The Knees
never forget
the prayers
at the stairs
of memory.

In the afterlife
an erstwhile
lover
flys forever
like a crane
in the limited spaces
of my heart.

i step among
    the stone gnomes
    and cement toadstools.
    Footsteps my
    only eloquence.

    Not for tomorrow
    For the frozen moons
    in the stables
    of my imaginary calendar.

    Not for
    yesterday.
    Where the leaves swirl
    In the currents
    Of memories.

    But for
    this present
    moment.
    frolic anonymous
    in my insignificance.

    The fruit of joy
    ripe
    at this moment
    in the silence
    of my simple tongue.

    Echoing out
    into
    the blessing
    of being forgotten
    as moths like time clocks
    keep
    precise the
    pacing of stars.

If any item
should retain
eldritch  potency
in this present age.

It would be
bacon.
wild magik
is released  
by the fat
contained
within its
thick sliced rind.

Glamor can be
released
in simple
domestic rituals.

All you need
is a pan
& a heat source.


Many magi
have reported
in secret books
about bacon’s aid
in seeing
the future.

When bacon cooks
within a  simple pan.
It sizzles
prophetic quatrains
of coming days,
and often is served
with well-cooked omens.

Seers
have reported
the auspicious energies
properly displayed
when bacon power
is properly
presented.

When the curl
of bacon
properly
interweaves
the tips of tongue…

For in
the   tingle
the taste bud
apprehends
the shape
of  infinite spaces;
where the future
is foretold
within
the chew
of inward knowledge.

For if the world
is a bell
ringing
in the emptiness
of a letter.

Words
Are the
rinds of
otherworldly fruit
swollen
in my throat.

Then what
creature, sprite
or, phantom?
rings the doorbell
and is gone.

when  i come
to scribble
the crumbs
of poems
upon an
empty porch
drinking moonlight.

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.