i assume the doom you crave is a silent relent on a peninsula
of disquieted content. a ginger so daffodil that a kite
is often mistaken as a coffin with no balloons.
i assume you’re not where the map knows
where a woman keeps her things.

the way you flirt with blank fingertips to grip the spire of some dystopian flame.
it makes you the goddess i condone… the worship at sea… toppled across horizons
beyond Poseidon in such a way as to yearn more
than every lonesome thing… unkempt in the blithering enigma of You.
with too many kernels of wicked thoughts
to be a good girl.

when you swaggered into view… i assumed you had rainbows
wrinkled in time like a dayglow yurt on the moon.
your ******* too strange to be dealt with by chest.
my hands wanton and disassembled in my yearning.
i had never caught a glimpse so heavy as your wondrous magnolian charms.
and thusly, all things withered when you stepped
out of light.

things ain’t real out here. just fake.
the amber gasp of a slow meme in a chamber
of your last laugh.
every day that records your release from a nightfall
is a jot in a book that a worm
was reading… to the dead.

your love has taught me things that have no god.
taught my circle how squares are corners
without everyone.
a lovely bit of chance in the dis-truly random.
a game on a plate at a banquet of
fruitless antics.

i walk on the moon as you walk on my face
like a Russian at rest on a self-interest
eating a dynasty of “what next? “
i keep nothing but a slavery
in my war chest….
but you

keep nothing
at all.

sometimes the burning is an ordinary thing.
a Fahrenheit so low that Hell looks up
to refute the Sky you want.
and the dead wings
you use.

there are doors that baffle keys
and there is a God.

My love made you the opposite
of exactly what love wants…

from me.

a wholesome sun broods in the wake of day
and the hum of too many jewels is the mad honey
on your lips… where parakeets shriek with delight
as common as an always.
i see the eclipse of my sorrow as stark a lightning dark.
i keep spelling my name with a “ Q “
because why not?
there are no humble kisses
but only one life...
to believe in
til you mean
it.

from the throat
long bees
that sing honey
with every sting.
like a ghost in
the chest...
where your heart
is a choir
all day,
and the nights
are Yes.

It's the 4th of something and i can’t recall
the measure of my ambition. i can only brew coffee
in this existential condition, and i defy you to do -
any otherwise.
my Oblique has discreet kingdoms.
and nothing more precious than what I’ve forgot
i have forgotten passwords
to a Bluff and a Kismet.
I still have toys
to almost live
with.

But please; excuse the mess. Make yourself at Home.
I have Derilect Agendas and seldom Time to implement
sincere foolishness.
To me, we are too sweet, and Time
has your mind just outside my door.
i would just Love to have You more….
so Please
don’t bother

to go.

klank skin boys do one thing right
they climb a hill to get there… but who are they?
i ask because i’m not an idiot
i know a coin of subtlety is a Poet’s *******.
but in this case…
a soliloquy with a sassy domain…
as oblique as a promise that a stone
will never betray
a tidal way
of turtles.

klank skin boys bedazzle their actual kundalini!
sharp as a tack in an acid bath of upsidedown Houdini’s.
they scrawl all the yawning oblivions at their disposal
on parchments as far as what your guessing and then some…
they have no word for how lonely i am or why i
i wrote this,

or why i wrote

" this "

you are walking in a stream of absolute strangers
woolgathering in cerebral catacombs with faraway eyes
as your shadow strides behind you
as you face the sun with a blank face…
Time dawdles instantaneously.
every moment compressed into a -
slow expanse of happenings
all around you at the center of nothing
as you stroll
cutting through the park
of your epiphanies.

Nothing is simple now… and nothing ever was.
But i recall the majesty of my naivete’
and linger in the triumphant fog of my illusions
as a young man of almost a Minute.
Be that, as it may.
i am not among the Mockingjays
nor the calendars of arbitrary
Days.
I am the eclipse of insincere Living.
i blot out the None.

with blueberries from an indigo
Genesis: i stain my sky with every unbelievable Promise -
my Calculus can muster. My Love in tow.
I gather at the edgeless mist
of my Identity and etch the core
of my consecrated cacophonies
into the bones of dead whales like Scrimshaw
for deep kids.

And that's It.

balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the over wild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious!
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain!
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of Sylvia Plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists!
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts

for gospels.

now that we agree that summer has
lapsed into a deep waning
that longer shadows corral golden pools of twilight;
as June bugs become ghosts
to dismay the Robins... explaining -
the cycle of impenetrable inertia
with an accent from
a turbulent void.
or some coastal atoll
of unanswered questions
babbling on about
the Love
Of You.

Without Question.

let's agree.