when i felt time had sloughed off the grime of all minutes
i searched for all meaning, and came upon a deck of cards
floating in the ether, a shuffled deck... and a pair of tweezers
to tease the splinter from the mind's eye
just sitting there, on a book stand
next to a boston fern.

it was when i found a place i could not hide from
and occupied the the nooks and fissures of my actual being
that i came to know the fathoms of deep love
and shuttered to think upon my blindness
as an afterthought
about Nothing.

look at them bones all scrunched up like thorn pudding.
focus on the squid ink murk of your pine fresh linen
and uncork the vintage of your red vineyards
snarling 'round dead posts... on a gently sloping hillside.
thumping miracles.

join me at the temple of the spine, and i will petition
the long lost soul of your life's reason. I will take core samples
of your wet kiss, and slowly ***** the stars into place
that will keep your smile lit, and your thighs unfalse.
i will bark to Love's God and channel the requiem
of your grief.

you will only suffer the sting of bliss, and pirouette
on the tip of a snowflake's tongue.

the day came without the full sun
with only a speck of flame in the iron chintz of the sky
and towers of dust, hovering above the low glories
where the rabbits hid from the fox
and strewn jewels were spent
on shadow coins... and all the worlds between us
clung to the husk of joy and kept vigil
in the stillness of our ungolden
pond.

but one river became two, and fed the placid pool
that slake the thirst of lost men.
a woman there, was standing
and the moon removed
no star.

consigned to the mirth of flame
and a thousand shoes; we waltz into grinding beauty
delirious and unsaved. we yearn for all graves
that open from the inside... that we may embark upon
untold follies and haul our stones to our stars
to smelt a new god that refuses to answer.
but the question is a worm
in His Truth.

the mole in the iceberg
dreamt of spring. and chain smoked.
he thought about other moles
then got distracted by the furniture.
it came to pass that the mole caught a glimpse
of another world. then shrugged it off

like what?

things fall into place, when gravity talks.
as the boats at the docks bob in the sea of discrete rivers
surging in the span,. and you might be surprised to find
an elbow macaroni sculpture
erupting from the skull
of a honey bee.

these days, are now like paper so thin
you can see yesterday, clawing at the hem of your skirt.
but ghosts are like daffodils.
and in a hundred years
you'll be old enough
to pluck one.

there's a light in this house
that waits in the dark
it's the only spark
in the house
in the dark.

and the moonlight
in the window
is only
a shadow, so spotless...
it gleams.

when the sun hides
her face
in the house with
the light
in the dark.

with all my
heart

all things
all day.

In a tranquil night,
     soft rain
     began to fall;
     I, struck
     by your lightning,
     compelled to build
     defenses around
     my heart.

I'd rather be in distance
     than to succumb
     to your charms;
     the rain
     was just a drizzle
     like my feelings,
     if I'll tell you,
     all of a sudden —
     our story will end.

when he
was a young man,
come round up,
they would hit
the trail dead dark
before daybreak;

without a morsel
of moonlight,
he would follow
the rider in front
of him, watching
the glow of the cowboy's
hand-rolled,

while
he puffed away
on a store bought
Lucky Strike, to guide
the cowboy
on his tail;

this beacon,
a bead orange  
in a sea of black,
allowed for silence
among men

who listened
for the lowing
of the beasts
they were charged
to capture, and brand
for slaughter

I hope I wouldn't smash my thumb
or throw it

through the picture window, like my neighbor did,
just yesterday,

while I was mowing my grass
which is yet half high

because I had to watch while the police arrested
my hammer heaving pal

who hates his unfaithful wife, his yapping Chihuahua,
and his life;

the spouse and spunky canine
are just fine it seems,

fortunate there was glass to shatter
on a Saturday afternoon

I see his pick up in the yard--the grass is dead
from the heat anyway

he is nowhere to be found, except
passed out on the seat

with one of his feet touching the turf
the other still in the truck

afraid if it joins its partner on solid soil
it won't be a happy marriage

he is my child--all quarter century of him
and he won't bring in the paper

I am sure he rolled his truck on top of it...to protect me
from the news of an awful world

down in my toes where the sand and milk corrode the bottom
of my rucksack and employ all manner of moons
to disassemble my terrific glee -
i savor the rubble of my junk suns and the anvils
of my conspiracies
and i loom in the dark corners of a secret alphabet.
slumbering aloud with my mind open
to the dreadful and sublime.
as my teeth rattle in my joints, calling tomorrow
from it's grave mistake
while dreaming of another
one.

i awaken.

What would you do, if your clouds were reading my mind as i was reading your mind ?
Can you spell heartache with velvet steam and the letter between the L and The Afternoon of All Space and Time ?
nodding off and dreaming this very moment-
reading ahead of you, and gasping
that i knew ! ?
Would you have me dance with the damsel known as " goodbye soon " ? or would you rather walk with me to the labyrinth -
of stars, that milk their glow from your *******.
How magnificent is this ? this swirling escalation of Beauty
oozing from a porous mind, as we embrace each, the other...
At Om on The Range.