Diamonds originate
In the thoughts
Of poets.

(What jewels form
In the patterns
Of stanzas?)

When your
Soul’s Breath
Crystallizes
Against
The pressure
Of cold paper
And warm heart.

For those we love
we daily bless
with the gift of simpleness.

i daily weave
your importance like a wreath.
Hang it on
the door of my ribs.
Sweep the worn
boundaries of my limitations.

For in my veins
your lips touching
floods like cranes
in the empty skies
turning back toward
their homes
as raindrops erupt
the pools
with the
eruptions of rings
and patterns.

In the house of death the old ones chant
strange couplets & mysterious narratives-
that like the tumble-weeds wisp through the picket fence....
& flows, sweeping down the dark byways & pathways.....
echoing out over the empty lawns-
they hold sway, beckoning otherworldly beings.

& on the porch my girlfriend sits
swinging on the lover’s seat
with her long glimmering hair radiant
more luminous than fireflies a glorious raiment-
& as she swings the floorboards creak their own riddle.

A unicorn from the world next-door prances up the gravel road.....
& places his soft enigmatic head upon her lap...
& as she strokes the snow-white curls of his mane.
carresing his horn with her long fingers.
The unicorn closes his eyes & falls asleep-
Trusting in their affinity........

The elms & chestnuts sing
as the stars & moon skinny-dip.
In the throats of their branches
the limbs of the trees begin to leaf....
Surly the world is coming to an end.....

As the huntresses pull up
in the driveway in their pickup trucks.
Humming with their sharp spears:
“so many unicorns from the world next door
are eating up the antique roses of civilization
in the flower beds of providence
Unicorns are emptying our dying fountains.”.
They whisper through the spaces of their teeth....

& as the sky unfolds with alien constellations.
the brook behind the house cries itself bitter-
the bulrushes & the tangleberies,
the rumpleleworte & rhubarb wither
next to the apiary of treachery
& then our the fountains die.....

On strange days
like these
baking cookies
is an arcane art.
For it is winter outside
how we transform
the inside
into mystic summer.

For i know the golden ratio.
i have surrounded
myself with graduated cylinders
that recall the lore
of  cups and ounces.

Retorts of  pots and pans
where i can observe
the powers of this world
returning and combining
into simmer.

Such smells
waft from the oven
as ginger swirls
and cinnamon sworls
like molten mountains jumble.

As the elements combine
eggs and butter
await their transformation.
Some believe that
transmuting baser  metals
into gold somehow proves their worth
but they have never
crafted cookies.

At my round
small wooden  table
my imaginary children enjoy
the coming holiday of doughy
spell-making.

They beam at me
with their gumdrop eyes
and jelly bean smiles
and write Latin script
with licorice and raisins
on their raiment.

As the homunculus
i have constructed
out of hen’s teeth
and oatmeal.
with a retro fish tank.
skips like calendar with
an extra leap year.
hiccupping time.
Mice in the wainscot
squeak as Saturn
rises auspicious
in their whiskers.

As my roller
impresses and passes
i fill the silver trays
the cuckoo clock strikes thirteen.

While i  in a black forest script  
write of spells
of life and  death
and of the perfect
distillation of a sugar cookie
in baker notation
Sprinkles on the flour
that has spilled upon my table
from the shifter….

Brevity is the soul  of wit
parody is the spirit of zombie
or the lack thereof--
as they scratch through the scansion.

Parody arise from
its grave hungry
stalking  through  the letters of  trees
until it comes
to cabin isolated in the backwoods.

Batter through the three doors
of the stanza
and then eat the children
of another’s poem.

The world combines
and also scatters
as leaves blow
and flowers wither.
The road
descends into countless paths
all leading to the same proverbial city.

what roads
and who walks on them?
The stone are ancient
and their cyphers
echoe at the press of footsteps.

The scruples
in my shoe
hurt as each foot
places itself before other
The way commodious
but the same direction.

the cobblestones
with cliqued mortar
for we believe
in our personnel goodness.


For the lamp
of your words do not
surround me
and in the darkness
my feet will stumble
my ways confuse themselves
in speaking.

No cup or sword
is given
though they are suggested
in the tongue.
Either a floating city
or a place i have dug
of endless passages
in dark labors
with the hands of my limitations
endless without exit
my thumbs pickle
for i am
a lost pilgrim
seeking providence.

as i pass
a red rose luminous
at the crossroads
may i like a prophet
find shelter in your petals
or solace
in your thorns.

I am too sophisticated
for such a plant
for I am not
a lotus  eater.

Dim and dreary
a proverb is written
on the chalkboard of my eyes
“Do not mock for as you are
so shall you walk.”

I sing
some broken poems
then simply
return to the journey.

i must remain hidden
in the corners of classroom
As equations and sentence fragments
Complete their long war
Drawing borders on chalkboards..

Me and deformity
the deepest of companions.
The world has twisted
And i bend from the ankles
And i just continue
With
A small world
Hidden in my throat
Mark its boundaries
with a dreaming tongue…
i an unlikely guardian
i whisper it new words…

And when the school girl laughs
it is not at me
as i trip
Sprawling on tables and books
Releasing flocks of paper
In echoing celebration to the ceiling.

It is because
No sparrow has nested
in the desert of her heart
so i water her mirth
with an unassuming smile
careful that my
feathers are hidden
deep in the shiver
of my body …