so this morning it’s the Jupiter pants
and cream cheese danish-
on the couch, resounding
and three stooges chirping thunderous ruckus
underneath my captain crunch perpetual
like an always
spark.…

but something more like tomorrow’s fool.

drenched in the cinema
of a private thought.

with an all day
balloon.

braising photons on the bone
a plump star rotisserie
in the palm of my begging bowl
at the hearth of an eye
with all the chambers
of sunset
with a Phoenix
Mind.

with all your doom you murk the underdark
of your insipid calamity
caroling the bells of a unique chapel
in the bleak felspar afternoon sun
chiseled from a monolith
of brooding star foam
and jaundiced
tangerines.


with all your dust
you anoint the desolation
of your contemptible
menagerie of free range
left handed oysters
with teeth
and all the sunken eyes
of a drunken leviathan
howling in a marsh
of aggravated
slumber

where the tune
of a misfit
is perfect.

all the time.

The way a Thing Unravels is the Art of its brutal hum.
It demands a hurdy gurdy where a fife would do…
and all the mimzy of our virtues
at a glance.

It continues without stop charms and long are the hours
of our displaced events. the way you come apart too much
where the threads are apparently frayed but the sweater
is apparently snow.
Poetry Is This.

II

a sleeping vine goading pavilions
of absolute UnSleep.
a Narrow escape
where a Thought
is True.

A Me and You.
Doing the Nothing
That our Something
had removed.
on purpose.

Nose wrinkle varmints in the snow,
twitching like whiskers
of an avalanche..
chirping moon songs
with a mouth full
of tundra

Snoots in the under stars.

where the peat moss
is on some kind of
fire.


II


Blue has crept into all beds,
our windows perched in
northerly winds
with our cats
lap prone
and our blankets
Normandy


III

Ah. the winterkins
and how very much
they know
me.

there is salt where the sugar flew kites that kissed a yellow sun
and that was when you loved me best and all the pomegranates
guffawed in the fog of war with little rare hats-
made of morning dew; due to some devil of a heavenly.
but it’s Different now, the way a season
snaps like a twig-
and All of a Suddenly
the Moon.

there is salt where
the  cream drew breath
from a marble
open-mouthed
kiss.

But now, there’s Just
the Opposite.

By some unborn perpetual,
I come undone on que.
When Hollow Is the Fiber
of an anointed ghost
And all flesh, at the angle
of descent.
My Spiral is Concave.
A typical Atypical,
Typically thick
In the wings-
When the Sky
is not the Enemy
But merely a-
Want, that I
Lost.

By this much.

What I’m choosing to choose is the Nightworks and Star fizzle.
I come from an uproar in a dour calamity with all the panache
of a sweet sour moonrock on the tip of a tongue
in the mouth of an exuberant mute.
Arms akimbo in the lighthouse
of every mind.

I ask questions when the quest is no fiction.
My unrehearsed position in a galaxy of lies
is a stunning Astrology bomb
with all the Scorpio a Cancer
Can Capricorn
in an Aquarian state
of mind.

I love the things I have lost
and have become distracted
by the gravity of the
very Next Moment.

So I Love You

Now.

And I play video games
with my lemon trees
delighted.

I’m coining a phrase in the cheap seats.
On a balcony behind the projector.
My wine flask has red names for Polaroids
And fishnet eyelids like a wizard
with a joke face
at a serious
party.

i snoop for books in Unpolished eyes-
and find them leather-bound
to a howling calliope
of hushed gods
in real time,,,
haranguing
the flesh
in bouts
of unbridled
Clarity.

I encroach upon a node of conspicuous samadhi
with all the fearsome brittle of my inner destroy

Something Creates
where my Null sets a coarse by a star
coughing up a lung
in a Cherub’s
Song.

I keep my Puppets
in a Sock
because that’s
Funny.

and that's how
you Pretzel
a Butterfly

for no money,

i get the hives when my mind Zens in on a brand Knew.
my Ottoman Empire is a footstool in a plush Rumor.
at rest in the best humor that genius can buy for a Yen
when the Yang is an awkward ruby.
i steal from the vaults of a common supernatural
with all the aplomb of a minnow in a mouth.
sleeping on the hillocks of a rust moon
acned with meteor kiss and fierce serenities
the width of Space between notes
in a deanument.

then poetry assumes i have something to say.
only then does it open to the introversion
of my extraverted inner Hermit.
I leap out of conch shells
on some kind of fire
that slakes a thirst.

i knit wings to eyes
and abandon every photon
to my Will.

then

I have metaphors I keep using
whenever I try to be Original-
and i meta-criticize the artifice
of my chosen pearls.
but seldom do I confess it.
the unseemly devices I am left too.
as my Id designs the Ego
of my Indomitable Heart
with the schematics
of my Lost Architect
unhumbled by my Illusions
having spun such webs
as to conquer a Fool
and his Guesses.

I eat stone wheat and the wet essence
of dry zephyrs on sea errands
to blanch dunes
to Beau Geste.
i consume the ridiculous hubris
of my epileptic Angels
and squander no opaque verse
to tadpole.


I Swim In A Yes That A No Dreamt Of

like a ferret
in a healing
scar.

In the Village you get the tang of dead pennies and vinyl
spinning on your Bourbon tongue
and everything’s ***** Roscoe with the jump kids
on Broad Street and the Blacks
polishing rimshots off of stars they can’t see.
Hubcaps vanish like wallets at a crosswalk-
and the rain smells like iron
binging Detroit with fume Kabuki
as falafels alight upon the caverns of asphalt
like a flock of agnostic Finch
migrating to the Temple
of your Migraine.

She’s gone now and nothing can stop you
from becoming a ghost, unless your letters
were never written on purpose
and your absence was the
Plan.

The Jungle is a
stainless steel fog
of Blown Cover
in a war on the
Senseless.

You can’t catch
a Breath
without Catching
Hell
in the Bargain
with a Devil
You Know-

Will Leave.