Looking at our photos.
What does she see in me?

Then I remember: Don't put
Your gift in a horse's mouth.

It'll only chew it
To pieces.

Hi there,
I say to the ocean,
dropping my shoes
for the sandy pilgrimage
to shore,

A lone figure wanders
into a Delft seascape,
Blues and whites
of Dutch perfection engulf
my field of vision,
Water and sky reflecting
back infinite shades,

the blue of stiff dungarees
at the horizon,
clouds in shaving cream white,
the heron blue gray of the shallows,
I could name twenty shades
on a good day, like today
when the beach is all mine,

I step into the cool ooze,
jolted into a sudden jig,
I hop, a riot of ah's and elbows,
Waves rush at me
like a legion of puppies,
frothy and excited,
I laugh at their sloppy greeting,
Overwhelmed by their welcome,
unconditional and salty,
Spray lapping my face
as I find my footing.

In the midweek of twelves months I torched blunts and choked on wet smoke and chamomile tea.
Fretting the niggling giblets of a queasy disrememberance of a sober stroll through your tossed hair salad.
I managed to mangle  the marvelous gross lust of our impending
delirium. i farmed bok choy to annoy our local siege. our muskets were polished with misdeeds.
our demons barked, all coy and ravenous in the sweet diffuse of our useless aplomb.
ginger rockets in our thespian numb. you Dis-Oriental surrogate Mom.
You.... flame folding cranes, like a Japanese cancer
with opposable thumbs.
Unstoppable in the dead wink
of an awkward eye
upon your heaving *******.

You burn regardless.

behind the hen pecked red paint on the barn door with the squeal; that rests,
not right upon the rail -
but wails and groans whenever opened
in September
when the finch are wheezing in the crystalline
solitude of early morn. and wet eyes parch the dew lips of autumn
with the pale dawn
and a ruby medallion. stuck to the horizon -
like a haunted man made of red haunting.

it jogs the memory;
to tip over the lamp
and just miss it. for no lack of Wanting.
your hands outstretched to a disaster...
and the Light

in your Hands.

without
fail.

i threw the stone and it went however far
and my arm grew tired; puckered at the rotary cuff
like a cannon ball in a poached egg of oak sap...
i threw the stone and saw my breath thread
through the placid brilliance of immovable calm.
i watched how the aphids were gone
and kept a journal in braille and short-hand
in Kubla Khan's Garden.
i longed for the valleys i had never swept away
by descending from such heights
as i pondered the yonder god
of a misplaced
dream. so exhausted,
i stood in the damp muck
legs apart, straddling -
odd rocks and thin grass.
i wavered in the stillness
of ceased motion
and tarried in the Calliope
of throbbing in the Sun.
a fawn in the furnace
of a loving
lost.

You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth  night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.

like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.

you were walking through the dunes
of slow doom and a dark spasm. you sat with your back to the far lit -
so as to never strain an eyelid at the tapestry
you could not fathom.
striking out again, your head's down where the clouds smelt golden eggs
that never cool.
they burn like you burn
when you burn.
and that's
when you notice the words,
pouring from an incandescent
into the vitriolic grog
of a dark Anubis; pruning the brute fruit
from a stray vine.
canning the flesh in mason jars
as if possessed

back to Life.

True translucent sphares ascending down upon me
Amongst this chaotic mess
The beauty slanted & warping in time

Cascade your light on those who need it
For I am too far to find
At home in the darkness with all it's little creatures
Please
Don't leave me to my own dimise

I'm not lost
No need for pitty
Simply
Knowing
So don't pull back my shades to where I feel most at home

our withering is changing. we have new lungs and the sour mercy of our discotheque is no longer
earth shattering. new bells that'll ring, ping the sonar of thus far, and right now. our iguana
is bothered but our cactus is out of practice, so we malice the wrong people. brown scotch
botched in the locust plume of our nothingness.
all in the night jar.
we palm the coin of many realms but snooker the genie into 4 wishes for kicks.
we split the bucket list and enlist strange agents to embroil the liturgy of our silence
with the umbrage of our slumbers.
where rumbles the blunder of our measured steps
as we stumble through the rapscallions of our private thoughts in the after hours.
we empower our oblivion
by kissing on the mouth.

this is how we keepsake sacred, but escape velocity by way of quiet... this loud.