stone soup steeping in Etruscan  pottery
thrown on wheel from a chariot
dislodged from a bed of clay with a paintbrush
and a *****.
white cliffs staggering along the coast
like a tectonic parenthesis yawning waves
the width of a thousand condors
with eleven words for Albatros
as diaphanous as fog
docking into a bay
of odysseys  
haunting a sandy beach
like an epic ghost.

on the stoop, I glue my tuckus to a plank of mundane as the Chevys cruise in the turquoise Tannebaum
of Twilight, churning shadows into velvet. I surrender when the fog’s kiss, lifts the Veil and I ponder It.
I choose where my dyslexia is a coin and barter for less dementia. serving silent things in the tapestry
of untapped maladies, masquerading as polymer gods in a hedgerow of impossible odds.
I fumble for my keys like the rest of you darlings… but my hands are made of dented chrome and dendrites unmanned by sanity in favor of an alcove of dauntless Awe.
I’m barging into a rumination, as we speak.
taking the hill of a landscape as a Sharkfin-
gloating in Existential Soup.
My egga roll, something less discreet
than Yellow Journalism
in a Lava Lamp
as Lovers
do.

there is no fortress in the sun save the rain in your heart
and the alabaster reprisals of every comet in your dome
chumming the benthic oblivion with chew toys
and pond **** nailed to a rainbow.
there is no surface to breach. only the deep deep
and the overarching unspoken.
the free stars of bold silence
holding its breath like a poncho
holding the rain at bay.

I have been green. I recall.
withall of my purpose burgeoning
in Blythe ponds of uncommon joy.
my yurts are open to closed snow
but nothing gathers at my feet
so much as the fumes of verdant dreams
polishing the banisters of our compass
with all the fervor of a slave-
to freedom… but having no moon
to conjure with
I have no sun
to barter.

As the afternoon ponders the early morn, I quaver and Damascus
every simple coin into a rake of unforgiving steel. my sword deflowers
my sheath like a hornet forgets black honey on a fraction of an asterisk-
bathing horrors in Sunshine so massive, even eyes forget
what they’re looking for.

For Hours.

As the marionettes swarm the unity of our fated strings
dangling from the hook in the sun, simpering in weary delights
we join the spite of our peers with the disjoint promise
of our estimations. We assume the proper god
for the derelict prayer
on the lips of a broken
conundrum, humming verbs like a lunatic
to better scope the open remove
of our return

For Hours.

today is the best guess of an almost Wednesday
spooling jewels from a cracked Always
in the manner of an upset Muse
spoiling the venture of our Providence
with the venomous joy bespoke the wandering Kind.
as poems displace the glow of our actual talk
and aaaaaall the way down
go our prayers.

like a Boss.

how can I control the weather with a withering stare?
with an artless glare into a tomb of unyielding ire?
the type of gyre a rainbow would torment with flare-
combing over the blindspot of our every desire?

mourning
on the
morning sun

just a month
of a
newly year

already
a lot of
painful memories
has come

with the phone ringing andmynotansweringthephone stinging
i clapped thunder with my hands-off approach.
retreating into something undulating at light speed
but careful to shadow box all ominous disclosures
of unbridled defeat.

i knew when the turtleneck was a masque.
winded by stealth, I beheld the quickening of my own devices
stalking the hammers of my swing.
never careful to be unamazed.
always mindful of a mind blown
to keep the peace at bay.

or in my arms.

and that took awhile.

some of my circles are sharp cliques.
angular ponds, bobbing for forbidden apples
‘neath a disco ball with asthmatic stars
in a vacuum of positive scars
as loquacious as a long pause
gilding the ludicrous
to **** Time with panache
and seal the sphere of our knives
in the womb of whetting stones
affable in amber
like Champagne fossils
out of tune...

in a flute

You’re tightrope-Jelly...
full of beans on a string.
Strapped to molasses
like a garden hose-
to a Roman aqueduct.
Clogged with hollows
and a perfect
expiation...

charming the blood
out of a Blarney Kidney
where a Stone donkey
kicked Thee.

your stars are without proof.
but they got you for a song.
horseless stables unstable now
for the lack of your glad feet
upon the glunk of your casual
flaws.

I assume that you assume
and deliver clips of entirety.
with shards of bespoke Myth-
and cavitations that swell
the heady blink of a lunacy-
You could Kiss for
no reason.

the width of a sliver of peace
is the inverse of all Overtures!
plucky tinkers. affix fobs
to fluorescent apertures…
as to a chain of keys
to a chain of unbearable doors
and all your very much
Loveliness.

Who Is You Are?
I may ask your Self.
But the Echo in Here
Keeps asking me
“Who Am I?”

there are smug villains in my oatmeal-
and ravenous enclaves of my useless toys.
i have Islands to speak too.
but not a one to call Land.
just a clump of implausible retreats
in a war on my perfect
vacation.

a hole in a fork
like a howl
in a mirror.

always.

without gills, we breathe on the moon.
the humble tortoise has a house and our theories
are quaint. we have all the havoc of time
in an opulent balloon.
an unusual as usual, floating in open wounds
where the worlds on fire are the frozen ones
and all the Islands of our apostrophe
all pause the revelation
as quickly as you
Like.

summer in a spoon is all the cheap heat of our medallions
suckling the ambivalent inferno  of our ice age
spooling an endless wrinkle of our entire folly on a plinth
‘neath a pillar of vaporous Dawn!
Empirial in aspect,... but as fleeting as the miracle.
concave sparks are the Eldar Sign of our implicit medieval chicaneries.
all is the storm of an imperfect thing gasping for black holes-
at the senior prom. the corsage of our immortal souls
adorning the brevity of Life Itself.
we continue in this way
for no reason
with a hat.