when the snail is asleep and the periwinkles winkle in the brisk twilight of a perpetual undernoon
and the temple of a spherical calamity is a long pause, jostled into real life by your actual demise like a parenthetical parasite, clutching the void between worlds for the juice of a pirate’s
derelict fiction… spawning afternoons in a pond of after-scapes, aswoon to the purpose of too many worlds to conquer in. and too many apples forbidden… just sittin’ around, doing things that don’t-don’t matter like a vibration with the palsy of a wormhole as docile as Vulcan in a Lemon Tree with an Apple Mind.
a pantry pheasant for a brooch is the real life and the cotton you cotton is a bruised remove
at an angle for a snipe and a caustic Sunday, wrapped in levolor blinds that constantly
maraud the perpetual dilemma ever extending, and approach by storm, the Unending Things
that gather in the husk of our sunsets, like boil on a dying star!
our love squeaking through the hinges of our unattended saturnalias…
squandered by leagues of wandering, adept in purpose without form
and constantly gathered at the hearth of our quiet doom
when the snail is asleep
on the moon.

and the moon is awake
like a Moon.

we kept our clouds behind a uniform front. we had no medallions.
we lacked the tassels of mavericks. barn foxes all, with never-slain eyes
and just a pinch of petulant grit… fit for a moon to ponder.
or a sun to punish for the nerve of a grain-
of inviolate-soul.
we kept our stash
in a coffee can
like a canto
in a cookie.
and slept where bricks
had soft heads
rolling down delirious hills
to harsh beds
and amaranth.

we walked where then fog
was not the grey
but the space between
the almost
real.
​​​​​​​
we kept oblivions
at bay with our
gutterfly wings
boosting signals
from a torch
we could
feel.

then we embarked
upon a song
beyond the
sea.

“ then we embarked
upon a song
beyond the
sea.”

braising photons on the bone
a plump star rotisserie
in the palm of my begging bowl
at the hearth of an eye
with all the chambers
of sunset
with a Phoenix
Mind.

with all your doom you murk the underdark
of your insipid calamity
caroling the bells of a unique chapel
in the bleak felspar afternoon sun
chiseled from a monolith
of brooding star foam
and jaundiced
tangerines.


with all your dust
you anoint the desolation
of your contemptible
menagerie of free range
left handed oysters
with teeth
and all the sunken eyes
of a drunken leviathan
howling in a marsh
of aggravated
slumber

where the tune
of a misfit
is perfect.

all the time.

night’s wedge is fancy
on the perimeter
of our undisclosed
location.
our opaque
salvation-
more harm than good-at
full circles.
more apt with holes
in a honey-hearted
hive of all
hearts.

with sticky wings
two skies
apart.

By some unborn perpetual,
I come undone on que.
When Hollow Is the Fiber
of an anointed ghost
And all flesh, at the angle
of descent.
My Spiral is Concave.
A typical Atypical,
Typically thick
In the wings-
When the Sky
is not the Enemy
But merely a-
Want, that I
Lost.

By this much.

Halting in the frenetic thalamus of a Monday
I recoil into my finery and fluff my mittens
just to be sure.

Outside
the wind is a yowling glamour
of crystalline shuriken.
searing into naked pink
at a typhoons pace
but with all the stalwart
nostalgia-
of a White
Christmas
you Slept
through.

I open the Door
and the air is Spring
on Laughing Gas
Like a Windmill in Don Quixote's
Fan Fiction

and all’s Well that Ends.

I’m coining a phrase in the cheap seats.
On a balcony behind the projector.
My wine flask has red names for Polaroids
And fishnet eyelids like a wizard
with a joke face
at a serious
party.

i snoop for books in Unpolished eyes-
and find them leather-bound
to a howling calliope
of hushed gods
in real time,,,
haranguing
the flesh
in bouts
of unbridled
Clarity.

I encroach upon a node of conspicuous samadhi
with all the fearsome brittle of my inner destroy

Something Creates
where my Null sets a coarse by a star
coughing up a lung
in a Cherub’s
Song.

I keep my Puppets
in a Sock
because that’s
Funny.

and that's how
you Pretzel
a Butterfly

for no money,

i get the hives when my mind Zens in on a brand Knew.
my Ottoman Empire is a footstool in a plush Rumor.
at rest in the best humor that genius can buy for a Yen
when the Yang is an awkward ruby.
i steal from the vaults of a common supernatural
with all the aplomb of a minnow in a mouth.
sleeping on the hillocks of a rust moon
acned with meteor kiss and fierce serenities
the width of Space between notes
in a deanument.

then poetry assumes i have something to say.
only then does it open to the introversion
of my extraverted inner Hermit.
I leap out of conch shells
on some kind of fire
that slakes a thirst.

i knit wings to eyes
and abandon every photon
to my Will.

then

I have metaphors I keep using
whenever I try to be Original-
and i meta-criticize the artifice
of my chosen pearls.
but seldom do I confess it.
the unseemly devices I am left too.
as my Id designs the Ego
of my Indomitable Heart
with the schematics
of my Lost Architect
unhumbled by my Illusions
having spun such webs
as to conquer a Fool
and his Guesses.

I eat stone wheat and the wet essence
of dry zephyrs on sea errands
to blanch dunes
to Beau Geste.
i consume the ridiculous hubris
of my epileptic Angels
and squander no opaque verse
to tadpole.


I Swim In A Yes That A No Dreamt Of

like a ferret
in a healing
scar.

Some songs are meant to be little things that expand.
they assume the girth of the world with all the longing
of a symphony

Like a gilded dirge.

Sometimes the heaven
in your hell
is the last
bird.

You live where it hurts
So healing means something
to blindspot in your
perfect oblivion.
It’s how you cope
with an open wound
that loves the moment
you met the one.

Some songs are meant to be all about the girl
and how sunshine adapts to her night.

and some songs are
meant to be
gone.

The bells are dun. Pewter-smitten in a quagmire of un-crisp pings.
there’s a church where a sparrow would go. but more ravens now
on the hill. bathing in salts and moonglow…
singing to brackish ponds and cattails
after moths have fallen off the tip
of flames
that our campfires
do.

we are so marooned
it’s like we’re
together
when the world
is gone

but for true.