the brawn of small clouds
camped in sunshine; scudding a deep blue
as the Sun tanks the Palladium
of All Dark… dangling from a trick Unexplained
in a world UnObserved.

Drupe in a plows thought… an ‘ Afterward ‘ that bears fruit
as the Gardener wanes. Moonlorn and intricate.
all days dunder in the rough trumpets of our entire songs.
as only our sirens deployed in anguish
ever scope the happy of our Finding
Love.

As much as you Autumn, you can never orange a jaundiced epiphany.
you can only prune the prunes and filibuster rainbows to the spectrum of your grief.
within these margins find release at your perils relief.
******* to the sticking place, all the wandering reasons
to remain Unremained in a place Unbeen.

All the while, sleeping in the forge…
we cobble our stones into cairns
of unrivaled dyslexia. we Ambien in the thicket
and snap twigs.

craven are we -
in the manner of hollow wolves.
or hayrides in Antarctica.
we thought we could master
the average plague
with extraordinary sermons
to serve as serum and solace
but Certainty shackled to blind suns
see only the
Name.

as I conflate the Theory of Me
I slumber in bins and roast my ingots in foil and ambergris.
I strum violas out of tune to embark upon the lost waves
of my errant Muse. I sedate the bleakery
of my human malaise
with a jolt of  “ run of the mill meandering “.
as uncautious as a knave at Court
when the King sleeps and the Jester
cavorts.

I sneak inside my pollution and render the fat of the lamb
as an offering to a clean thought. I go where my ghost prayers
still believe in atoms and atone for my prodigal
calliopes. I Muse against the world that dismals the darling accolades
of Our disquieted Joy Speck. I foam at the mouth of the Ganges
like a Mad Spartan. Humming the Unusual departures
of our mundane perpetual. Our fleet roots to a spot of bother-
on the hem of Spheres, where no Music
is Undone for lack of Trying
to Compose It.

Thunder is how Yellow speaks to Red furies -
dancing in noncanonical Stories
that collapse to a Star
You’ve Chosen.

and all the flamingoes
stop where the sky
UnOpens.

fin.

I awoke to shed water, then back again to bed with my fuzzy relief
drooping from my sleepy mug. I coughed into a jar of night bees-
laying siege to my most pedestrian pillow.
my beleaguered strides catheter the stream of my unconsciousness
to a far shore where my pets never die and I have you -
to talk too, or glory bang the void with our impetuous existence.
as the gift that keeps on giving us a hard time-
oozes from the lemniscate of Our rim. As poetry malingers unabated-
like a sovereign cadaver in a hall of-
shy mirrors…

I awoke Out of Bounds.
like a native of Null Space.

looked up from a womb of empirical alarm
to fetch the farthest things my Grasp
could ever Believe.

I tunnel where the Morning is spent on the Midnight Dreary
and emerge, incapsulate of no Fate
but my Own.

In my inconstant Inner Haiti
I scoop a broom from the pillage-
of my dust, to sweep
all apathy Eastwise-
out of an Abundance of Caution.
I plunder my Enigma
to confuse less -
the ramparts of my clarity.
To festoon dark quadrants-
with oddments of discontinued
parades.
Always In my loop, my Spine-
a darling knot
cloistered in the open
Question.

Quivering in Dismay
like a hapless
Bruise.

Binding a Cause
to Its Rumor
with -

Absurd.

some of my circles are sharp cliques.
angular ponds, bobbing for forbidden apples
‘neath a disco ball with asthmatic stars
in a vacuum of positive scars
as loquacious as a long pause
gilding the ludicrous
to **** Time with panache
and seal the sphere of our knives
in the womb of whetting stones
affable in amber
like Champagne fossils
out of tune...

in a flute

nothing special, this way comes. only the tedium of adequate days
where the light is enough to call nightfall “ the dark, white meat of an eclipse “
while stars are the implausible sirens of a quiet.
or a “hum” without lips.
we attempt to infuse our wayward epiphanies
with a veneer. never a deep stain for our shallow ponds.
only the very best things for a reckoning
to stumble upon.

and sleep through.

we hoard our moons where our perishables can sing softly
as the entire world forgets how to hold a note-
accountable. we resound in a vacuum
of Unrequited Introspection.
we see the Other as Ourselves-
but come undone
for giving a
**** to
salvation-

on a platter.

there are smug villains in my oatmeal-
and ravenous enclaves of my useless toys.
i have Islands to speak too.
but not a one to call Land.
just a clump of implausible retreats
in a war on my perfect
vacation.

a hole in a fork
like a howl
in a mirror.

always.

in all the wax and wonderment surging between the toes of such giants
as all possible moonbeams in a choir of Sky!
you break through the cardamom Kafka
like a biblical plague.
you sunder unique pirouettes  
that blossom in the mundane
like a perpetual
denial.
then out come the unbelievable crescendos
of all the perfect worlds as thunderous as opposing fumes
in a vacuum of splintered Divinity, chastened by
wildfires that love thee Best
in the afternoon of our entire parade…
clinging to the symmetry that keeps your hand in mine.
and all the Uranium Valentines
in a Heart.

In a Heart.

In a Heart.

In a Jar.

a lump of coal on the tongue, like a rogue dark star on the tip of an unlit epiphany.
love has its Fools and all the carousels. but nothing can rehearse a reprisal… if the dream
has neither fear of it or notion… all the implausible directions are just ‘round the way…
pole vaulting over stone slogans in the trenches
where wars are Love.
quite naturally.

sometimes you have to breathe
without meaning
too.

it’s all
a part of the plan
how marbles sharpen
their bandoliers of refraction.
In Thrall of an
Angry Sleep.
and a novocaine Ponzi
Scheme,

to mean Nothing
to.