The grey
Weeping hill breathes heavy for
A winter cloud

Inside heated houses
Your hair rests just behind your shoulders,
Tucked around the ear for safe measure while
The cold hill looks for its instrument

Every garden has been paved for gasoline structures
The mighty rose has
Collapsed

I and you
Clean the kitchen metal repeatedly

Where is the song to
Be hymned from
Your desolate crow eyed hill

It finds the instrument beneath frozen soil
Where a pure oak grows for
April perils

We recite lullabies to Angels already woken
& write pollen poems for the white and trepid wood

Rats feel holy in New York where a carnival of stone encircles their tufts

******* glimpsed in the crack of
Yellow blinds
a versed blonde will recount across the street
Somethin' out of "Rear Window"
Minus the broken leg

"Romanticism is the emphasized or passionately overblown image or feeling in art or as emotional expression. Romantic art emphasizes reality and attempts at imitating the divine. We have idealized love as being more than it is as a means to cope with the reality in which love isnt as special as we have blown it up to be-

-this unreachable expectation we place on the human experience is combatted by the romantic which broadens our distance between the reality of our perceptions and experiences VS the romantic ideal. It draws attention to its own lacking"
-
This is the palace for naked ghosts.

   A time of enticement has passed
   To make room for Dadaism
       & a lackluser sensibility for medicine instructions
       I have become haunted and naive
       With frequent prophetic snapshot dreams
       Detailing crimson hotels where the hardwood floor is sinking with rot
       & past loves appear and try to
       Converse with me as my legs shake
      
       The kaleidoscopic halls sweat with
       An earthly pressure
      
"I wanted to apologize for hurting you"

"I appreciate that dear but we are sinking
We need to go"

"No no listen to me!"

(Here come the saxophones
And rhapsodic lights tearing this noctuary down)

She has left
     We are causing the silence
    
(tragedy is the divine and enamoured image)

Another flash of color underside of
The stairwell in my hotel

(DREAM #2)

A neighborhood follows itself quietly
With garage sales & sleeping cupids,
A man drives down the sky
With his dog on his lap smiling, carrier in the backseat

& piano is reintroduced just in time for the post office to go on strike

..And I took to violet rooms with perplexing
Polka dotted floors & black and white &
worn-down coffee table & I have a headache & someone smells like karaoke sounds/

The sunset company thru the window is
A nice arrangement despite this,
Frank O'Hara is reading Ode to Joy in my head.

.............

-as being sensual, orgiastic and purely relating to the destruction of the self as means to experience a complete lack of individuation. A loss of reality and a more cosmic and expansive transcendentalism, experienced without the desire to have more than itself. Its a state of being which exists outside of the longing for something better
(relating to "The Birth of Tragedy")

...........

(DREAM #3)

Exotic spaces
With several
simultaneous heart attacks

The ambulance is late

A harp is one floor below us

It doesn't matter now

Do not worry for the director of
This scene has also died

      A valley of copious harmonials
      Waits for us
      
      The feeling is easy


...........

Suddenly
I am sprouting from the icy hilltop
Instrument in hand
We can stop with our obsession for cleanliness

I am unsure whether I am still asleep

"Share the complete pleasure in mere appearance and in seeing, yet at the same time he negates this pleasure and finds a still higher satisfaction in the destruction of the visible world of mere appearance"

The philosopher's essays continue !

Day's intensity
thrills the valley to living
Without wine or prayer

I can swallow a raindrop & laugh
Having never desired the silence
Of dust
                      Here we dance in Dionysian
                      Ecstasy
                      Jewelled with feathers
                      Untouched


It's okay to be afraid of snow
And thank you/
We are all elusive at heart

A generation of pinched
Fruit we
Lay still in a wickerbasket
        & the childless theatre
              Remains grim and nettled with
              Unfamiliar voices

You stray from ample forgiveness
With waxen fugues

       The martyr of unrest
       Keeps to the typewriter
         Imagining dramatics and
         Flowery dust accumulates
over
          Musings of herself
         And the city that has devoured her

Beached priests who
Hear the seagull candor
Kiss windchimes idly,
Staying on a thought of expansive
Clouds with rings delicate around their patient fingers.       The brass clamor of the ocean (assisted by Erroll Garner)
Creates beams of carpeted
Fantasy to the Priest. The wind tugs at his robes like an eager lover
      
Dementia
Of the coming Night
Makes senseless the mortal line
Of sand and branded stone
(the perpetual *** of land/
The curving sea) creates a poet
And kills a priest

Do not ease that Nordic instrument into its casing/velvet Absolutely
Conifer perfume/
   quarell of the shaken gulls observed thru
     A car window
     & lamps cosy our continentless
     Home where
     Conjurations exhibit themselves
     Without expectation or
     Pride
     (a hairnet trapped in the shower
    
     Your sheltered ribbon hung from a treebranch)
    
A spherical whisper with crimson properties
Buried in the parking lot
To be experienced in Stoneness by someone else

& the dying
Retreat back to an overwhelming
Burden of self

....Crayons lacking regal touch to eroticize them!
Do wait with optimism within the jar of
A kitchenette
    
For you and your unmeditated softness to return here to me

I inhale the goddess spirit
and with open humility
     my heart must honor the sun

       In forward joy
    we ignite and release
         a united
              lotus breath

Ink
Patiently
Crosses the premature night,

I am resting to the rythm of a
clock drilled through various poetry

Foggy children dance to
Yemanesh Ayinama on the frozen grass
Like twinkling
Ghasts

Here is the magic hour of invisible death
And your shade has encompassed even
The most royal of graffiti here

Woke to a decorative bowl of
smoking fruit/
the painted message of careful Angels
(you darling you)
Who have nothing to say for now
but regret!
The thinking of an Earthquake

Impressions on a mattress
(LISTEN TO THE DISTANCE OF UNKISSED
MOUTHS WHISPERING OF EACH OTHER)

Gallons of dreamscape silver spill over
  a perfect beach/
Some weary tide makes no effort to
Make profit on it
So the shining opportunity remains
Festive & buried beneath a tomb of shells

A tearful faerie
Held still until
The day this treasure resurfaces
In a naive Summer morning

Peachness warming the hollow homes
& rendering ur microwave useless
(bones underneath the floorboards spur
To life here and pray on such an occasion
The nymph embroiders the whole scene with flowers)
I kiss you
           Sea cradles the land
            Incandescent minds wipe away the indifference of time
          
The skeletons have their hour for laughing
I kiss you

Carpets recede for hidden burdens

Photographs make nice liars
Some completely believe in superstition
Others believe in rosefields or
Simple bodies of water

(A wall with grainy, white tile misses being appreciated by the passive glance!)

This open Hotel window reveals the encasement of a city wearing its own
Labels stirring distinctly

Monochrome sculptures
Increasing eye the gradiant of
A voice
The dialogue of a coffin sleeping
And the
Waterfront smokes tired cruiselines and
Already wishes for Sundown & good spirits.

Some burdened Animal lept from
Its grindings of clean survival &
Has written an essay on

Fire in relation to psychological warmth
& the associative memory response to comfort

(The fireplace is your Childhood & lost Faerie Mother)

The lapse of this Tidal Concerto
As wet pebbles ripple over each other like Tokyo haircuts,

I am the collector of
Distant and missed opportunities

I keep them close as potentialities and not regrets

I have a fishtank full of drowned Bees
& phonecall revelations

As Humidity only sensed and not sweated
Boils from a desk drawer in the Summertime

LAUGHING STAIRCASES/
LOBOTOMY IN NIGHTMARES OF VICIOUS ORCHIDS/
THE CRIB HAS LOST ITS FUNCTION/

           A CRABSHELL HAS REPLACED
           THE PILLOW/
          
           MY TEETH ARE NUMB
           WITH YOUR KISS
          
           YOUR KISS ERASED BY
           THE SUDDEN SALTWATER OF A
           HIGHTENED MOMENT
          
           DO NOT RETREAT BACK TO
           BRASS SPEECH
           OR COMMON BELIEF


Stresses paused on
Gysins colorful meditations
& Nat King Cole sings of no
Orange Colored Sky instead
A silent rotating lightbulb
And the sensation of lifting off my chair

(few nights in a row of this ambience behind a glass door)

"-the illusion of existing on the edge of a comforting unalterable space and in being so close to it, I blend into it!
A man with a telescope residing on a mountain top can observe the town below in a detailed entirety. It's the larger and more obvious/physically active space. The mountain distant from the town is a space of reflection, where things are less chaotic. Where peace is more inwardly recognized in its external shelter. In the corner I have this illusory telescope and I am perched on the mountain, who's properties have flattened to the dimensions of a coffee shop, or a general interior. The wholeness of the mountain reserved to the confines of a dark corner. Behind the brickwork exists a vast valley where this mountain once stood in its humble yet ferocious silence. The space which now exists in an imaginary context. The expansion of darkness in front of us!"

           Come forth from that Mexican
           Practice
           Or the vengeance of a sobbing
           Hand,
           Friend

I, willing to play weary in
ur aztec smile/
Am to slip from a shivering
Elevator
To ***** my finger with a name

A name that I have never interacted with until now!

"UNE FEMME EST UNE FEMME"
Followed by gossiping
& accommodations
Downstairs,

I hope you wake easy to find my
Skinny hand warming you from December's hesitant grave.