she’s painfully skinny but has ropes in her veins that saddle horses.
a nose like a hawk with two green eyes bathing in gold flecks and ambergris.
she has two hands like most people, but they have grace -
decanted from a snifter of opposable thumbs made of glass
and spun sugar.
steeped in the warbling of her Angelfire, all reckoning with her genius
is an exercise in futility. she is none of the above.
and it’s the very best strange.

it’s early morn and the air is barrel-shaped
with burgeoning twilight wane
and the shuffle of chickadees in the snow;
while gathering wood for the fire -
I’m surrounded by porcelain shadows
crunching underfoot like packing peanuts
made by Trappist Monks.

Life keeps smoking the Same Brand. So Tarpits are Superstars Now.
How you fit where your anguish is entertainment-
is exactly how a shoe tells a shoe-
how to step.
The rook is in the belfry… dustlorn and ponderous. a kookie apocalypse
charging up a moonbeam, on a runaway train. Palming a locust
and its’ Opera. So Life hums and throttles the marbling
of our quagmire; moving mountains to the cheap seats
so we can have an unobstructed view-  
of an Unknowable Thing.

while breathing through our mouths.

adrift in my stalwart canoe, I assume the worse
for the clouds on the horizon are ponderous and lackmirth.
they sleep through a Monarch’s birth
from a chrysalis at the tip
of a peach fuzz.
or a Silence as unruly
as Dawn!
all the dandruff of Angels
without the Fall.

silkworms preening tomorrows’ gospels
are swarming the delicate heart
of our discontinued lobotomy.
weaving hope into the tapestry of venom
slithering bemused in our cauldrons.
we leave no trace of our innocence
but rather stain and meander toward
the apex of our blithering.
so our Maths have maps to our Stupor
Like a
Vector to a Bone
of contention.

Duck fat disarms the broth by lunging for the roof of the mouth
with an eye for entrails smoking the plump thighs of an afterthought
coursing through a vein of roasted turnips and false suns
simmering as nimble as mice, from the tip of a tongue
to a cheek.

At this point; taste is a matter of taste… burning lemons with flammable YearBooks
and MoonPies. golem flotsam like Pinnochio papyrus, spinning a cautionary tale
with a mid-Atlantic accent and smoldering eyes made of spun Copper
and Honey, on tilt in a rainbow of Blue days
knelling at the hem of a virtual cusp
of a Maximum-
coming out
Alive.

dem streets ain’t know yo name
just be out there like hunger on parade
all Mardi coup de grace, with spiked tea-
and neon giblets… all draped over hot coals
and incandescent funk. with meter maids
and pidgeons-
sweeping thunder under rugs
everybody know
ain’t your real
Hair.

dem streets be like consequences
marching with a band of thieves. tuba prodigies adagio
with oily smoke and cauliflowers marinading
in umami and soiled alters.
switchblades are like optional candy.
sharkfins in buttermilk
more like an actual
Wednesday.

dem streets be soaking bullets in Kopi Luwak
chuffing pearl dust off a subway chit
while staggering home from a dust-up
at Berkley.
we keep telling ourselves
to tell ourselves something
but forget to remember
how to forget
about it

out loud.

yesterday had wrinkles too. folding space with disjoint youth
at a pace exceeding understanding. we gimp into wisdom
at first, like docile hags. we love shiny things and postulates
that agree with our craft… we sleep overmuch but alas-
even a long night has its dawning collapse.
and the adventure continues to contuse.
thin heir adjacent to a room full of wounded Portraits.
The Self, like a strip of carpet above the lip
of a bust of Arthur Rimbaud.

as i colonize my outskirts, moon junk sick with the real pity of an angel
but half the size of a whole thing… sort of a trojan armada
marching out of wasted time. a tweedle dee in the steam trunk
of my misadventures.
mostly maple leaf tempura
dozing off in a tempestuous kiss
like a pumpkin praying to Chinese
with a Pi.

we slip into the stream of our afternoon-
and dare the span of a constant dark,
our lanterns possessed
of all the fire we enkindle
beyond spark.
we breathe on the wind
that our sails obey.
however, lost.
eating gumption with
our bare hands-
like golden brutes
tugging sunshine from
a cave.

toenails in the dark, shuffling in cotton skullies, where the suns park-
on thin dimes… as golden as poached domes in amethyst
where the Royal “ WE” is a scarecrow made of consumption
stitching the wherewithal of an Answer
to an improbable Guess.

we fidget and split the pith of our varmint stars
to within an ounce of Plausible. Gobsmacked in the actual.
chumming thunder with too many rays of delirium.
husking germs at our Diaspora.
cast as an open wounded
conversation.
conversating in a
Vacuum.

like teen angst on a scrimshaw barstool
made of absolute
demise.

the oil in the lamp is dreaming of a flask of star garments
draped over succulent blue where the pink is bright green.
crass haloes melting in sterling eggshells
and dusted with cardamom and lost socks.
the soft spots of the world, all dreamt by flame
sleeping in a viscous pool of itself.
swinging from a brace link
in a fable.

the cracked *** in the corner is dancing.
while disable.d.

we are born in the middle of it.
with our questions questing Anubian.
our redacted realities, roiling in the flume
of our heavy chimneys…
swept into voids with labels
that march into dim bleak, with dull bells
struck by lightning, coiled in implausible
hammers… made of last thoughts
and deep collisions.

our mission is agony abated.
should Winter have a star in its pantry
to nurse a dark horse
Then we have a reason
to gallop in the chasm
exuberantly
off course

twilight assembles in the plush velvet ponds of shadow fall and moonlight.
the stars above measle the hemisphere as the world twirls in the dark like a raving Sufi.
we are tethered to a wandering. as the grass of every meadow to a barefoot rascal
taking the long way home
because broccoli.