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
******.

don’t want no daft
only the super cheese
of my elective accurate
spoiling for a fight
with some actual Has-Been
spouting wind like a beam
of something less
factual.
i get to placate the drum
of an enormous plume.
shunt funded by short sight
as long as every afternoon,
is plague ****** gifted,
that’s how we do
in the projects
that have only to yearn more
than esteem less than you,
clipped where the wing
is sky blind.
soaring solo in a fog
of fetching
regalia.
north of an absolute
choice.

deep pheasant feast full of mulberries and ******* in aspic
as I windge.  a tornadic thumb on my goslings
twisting feathers into ink
while marching up my spine
like your usual
epiphany.

i love how it never Is
and assume the Fae folk filagree
more of a spark
than my own denial of glamours.
saving my breath for a clam
in wax
stealing oxygen
from a pearl.

as all the bones... when I do.

a snail, plumb in the crease of a wilting green leaf with a loose tooth.
all the theatric lemonade at the box social, basking in long overdue
and upfront Delilahs… scorpion averse in a diabetic coma
made of so many wishes
you can’t live with.

the snail disembarks from the usual blarney
and writes a book about an up-close bird
with a beak as ominous
as a pop quiz.

while The Play is the Thing that keeps asking Why
when there’s a perfectly obvious
Gadot.

Oh, you got jokes now? did I inspire you?
my inner cleft palate, too savage for your average villainy.
Oh, I get You...
Ghost town deputy -
slapping tickets on my flow.
but
I don’t know you though...
just so you
Know.

my wings sting hornets
cloistered in an endless performance
of how we love things.

troubadour magic
where the windmills are
semaphore

balking at the Fascist storm
of your prattle.
to make battle
with young stars
more golden than
your Solution.

more than your binary coffin spittle
in the wink of a furnace in the palm
of a shell game alchemist.

but with all
the jewels
you can’t
leave
with.

because I said so.

in her apron of doom, she dresses the hare with a sharp kit.
they glisten with their purpose; dividing fowl from the air
solving the agony of hunger… with a pang of grace
and Darwinian inertia.
the knives dream of clean cuts
and mangos.

and her kitchen is pristine
as a bell.

when she dines in, she lets the moon do all the work
and feathers slither by, with so many charms decanted in the jasmine apocalypse
to swoon forever like an uncorked boy.
the marmalade is never dainty.
the air is mostly a cotton barge of intangible voyeurs
as intimate as a private thought.
her lace clings to the bead of sweat that twinks besotted
and time prevails upon Beauty with a lewd choir of Sleep.
as she dangles from an ecstasy
phalanges Etcetera.

There’s always a little titmouse stitching a joy
into a button’s brass… so the peasant garb has an eye full of eyes
seeing nothing that you fail to see,
only the perspective has changed clothes
to match your apathy...
You could go to The Ball
but it’s Everywhere;
so why move?

And this is how we ponder
on the catwalk.
Fashionably Oblique,
Sword of Damocles
Approved,

I am by no means happy.
Thorn born and ludicrous all my joy.
what is sweet is salt
and what is salt is sleep.
And what is Sleep but an anvil
to believe in.
I hammer loss. ***** at the throat
of a forgotten opera.
all days are the end
as all my honey blacks
where the white theme of a blue world
bleaks the withering
of my constant debacle.
I come from a hell in myself
but choose to linger among you
like a mockery of the same.
Too many stars
and too little light
to conjure them.
broke where it counts.
slumming in the forge
of my misery
as all unbearable love
defies the answer
to a quiet
numb.

swimming in real
I see the earth in your eyes and cannot sky for all your meteors
sleeping in the atoms of my blanket.
for all the alabaster of your forearms
swarming embrace like thin kittens made of rope
and feminine steel.
I see my worth in your eyes and cannot lie for your troubadours
dreaming in the tatters of my mistakes.
for all the amber chambers of your plum
disarming grace with tin ingots made of hope
swimming in real.

how empty are all your handfuls?
do we all sleep where the wolves blink-
and the moon seep into howling
lather?
do we choke on the foam
of our persistent cadavers by scooping -
lungs from a pit of breathlessness?
do we do such things to under-last
the span of our questioning?
if so, is all the life at our fingertips
gleaming euphoric in a fit of grief?
or at an angle in a wrinkle
of mischief
that corners the bruise
where the pretty
Is a living
thing?

At the corner of Toil and Banks
A waitress with wheels in motion
had to stop.
It felt like a joke about you
with a misspelled nametag.
but she missed the bus
so it felt worse.

her tips were burning pinpricks
in her 9 pm jersey
where the seal was broken
by unseasonably warm
candor.
but getting a taxi was like
an orchid arithmetic
with gold chains
made of Concrete
Aloe Virtual.
and a spot
of constant
heart in a
marsh.

she was never after.

whatever land you’re in, i’ll know it by the elemental books
and the babbling brooks of your palatial retreat.
i’ll know you're there when i cross the boundaries of your remove
by the scent of your moon-barrels of rain
and the warped coin of your realm
slipped into my palm by sleight of hands
too small to get wet
in a pond.

your ripples will find me attuned to your island by kite-string
and periwinkle post-Its. my radio will have you mapped
to a dun hill where other hills are chaste and smothered in fog.
but bitten by sunshine on the nape of a shadow -
I’ll know you for your regal fatigue
and embrace you with the love
at my core, so that our magnets may kiss
and restore your silhouette
to my blindspot
like a vital conundrum
with an operatic lisp.