I eat the pearls in my oatmeal eye
as perfect defects and ravens jambalaya.
moon-****** and a taste acquired…
I gather where I mostly disperse
No Self Required.

Just books and Islands.

But flies got in.
And grapes died on the vine.
your teddy bear watched you
Lie to Your Self…
and thunder spoke your language
when a wailing
was a polite
hat.

Songs have simple dreams. They cast their shadows with spark and smoke -
And all things gather at the cusp of a Knowing,
Tremble smitten. A wave of servitude in a Void you can’t avoid -
And a heartbeat that will stop when it’s Snowing.
There’s a Woman in the Sun
And She has your fingerprints
On many Moons.

II

Where the dog sleeps, he leaves the coffee stain of his slumber by dander
and all of your unclutter is drawn to the divet in the **** like an Ape
to a Blonde Chick and a Tower.
You had plans with an Average Day but made it a point
to be Extraordinary… Brown eyes on Boil.
You like to travel
but Nowhere Arrives
when you Go -

Until you get
there.

Then Everything’s a Lot.

Night’s Tomb is The Morning. The Sun is engorged with Glory
And Yellow has a Face… The lawns vary from manicured to feral,
and gobs of Time are plundered by the sane and misfit alike…
Because Theories bleed when actual Living dies.
The Sky is Broken, and all the Candy is not even There.
Too many Reindeer in Coffins, choking on Christmas
and sketching garlands on Ponies that never win Races.
Just Dreaming is like constantly Learning to Burn.
I have Teacups for blunders.
And Sunscreen for
Epiphanies.

You?

Polaris locked and lugging, about a ton of feathers...
I drag an Angel through a marsh of fallen heavens.
I sleep when the Sun starves to death,
And Join my Grains of Sanity
with an oyster

To Pearl where it Hurts.


II

This’ll Cost Ya.
Waking up in the middle of your Life.
Like an Equation made of lopped sides-
And snug contortions.
Wings ill pitched from the dugout
into the loft of dead air… placid and forgivable
for all the lies of the world ride that wave
until a silence humbles
a reckoning.

We should all of Us
learn the language of our Bones
and banish the weary of our Love.
But Earthworms
Have nothing to say -
And Ravens  
have shiny
tears…

if any.

That will never fall.

your breast—
a mountain so high,
i'd drink my saliva
to quench my thirst

i love when it rains
in waning moonlight,
spending time
with you in bed;
tight hugs,
purple kisses,
legs apart—
getting wet

When I wake there’s a thousand eyes in my java. I glow like a worm in a cave.
I yawn when the wren chirps and dew, drops from a blade of emerald. I sip the world
with my open eyes.... while holding my breath for ransom.
I see mortal rabbits, dancing in the underbrush
with ravenous fur and sleek plump.
Dark pupils, coy where the picket fence is delusional.
where nature found a way to ignore the perimeter
in favor of the expanse
and my humble
domicile… squatting on a patch
of Here and Now.

You can’t do one thing, without doing two things…
This only occurs to me on the porch,
in the rocking chair.
and I’m okay
with that.

the casino slithers neon alongside the Interstate and roadkill.
a few stars enchant and the moon gibbons in the deep palsy of the up-above
like an angel of milk stone and blemishes.
fireflies in the tall grass morse code their amorous intent
as Toyotas plunge south in the balmy aftermath
of a mundane day.

midnight skies,
insatiable emotions

found ourselves
in tangled arms

musings on
lust and love;

love is not a need
but a feeling

lust makes our love
more compelling

Boarded windows bleached by shame and sunlight
clip the view of the smoldering memories of gazing from behind
an ancestral eye, Clutching your Choo-Choo train
as the snow alters the world with a white parade of carpet
stitched in Winters’ bitter Doily. A fabulous crush of delicate ephemera.
The street lamp praying for another life
backlit by the flames of your visitation… stoking your Southern Star.
The House recants the miracles and the broken step that ascends
while mocking your flight.
The crabapples chuck their boredom to the barren nostalgia
where the soil hid a lush lawn for lawn darts
and chiggers.

Returning has to taste like a penny
To Change You.

Poems wither on the Mind. Try not to fret.
So many glockenspiels, alive in our hybrid Brigadoon.
Like merchants and sand *****
spelling your name with a zero
shaped like the Letter “ Because”.
you have no Idea.
But that’s like a Frequency.
You barge into long Ignorance
slowly conquered.
As all the while, the Stars are moving.
And Mystery remains a blush
of Wildfire in a Tamed Bugle
lodged in a Glacier
Of Grace.

I do not carry a Bible but I cup my hands
in a River like an armless penitent-
to best the misfortunes
that conspire against my moral Spine.
I wear glasses now, And type, type, type.
And There’s a Monk in my Soup,
Sinking into the broth of my Engine.
Coiled in the simmering
of my liquid perspective
bejeweled in waves.

The gift of wine. My glass cups a ruby pool. And there are moths in the shed
dancing unforbidden in shoals of suspenseful dust. As I court the approaching nowhere
with a Spirit in my Grasp. I debunk the ruin of my days with my casual glooming.
Soaking in the bloated beauty of our constant world
as we blunder on the surface
of our childhood dreams…
A bronze rope
spooling from the sun
has found my
open hand.

Upon felling an Oak.