a regime of stars pollinate the impossible
as i linger underneath the yawning medallion of Nightsky
and tarry in the lanes of luminous, gawking at the Quiet.
South of Afternoon.
i plunge into my garrulous despair like an Olympian.
leaving ripples in the peace with shallow valleys
and iridescent peaks.
my swayback is the ***** of a grassy knoll of iron will
sleeping on the job
wide awake.

in my eastbound concrete shoes -
far south of my ascent
is just north of my dismay…
like a star chart... sworn to astrologies
averse to the common tongue
of our mute disarray.
meanwhile -
our enchantments tarnish
by the light of day.
the real dream
detached from harm
by evil moons -

and doubtless  only blooms
by candlelight
at the rare hour
between now and
then

but on the dot
in a trench,

Nothing is simple now… and nothing ever was.
But i recall the majesty of my naivete’
and linger in the triumphant fog of my illusions
as a young man of almost a Minute.
Be that, as it may.
i am not among the Mockingjays
nor the calendars of arbitrary
Days.
I am the eclipse of insincere Living.
i blot out the None.

with blueberries from an indigo
Genesis: i stain my sky with every unbelievable Promise -
my Calculus can muster. My Love in tow.
I gather at the edgeless mist
of my Identity and etch the core
of my consecrated cacophonies
into the bones of dead whales like Scrimshaw
for deep kids.

And that's It.

balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the over wild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious!
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain!
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of Sylvia Plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists!
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts

for gospels.

now that we agree that summer has
lapsed into a deep waning
that longer shadows corral golden pools of twilight;
as June bugs become ghosts
to dismay the Robins... explaining -
the cycle of impenetrable inertia
with an accent from
a turbulent void.
or some coastal atoll
of unanswered questions
babbling on about
the Love
Of You.

Without Question.

let's agree.

It is given to the Human Soul
to pine with elasticity.
For what is the future if not a -
Pygmalion stretch of a stoic Reality
congealed to a Pointless occupation
of Desire… in a rigid whirlpool
of Denial?

How is fire not so much an annihilation
as a rebirth by a conflagration
suckling an ice cube
made of perfect circles
squaring the deal
with your inner
djinn?

I Wish I Knew.

Rosa chose a Solitude that Knows You -
for the company you keep.
It had her profile and surreptitiously knew
the calamity of her sleep.
How the dreams unhinged the flue
from her chimney. but never sweep.
How everything connected to her departure
was now a Living Thing.
She was gathered at the foot of a Mountain
of Semi-precious
wings.

how have you been? we seldom pass the other by
but here I have you self contained
in the raiment of your randomness, something tweed.
I must say the feathers in your shadow are remarkable
and they remind me of my own...
though mine are on fire.
are you in haste to a Bacchanal of unparalleled dismay?
or do you always look like that these days?
I would love to have a chat on your island
if you are so inclined.
I would even dream of stealing your moon