I can't go anywhere without Being There.
but I’m not around so much in a Prison.
I tend to wander.
I claim the sun in a hole
when I’m in it.
And ponder
wings.


II


stones i have known are not
your average stones.
so i steal cameras.
to see something other than-
granite as a heavy peppercorn
Or The stars, an -
Other than-

Something Other than Me


III


these are the dreams folks.

what are your terms?
can I offer you a drink?
is your cocoon luxurious?
do we  have an understanding?
are you one size?
is there a wormhole that you prefer?
or all about the deep end
of ending this?

what are your terms?
do you have songs in your mittens?
are your balloons delirious?
do we have an answer as fancy?
are you quantized?
is there a Dirge that you were
that your life  forfends?
or is it bliss?

what are your worms?

On the Northside of a very private Southside-
where a Midwestern Daguerreotype
of Some Kind

[ Eastbound ]

On Pure
West
Business.

Had mine eyes fallen
upon worlds
between
wheels.

Having learned much from toil-
and extravagant galas
my appetites subvert
the meringue
as an infinite feast
unfurls.

breaking bread in an alcove
of cinnamon stars
in a pitch black white
that goes with everything
you’ll never Know.

like a flawless gauze
wrapped around
an itch.

II

In the telling of Sunfish Fables
one must contort the bend
to render a skeleton key
to a locked Rune.
Ya gotta foil the fates fancy
with turbulent renditions
of inner hurricanes
that cast such spells
as to weather you.

even at the bottom
of the sea.

you gotta burn rocks with your teeth
because your tongue is busy .
sleep after death
because Now is too soon
to forget how to be
Alive.

And too brief to
believe
Until it's
True.

To hand I have imperial wheat and the humble shuck.
The froth of Life’s undulant bulk, like a wave of tons
Skipping stones across my troubled heart-
To pale the girth of Jupiter
and ruin.

Mad with plums that read palms from ***** to Left.

Mad with cherries
that sting
a bit.

Draped in beans that Ivy
to a Giant Pause.
For a Fee to deFy Forked Tongues
With Plain Dreams.
And Golden Geese defrocked
Some.

Then to the Center of It, you and I.
The smallest Kings in a whiff
Of Dominion’-
Lording over mirrors as vain
As our countenance!
Woe, as we tinker-
With the Worst that makes
the World go ‘round.-

And Find You, That I Am Me.

NOW THAT
might be
profou
nd.

tipping the scales at half past a vanishing point to an argument
we’re like a tribe of unbridled huckleberries, spoiling for a jam.
but then… we lose the wind to a terrible storm far beyond our sphere
and labor overmuch to assuage the curdled grommet
of our foisted  appeal to an unvoiced fear.
we slip into our rainbows and swim unfettered until a wing breaks
to sing an anthem to gravity’s callous law. gobsmack in the perilous nativity
of your awkward alliance with the Mystery that conceived you-
as a Lost Boy.

you’re always the Beforeigner.

So Now.

So Now.

So Now.

in the local rag the tales rattle like corn in a can.
the sky from below is so removed, we call it “ The Sky “
and nobody notices, because it’s too True to be Real.
the stern lamps that gaslight the night vision of dwarves
and Romans, scald the little cheeks of a new black
with their earnest waste of time…
given that the dawn will overtake the night until a star dies
and your letters will be read to flames
as dispassionate as a breeze.
in the local rag your horoscope is a nested loop
surreal and oblique like a sand dollar
for a windmill.

a trojan ghost with
a tea cup full of sparks
and a madness for
a map to
a map.

i’m on my hill, and a swarm of long Tuesdays
perturb my actual Monday night
pooling at my disconnected feet on the grounds of anonymity  
where I trim the verge with cattle eyes, gawking at Time
with my ruminant mouth slack, and my spires arcing bolts
from the crown of a troubled Sky.
my pumpkins are not the same. they have lost their dreams
to a labyrinth of vines… tumbling over dead leaves and applesauce sunshine-
but only in the margins of our conspicuous stupidity.
inflamed by a cold sun.

i’m on my hill, as Leviathans repel from low clouds
to barter teeth at my table
for a long song about a boy full of fables
and a Sea in his Palm
full of worlds.

i
could have
written hundred
of poems

i
could have
seen thousand
of sceneries

i
could have
cried million
of tears

but

it
would never
suffice
my deep feeling
of longing
for your embrace

it
would never
ease the pain
of missing your
presence

i cannot occupy mars but have sown my feathers to a star
made of happy glass and sorrows beyond my kin
and i have ventured to the rim outermost
to pinch barnacles from dragons.
and nothing has been the same
since the dawning of all my worlds
tumbling into space
between Words.

he sleeps in his car because getting there was exhausting
and the highway had a soft lane parallel to the speed cage snake
that wandered off into the desert where it lost the horizon
to a silhouette of cactus praying to the Sun.
as it sat.

tumbleweed grit in the yellow canvas of dawn
like an alarm clock of spikes and low dunes.
he fidgets for the wheel and the keys the whole shebang.
with crystal cotton in his eyes and no coffee to believe in.
and adjusting, he weathers the turmoil of rude awakenings
in the radio is broken world
of a long way home.

the wind chafes the manacle
clank born maniacal, sidewise Wednesday-
stuck where the chemicals calm down
the real things-
stuck to your windshield.
something like a varmint
in between
doing nothing at all
and being so dead
it can’t be a
miracle.

but the going keep going when the staying is a vacancy
as wide as the dark side of the Truth.
you can go there with your strawberry eyes
but not all of you, see too much
until you do… with all your candles
out of mind.

and all your utter lack of proof.

underneath the bridge where the trolls eat goats and the rays of the sun are rumored
to be Pisces and the world is an odd duck, galumphing along beside the other world
you’re actually in.
there are songs about the territory but-
no melodies to remember
them with.

we sleep through the screech of time
and canonize the raptures
of our complete illusions.
born in a cage of open skies
and cul de sacs… we depart from our roots
to sprawl amid the vanishing and -
all waves of endless
deep.

Like
a speck of dust on a lens
is a ziggurat
to a lens
cap.

and a condor
to an almost
Life.

The Keys of the Keeper
Ain't never found
A lock to a Door
Too bashful.
But they sway from a chain
In Aspic.
Jewelry as Stoic
As " Why are you asking?"
When a dozen Illusions
Have all the Answers.

And how Golden you Are
is not so very Alone.

I suppose.

But everything is
where you are the Most..
And some things are tears
That Laugh.