the merit of our blasted kingdoms must lie in our pink mirage.
the hazy spectacle of our hope, like a living steam....
there it must rest, at the root of some tumultuous foam.
anchored to the fog like the shimmer of a lake
to a rear-view mirror.

separate from the swiss cheese tinderbox
in my deerskin hip fob... a white clot of cotton
and pistachio shells... milky with salt dust
and blind empty, like an open mouth.

separate from these. from the iron stalks of snow-melt
and the brittle tympani of my unescorted star.
from the compromise and the motives.... apart -
from all the art of my powerlessness.... [ and ] the polite dark -
of my open palm. like an open mouth.

I ***** for a river stone to whisper oceans too...
with a rope, and a loop. and a hole.

and always wanted too...

not again so much... but less not repeating. that is the rain.
now that i've come to the country of frogs and mariah carey
i can finally soak in the curious blunder
and marinade a sonnet full of paper thorns.
i could almost touch you,

underneath the moon's fingernails
you will find all the evidence you need
to pin the crime of passion, that is the world -
at the doorstep of the Purity
that wrought the flesh
and all Sol's avenues above us in the blue !
above the very tiny crowns
in the snow.

now that my days over boil with teeming
and nothing loves me so.... I must love You.
i must not restrain my whimsy, but rather
conjure amaranths from dead soil. Happy yet deflated -
i must come from Somewhere I have been ....  

or all places.

or else, be in the clutches
of less Beauty.

how the air tastes is not what the air tastes like.
my lungs are not deceived.
i live where the grim is gorgeous
and the sun a fiend.
where the moon has vendetta
when a grievance would do.
and nowhere am i constant
but i constantly
true.

i've been endothermic and marginal. stung by cryptic bees
with wheezing stings that haunt the glacier of the private mind.
i have hijacked my quota of dismal and pawned the scope of my grasp for a bird in the hand, in a coma.

under the spell of too many gods... a stone will bleed.
and countless feathers abandon the whole of the Sky
to barter for trinkets underground.
as every living doll cannot die... your prayers.
and all the world, sacred -
to a fault.

it's when the very Night itself feels illegal
and yet you trespass every hour of your truancy ...
free to roam the prison of your freedom
as if born to inertia without wings.
without therapy.

Do Not Go. Stay.

stay and be mine to suffer bliss and earthly delights
stay and indulge me in complete You.
stay and be thorough. rummage through my things
and tell me you love me, while leaning in
for our first kiss.

yes.

Varicose Honey Farm in infrared 'elan
a siren's charm exuviates the rim
Of Karma
Where the Rift is harmless, If Harmless -
Is belladonna~
Omni-Colic-Rictus
gets an expert Witness
With a Degree in Soft Spin
And your Lips.

Someone in my skin gets out of bed to spawn

an iron lung, to extricate the wind
of Mantras -
Where the Risk is constant, If by Constant
you mean " Oxicodin "....
Drizzled over pixels of a Thought in Progress ~
Half Forgotten.

My Net collects the alabaster Parasols
A Dandelion lost To a Dog's breath


I put them back.
I put them back.
I put them back.

To humors It May Concern,
i bid you Comedy, at Best.
how the Life-Line, Is the Joke...
like A Lost Chord
is a Best Guess.

but I fluoresce.

So allow me to digress -
into a fetal emission.

a child of light
with old scratch itching
to strike a
Muse.

As I say
yes.

In a dipsy village on the outskirts of Hopenhagen  
i did tend to my ******* sheep and stub my toe on everything.
apparently.... that's what god wants. so i deserve pie.
to this very day, i believe the logic is sound...

like a hammer striking the shadow of a Bell.