there was once
me and you
against the world

now there is
me against you
who once my world

In the Tall Garden where Wisteria propagates
a thousand arrows of soft in a torrent of breeze
you can listen to the world nosedive into peace
and swear to god you love it.
these are the perks of a perfect thing.
woodpecker pecking his noggin in the morning fog
lifting from a plane of Eden as lazily as maple
a choir of underbrush phantoms, chirping indiscreetly
as the sun rises to her perch in the ***** of heaven
as Blue conquers the night and chickadees hasten worms
to the Otherside, with black eyes as innocent
as snow.

enormous fronts
life gives me lemons
too many
I just add *****
and get wit it.

don’t want no daft
only the super cheese
of my elective accurate
spoiling for a fight
with some actual Has-Been
spouting wind like a beam
of something less
factual.
i get to placate the drum
of an enormous plume.
shunt funded by short sight
as long as every afternoon,
is plague ****** gifted,
that’s how we do
in the projects
that have only to yearn more
than esteem less than you,
clipped where the wing
is sky blind.
soaring solo in a fog
of fetching
regalia.
north of an absolute
choice.

deep pheasant feast full of mulberries and ******* in aspic
as I windge.  a tornadic thumb on my goslings
twisting feathers into ink
while marching up my spine
like your usual
epiphany.

i love how it never Is
and assume the Fae folk filagree
more of a spark
than my own denial of glamours.
saving my breath for a clam
in wax
stealing oxygen
from a pearl.

as all the bones... when I do.

a snail, plumb in the crease of a wilting green leaf with a loose tooth.
all the theatric lemonade at the box social, basking in long overdue
and upfront Delilahs… scorpion averse in a diabetic coma
made of so many wishes
you can’t live with.

the snail disembarks from the usual blarney
and writes a book about an up-close bird
with a beak as ominous
as a pop quiz.

while The Play is the Thing that keeps asking Why
when there’s a perfectly obvious
Gadot.

that ad on my porch is like smoke preaching fire to an ice cube.
got me hot, ironically; all of me purging a T.V. Dinner.
some of my best jokes are Friends.
but nothing sells *** like a useless needful thing
on a loop.
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Marginal!
we’re all in,
barking mad at the cathedrals
of our perpetual sieves…
sifting through giants as granular
as a perpetual
Scheme.
the bees keep dying,
but we’re selling Biaural speech.-
to a hivemind. squandering the verity of a reason
buy shilling the dream of a better Whatnot
to not have a Nonesuch
in the bargain
of our
Stupidity
versus
the entire peach
of our wanting.
stone pit gleaming
like a Disco Ball
At the heart of a Lie
for a Human.
as gullible as
Alive.

lost the remote. now the adventure begins.
when Bookstores were actual, you could go there
and find what browsing smells like, by-hand,
but pacing back and forthright on **** affords -
the grand vistas
of sustained contemplation.
candles lit for no reason
just pretty.
laptop humming like a soft boiling box
of overexposure.
and there’s the bourbon
on a resolute desk
like a summoning
of moonshine
with a caramel
sun.

all that, and
no pun.

in her apron of doom, she dresses the hare with a sharp kit.
they glisten with their purpose; dividing fowl from the air
solving the agony of hunger… with a pang of grace
and Darwinian inertia.
the knives dream of clean cuts
and mangos.

and her kitchen is pristine
as a bell.

when she dines in, she lets the moon do all the work
and feathers slither by, with so many charms decanted in the jasmine apocalypse
to swoon forever like an uncorked boy.
the marmalade is never dainty.
the air is mostly a cotton barge of intangible voyeurs
as intimate as a private thought.
her lace clings to the bead of sweat that twinks besotted
and time prevails upon Beauty with a lewd choir of Sleep.
as she dangles from an ecstasy
phalanges Etcetera.

Stoking quill fires in my oyster magnetron
is all the rage, all the white page -
at its bully pulprint. Gavels singing in the maelstrom
of our misbegotten promenades.
Joking as daffodils pollenate my grief’s migration.
enthrall of a Pagan blot on Night’s plague
as If silly wisdom Drifts!
With Hammers ringing in tandem
to pause at a place that propagates.
A Dead Lift.
Perhaps too brightly.
with Harlequins?  

And navel-gazing.

too U
and Knot
This.

her words
are savory
i might
devour,

but i
should escape
from her
maneuvers