behold the truant destiny of our impoverished joy.
swing from a star as ghostly as most of your dreams-
only to dangle from imperfect charms.
gleefully extinguish the harrowing of every day-
upon the lisp of a cliff. in the sharp dark of an unwavering moon.
goad the remedy of You by barking at a star
like a slave to freedom.
or an hour in a cup
of snow.

how i justify the miles between sparks
is how i dare to love.
swollen with unkempt hives of bounty
at the very heart of a ghost
as real as pretending.

these are days of our actual calamity
and the poise of our eventual
collide.

this is the moment that I see you
always.

sifting through stars enough to shine.

Oswald had no chemistry that hung in the trees like gossamer threads of dream…
he only had quadrants of ambergris, drifting in the iron lungs of impossible Tuesdays
twirling all the calendars of false pavilions on a carousel of too many moons.
Oswald had diamonds in open wounds. He saw how the beautiful ones
had Mondays that Saturdays envied to distraction.
and all the Roman roads were mapless.
Oswald combed the earth for a fraction of pearl
but found only a bounty of weightless
Design.

too heavy to be god.
too beautiful
to be
not.

gather ‘round politely and unsung marigolds will almost love you more.
soar into the anguish of your unspeakable dream. guide your wayward to an afternoon of plausible rapture.
succumb to the forest of your practical Paradise
without the margins of your echo
finding walls to believe in.

She keeps eating the lights. I watch how she gnaws on the bones of fire
without utensils. how her maw clamps a lamp with ravenous aplomb.
She keeps eating the lights and i can’t see the rest of her hunger.
Perhaps this shy Golem wears a cloak?

She has upended the Sun.
Trumpet mute fiercely in the gale of her silent scream.
she keeps eating the lights.
a claw made of sterling glimmer lashes out
from underneath the turbulence
of a Woman.

She keeps eating the lights
because dark matters
apply.

all night.

mars ready, in my marvelous gong
all day long on a frond of foam
curling in the huddled smoke
of my most oaken throat
some calamity frost on my most costly
Summer.
The Sun is a glum trumpet.
howling at the
Moon.

entangled in the triumph
of The Light.

get on with it. all the living you can do.
i suggest you move the moon
three inches to the right.
sleep faster.
wake when all the living in you is dying in you.
overcome the despair of your Irony.
boldly go where you’re leaving
so as to return unrepentant
in your Living
stroll.

be all about your journey.
forgive yourself when necessary.
harbor your lost compass -
in your blindspot.
and get where you’re going
On a Lark.