An imbecile
Knows their limitations
Often
As a cantor
Of the ancient rites.

i have
Released
No spells
In the measures
And cuffs
Of my simple suppleness.

Once  i whispered a chant
And as a result
A family
Of sparrows took
Up a  nest
In my unartful throat.

Throat singing--
My ears
No longer hear
The notes
Of the stars.
Only
My heart
Is luminous
With the beats
With the chirps
Of those beings
Who disturb our sleep
With simple sublimity,
Of inward infinities
Of words.

Words
always bother poets.
Especially at
night if
the dictionary
is not been shut
locked up tight
under the discipline
of a silver key.


The words
slip from
the interior  pages
like trout
through
the grasp
of a poet’s
bear fever dreams.

They hollow
outside
the stanzas
the poet
has built
as a small shelter
on the paper white prairies.


There is a  hollowness
in the beehives
beyond
the measure of winds.
Even the moon  must rise
and roll out of clumsy stanza.

Hungry words
with their gleaming ribs
and shallow flesh
mourning that they have escaped
the poet
foreseeing in some future day
will place them
in the proper  chambers
crannies and corners
of his misshapen barrels
and the river
of his awkward speech
may never flow
past
the castles
of elves
that sing
flying fish
in lush ink
in the depth
by the barrel.

Some say
That unicorn free fountains
May be the product
Of an ancient code
Hidden in the runes
Of our ribs.

Sometimes after
Being bitten
Letters appear
On the gnarled
Wood bark of tree,
Or the plump
Roundness of fruit.

Speak on
The corners
Of your skin
As your fingers
Blink dark ink.

Often
At midnight
Have you felt
The horn
Grow
In the moonlight
As you caper?

Whinny and canter  
At the quarter
Past midnight,
And find the trails
of your alphabets.



A map to a place
Where your unconscious fountains
May run deep
Prance in **** truth
Much like stars
Skinny dipping
In dark
Familiar ponds.

i klump in mod galoshes
among the enigma of raindrops
and catch metaphors
on the tip of my tongue.

Swallow into my soul
the beautiful unaccented verbiage.
as fragments of poems
wash down from the sky
in streams of kaleidoscopic complications.

As i tromp in puddles of letters
as i run down the wet serendipitous streets
of visionary realms...

Griffens hide under the umbrales
of trees glowering for they do
not like to be pelted
with the symbologies of deluges.

This make griffons mystifying
glowing leaves flutter chanting,
and skinny dip in the trellises of rain drops.
And at the end of all spelling.

i romp among the rays of the rainbows
that spring down the corridors of clouds
as unnamed poems stir & grow
up into the  clouds
and wait for the storm of creativity
to begin again in a paper sky.
and wait for the storms
of creativity to begin
and dispense  gems
to hide in heads
of uncanny eerie children
that greetings
fold space into verses

Over the mountains
of the man’s  echoing story

i found the children
of the story huddled;
as commas blew like blizzards
on the crags of plot –
against  the  verbs of sky.

All i could do
was whisper.
“i do not understand you…”
but  still,  the words were beautiful
in the  reflection  of my  eyes
images i would carry like buckets
frozen in the vines of mind.

An angel
in the dark corners
of my imagination,
said unto me "childheart,
take these wings of schemes
which  i have fashion for you."

"i am sorry ancient one..." said i,
" ...but i am  foolish ."
But in truth i was allergic ,
to the parasitic letters,
hidden within the feathers,
of the offered wings.

“i shall  humbly spell
the letters
of my darkness”

not so much
to stain the world
with sameness.

For within
a luminous sparrow
hides and in the penmanship
of tomorrow
it shall fly
across the  dark
ink-stained clouds
on the corners of my eyes.
Trill in the merest  comma splice
or dangling modifier,
sing among the thrill of  ampersands .

i shall chant the long history
of diagramming  my  unimportance
then i  like a  monk shall scribe:
“i shall humbly  spell
the letters
of my darkness”