the oil in the lamp is dreaming of a flask of star garments
draped over succulent blue where the pink is bright green.
crass haloes melting in sterling eggshells
and dusted with cardamom and lost socks.
the soft spots of the world, all dreamt by flame
sleeping in a viscous pool of itself.
swinging from a brace link
in a fable.

the cracked *** in the corner is dancing.
while disable.d.

we are somewhere that gathers moss
while churning butter into permafrost
with dainty little hands, grown savage
from wailing in prayer. we contain a noise
that surrounds us. all the golden pollen
of our dark gardens, swelling in the flame
of our Mystery…. unopposed.
we join intangible things to quicken the hardpan
of our ziggurats. we hum our contusions
into clouds of memory, abandoned by pain
and left adrift in the eye of a grateful monsoon.
culling pearls from loose oysters
where the moon should be.

twilight assembles in the plush velvet ponds of shadow fall and moonlight.
the stars above measle the hemisphere as the world twirls in the dark like a raving Sufi.
we are tethered to a wandering. as the grass of every meadow to a barefoot rascal
taking the long way home
because broccoli.

ozone esters drifting in tandem like sea salt barnacles
crusting the bell of every speck of dew
floating snow globe actual; northwesterly…
adorning the invisible with crepe sunsets, surging the pause
of a baffling miracle as common as time
with purple as deep as a chasm of frozen suns. a kingdom
of rain tilting the horizon with dusky mauve
tinkering with the afterglow of yesterday with tomorrow’s
Shanghai, low in the distant sky departing from derelict notions
of flat earth… hurling through space without ward
or talisman. entangled in the truest thing, curling a tempest
‘round a maypole, spoking the navel of Gaea…
at the center of the Labyrinth
that came with the void.

Blythe bounty vexing the verity of our span
like a boundless mote of crocodilian
conundrums.
beads of sweat gather at the lip of a luminous urn
perched on a plinth behind a waterfall
sequestered in a bank of fog
as noble as an acorn
with a cane.

or a funerary bog
tuning methane with a fork
in the road.

pollute your feathers at your peril.
for the sky between scars is every unchallenged door.
and you are the symbol of that fear made flesh.
Life is Shorthand for “ Deal With It”.
our clowns are clumsy when the spotlights conspire
to illuminate the Jest. but we take the Stage
like Pirates made of stars… and weightless coupons.

All the all gone, comes back like a vengeful orca.
bloated with disheveled moons and temporal rifts
in the fabric of a Shroud of Turin.
we bleed where we stand for Nothing.
Sleep where Our Dreams are fitful with Awakening.
fumbling at Martian waterfalls, as we trade
the humidor for the Desert. happy as clams
in a pit of merciless flumes.
boiling with all the Irony of a good day
patched over the Hole
of Every Day.

we are the Barnabus moth in the flame of our contentious reality.
roiling in sunlight benighted. void harpies champing at the 8bit reservoir
of our discontent, relentless and buffoon. our comedies squat on the curbed rapture
of our indelicate illumination. all buddha huffing glitter often
in a dreaming canary’s pistachio garments
loaded with lost ghosts, that mostly pose as a threat
to skim milk. star funked by a torrent of unfortunate blessings.
gaining the last hill on a star
without a serpent.

all the time.

I have been green. I recall.
withall of my purpose burgeoning
in Blythe ponds of uncommon joy.
my yurts are open to closed snow
but nothing gathers at my feet
so much as the fumes of verdant dreams
polishing the banisters of our compass
with all the fervor of a slave-
to freedom… but having no moon
to conjure with
I have no sun
to barter.

how can I control the weather with a withering stare?
with an artless glare into a tomb of unyielding ire?
the type of gyre a rainbow would torment with flare-
combing over the blindspot of our every desire?

these days the weevils march
into the cerebellum harkening the barrow-born
and disquiet. we somehow slumber near-
the cyclones of over dumb.
we succumb to the torrent of our grimoires.
chastened only by Time enough
to **** it up completely.
we are indiscreet en masse.
like a horde of uncomfortable Truths.
and a basket of uncommon proofs
ogling the myopia of our hive
madness.
how we let the squirrels do their thing
is a mystery,

on this globe of woe, our Love generates
the next impossible flower.
our usual display of ignorance is curtailed
by an hour of minutes being beautiful...
the span of our lives.

Sour Sugarcubes are Choirs of UnSung Salt

II

at the beginning, all was a capsule of gleek
glaring at the sun with all the pivot of a dismal Tasmanian Devil
levitating neutrons to new Lows… coming about like a train-
with wings
scaling the heights of Our caverns-
like a nosey Dwarf. carving blood into a river of unrequited treacle.
the Quest of Kings, bound to the bottom of a tyranny
that spells the word for Happiness
with an X.

Yet Love Happens, Yes.

whiskey neat in a thumbnail chapel on the edge of the world
coated in black honey turning blue for a cause.
scribbling on napkins of unkempt self-harm
while garnering the empathy
of a dead god.
praying to the withers of a horsemen
for the lack of women
on the ranch
your stars are
sleeping on,

coy chattel herding thoughts of a flume
marching against clear skies.
slaves to our miracle.

sipping sparks through a straw.
we are all the Other one.
summering in the ramparts
of our descent
as we winter less
in the sunspot
of our acquired
tastes-
so long, lives the waste
of our time
till each tick
is a boom
whispering the egress
of a locked door
on a cliff of
lost sky.

how beautiful my wounds today-
As long as the Healing
Lies -

like the truth of It
Unkind.