you move the sun closer to me
and that has no disaster.
your All is the wet funk of my Yes.
the graven image of a total thing -
masquerading as ****** glint
of my " just asking " without the  burden
of my suspicion. only the wonderful
of my submission.
You.
You are the One
that Two
looks up
too.

you march into my femur. break my bones
where the soul is course and rancid.
where the Always has no Answer
but the Never has as a
Speech.

you move the Sun closer to Me.

you bring me joys that hate
and mutter the rumple
of lesser men
who have no Love.

you join the disjoint
and mock the cradle
of our discontent
with the spectacle
of our humble
What ?

you move.

you move the sallow fortunes of our weakest
too the strong weeping
of our dire " of course ".

the code. Morse, may be... but the dots
align in the ragged farse
of our profuse jungle.

we are these monkeys
lifting hammers
we cannot claim
but we have stars
that march
against
the verity
of our lies
to preach
the brevity
of our almost
in love.

with an up-close sun.

Love this girl.
Not quiet a girl anymore, you know.... with the kids- and all...
but we're on the skids
now...
plowing through the canker ****
and shelling the outskirts
of something
genuine !
we re-thunk the old funk....
of our
old
wondrous !
We purge no demon
From Our
Earnest !
We
Only
Conjure
That which would
Burn Us

WE

Only
conjured
a god with No
Servants

One
That had
No Name for
The Circus.
Only One
For The Master
And The Slaves to Love
That deserve
It

Forever After.

love is the withered regalia of a once plump.

where passion blinks, heat drinks
and stars fall, plastered.
jaundiced in the haunted grove
of our weary retreat
from the *******.

love is the drum, coming. the numb, one thing -
that might matter.
but we have our patterns and the lights flicker
where the loose tatters
knit their treason in the dumb blood
of our heart's disaster.

but love wants
what the heart
is after.

cue the laughter.

it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.

this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.

and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.

and so... There ! Amid all allurement and soft machines;
the spoiled brat of Venus, knicking the doors and kicking the canned laughter
to the foot of a mountain of existential speculation. Amid the cherry bombs and the Persian rugs; so many menageries of tinfoil origami swans.
so very little Time.

so little rosemary wine in the pickle jars. So few wolves
in the porcupine dens  - and only a swarm of hornets
in your nightclothes, this
morning.
and nothing but nettles
in your tea.

well, nettles and golems and orange hope.