Moon sparrow flies far in the calligraphy of night.
Little fellow find your wild winds in shimmering ink.
Your wings are well-spoken in the sequences of open spaces.
Write your poems in the corners of your eyes

Little fellow find your winds in shimming ink.
Far from the fields you trend.
You tend the trees of speaking
Offer the fruit of images within the words.

far from the fields you trend.
for those that grow not letters in their pots.
offer the fruit of images  within the words,
You write in the simple penmanship of soul

In the lore of leaves always Woman
Moon light  & sorcery combs
Mysterious desire
As transparent cities in my ribs make roots
Scrimshaw jumble the sky and earth with mysterious kiss
Ah, the self-fulfilling prophecy of griffon.

Often i have felt griffon
Within me as i read the curves of Woman
Chanting spells and writing the stars within my kiss
my lips form  letters on your corners and combs
the dark roster of remainder roots
Within the potent growth of uncontainable desire.

Dark is the unspoken desire
That within me shapes  a griffon
Talons and the roar uniform of its roots
Weird talents of Woman
Release the door closed in me as you comb
the tresses & the navel that moon envy in its monthly  kiss

Delicious kiss
Stir desire
Release the magic fur with combs
Transform the inward griffon
Come closer Woman
The tree must spread its roots
Dark are omens of  roots
Within the bedchamber there is only kiss
luminous nefarious Woman
i am appalling in my desire
Transforms me into monstrous word, griffon
no flesh but shadows within  the combs

Unfathomable combs
Intoxicating roots
the midnight eruption of griffon
my beak  kiss
with hybrid desire
such monstrous cage is the comely love of   Woman


She combs and  polymorphs  with a  kiss
now only roots the  shapely diagrams of desire
as a griffon sprouts  feathers   is bound to charms of  sky clad Woman

How often
Have they tried
To make up
Our minds?

Ironed our options
Steamed our opinions
And sewed on
A few missing buttons
Onto our threadbare perceptions.

Some of us
have escaped
Their tender mercies.
By taking on the vocation
Of an under- stuffed  scarecrows.

What do we know
About The mechanics
The inerrancies of  glitter .
The creaky sanction
Below our thoughts.

But whatever
Dark  ceremonies
They plan
With the diagrams
Of dances
On hearth of our stone hearts.

The chicken , the robot
The winter dragon boogie…

They may miss
Subtracting the soul
From the bell curve.
Their imagination is understaffed
And the augury of their footsteps
Need a certain dark polish.

No matter our the spelling
Of our zany  misshapen alphabets.
There are  always a few
Crows to stalk the stanzas
The script of the Fields
We guard in our slumber
As our garments
Burn
In sun’s morning duty.

Adversaries ready to steal
With dark feathers
The plump opportunities
The fruit from
The green leafy lines
Of our unicorn free fountains.

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