what love has done is not so much the moon in a cup.
it’s more as if the sun had all the sky
in a thimble…  and I had the eye of the world -
where my witness was gospel
and my time, a nest of unimpeachable
surrender.

what love has done is more than my angst interrupted.
it’s more as if a dove had stories to tell, but only a song said best.
every windmill… an uncertain calliope less inert
than my reckless cacophony
driving a nail into a palm
of endless.

where I toil I have no moon
save the spoils of my dissonance.
and a pulsating garnet of chaos
in a spoonful of wishful
thinking.

ambrosia
with a wound pink
umbrella. I am aloft
below!

I'm remote
and vendetta.

like a noise
without a voice
in a fog.

love
is the chocolate spasm
of an unquenchable joy.
like a kite on a string of unending naivete…
a glorious mongrel of “ I’ll be ******! “ -
and all the manifest Destiny you can squeeze
into a perilous adventure.
no ropes Is like No Fun,
but only from This angle, where I lust for succulent jewels!
where I slept last on a diamond
made of pure flesh -
and pulsed into a realm
of amorous blunders.

all these sweet things
kick in the teeth
of your black hole.
like an aggregate Comedy
of stalled horizons.

you see how love has mastered Madness
by slipping in-between
You.

like a stain on an apron, the sky mauled a rainbow.
twilight was in bloom like a laceration
at the heart of the color Blue.
like a song on a blind beetle’s mind
before a windshield epiphany.

i feel the ropes of a ghostly heaven
hauling my anguish to a pulsar
in a far off kingdom,
i luxuriate in the wholesome disassembly
of my chaos, and swear fealty
to a blank spot
on a Sun.

I cannot have a song in my throat
without the hour of my silence
smoldering in the ramparts of my thunder blush
where the seamless coil of my mortality
aches like a beacon on a cliff
of Nothing Else.

I cannot change my little Bibles
for a little Bliss.
I can only exchange the vapors
of my longing
for a non-touch
at the heart
of a wrong.

September is as brisk as a Discoteque
in a neon cadaver.
with all the palaver of a garden gnome -
full of further promises.
a prominent departure
where everything eminent
is Gospel.

I have pools of Time in my dislodged serenity
and all the ghosts to haunt me as lightly
as a gale.
I have come from an open wound
that has no closing argument.
Only the infinite armament of hollow guns
for solid snakes and
horizons made
of Nonsuch.

Before Begun
I had no Always
as much
as having
none.

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit an age of inscrutable things
that feast upon docile swarms of sensitives… but never says what you're thinking
in a Eulogy. Only what you’re missing.
Usually.

But sometimes, like Most Times…. the wounds are like walnuts -
parked in a field of oncoming traffic.
Or some gratuitous cerebral laughter.
Choked from a spasm of serene
by the clutches of a Sphinx
with Midnight teats.
And a mane of plausible
Agonies.

.

He wore his madness like a coat on a spoon.
A gamma ray troglodyte groping in the dark fennel
inhaling the effluvium of dank adrenalin…
carving suns into bite-sized pieces.
opening the wounds he could never discard out loud,
he tore his sleeve of remembrance
hawking an empty smile at a mile of bad road
with all the gusto of terminal
neglect.

sleep if you can, but good luck
tall tremors cavort with your short light.
you have no usual suspense.
only Night’s Hammer as a guide
to your unusual premise.
calm are the wings of your septic joy.
bent by fathoms of unadorable
asking.

My lute has found a voice
made of porcelain
and the risible rattle
of dry leaves.
I have only one note.
But my lunacy resounds.
With only two hands
I grasp; dropping -
the Sun…

But I keep the Moon
for an Eclipse
when I want
one.

like an amateur Magician
at a Mirror,
over a
Sink.

i shave a Dove
in my sleeve -
for the
wings.

that I weave
for lucid
Sleep.

[ I think }