i punk the bones
of dead poets.
thier words
burn
in the flames
of inward illumination.

The leaves of their
speaking
is so dry

They stain me  with
dreams of
the locus eaters.

i a prophet
a locust eater
rearrang ing
all
the letters in the room


i walk
through
the sounds
of their stopping minds
moths
flapping from
my nose
just like alien characters
that flicker
like
a smile
on the west
face
of a great pyramid.

In narrow ways
i sit  threadbare and uncombed
my mouth shares bread
with a small soul mouse-like
and paper thin ribs
of concepts.
as pages flap
as auspicious  creatures…

must i speak
the most basic words
for my thoughts are small
run away words
through
bare windows
into fog and mist
rearrange your meanings
like mysterious sparrows
combine in the spirit of feathers…

familiar letters made alien
in your curios spelling
in ways outside my  throat
return
and i shall not
recognize you
mysterious lady
or the language
you have wrapped
in ceremony submerge the moonlight…

no matter how the wax
of my understanding recedes
falls as the candle merges
with an empty glass
for the words
seem to gleam
as they pass
through the rags of my soul
for a mouse only knows
when the trap springs
the solitary need to shiver…

who shall
loan
a bird
to me.

for i am
small
i am
farther
than
the  blank
expanse
between
word and speaking.

who shall
loan
a bird
to me.

For the worn
blanket
of my being
does not call me
mighty.

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….