feathers left birds on this or that

note, to touch pressure points of air.

whole symphonic collapses of earth thru

the blind conveyance of an obstacle

course.

the flexibility of weirdness is not a

parking sign peeping out of an

unstoppable tree trunk.

it's how that megaphone of pain acts as

a leyline.

reverse momentum knocking underfoot--

built-in everywhere.

loosed catapulsions on the verge of eyes--

these.

see just short of a walk's conclusion, the

side of a bush blow open.

exposing a few branches--one more

deafening than the other.

morning lay like totaled
freedom, wish i could sew
its breeze to my chest and
wear it as a name tag.
sleep was beyond the cost
of damages.
there's a week to work through,
and today is another day?
what is it to forget to blink,
in a bypass of mind, a trickle
of drool at the side of the mouth?
how optical can an illusion get
while in daily activity?
another glug of coffee fails to
enrich the details, the nervous
system blinkers.
the capacity for joy, is proportional
to that of sorrow...every weekend
forgoes that wisdom.
be it chock-full of crazy.
it's the only way.

St. John of The Cross sets off motion detector

lights in the unconscious--which it cannot

unsee.

a state of being whose night still walks, turns

the turned, inside out.

the feeling of having been before, is where

you are, feet lost to the difference.

as if there's no self to fulfill prophesy, Christ

is also a night owl.

the snow we received seemed to put all

its effort into indenting an unfinished

paragraph.

something about depressed levity &

footprints.

which called for Chopin's: Nocturnes--

that flapped with yellow caution tape.

which sectioned off a massive burial

mound of Christmas trees, heaped

individualities brushed white in a

parking lot.

how memorably Chopin played to their

lying positions, clean cut stumps sticking

out from weighted litheness.

cut, dressed, posed & tossed--the

overstayed welcome of hysterical

merry making.

one could almost see every single pine

needle in the scent they parted with.

Chopin knew just how to reach them

with his sensitive phrasing, getting into

those frigid hollows awaiting pickup.

kernels of corn

detach themselves

from the cob

of some kind of

Sun.

to necklace the

over-shed of

moonshine.

circle-yell,

full.

October is more

than a recurrence.

an albino monkey

clanging cymbals--

dies a Duracell death.

with two cymbals

resting in a discus prayer.

repetitional rays of sound

creating an island of toys

on a first born sun.

a cloud-centric

sky is shafted...

crying unto spots

of land.

that suddenly

appear more real.

almost like magnifying

glass to paper.

ruling planets cut thru

the screen of midday's midnight--

juggernauts with blowing foghorns.

super-schizoid percolations of color...

the earth herself posing as a spinning

sitter, whose turns are fed to the

paralytic lucidities of turns that will be.

yet there's no turning to be had, when she

hatches.

the screen suddenly seals--midnight's

midday...& thru the screen's holes

serpentine wavicles enter the potentia

of billions of breathers.

i have this nicely hewn

blusish, white and black

blanket rug i bring to the

park to lie and meditate on.

so i'm lying there blissing out

when i open my eyes there's

this ****-diesel beast of a pitbull

literally in my face.

his owner was nowhere to be found.

so i sit up as he circles and sniffs me,

all of a sudden this mass of muscle hit

my back in a collapsing motion.

i turn around to see that hulk had rolled

over and wanted a belly rub.

here comes his owner finally--laughing,

telling me that Bo really likes me.

he liked the vibes, surrendering to that

marination.

Secrets self-combust,
inexplicably slip
a tongue's tongue...
dryly rifling
at rows of teeth.
Whose cratered mouth
makes a display of
savage grace.

cold *** stews dumped from

tenanted clouds, on spasming tar.

dank breath breathes all over

glitchy raindrops--why i wear

cement shoes to ween off of

puddles.

as a black cat's wet fur effuses

the crunch of fish bones.

its Louis Wain aura hits me with

the engrossment of movies lost

in movies.

a cold spot

in a

bottomless

ocean--

can be felt

more often

than not.

...Woolen sleep mask
atop a wolf's muzzle...
the amplitude of retention
and snap.
Storifying vibrations/impressions...
collated for pickled dreams...
lives?


Konstantinos Mark

colors of the undwelt, the violence of
letting go--read in the expression of flesh.
hidden away in garbage, forests, coffins--
right now.
as on this day dying so young.
the mourned as the mourner bore away--
to gradually put to light that moment again.
it feels as though spirits deplete nothingness to get at a moment that's
its own.
their powers of observation seem to command: look still, look still, look still!
if direction is traffic's singular will, &
motion is salvation--imagine if motion stops short of what has come to pass.
it would be as if spirits realized they were
breathing for no reason.
that there are far more delicate balances
held therein.
it's as if darkness becomes more of light than ever, & light becomes more of darkness than ever.
right when polarities are most distinct, they assume the other polarity through
relinquishment.

I photoed a clod of earth shaped like

the sole of a sneaker, on macadam

asphalt.

An artifact made palpable by the

swarmy crush of gravel.

Left to harden, as its sneaker went

off to something far more particular

by design.

How reality comes across.