the chirp in the middle of a hurricane’s blue eye
is a velvet epiphany, swollen with burgeoning
beyond the kin of small life. it’s like a lonesome love-
as broad as a narrow sea.. dreaming of actual love
and sleeping through the apocalypse
with alacrity

and aplomb.

i can see your house from here.
like a handwritten letter in my hand.
i can smell your love in the void.
i thank you for the towers of ablution
bathing in the swoon
of our absolute.

You Recall me to a storm
that had an Eye
for such things.

every day.
by the by.

and my somewhere is you for the dream of it.
and love is how something
gets done.

hello petal.
are you yawning fire?
sleepy head weasel
with long kites in a breeze
with too many termites
in your actual house.
i see your tears
when they laugh at my tears
and you’ve wondered off.
somewhere between yes
and
maybe
knot.

i love your solution
to the whole intractable
bloom.
how your flowers are my forest
is like

wow!

there is no taming the skin… only the move your bones dream
and the perdition  of untapped memes, sprawling in the perfume
of our disquieted assembly. soothing thorns
north of our spine
as crumble joy mocks the the path
of our appalling
with a woeful rime too bright
in the head
to have all
the problems
of being too
unloved.
tonight.

Ingenious hourglass pinching a single grain in your sourmash
till it Distills the moment you forgot to be a Slave to your Aftermath
Reigning Supreme at the center of your Winter’s Wrath
Dining on Porcelain Lions dancing on a Plinth of Glass Ravens
As they Laugh in awe of your Emancipation
No longer under Grief’s Lash.

Reflection never stutters…
utterly stuck to who you are, should you Ask.
Faithful to a crisp seeming in the eye halls of your last Gasp,
If only we Knew, before we struck Bells in the Ice Caves of
Our deported Masks- And save Ourselves completely
From Our Symphonies
Of Painful Past.

But for Now our Love
in a Paper Flask.

their fear is the only thing they eat.
bone soup and entrails mind boggling
as every hour is a pursuit of vanity
posing as a pillar of the community
with complete immunity
as long as the money is long
and the idiots are many.

their fear is weaponized
like a Catholic joke within earshot
of an altar boy with
a secret shame.
a soul eating myth
that propagates hate
with all the tendrils of love
that bare no resemblance
to sanity, as they spoil
and collude
to Divide.

Love is where
I keep my
things.

Love is where i go
when here is
not Love.

I sing too much.
And birds find me
blindfolded.

“ That’s what This is for.” And if there’s nothing more
then I’ll have at it. Lapse into to a vigorous coma
of devotion. divining my purpose from the soil
beneath your feet, like a zealot from Coolsville-
just a touch in my cup of Hennessey
and leaning into comfortable.-
all the while
watching you steep tea with your eyes far off on a tangent
that must be beautiful. And-
Come morning we’ll have sleep waffles
and murmur our dreams
into java, with our hair disheveled
as our bed
and our happiness glowing
as we yawn.

Adore.

swain and limber I elope with the prairie, laughing in the face of the sun.
my love unbound, like a joy beyond the province of desire.
my heart, pounding nickels into bouquets.
my eyes unhinged from the dark… light fiends in perfect illumination.
Impossible eyes are mine, full of thunder and fresh sourdough
steaming on a solid gold brick  from my last wall.
your lips are how I farm silver
from a kiss, and my love is all
the *****
for You.

The Billy Goat barley wine went down like a lead zeppelin  
in concrete shoes. Fog crept over the world and words-
were tumbling out of extroverts as the party bedazzled
on the spacious patio, with the forever Christmas lights
and the gas grill and a workhorse keg.

Everybody's darling and
the potheads ponder
in indiscrete pods of
perpetual laughter-
sipping jaeger and pabst
in tribal tattoos.

My mind wanders off
as I lean on a pillar of cedar-
facing a sunset seam that
lay upon the horizon
like a lost dog.

I thought i might listen to my friends from a distance
and glean the hieroglyphics of their posture
to gain a sober understanding
of their shenanigans.

Thereby affording me
a vantage point
with a point
advantage.

But alas, always-
a wallflower in a hammock
doing calculus
with chatter and
variables….

like Everclear in
Pineapple juice
or Colossal *******
like Chad.

Now imagine this.
You have all day to get somewhere
but you haven’t any goldfish…
And that makes you king of the world.
but you can’t lance the boil until
you abdicate the throne of Yarn
and bind a cat to your shadows’ pearl.
The black thing you carry in your pocket
is the eye of all Typhoons
in your lap.

Imagine opening your eyes-
and being surrounded by Thursday!
So much velvet tinkering with grey things
and gimlets… torchlit fantasies slurry forth
in an unending tide of appetites
disguised as appetites
in disguise.
Sunspots on paper plates
and taffeta medallions
all in love with blue cranes
and very little else
that you lack.

Imagine that.