Down the burrow,
the bells do toll
when the fox has passed,
as the orange stain fades
and the ***** of tomorrow still stifles
the tendril of today.

When I was small
a half martyred critic sowed
the seed, laid waste as a garden grew
invasive purple

and I smiled.

Beneath skin, a tyrant reigns
the royal mouth of seasons, changing.

Eden was a bag of bones,
dust to claim the ruse of divinity.
Don't tell, do tell
when children grow, a ****
flourishes, insanity!  Insanity!

Hear, they're
there, here,
flows a ready current and the sun sleeps,
lightening in the night--
When the tail of today is swallowed

a soil paunch, down the belly,
am I killing time
or is it killing me?

Religion is
your grandmother sleeping,
When you're four and sitting alone
after dark

When your aunt lingers in silence
and lights one up under an ocean
of emptiness, in cold light,
while the white night-
gown drapes the knees
and bare bones warming
under mortality's thin skin

Religion is waving warning
and smiling under a fading haze
of black stratum
of burnt out sexuality, nonexistent,

Is feeling comfort in absence of
the Sun, of levitating in gravity's wake,
to swim in birth's pride and fade
in death's grace.

To remember the dead-eye
of drifting in silence
to meditate Zero's ecstasy
and forever, ever, ever echo

the mercy of sterile wisdom.

In some light
you were grey.
The mellow cast wrecks
what I've forgiven.
I loved you, I love you.
There are no birds, no half-
mouthed cliches, how?
I've died and I've died without
hatred, apathy.

In the morning
I kissed your cheeks and I loved you,
I love you.  I open my hands and there
is only air.
I've swallowed my own yellow, my
own bouquet of mental *******
dressed all in pillowcases grey
wishing you'd lay over me, skin over skin
and whisper
I love you, I love you
into the shallow curves of my neck and ears.

In absence of the few,
a current flows lightly
and if the blade of thoughts lingering
fade in the wake of tomorrow, a gasp
will follow.
The lone tendril curls and reveals
solace for tomorrow, a million
syllables found in infinite sounds.

Here, there are only cauls
waning in the night
where the preacher surrendered his hands
and revealed the anchored eyes
of the subdued.

We were only sleeping, the coma
of the waking, the silence of the breathing,
the Ides stretching beneath the fount
and bow of the Nazarene--

a blue lining to veil
the face of today.

Hell's bells
are silent

I'm white wired
in the wall,

Static is an insect
perched on the Maker's drum

16,000
vacant cycles per second
reeling in and repeating

The swell
of cedarwood, deep in the burrow
Ambrose waits, and he is risen

where winter rests
in a bed of water, soft smiles
pale faces

blue babies in golden reeds.

swollen still
in the stillness of tomorrow,

of yesterday's grief, to be
reborn every morning
in the pineal quest of
nirvana, the navel's bud,

to grow yellow, languid
from the icy bloom
of self defeat

and smile, smile.

Hands are full
around the belly an
ash caul, of infant veil

sighs the tempest
breed of barren muse,

stricken wide and naked
I wear the hands of the enemy,
birthed and swollen by oblivion:

the jester is out, 364 weary,
ballistic and dead by denial

as the sun breaks knees
from flourish to incognito,

his eyes grow wild in sand
and weep with a mother's smile.