Over a hell-shack of trees,

that seclude an April

winter.

A tickle of dogwood like

a dry Japanese cough--

leaves the dimensionalized

hanging.

Bardo Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do.

a ten foot sasquatch in

Montana's wilderness

listens to Beethoven's: Fifth.

he once found it an open

dumpster in town.

it was a pair from the 80s--

tomato-red in color, those

cottony earmuff-size ones

they used to produce.

he's swaying back & forth,

throwing around his massive

meat-hooks, the way that great

composer would.

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.

if my poetry caves--

vacuums the black out

of its hole.

to clear what's forever

caught in your throat--

making singular the invocation

of entry and exit.

beating blots to the presence

that sits, and denies being

there.

how a sanctum's desecrated--

pervades pure dark with enemy

divide.

forgive me.

spoon feed me digestible

moosh...baby me.

all i ask is that you look

into my eyes like your

life depended on it.

then we can have something

for once.

where your foregone movement

might make me hold your hand.

strong enough to be beat to death

by memory.

...shake off...
who's Whoville's
lifelong dispatch!
without cut n' dip
deeper...O's to Joy...
possible not...

resplendence gesticulating
wildly... momently...
whilst depth lapsing...
beautifying its Void.

bought this rose stuttering

new bloods with an off color

scream.

from a flower peddler.

tore off its upstanding head--

and rifled it at the heels of a

bedeviled nyc woman.

as the crystalline cogs of December

turned.

frosty verbiage.

an almost normative nonchalance to his
absurdism--as if it's just fine because he's
doing it.
there he was, making good on what was
not--rather than what was there.
wala's quick brush of a gestured once-over, where gravity sank.
left pinky claw in his mouth, with the false modesty of a centerfold.
the frills of nausea knotted by abject terror & stage fright paralysis, was the confection of his presence.
buddy boy Beelzebub standing in the living room like: 'what do you think?'
a red-light district glow about him, Tartarean yarn's hypertrichosis, curly Tim Burtonesque horns.
unhealthy *****-colored eyes, with
see-no-evil reptilian slits & fangs that ate
their punchline.
he just stood there--coring out a cave of
grandiosity, then leapt to the refrigerator.
turned it on its head by tapping his claws on the freezer door, a little hunger strike.
grabbed the magnet of a Monarch Butterfly, forced a few flits & dropped it
on the floor as with the lot of them.
tip-hooved back into the living room & said: 'the lamp's bulb in your study needs changing--it's been driving me bat-**** crazy, I need you to see clearly so I can manipulate your knowledge.'
'Pretty soon you'll have two pulses & two heartbeats.'

it's best to

know a country

boy.

between clicks.

before cities spur.

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.

there's a tree stump--

bagging water.

i mean, over accounting

for rings.

as rain comes down.

wrought bark.

behaving in roots...

thought of often.

Why you...angel--why you...to peep through
the finality of white walls?
To overspread the concussed skull that bangs
against them to keep time...why you?
Why were you born against a spillage of air
in a freefall of wings?
Nothing...absolutely nothing... between your
wings, save for what you will embrace in that
freefall...why you?
Schooners rounding earth's violet aura--
dissolving into the transcontinental bestiary
of souls...why you?
You are what shone through the breakage
of humanity--you are the emanation of our
breakage...why you?
You...legions of you...fence the Romantic's
chimerical stead...only to retain the character of
what implants itself face first...as so you.

As the horde scandalized: The Oscars
for best village idiot, Jezebel captured
kindness & did things to it.
As they fumbled & bumbled to be looked
after, to come to mean no harm--Jezebel
opened an underground soup kitchen
for her generational curse.
They all came with their bowls, coveting
the recipe.
Jezebel made kindness smile for all the
wrong reasons, like she rehearsed at
home--or else.
Jezebel did whatever it took to discipline
the dark arts.
Worked a burning candle inside her, to raise the pitch of words.
Then fell on a blank page like a bored
tormentor.
Where poetry did everything she said.
She cackled as village idiots were charmed by her words, & the odd ****
that said: Who, me?
Until a Jnani slurped down the bowl, named every ingredient & burped.

there's something about

a cardinal, flitting across

saturated woodchips after

a downpour.

as if throwing back air in a

looksy of: fly.

whose tree cover tantalizes

a resonance that treats the peace

between wetness & color.

are you prepared

to accept that spirituality

is something you

recognize especially?

more than yourself pitted

against the crowd to which

you contribute?

a crowd that's shunned as much

as embraced.

beyond recognition.

bow!

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.

unbuilt cathedrals

are cropping up,

their doors blown open

by flying scissor cuts

of night.

ringing round a rosie.

a gathering of ungracious

hosts.

bird-beaked hustlers

selling custom t shirts,

of selfies plagued by

black outs.

red hot wax, seal of revulsion.

a morning peck on the critical

mass of your night.

neither girl, nor woman--but some

other phylum.

some pathetically behorned Nordic

malformation running fantasy.

breaking out in despicable rashes of

behavior--begging the sum of holiday.

a thrown wind come to inhibition...

rags to the tainted shroud of wouldbe suicide.

encampments to chameleonize, lie-configure

***** itch rock n roll.

by the powers that be--cessate, sink a one man

stone into earth, as pledge your loyalty.

a black curtain

is pulled a-cross an

inoculated landscape.

an inert knot

sped to unconsciousness.

the last figure to number

a hellish essence.

as the colossi of oblivion

operate feverishly.

in the middle of the night

the unredeemable left undetected.

standing for the deathblow of its

blackest rose.

disinherited as far as the eye can

see.

in love with the despair that rushes

over what's too alone to abandon,

or be abandoned.

what always meant to say nothing...

cut at the root.

black locust firewood, gathered by a

hillock of men--with axes & spades for

arms.

inversely dug out, to dig in--deeper.

the ointments of sleep applied to their

eyes--left open, right closed--right open,

left closed.

left/right open.

though they see nothing of this.

when the pit is gutted--the men divide,

into semicircles.

heaping *****-fulls of earth over their

shoulders.

to ceremonialize the short of the long, the

long of the short.

they then ignite the bonfire of black locust

firewood.

about face, & wander off far enough to

disavail appearance.

which's when naked women appear--who

see nothing of this.

drunkenly slip into the bonfire, the curing

of semicircles.

the long of the long...winter, sees all of this.

solstice.