not very much my pet yet...
but all eyes on the kingdom... we are well met.
no doubt a shout out for the fates at hand
palming the Tarot in our favor.... and yes i savor this
delightedly,

and pledge me, forever.

i have never embalmed a living thing like snow.
i have hardly ever known a thing
for what it was....
however -
open my
eyes.

i dropped a spoon in a wishing well, for lack of a stone.
i've had tea and trumpets, with Gabriel.... rouge wine in goblets of discrete fire. and if memory serves....
i came upon a mirror and stole a song from it.
as i recall, i tossed a yellow pumpkin
into the heart of the midnight sun.

without lessons.

but not
without
some...

hesitation

i crept out of my skin and forged a broken wing
from the thigh bone of a thunderclap. i spoke to myself.
but kept my secrets.

i slept in the barn again, last night.
it didn't **** me.

and only never
tried too.

Want me to go with you
where the rain don't shine
and the sun's a moon?

No. I'm cool right here.

thought i might Not
be fooled.
i have a habit of shunning derelict thoughts -
and got my Heart to Think Of.
but You drive a dark bargain,
And I remember those -
for the False Gods d'Arte!
i refused them the Temple
of my Best Guess -
and drove a Bloodstream into my Heart.
Instead...
but you can keep on
Stopping
to Stop.

But nah.... I'm cool right here.

Judith Broom had a knick-knack drawer like everybody else. She absentmindedly tossed her keys there too, amid the random screws to lost things, and spent tubes of glue. Love letters got snagged in there, along with stale coupons and inexplicable dust. It was dust like glass and horsehair. Judith Broom rummaged with her bare hands to the very back of her knick-knack drawer, groping for a shape she remembered. She conjured a sphere that fit the palm of her hand, and the Talisman hummed like a newborn sun in her undergarments. She took nothing for granted.

And nothing could harm it.

can't blame rainbows for everything.
so sleep in a barn. you'll wake up refreshed
and far from sleep. you'll have straw in your hair -
and all manner of parasols.
you'll have intuition.... and exactly no -
Idea.

just where did all the underworlds
find a map to mine? how did they come to fold space
and suffer no glimpse of heaven; only dead-on
into my living hell... placing a crease
in my placid infernos?

how did all the stars know i had no right to despair?
while i had every opportunity to love their corpses
and never looked up.

Bo Boggs sat on a Pappy Crush Soda crate, smokin' a roach in a graveyard. The headstone read " Here lies Pinnochio Earle... Face Up. Take Care Where You Sit. " . Bo could see the Landry hog farm, over the tombstone and his mind was fishing for some cosmic corollary as he stared into Space grippin' a cold one. The summer breeze came at Summer's End, bringing with it, a hint of Fall, and far off barbeque. Bo Boggs sat on a Pappy Crush Soda crate in the bossom of a garden of stone. listening to Bluebirds forget the music they had never rehearsed in the first place. And he almost laughed.

Then he wrote that down.

the music of the rats in the alcohol
has no tune. all the wet creaking suspended in caramel
caressing a cube of ice. the clinking pause.... all work together
to defeat what it is.  an uncharted scar....

we sell the individual curses of our seldom mirth
for little more than concepts and pure dirt.
we achieve what we believe.... and if we believe contrary
to a most excellent truth ; we conjure all the lies
worth dying for.... but never hardly move.

i built parentheses out of chicken-wire
and homespun. and groped my way into Hell's Fiction -
brandishing a brand new self- deception
and a quart of crude oil for my feet of clay.
My mission was too unEarth the heavens in my employ
and surrender to blue skies, despite all Woe's Emissions.
to preach a Gospel to a stone.... and forgive my ever wavering
faith in my position.

and i only managed to Love someone.

and That was
my Heart's
decision.

let sleep be sleep...  but never one sleep, the other.
trade on your windmills and millstones..
or sink.

upon awakening recall. or don't.

Live in one...

or sleep.

but Think.

in my periwinkle dawn, i soak my toes in moss.
and the moon's wrinkles. cherishing
soft and belligerent; against the tide
the scuttle of diamonds -
of more humble gems.
in my chamber of Untold Sleep
lies a blithering beguiled !
and all my love in shambles
on a plate.

have i come from the most unlikely scar ?
have i slumbered past all reckoning ? curled up, into a yawn ?
have i dreams enough to mask my impending bloom ?
so that'd be all my plot; to fill my plate ?
or encompass the symmetry
of my wound,,,, ?