my golatha is mewling in the fringe. lemon rinds polished.
my credenza dust-laden and perfect. like an old promise in moon gingham.
and all of this conjures a portable god and a night kingdom of uproarious gunthers
plundering the under-whim of our daily crisis
by loving the pitch of the sea.
and siren wishes-
privately.

all of this twice and again the world in which to fathom it.
our astute breach of contract, expanding into quadrants of unanswered questions
with all the panache of pandering, to a blush of summer on a ghost’s lips.
all of this always. like a concerned amnesia in absentia. open mind adjacent to a constant door… and a bronze myth.

Myth-Behaving.

The apples are handsome and Pre-Cambrian with their foliage draping the canopy
with apple breath and shadow. An Orchard of Arias, hours from a glass of hard cider.
Cinder mittens on it’s oaky nose; as Autumn recalibrates the haste of fire…
The house slides into a sunset on a cinnamon bun.

I lean back in my chair and write this.



II


There was a God in my Breakfast. Gnawing at my Animus.
Spooking mirrors with my own face. And kissing my feet.

I knew it time for muffins, with Blueberries In
and a glass of cold milk from a Sacred Cow.

I slept through the Preamble of my Eminence
too enthrall of Another, and the Songs that kept track of it.

comet locked to inexplicable Love
feasting on the marrow of Sunshine
and Fuji.

I sleep until Morpheus laughs milk through his nose
and abruptly laugh at us Both. yesterday’s whole-grain toast
on a doily, derelict and butter-cuffed-
where a bite was sincere and absent-minded.
Much like a peasant’s frenzy,
with manners from Empty tables.
Only good enough to gauge
the width of a Total
Farce.

Or sum the Sublime
with a Catalogue
of Lost
Arts.

I awake when the dream begins
.
And you wanna hear me talk about snow right now.

And I bother.

“ The blanket is a kind of white noise that only the eye can see -
   as a Blue Thing.

It’s fading… and nothing comes close to not beholding.
We are all In for the finch and the hare
and the crepe of crisp.

pinned to a theme of our leisurely stroll-
through damp crystals
as awestruck as
Winter at
Spring.

On the cusp of our twilight, serene seraphs slumber
born of golden spite and joysome psalms, woven from unspoken skin
to stitch ice to every paw of Dawn clawing at the hem of Night.

     And where Winter falls, I stay awake to chart comets and chimneys
Like any awkward Silence
thought I might.

Owning the empirical argument
is like a mouthful of marbles
Telling marbles How Cubes-
Think.

Meanwhile...

All the West is The East with its back to you.
And no one can say how pointless
a compass can be
until they’re born.

And that’s how maps
may never spoil
The Lost.

And how Paradise
remains

“ Here, There Be... “


CANTO II


we are half a bird in a sling
shot through with dark wings
and guillotines as precious
as an unyielding spark.  

we are dust where the flesh is not.
and bone where the
songs go.


CANTO III


yea, though i walk through... (The Other Side-
remains elusive.)

too many Underworlds; and all the doors are stairs.

Like a mad god signing your Yearbook
with your Name.

But for Realsies.

Her cologne was hemp and Tuesday; lettuce-wrapped
in comet frost and not so merry-go-rounds.
She hid scars with wounds-
But never Noticed...
Charm- Kissed
by a tide of imponderables-
the size of her Ovaries.
Sleeping in a steamer trunk
to scope the limits
of Her Open
Mind...
As seen through the lens
of the first Blind
Eye.
And you Love Her.

II

You don’t have to sleep where you pass out.
You can study dreams where her feet have been.
Trek the spiral of her Cacophony to a Wailing
where her Heart should Be.
You can believe in anything
that Love allures…
Even-
And entangle your imperfection
with Her own.
But you have to wake up
to Dream properly.
Fold Space
where the crease
is a massive
Soul.
Merge with the
soft clots
in your fire,
and conspire to
move.

Breach the barricades
that thorn
your Roses,
or surrender
to
vanishing.
Know Love’s Garden
for what It
is.

Or Fetch a
Grove.

our skin pushes the river till it splits the sky
molting with waves of skin, deep and fathomless.
i am nowhere, like a weather vane in a cauldron
of Nope.
The winds tickle when they actually Mill.
and a bread from said grain
is a Love I can’t
ferment.

not without your ghost butter
and endless full moons.

For
Love is a Beast
and there is no Oasis
for wanting
You.

As we Diverge... where

We At
Least.

Down by the lake where the air had lost its breath mints and cattails wobbled like golden hobos, you could see a little house across the chop; squatting on the far shore, flanked by tall evergreens and nameless trails receding on ghost feet with tiny little shells for boots.
     Down by the lake you could see a light in the window with the Chinese maple fascinator off to one side in an offshore breeze. And rampant ivy, raiding the pantry of a thatch roof overhang for sun crumbs and pelican pies. You can just make out the door that seems to stand between worlds, slightly ajar.  And a chimney as stoic as a bone with a granite crown.

You’ll be back next year.

I [ know ] what it’s like.
Indoors with an Outdoor Mind.
Fever blink sparrows in Calligraphy’s
Eponymous Wreck of droll Elan.
Outsized Inside,
As ripples in a quiver
may Be in Two Blazes
At Once.

While Love can be
Nowhere near You
When You
Want.

II

I have stopped singing in the usual way, now more concave and scattershot
With bare-bones clacking rough gibberish to the masses in discreet columns
of deployed madness… Cherub-Stung Pontiff of a Dirigible -
Swinging from an Aether Star
Hooked on hooks and crashing
Into something
Glorious!

I have too often the perks
of cerebral Detente
with my Impossible Oceans.
I Swim .... to soften the scales
of my deep fish
Kabuki

I Never Know
Cool Things.


Until I Burn.

Acorns fraternize in the leaf litter, sifting through tired tales of falling.
A yellow sun cranks knives into yellow sinews of nearly perfect grey
where twilight is smiling for no reason,
and we all sleep overlong,
as our tomorrows
lapse into gone.

The Politics of Amber
Is how Love is not the first thing
that you know.
It buries the lead in the forefront
Of a Trojan Horse.
The mane, majestic in the wind-
up your aspirations.
But always where a weeping oak
Had a reason…

To paralyze a
Life.

Or Two.

In my neck of the would bees. I had no kinfolk.
Just churlish Bears and Porridge out of Time
Like an AlmostPurple Stew.
Wings Clipped...glistening in the gloom;
Beating against Time -
Like Champions anointed to a Point
Of No Rebirth. With -
Only the Challenge of ingenious Farce
Banging the pots in our Potsdamer Platz.
With all speed. And all Mirth.
And All Nots.

Loose ships sink lips…
when they speak
Or What-Knot.

The onions were crisp and sugar funked. The pumpkins plump
and less ordinary than the okra with the palsy.
The sweet peas were lumps of gnocchi tucked into emeralds
as ascendent as a vine of pregnant Ivy.
Coin purse puce where the rain slapped
and the fog of our tundra dropped anchor
where our meadows
were bent.

But what Vera wants to know
Is Why?

And what Heaven wants to know
Is Why Not?

Sleeping where the air is green with too many afternoons,
bundled into perfect joys that unravel with Kinships
Set sail on Voids that ne’er return their humble pirates.
Asleep where the villainy is private
And only God Knows your Name
Like a Suspect in a revolution
Of quiet demise…
And a certain kind of beautiful
Besides.

Stone Soup has rainbows for teeth
and all along
you haven’t been Amazed.

all of my thumbs pinch the sun
and the moon remains a cloud.

i have too many aftermaths
but always another lost cause.

these flowers keep blooming
no matter what.

you love your exile
or you Live until
it’s worth it.