even when i lived in barrels i was stung by pre-Euclidean geometries

aping right angles, askew of a laminar flow of Time.
even when i stutter like butter on a lightning bolt
my collisions resolve dormancy
wherever i evict a conspicuous
ascetic tenet.

i twist The End where The Beginning buds;
and watch for spontaneous eruptions-

for Origins, mapped to a powder keg
with a damp fuse.

[ it’s steam engines now… ]

AND
the moon’s belly
is a bright eclipse
clamor-locked in the beastly
barrage of our tuneless
arias…
coping with despotic realities
with aplomb; birthing sunshine
from a myth mirror
emblazoned where harm refracts
exact moments-
tumbling magnetic…

as your eyes
Yahtzee the Forbidden
like a rogue.

with
blunt force
Rama.
as Fore-
​​​​​​​told.

II

infinity pools are finite if you swim like a rock.
or fall asleep when a lullabies’ on fire.


just so you Know.

Tucked away in my thermal eclipse, the party raves without my flamboyant
inner monologue. tampering with the DJ on some esoteric frequency..
Everyone is safe to assume the Ecstasy is pure…. but no ones the wiser.
My wallflowers blossom on irrigated stilts, leaning into the background-
of my fraudulent approach from a shy Port of Call.
I Rehearse the Unrehearsable, as throngs cavort in laser spawn shadows
anointed in Eurythmic debauch…
as I spurn my teeming
collapse
with a positively gauche
Panic…

the champion of introverts.


a ton of thunder in a quiet place, where the Dubstep ruffles
the fringes of my agile anonymity…
swiving with soot ravens as liquid
as a Pause in a drop of Time.

I Almost Noticed You despite my Private Life


Then i woke up
In your arms.

Astonished.

Your tattoos like golden calligraphy
galloping across the serrated horizon
improbable...
where a woman’s heart is the width
of a manly surrender
to a Fantastic… Suspense.

As all my demented departures
Gather Where I Go-
From Zero to Hit Me
In Wine Seconds

We remembered each other when we met.
Amen.

As all the pollywogs woggle in the ***** galore
Resplendent in all dawn, as the rising star
Of an off-world dominion. delivers sparrows to sunshine
Hoisting wisteria to the throne of the senses…
Wafting in semaphore, so periwinkle
There are no eyes that may behold
the totality of its gossamer expanse.
the sheer sprawl of a most holy congregation-
of dizzy miracles, draped in ivy and morning dew
deliciously rampant with unbridled blithering
bathing in the rays of a faceless yellow
teeming with butterflies
cocooning no more.

All this in an
open door.

Though it’s little more than a few things-
scattered about
Life continues to bewilder our tambourines.

Winters are longer than whiskers in milk
And Summer has you always in Love.

thunder paws at  the navel of night with cumulus talons
muffled in the coil of moonbeams
stammering lightyears from home-
pooling beneath pebbles
strewn across a broad regalia
of off roads
knitting secrets with spider genius,
bejeweled with enough stars
to avoid lonesome…

and owls enough hoo.

all alone.

It’s 4 AM and your skin is soft birch and your pillow indented.
You fume with stillness where your sleep is deep
And almost nothing is as pure as your inner
panorama of noise
Surging uncorked in millennia, as broad as Time’s banquet
Knocking the arrow of sweet slumber
To describe the arc of a falling star
into an open mind.

When you awake, she’s gone. At first you ponder, incredulous.
Then the Season descends it’s tendrils of departure
to ****** your precarious peace from its perch
like rolling thunder over a gasp.
your bed of fails, expansive in the dim pinch
of not enough morning.
just before the sun has mocked your reveries
into the nook of your crevasse
of miseries.

as her ghost kisses
your cheek.

when i need my glasses to find my glasses it’s hilarious
and i have you to laugh with me, with eyes doing cartwheels
holding my vulnerables in your risk-averse, soothing the calamity
of my ambitions with the verity of your love.
i yield the floor to your silent declaration that you will devour me-
come evening… and i serve at the pleasure of your chaste lust
devoted to our collisions, like a pigeon with a thing for windows
with you on the other side.

Hate is not Theater. But we Know our lines.
Baleful mongers squandering Grace at the behest
Of an Ungrateful Fiction, with Irony’s Teeth
And Doll’s Eyes glaring at the Puppet Master’s strings
To stitch an Excuse to an Impulse
With ancestor hands, chafed by grim and bloodstain
Like windows with dead eyes, locked on a sunset
To best glean the contours
of a Sunrise

At the scene of our every crime.

We know History will not Lie, but our Bibles might…
So we amend our Treaties to serve
The demon at hand. The one that we know.
Slouching quazi-cognizant
In all Splendor, War-Minded and About It.
The Way we lose Our Way
Never Trivial.

The Way We Lose Our Minds

Classic.

Glumping in the runkle of a midge twitch
with a slinky and a serrated rainbow jackknife-
tucked into a barley-cork for daylight
at a full stop...

at Night.

some sort of contraption;
the actual
beating heart of the moon
noteworthy for gazing
at the Fugazi
of our
work

without a star to pin
to a moon’s compass
however Noon.

Trading on our whimsical affairs, we spice the McGuffin
with a pinch of twee smirk and malicious vermouth.
we gin the rigor of our spiral descent with a debauchery
to span the bloat of our delusions
combing the banks of our foggy creek beds
for applesauce
and farthings.
leaping into the shriek
of our lull.

undaunted by the stars
at the edge
of the
worst.

as we pillage
unrefined
and

unrehearsed.

Focus on the signal, for the noise is no pilot.
Adroit convivial despots plot your every demise
but you can’t be withered as
the withering decries.
You must attune where meager suns
do violence
to impose a peace
only conflagration
ignites-
without setting fire
to a womb.

You must Love the striven grasp of your ashen Heart
Milking the honeyed vein of surety
that swarms of you-
is Unnecessary

but the Whole is a Be
in an Onyx.

Semi-precious to
The Lost.

Lost you in the confluence. In the maze wind.
In the heat of prattle and the garments of Self.
Struck a chord without Notes, and called it Politics
Like a rebel Banshee on a rogue tundra of beach
Thwarting the shenanigans of a polished God.
Lost you in the plethora of Seeming things.
More akin to motes of dust,
Than any Us as constant
As a breeze in Hell-
To cool the troubled brow
of a sinking
ship.

but there were ginger mittens, back in the day
and clumps of outsized joy that I recall
like a brisk kismet upon Avon
and unsour shores of shameless Love
bathing in sunlight; the spawn of wet jewels
in an abandoned well of too much Spring.
there was the constant snore
of our sleeping fear… and all the antlers
for a horse you dreamt
and none of the gods-
to oppose our swollen honey,
when storms
eat bees

As personal
as an optional
sting.

Love was a gift then.
But now…

It’s a poem.

Love was completely bald and selling medicines
that often cauterized the weeping
but hardly the bleeding.
It barked in Avenues of more Precious
than your usual yearnings…
and gathered all the mice to knit
a sweater for an empty promise
shaped like a girl
with an Undone Polaris
In love with a Loving Drone
in the Queen’s Oblique
like The Last Rampion
in a Carnival
of a Lost
Harvest.

Sometimes, Love was a Baldwin piano
kneeling paraffin and Arthurian Brass
in a Lake Beyond Fire.
Love had the heat of a jewel
in a Vice Grip… and novel pandemonium
as wet as the sea
at the bottom of
The Sea.
There were no explanations
for the inexplicable
as capable as
the Impossible
for a
Start.

we were champions
in Harm’s Navel
And Disarmed.

And The Dark
had a Place
Not
a

Heart.

in sheepskin and marmalade we palaver and jig our rods in the Nile
but seldom, Our sunspots blighted and the constant barrage of
darkening's become the strobe wafer-thin ramblings
of madmen with catheters for priests,
and Catholics for conniption fits
for faraway kings
to dish about in near-away
parlors of unpolished reality.
Yea! sans varnish and crickets with rickets
and a whole host of dismay, dismayed by gardens-
and a whole menagerie -
an appeal to a constant
NO!

receiving a fair bit of the Real on a stick
and a few fairies
in the wing ***** of our falderal  
Nesting in Summers, too keen on Winter
and anointed by the drizzle
of a sumptuous outsized
Joy

a dangle in the tinsel of a calm.

half annoyed.