Milking a comet is thirsty work
but it suits me to the bone.
dog star kennels in my back forty
where the pecans are black fallen
in green grass… there i lose my frisbee
and sing otherwise.
out by the shed you can mark a century
of unspoiled silence…
humming in the canopy
like a harmless
quiet.

like a mitten
for a snowflake
with a song.

Dan Dan Noodles slipping over a gaijin fork-tine at lunchtime
glooped in brown broth, glistening below the wriggle
of a first bite in a $200 suit,,. at a trending Cafe.
Car fumes dangling like phone fobs, simmer in the absolute workday.
chumming the swirl of our cataracts with the blood of our Dreams.
With the sun screaming at the pavement
where we march to our far away…
like slumbernauts rummaging through snowflakes and notifications.
little bells that ring when a space between words needs a thought to stop a train
with an Ad for ******.
Culling the heard.

James Joyce had smelling salts and ***** tins tucked in his Dramamine
and just off the coast of his swarthy daggers, lay all the pirates of bright minds
clumped in a sponge of all the orange that an insipid grin
could forge into a cufflink at today’s prices -
and still bargain.
Frumpy catalogs of myriad departures, woven into leathery air… dark portals and cucumber sandwiches; savoring an afternoon of incomplete theorems
At High Tea, at odds -
with Low Tide…
but consensual by default
Like a lamb in a spider’s web
when all flies are ghosts
of Veal.

Bethesda

fireflies and some kind of perfect icosahedron juicing a stone.

when the end is a ribbon of candor, you only tell the truth
and chew gum at the same time.

these lights I’ve knit into black coins are real lights.
i have chambers of me full of YOU.
i keep swimming with Sirens to pass the time.
i dark happy so poetry happens.
aswoon in the upper gloom of my contemporary ‘elan.
i bear no resemblance to my plight
but rather roguishly perfume the perimeter
of a shadow at hand…
sun ***** for a fact.
like a gypsy with sea salt
lullabies… swiving sweet whispers
that a plume of vapors storm to the hilt
of a calming thorn.
these lights I’ve knit into black coins are real lights
seeping into the dream of my actual prism.
supping on the serious moonlight of my practical illusions.
charmed in the chest.

i have too many genies to betray a message in a bottle
so i’m all the way in love
with the
Wish.

I remember the East Coast, though I’ve never been. Did you feel what I meant by that?
There is something in the air that brings a stone to a feather
and somehow the whole world is more than an absolute failure.
more like a Roman nose on a resolute Bagpipe.
so many terminals sifting through haggard tributaries, anointing the fumes
of our empirical dialysis with all sweet fear of mortal life.
conjoining the wheel with the purpose.
so a stone knows it’s weight… but an hour lacks
a thought to contend with the moral of the story.
All the world like a constant balloon
made all of our things
at a glance.

burning again in my Asian diaspora, solemn as a coin in a fountain
dreaming of a well. i sleep where slipping into something is more
cloak than adventure… suturing the wound that tomorrow brings
with a thread of hope…. combing the bottom of the sea.
i eat all the hammers that an anvil resents.
i awake on the beach with a blue coconut lodged in my desolate wings..
with so many phantoms i can hardly cross swords
with the moon -
too busy slipping into constant joy piracy
and the palaver of my grim adjustments
to the common explode.

these lights that i’ve knit into black coins are real lights
and the sun knows the darkside of a simple prayer is more like a moth enthrall of a neutral calamity.  
there are no kings where a queen
is stitching harm into a canvas of woe. only the indolent pearls
of our most dire pavilions, marching into flatlands
as comical as a flat spoon.

you have summer on your face but can’t seem to simmer down
to a long pause made of brief encounters with sunshine and moon dander.
you’re always coping with the malignant Always
atoning for imagined sins… but spinning out of orbit
to align yourself with a nether world
of plush toys.

gems spoil in the dark.
and you know this at your core.
when sleep comes easy
you remember your name
like a dimmer switch
forgetting
how to
bright.

I didn’t realize how late it was and kept eating cigars and spritzers.
chuffing on a spoonful of Mercury and bath salts, while having a debate
with a silent Mime. a mime, so ascetic that a grain of invisible rice
was a banquet. And pulling a rope made of empty-
was the gravy on the biscuit.
a flag at the summit
of a goosebump you were pawning
to a merchant
for a chill.

a bespoke menagerie of awkward McGillicuddy
carefully abandoned by the Hour… toppling the swiss clock
of our glockenspiel, over the horizon of my Optic Nerve.
serving the inkling of a thing is more rampant than devotion
to an actual god… and love has all the trappings of genius
as our serenity is an eternal war
that begs the Question
blindfolded

without asking.

adrift in my stalwart canoe, I assume the worse
for the clouds on the horizon are ponderous and lackmirth.
they sleep through a Monarch’s birth
from a chrysalis at the tip
of a peach fuzz.
or a Silence as unruly
as Dawn!
all the dandruff of Angels
without the Fall.

silkworms preening tomorrows’ gospels
are swarming the delicate heart
of our discontinued lobotomy.
weaving hope into the tapestry of venom
slithering bemused in our cauldrons.
we leave no trace of our innocence
but rather stain and meander toward
the apex of our blithering.
so our Maths have maps to our Stupor
Like a
Vector to a Bone
of contention.

long before strip malls had dreams and overdue books were made of flint and carousels-
there was an ancient joy that ached in the real world like an ingrown toenail-
snarling grief into aspic and anomalous carnivals.
coping with the doom of a thing
in its infancy…. while harboring a cool escape
to a quadrant of sumptuous
stuttering,

like clouds on a rope.

love is like slumber trumpets.
It’s all the same, really being different.
but somehow you quit winning
before you play.
our notes bleat and percolate
in the gypsum of our dross.
we burn through heavens
like bearer bonds
but foster shadows
on the dark side
of the sun.

at a loss.

I come upon a meadow of absolute mirrors, swaying in the breeze.
I lose my Unicorn in the thicket. shave my head with a blade of glass-
and nick the skin of a Pompadour. my candles are Jasmine and Mirth,
I fall asleep where the doubloons pillow. gilding ashes with ash.
lodged in the throat of a dragon, like a sleepwalking flame.

Am I awake when I chrysanthemum?
Or is my umbrella, the rain?

as i colonize my outskirts, moon junk sick with the real pity of an angel
but half the size of a whole thing… sort of a trojan armada
marching out of wasted time. a tweedle dee in the steam trunk
of my misadventures.
mostly maple leaf tempura
dozing off in a tempestuous kiss
like a pumpkin praying to Chinese
with a Pi.

we slip into the stream of our afternoon-
and dare the span of a constant dark,
our lanterns possessed
of all the fire we enkindle
beyond spark.
we breathe on the wind
that our sails obey.
however, lost.
eating gumption with
our bare hands-
like golden brutes
tugging sunshine from
a cave.

toenails in the dark, shuffling in cotton skullies, where the suns park-
on thin dimes… as golden as poached domes in amethyst
where the Royal “ WE” is a scarecrow made of consumption
stitching the wherewithal of an Answer
to an improbable Guess.

we fidget and split the pith of our varmint stars
to within an ounce of Plausible. Gobsmacked in the actual.
chumming thunder with too many rays of delirium.
husking germs at our Diaspora.
cast as an open wounded
conversation.
conversating in a
Vacuum.

like teen angst on a scrimshaw barstool
made of absolute
demise.