Owning the empirical argument
is like a mouthful of marbles
Telling marbles How Cubes-
Think.

Meanwhile...

All the West is The East with its back to you.
And no one can say how pointless
a compass can be
until they’re born.

And that’s how maps
may never spoil
The Lost.

And how Paradise
remains

“ Here, There Be... “


CANTO II


we are half a bird in a sling
shot through with dark wings
and guillotines as precious
as an unyielding spark.  

we are dust where the flesh is not.
and bone where the
songs go.


CANTO III


yea, though i walk through... (The Other Side-
remains elusive.)

too many Underworlds; and all the doors are stairs.

Like a mad god signing your Yearbook
with your Name.

But for Realsies.

I [ know ] what it’s like.
Indoors with an Outdoor Mind.
Fever blink sparrows in Calligraphy’s
Eponymous Wreck of droll Elan.
Outsized Inside,
As ripples in a quiver
may Be in Two Blazes
At Once.

While Love can be
Nowhere near You
When You
Want.

II

I have stopped singing in the usual way, now more concave and scattershot
With bare-bones clacking rough gibberish to the masses in discreet columns
of deployed madness… Cherub-Stung Pontiff of a Dirigible -
Swinging from an Aether Star
Hooked on hooks and crashing
Into something
Glorious!

I have too often the perks
of cerebral Detente
with my Impossible Oceans.
I Swim .... to soften the scales
of my deep fish
Kabuki

I Never Know
Cool Things.


Until I Burn.

In my neck of the would bees. I had no kinfolk.
Just churlish Bears and Porridge out of Time
Like an AlmostPurple Stew.
Wings Clipped...glistening in the gloom;
Beating against Time -
Like Champions anointed to a Point
Of No Rebirth. With -
Only the Challenge of ingenious Farce
Banging the pots in our Potsdamer Platz.
With all speed. And all Mirth.
And All Nots.

Loose ships sink lips…
when they speak
Or What-Knot.

game face with no game
tripping over elbows and
undone gobsmacked remotes
that tune into deep figures
sleek features masquerading
as all the fog in a room
full of you,

dormant doormats. done dilly in the privy
of your terminal performance.
your one enormous soliloquy
and all the sparrows
of your Mind.

Etcetera.

Tiny glob sparks of actually dating a girl
And all the calla lilies yarping at blonde varmints
In the Sun’s terrific mockery!
Where you might be at
Might well be otherwise
where the Chapels have real Gods
and slow days are often.
Perhaps your pearls hate the necklace
Not the Neck.
But How you toil is how you breathe
when you’re nowhere exactly
At All.

At All.

Sleeping where the air is green with too many afternoons,
bundled into perfect joys that unravel with Kinships
Set sail on Voids that ne’er return their humble pirates.
Asleep where the villainy is private
And only God Knows your Name
Like a Suspect in a revolution
Of quiet demise…
And a certain kind of beautiful
Besides.

Stone Soup has rainbows for teeth
and all along
you haven’t been Amazed.

Stung by lurch and frequent impurities
slumming in my mind’s eye, like a tattletale
on a hot crime… thumbing through the entrails
of a fabulous tumult on the Meridian
Of Never.

I keep my Love in a Bag Of Moons.

Frozen rivers have a spine
But only the Sun has a river
To Inspire.

We had troublesome bones and almond eyes-
That thought violins would never go to War.
So Guitar.

We elapse
where our frailties hold Court…
So far better to rebel -
then to almost be less perfect
than Broken.

By Design.
Where it’s
Hell.

II


Burning Bridges where a Door is a Worm
In a Bowl full of Doors… you have only your Fate
And shamrocks gobsmacked in the matter
of your business with Always.
You do no harm
where the trains go
but keep your Station
where the Holes
Track.

You Aether where the World Sea
Is as Flat as a Wish…
But Never do you
Constantly
Remove.

As I lurch from my Precambrian slumber
I do Birds where my windows peek from under.
I boldly go where the wind is a frame of reference-
and serve the Empty a full spectrum of dislocation.
I Unnerve the Actual with a dark Plum
singing something UnNatural.
Grief drains the Pool of every Sea
while Poseidon slights the Farce
Of our Perpetual Carbon Farms.
while slinking into varicose
Dreams.

Disarmed.


II

it never feels like Wednesday the way you want it too.

Tuning the radio like a frisky ******
I keep chewing my teeth and honey bees with my gums…
My incisors slumber
When my ghosts are gazelle..
They rend what meat is Shame.
And That Tastes
Like 9 Hells…
Only Petunias admit are Stars…

A Wayward Bruise
While tuning my Radio
To a Farce.

And a Complete
Disassembly
Of a Thing
With a

Heart.