The yellow boy thinks he
is so secretive with his
tongue twisting juices.
But everyone knows

he's in the bathroom
stuffing his bra with
  lemons.

Violets fell
from your mouth, smoke
in purple filaments
Your laughter spills from
frozen tongues
you are
 
you are
 
you are
 
a thousand words
in a silent room
echoing from
my naked mouth,
the folds layering
in my mind:
 
red and blossomed nectar
filling the hollows
of my ears.

Static whimpered then, now
was a moment, is and will be.

But in my deeper blue, waits a
Sapphire cesspool; waste and ivory
the Isle of Man, wades and drowns
silk swollen in the silence of still water,
through Hesperian greed and the tide
of golden apples.

In wandering, the cicada and cypress
grew in a moment's swan song,
Paradise was a pyre, and it was Winter
and the modern world.

And in what days of one day
would the enchantment bring-- of
the red faces and quivering tongues?

And what would the harpie bring--
icy tendrils of Spring to cool the flame?  
A wretched smile, of the witness
blackened, knelt cradling his
head in his hands.

and in that moment, I was a lost man,
a lost man,
And then the happiest on the face of the Earth:


Now, the night is shallow.
****** is a breath, Eros is breathing, I am still.

Still

caught in the net of waking dreams,
when a binary sunset births the piercing tone,
of frequency high and ears hollow:
I was on my back, floating
and Death stood waiting
at the end.

Chariot yoked, pinion on pinion,
I gritted my teeth, unfurled my wings
and wept-- the mind is vengeance
As cruelty is the Mother of love.

and Now
stands waiting,
in the memory of himself.
A war is waged each moment,
with the echo of forever:

soul for soul,
talon for talon.

As the apple

bursting bellies
beryl tides and

as the apple

lucid blue, a
wasted gut and

as the apple

a stitch of skin
of rude thoughts and
obscene gestures of
****** fingers of smiley
lies of cats in graveyards
and bleary eyes
of ***** misers
of the foolish ***** of
the four-legged wanton
silver tongued and

as the apple

a boy sits
and worries after
my ugly twin.

My grandmother
has a chair that sits
in the shower-- a tile
throne for loved martyrs,

her hips have disintegrated
as has some emotion,
you say I don't know
sorrow, you say I don't know
sadness

but here I am again, naked in your chair
letting the hot water
bead down my face in
substitution for tears.

Synthesis says
hang the liar, birth the


Rabid.
Feign what
he said, she said, we said

Gold.

Martyr in the sack.
Radical, the bone layer

White bride, lucid lace
cool, cool blue in
subdued tones.

Skin is circles, ellipse,
revolution, revelation
creation as submission,

god god god

God.
Cad Gaddeau

We trees, pine broken
and snared, and


Rabid.
Feign what
I said, I said, I said

Dull,

I am
the liar.

On this day,
paper planes
white ribs
mellow dramatic
fowl.
get lost or get
going
get treading or
get drowning

drift
on this day,
this comatose
wind of
graceful banality,
get crying or
get laughing
get saving or
get burning

this
is the liar's limbo, the
obscene outrage
the thoughtless
minds the voiceless
tongues the love
without limbs sobbing
over some ****'s Hollywood
half-assed production of
that idiotic sequel
to some vague kiss, this is
the masturbatorial
let down of your
little brother that
safe *** ***** of
half aborted embryos
good god kid get lying or
get dignified
lick your elbow or
lick your ******

On this day,
children breathe
adult bodies,
naked limbs
running
just to wade
in the sea

with the fearlessness

Faster, gambling
rambling Mother, glides
Laughing, Africa sailing smooth
Jazz lips, spit gold
Gorgeous.

I told you so.

Sil, never leaning, *******
his last basket of fire, Glitzy ****
box of matches, ashes
crowd and birth
Saturday nights, street
lights scattering a
boy sullen, smiles
rolling across faces

Another line down
dust flailing tubes of tissue,
The mirror steadies the
marrow, bones breaking
gums, blow another
let a little light
shine through, and he'll watch
himself

stone the silence of
Jazz and all that jazz
and laugh it off until
the sun illuminates
what god gave, *** and
sleep and smoke and sin

Every night, a gun explodes
and I've got to smile, I've
got a little white witch
swallowing, brass eyes to
the West, gold-- this has never
been so hot

Not like thighs lingering
for another second, pass
her around until we're
giggling and crossing our
legs as young ladies do

but, I'll save that
for Sunday morning.

There.

It curls itself
around like dry milk.
****** breathes
the desert unto
Pastoral gold; a
swollen ******

No tears for lush
stalks of women,
even as they dance
under sterile
suns.

Hairy little men

I've got, hiding in my ear.
 
 
Verbal Contraptions:
 
By means of saliva,

deep sighs and black
 
tongues
 
 
Has anyone seen the Barber?

Take no more of Kronos, in guilt
he speaks his secret name.
Shame on you, the brute who gave us wings.
No longer reaching for our halo,
I let forgiveness pass and regret to feed
the marrow.

And he, who finds himself wise, casts
a shadow on another day-- One who
does not pity the shrew, the innocent mind, a
naivete of perennial seasons forgotten

when the Autumnal blaze of fire and gold
became the death of Eden and
the birth of another ivory bone.

(ehyeh-asher-ehyeh)

Be dark, night--
on rests the Swallow, the
vagabond, the worrier.

With darkly cauls and veils
of infancy, the blue-bloods
calling:

Mother of mercy, Mother
of grief.

and in greed, he follows,
a blind man wretched beneath
the sun and quiet in the night.

Be dark, night.
Be folded by the belly,
Be milk, warm-cast in life's
coldly arms--

for the transient, the reviler,
wander hand in hand
lonely by the light.

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.

don't look, I
run with the wind, amok gilted hands
fast lacing,
i've only got six fingers saved for
dead kachinas, and I'm

wheeling rough
through the underbrush;
mixed Wiley yellow, willow
peering in on my schemes, paint
pallet dragging leaves
over the hills and holes of
my body's deepest grief

so brush up the tic
and wipe off the blood,
if i'm treading through this
horse hyde, then lift
up my red dress
and sift out the weeds
 
bramble ramble, ramble
soothsayer hanging bones from
his swollen empty gut-- I

got a rain-stick, talking-stick
Yellow Wampum floating, bagging
sick sweat, for Appaloosa, holy, holy

leave, god anger ugly,
golden painted leaves

and if i'm too swollen, and if you're too
sullen-- i've got a bag of névé rocks for you
so hitch up the tobacco and wait
for tomorrow

my deer running, hoof trotting, snow
blowing legs will be comin' soon.

If I cut off
my hands, my desperation
would learn
another route:

a way to harm
the outside in
acts of self-defiance

justified
by acts of self-
defense.

Soil, like velvet
black and charged
claim the footfalls of
a steady steed

Of muscle worn
and waxed, the mask
of thin skin

Down, down the jam
jar of innocence
The vagabond of
rich intention and
subdued space

Enveloping, coiling,
the bursting of birth
posed and poised

of a faded nebula, a
dying sun.

In the night hour, hills
he descended, like white
elephants
burned a trail of flox
when all were waking
and heavy breathing.

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?

You are
blood in Eve's burrow, where
shells of Venus could not
bite through,
could not dry
the paps of pretty words
of pretty babies, or pretty girls.
 
This is rising.
The Delphic eyes, the
black, black crow biting
my lips.  To spread, to envelope
 
these legs; my Winter,
lurking in his white cape
not ever knowing, admitting
he swallows rain
as my tongue curls.
 
And in time, a
mouth will be hollowed
for swollen lilies;
dead fathers-- who
like ordinary men,
beat their wives and kiss
their daughters as if
 
nothing
has passed the murmurs, the cherry bombs,
a whimper, emptiness.
 
Not even my cold, black
stare:
Mother, willing, will I die
parched or sharp
with this needle nonsense of
words, words, words?
 
Pining for another sip
 
her fingers lace with them,
red-rose *******, no
Father, no, no
 
not even the shrewd cloak
of my black,
black hair.

the blue neck.
the lonely echo.
tomorrow, in the light, where
a gurney is perched, they will
mourn the coming doom
of cold silence.
the ethnic way.
the soft blonde, tupelo honey lays
lifeless with open eyes and
weary hands.
a eulogy for the fair.
an effigy for the unborn,
and those left to live
in voiceless absence.

here, the merry men play, dancing
suede suits to disguise
the cigar, a facade to hide
what the crooked, blue neck won't

an hour hand that spins
faster, faster
loud, louder
as the whisper of a youth
bleeds the ears of 10,000 demons.

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.

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.

Of feet:
Talon dancing,
claws of deadlight whimpers
what fierce, nocturnal

we, flat feet, barefoot in the snowy dust.

Of fools:
Rampant, rampage
of madlight weakness
soft fowl, moon-eyed

we, black jesters, makers of dreams.

Of children:
Wiley charm,
naked of sadlight gestures
limbless folly, red cheeked

we, coiled by birth, the sack of infant sighs.

Of voices:
Time would swallow silence,
by the tongue, by meek silhouettes,
by shadows of the throat, of man

as he enters the cave, black body, old in
stalactite teeth, snowy dust
through curiosity in the black dream,
and birth the birth of folly one hundred times
and sigh the first whimper, at the end

I was here.

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.

He, naked by the gun
polished by antiquity.
Bronze in an age of reason,
overthrown by passion.

Live by the fruit of god, and
by god, I am risen.

Nazarene, Gabriel, Abaddon, a wing
Apollo, a foot, I float on air
and water-- watch me.

Me.  To the thyself and thou art
I, I, I, beauty--

Rosepyre absence.

frozen
I sink in air, choke on air,
bloated by the birth of drought.

This is not a lake of fire.  This is
your mother, standing
at the edge of Eden, milky thighs
tough skin and swollen.

Westward, says the philosopher,
the questioner, the one
who doubts god, but knows
he is god

And takes sanctity by the mouthful--
apples to apples, dust to bodies
Evolution without degradation, Genesis: Martyr:
drive another nail in.

And will the Wayward pass?
A lantern was lit and Carthage
filled their cups
to the brim.
A false-hide of red faces
to let forgiveness pass
and join the ******-- a raven
to beat the window, a winged
stratum to remain eaten
and wasted in the mouth.

It is not an oath, an ebb
that hovers when enchanted.
It is a tongue swollen
It is sorrow stretching from
the back-bone and a soul left
to live,

just to live.

slither steady,
holy, swollen tongue.
grace the ear
with silky sorrow; wind
is hollow, is a whisper

is silence between
skin when hips are hips
are rose-hips, horsewhips
hollow

of butter in summer
and honey in autumn.

thicken, my throat,
morning will liquefy and harbor
your thoughts, sleep steady
syllables,
breathe silently in the night;

sleep steady.

Playing piano at the group home,
Le Grande Staircase
I've composed a piece for recovery,
next to the glass-room
with cherrywood

(She was talking on the phone to her lover),

I have small hands.
But I manage to hit the high keys,
despite their objection.

You are the mother
of wet hands.
In slow belly suede,
a soft skin of milk
is a wanton half
haggard and white
knuckled.

Today, I joined the circus
and breathed two breaths:

one for my youth,
one for my mouth.

one for a miser,
one for a coward.

You are the father
of thin tendons.
Reap in belly suede,
nuance spoiled and spoken.

A dragon by the tongue,

I breathed fire, stifled
nectar
and ate my fist.

the fall
was slow, rough
bitter, red palmed.

And ashes.

glassy eyed, a slough, sweat
wet and washed, the gloom
of gold.

And saliva.

Apollo descended, Godiva
roamed, Eros marched, God grinned
yellow teeth

For all.

These, I heard,
were gifts of the grieving,
forged by the martyrs, stolen
for the saints

And time
has resurrected fools
for halos-- wings too frail
to carry the masses; to settle
for stigmata,

And golden rings
to bind the mind, as if we
had never carried the cross

Of being alive.

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.

Flesh falls into
flesh, unattatched.
I won’t say the
aftermath isn’t easy,
doesn’t hurt, because God
made little

white nightgowns to numb
the ideas of hands
and legs and mothers
and babies and leaving

and the art of forgiving.

Art, and the
atlas of anatomy.

January 1, 2010

The heart beat is
but a ripple beneath his hyde,
only the shallows of my bones know
how to keep me treading on
and on, drowning in and out.

The blinking eyes, the
twisted touch or the calm
of each breath, floating
on a stale ocean breeze

I used to smile to know
I am blue-eternal, a sea-
**** incarnation.
I am ticking,
click, click.
The drum of another season
melting beneath my chest.

A rapid panic wades in the eternal
quaking, quick shiver of my heart,
No more sighing, no more:
A beat turns to hum, and hum
to murmur and from hence, a gasp  

To be swallowed air, breeding is a place
of breathing,
Oh, hiss, hiss
shining tide,
or not.  Jealous of death, the final
pounding wave, a gulp of dry salt:
Drink your tainted water
This is the end of
eternity, maybe, and
this flesh will too
rot, and I am sullen.

Bright as the menace, Man
brings gallant shadows
for the golden idol.

We give a wicked turn for the fire,
and jonquils for the Essenes,
pillories for nay-sayers,
squawking and gawking, bronze
bottoms for the whip:

perched piety, an angel
and a demon,
I forget their names
as they whisper petty
prayers into my ears.

Countless and listless are
the eyes that beam, Heaven-
sent and Heaven-forward,
the wanderlust leaving
Paradise in shambles.

Bright as Venus, acid rain
beckons all the saints
left dim, a shadow
bursting in the stratum.

We give wicked lies to the worrier:
One night, near to waking, he tore
the Devil's wings
and traded them for daylight,
bright as the
gallant  menace.

and the God laughed,
and then he cried.

Sometimes I wonder if jealousy
will lay with empathy, equal
halves to the other.

And I forget my name.

Forgetting piety, forgetting blame,
leaving the vagabond,
the lowlier child,
to weep alone
in his nakedness.

Countless and listless are
the prayers of children,
caught by the reign
of night, gleaming silently,
lonely
and together in the stratum.

Milk approaches
the net of unforgivable schemes,
Dare to cross over
the border of 45 hundred
fingers; a sea of burning
skin.  A sigh falls from my lips
and white phlox follows
wherever I cast my seed.

If we walked (chance zero)
Northbound and wandering, we
would find him
coiled and knotted, fair
trees, we, parched and swollen.

If I wailed (each moment)
tempest cast, give me, give me
reasoning, we trees, pine broken
and snared.

Cause is collision, backward ***, undone
I saw him once, steady smooth
and ear-hum, venture-static in snow:

If he gazed (everyday, evasive barrel, pull the trigger)
Every man has it in
for a basement show.  Don't go. Don't go.
(memory is silence, Devil's Day is brewing, wishing is constant, undeniable nusance),

I swear,
the dead only quickly decay.

In the barrel,
I float.
loneliness of night brings silence
to thought and a stillness therein.
how far is the tread and
the Word of God?
Here he wades, stifled in the shallows
of a flooded shore; the shore
of every bloated body, every withered tongue.

Here, there is a horizon
that meets the sea, therefore
never there at all.

In the barrel,
I sink.
Down the belly
of a whale I also call myself.
Digestion without disintegration.
And what becomes of the whale
when life blooms a sea-green skin
from inside:
a stomach of the afterlife
again and again and again?

And some night,
the barrel will float
without evensong.
And some far off night,
will return empty in pieces,
some night,
when no bodies are left
and God repents in silence,
weeping on the shore of his own passing.

Withered wanton
billowing in
blue veined; dancing
eyes
 
Glitter in my mouth.
I thought
I was a truth
 
but now I don't think,
I don't think

I don't think.

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

I.
Only burning
threads of copper hair
cleave the world of eyes.
An apparition came
to me in wilted,
feeble ash.
 
II.
Maybe it was just the
shifting of seasons or the
forgotten eulogy of a
somewhat vague
memory.

The heartbeat does mock
when like a drum, it quakes
and echoes the eternal applause:
 
A foolish reminder of what
Devils become you
when you recover
from the constant
thump, thump,
breath after breath.
Yes, my cruel heart,
I will in death recover
you.

Only then will the bellowing, burst
of my laughter
become the only beat you
know

 
          bravo.

This night,
man winks
with his universe, a pulse
ever-folding, buried
in his throat

This night,
man nods, coupled
by the sounds of emptiness
and the palsied glitter
of waning epochs:

and he is forever
in query
to the spark emitted,
that gorge of deviance
toward his own existence.

They say the world will end in peaceful chaos,
and nonsense will reign
all because of one split earlobe.
And in all anxiety of separateness,
there is, and will be found, something,
someone subdued.
A vague calm, awaiting the fury
when all is cold, lingering by the light
with four screeching magpies
talk, talk, talk.
A noisy chatter
that somehow is subdued-- Not subdued!
But fades away
into a constant hum
of static.
And that is the answer, always received.

The last word.  
"I have won!" They will say.
And to be conquered, oh, to be
something subdued.

And one morning, you will rise,
drowning in an ocean of light, always
reminding you
of  that daunting, waking presence
of degradation and evolution--
of the devils squawking from shoulder to shoulder,
fighting for a constant ear, pierced by all that noise--
That was always you.

They don't exist, but the boredom of living,
and the tedium of anxiety over one
healed earlobe, still split, of course, does.
But all is well.
It doesn't need to be apathy, this spinning
contradiction of existence and thought:

We need answers for everything,
so we make them, and we find them.
Never there,
and yet, always there too.
They say everything can be broken down
into smaller pieces and that makes for easy examination.
Easy observation.
They say everything exists at once, times one-thousand,
maybe more, neither here nor there.
Something simultaneous, someone everywhere.
The omnipotent mind, twisting himself
in and around, infinitely and  constantly,
and that makes all the difference.

It is meaningless.  And what will you do with all these
actions of resurrected futility?
Create a codependency, no doubt, on the magic of science and the ease
of technological advancements.  Continuing this evasive circle of modern life
and meaningless distraction-- Who can afford to live
and who cannot?
Surely, there is no winner.

We all get to the same place in the end, and knowledge,
unlike currency, through meaningless chatter,
may perhaps outlive you.

Knots in my hands,
pulled threads.
Coiled naked, I shed
my skin
flow through me,
bullets of the sun,

silk taut, nectar
she knows me.

metal
Swimming in my veins,
Flow through me.

Lily says I talk too much
and scoffs the word-trip with
know-it-all and get-it-all,
caffeinated hazard.

Now I know ****'s preamble
means comfort for the twisted,
but the rouge on his lips
is a different shade of pink
than the stain on his *******:

We're zenith straight and waiting,
the mind is cut in quarters,
here I am, a merry song
of Arvo's mirth and Mansell's
death; quit loathing,
the man is breathing.

Newton's god is clock-work,
balderdash predestined, dumb
by Aristotle, fixed Zeno third-up finding,
a paradox perpetual,
and me, I'm just dumb-founded.

And then there's the cat.

Surely, he must be dead.

But I'm still bearing two minds,
and Achilles hasn't won.  The qwiff resides,
the turtle moves,
again the rambling tongue--
is made of one, but now cleft in two.
Or several!

Surely, surely,
he must be alive.

Pandora, just open the box.

Her eyes are sleepless,
a rabid calm awaits the fury.

Her skin is white
and she is on fire.

When the sun
has descended, she,
hanging like an orchid
falls
in Winter.

You will find her
full bellied,

saturated with
tears.

The world is not
worth mentioning while
12 disciples shy away
heavy in the night-
By glowing embers, the savior
has fallen, surely fallen,
and placed beside those
in ****-recovery; dying men
reborn, but not by innocence.

The world is not
reconciled by waves of motion,
when action speaks
only by way of eruption.

The hardening word.
It is not spoken
with adoration,
causation without correlation!
One would say
and says it

only to find
himself alone in the night,
burying his mother, that
thickening flesh, solidity
in hatred for a breast
forever filling his mouth
with curdled milk.

What sorrow there is
for Man!
What pity grinds in his bones,
if only to penetrate
that hardening word?

He is lost by volition
and baffled by silence,
and so becomes
a disciple
burning in the night.

The world is not
as merciful
as memory is forgetful,

I am
all
that I am.

By the tedious twists of fury,
the miserables love to scurry

But in their dance, a farce by chance
In love am I, with the miserables
merry.

This city suffocates me.
where
a million trees
once stood in solitude,
these buildings
in numbers
****
the air from everyone breathing.
I hate the city.

My days
are mostly wasted
by thoughts of moments
that have happened
and also
those that have not.

My mind
is mostly cluttered
with fantasies and heaven,
red skies and smiling magpies,
murdered by
the loneliness of hell.

If memory is mostly
futile, the future
must be so

If everything is fleeting,
I must be running barefoot,
naked in the snow:

Toward what?
Or who?
Or me?
Or why?

Why
does every angle
seem cavernous
and sharp?

Why
does every body
fat with levity
birth such
a jagged mind?

The Thing must
fill its stomach
as much as its head,

we are gluttons
for ourselves,
we might as well be called
cannibals
instead.