Dagwood spoiled by the sun on the outskirts of the meadow.
Tremulous reeds torqued in the bumble wind with rods of pollen
lilting into oblivion on a warm gust of meandering Spring.
Towers of Sky mount the hillocks of the world and daisies run.
I see regal turmoil and jubilant hemorrhage of Grace.
so many owls with wide eyes and earthworms dreaming of Mars…
You can almost be
as fragile
as a gnat of
Time.

And You Are.

On the eastern ***** of the glen, where the bees slept
and the breeze kept vigil-
you could see the Summer trumpet and submit to Beauty
With too many acorns for the Atavist.
But all the fiddle-backs to tickle
your midnight fancy.  
Spruce garnets like Lanterns
of Warm Forever.

Unfit for flowers, but always a Season on Stilts
And opiates.

The cars are parking where the goslings go.
Now the aluminum can is shiny
in the ice on the asphalt
like a Valkyrie.
Little tombstones and caviar
ugly in the barrel.
where the chamber
has a bullet to kiss you with
or a Truth to Put a God
in your Hand.

The gift of wine. My glass cups a ruby pool. And there are moths in the shed
dancing unforbidden in shoals of suspenseful dust. As I court the approaching nowhere
with a Spirit in my Grasp. I debunk the ruin of my days with my casual glooming.
Soaking in the bloated beauty of our constant world
as we blunder on the surface
of our childhood dreams…
A bronze rope
spooling from the sun
has found my
open hand.

Upon felling an Oak.

G’Day, Mr. Sunny Bones. May I prop up your tea
with a sprig of mint and julep your corona with a sugar cube -
bathed in impossible sweet ravens, jostling for clouds?
Might I offer you the pillage of my mind as we stalk the Other
like rainbows stalk pots of gold? Would you like to imbibe
a silhouette? I have Just the Shadow.
You see; Mr. Gone has come to town, and a red dress is darling
on a pillar of smoke.
I love your watch the way a pillar loves alone.

all of my Islands have honeycombs and harsh bark
where shrubbery blubbers in too much sun
and halfwit Karma blunders in a cup
of unquenchable designs.

Wharf ******
on the plank of the following prank.
heavy like Moses.
Ordained by self-harm
and actual Pirates.

breathing Majong Cactus
Where I Temporary
Go.

numb trumpets on a spoil of whimsical cacophony.
ebony lobes of empirical atrophy… thumbing a ride.
a hubcap dynasty hung from a jagged joy
snagged in the actual grief,
all the berries on the vine
in the purpose
of a spangle
of some
delight
of somehow
delight

without Pause.,

all those miracles at your dainty feet
have all the naked and the marooned
in a fathom of kelp beds on a spool
of Saturn.
We gather at the dearth of our perpetual
diaspora. Long in the wrong tooth, where the stars
misbehave to get to the harsh Truth.
so many moons left unconquered
a spittoon of tombstones
believing in raw bones
and Abigail's.

II

just a tooth in the Sun, hooked where pavilions
congregate like hot salmon clouds of Destiny, forked-
where the Anguish Blooms like a tyranny in a Night Poem
gloating in the Pond of our Ponderous Conundrums…
slumming with pearls of impenetrable disarray
where our open ghosts are bargained
on the altar of a too distant Star.

And
sleep has the meaning
in its grasp
but nobody knows
how to sleep
when it
counts.

where you're Not
so much at
last.

Ducking my calls
because elusive is all the rage.
Connected by way of departure,
we have our holidays
in craters… like all the idiot moons
but have no stomach for an orbit
of respect. just a jot of glum
on a poignant tongue
in a Night Socket.

Beating wings against an open wound
where the wind is salt
and shards of everlasting
Comedy.

Constant.

Looming over sunshine wrinkles in the front lawn
on my moon patio, in my house shoes.  
Morning robe rumpled and comfy… drooping -
from my frame, as I shambled standing still.
Like a frozen scarecrow with a nervous tic
because of the Meds.

And it’s Wednesday.

the lawns are on pause as the light lathers
a hemisphere of manicured magnolias
and apparitions.
some joy is slain, and yet
the decals of Spring Guinivere
as naked as pollen in a breeze
of mirage. intermittent.
like a long day of extraordinary things
that didn’t happen
until you looked.

Sunset gilded… the horizon’s orange vapor is capital.
Long pigs gristle in the clinking wind
of a thorough typhoon of God’s
Rapturous Apathy.
But my Horse knows my Name
and cannot Die.
Not without a Canyon of explicit Cul-de-Sacs
as Viral as the Common Cold.
Perhaps a riveting ascent into the Aries
where a horned goat is throat prone?
where a slice of banquet is a Sacrifice-
to the Unknown?

Perhaps...

Laugh or cry, there will be Nothing.
A great act of Entropy. And long Smoke.
All the rooks in a bin of Academic
Impossibility and The Joke.

Squirm as we Must, the cornflake
of our Aperture… to find the milk
Of our Sight… where winking
is a Milk Cow in a Forest
of Dry Leaves, and Parked
Scars…

Keeping my options
closed.
And all
Mars.

wake up every day. On Deck.
yawn at dawn.
ain’t said **** -
Still, put a fool in Check.
lick my lips where
the Morning Moon
left lipstick.
I wink,
Then It’s On -
to the Next-Extraterrestrial.
I pack Light
when a Knife Fight
is one of the
Variables.
Can’t be Seen
At the Scene.
But “ Not Be Heard? “
Unbearable!

Whatever Wit
you’re with
is stitched to the roof
of your spit.
Wish varmints
tipping hats
at a Bar mitzvah
tripping over
Ambercrombie
till a Finch slapped
and a beak hit’cha.
can’t fit my flow
in your creek
then let your
******.