Love,

this rapture

we sing

with lips delicately

bound.

Cardinal mornings

make the bathroom towels reek

less of Hospital cots

and rubber gloves,

the feeling of transparency

is less alone

and tangible.

Sweet elation

with hands gingerly

caught.

Ferocious is

this beating heart

in Passion’s hold,

the cell with comforting pads

clear of hell,

Love is

a cruelly tortoise reclamation,

and I assume it’s willing patient.

In the caring arms of
candles, bathe
the sky with Autumn pools,
canvasing yards.

Sacrificial intruders, gently
swimming leaves, crying acoustics, Baba Yaga spins
her satin cobwebs in the wake
of morning

(funeral rites a few streets over, hardly paid mind or body)

we are protected now by a sauna, simmering hot stones in our chests-
      -burst forth with passion!
ragged romantics gather
  reaching upward to their forbidden idol (since lost)

coffee, bitter dew on garden, fountain parasol to overcast
dispersion/carving blade/nuptial rumours/nobody translates the sick/everybody is coddled by loneliness (wolf, a deathmouth which has never known satisfaction/mute & watercolor)

shop signs faded white, shoeshiner replacements, faces transposed, day drapes with smoking curtains
prematurely & ur smile
is tortured by animal
vagrancy


lips (siesmic breath)

  lips a
 talisman recieved in charity

another fertile morning kept fruitful for those who value moments & glances 

lips the household fables,
the native porch! (pity)

lips o spirited child clutching hollow whistling images

lips o bedside manner

(I am a feverish mountain branded with snow)

lips cream of dust,
lavender flicker,

(speaker's immortal verse/showering violets)

lips eager to shake hands
& dance
with violence as they
undoubtedly know how

I

-dulcimer clatter opens the sun, first fruit-

timber fathoms/crystal veils
on all steps, crossing all human borders

untethering wood
from forest, until only the green element remains
to purify the soul

   an alpine afterimage, shadow-display
(creature of Earth, moss-backed & yowling thru the chaotic sleep
of October, you see it's symbology in your tea, sharpening its
obsidian hands against the seastones,
imprinting loveliness into the rock, to be worn by tides,
replaced by death absolute)

The fabled Black Horse (shadow-self) waiting solitary at a
gas station, an imprisoned dreamer inside
its gaping jaw/saturnine, coldness
of daybreak, clouds at their Atelier, my head
feels a pressure, been awake too long,
breathing in through the nose/out through
mouth, monastery of the mind in need of clearing.

II

Soft/soft/skin/fury
embrace, catharsis, collision of
two individual energies
pent-up and cast/release
like a skeleton net::onfire
(kissed, consumed
elated, recurrance)

closeted eternities
cycling back into the
wind (hanging willow)
calling to the seeker, gold,
purification & lightness/mouthcurl washed in silence
(your own body, rising tide)

welcomed crucible of chilling air
& my black and
white vessel,
  electricity spirit-
whispers
        “valley swimmer, elude me”
FLASH OF LIGHT


III

…. The widewaking world
unspun-
                            theatric elucidation,
emergence of a great snake
a wisened flower, sprouted from exile

blissful rejuvination of
the ivory leaves, at once!

I wrap my throat in a Munich scarf
(pattern-blue)
   walking upon the softness of
Grötzingen (angel's eyes speaking)
an orchard, where the last gardener's tireless
work lay like a dreaming ossuary

..As the self is sacred like lillies!

and deaths callous fingers are no good for
piano playing
            
    The current posture of America
    Has the optimistic
tossing marbles
    
    I have seen the fetishized
         Kingdom
Of music & body made white
   By our very soul
  
   We have made it clear in ourselves to shoot the floorboards with pig spit
  
   Induced by
       your twilight  
       Canine flash exhibit

(sacred like lillies & willows
& whisper & yellow & May
& yearn)

Hello there lord in heaven! (the florist)
selling peoples the bouquets of
insanity
and psychopathy
raging
RED
and
******
and
BORING
Hello there lord in heaven
(the taxicab driver)
who's kids have been
gone a long time
and plays the classic rock on
the radio making poor jokes
and passing poor homes
with $3 in his pocket 1994
windshield wipers
sliding sobs
of tears/rain
back & forth.
Why is city so upset?
Tummy rumbling for
chaos and evening news-
-****** boiling in that
fever stomach deterioration/
sufferings/
***** on ****** reaper crazies sidewalks
where Vicky is walking her dog
(who died some years ago or never existed in the first place who's to say)
people yelling
“VICKY!!!” she's seen them
a few times,
two outta three wanna
**** Vicky but she's not having
it today.
Wayward man (our lord in heaven) on bus gazing from back window
eyes O P E N
playing games with nobody in particular and in silence
“count the needles!”
8 on one block.
He's by himself on the bus/at home/at work/at the park on his way to job/
in his sleep he's married
to a girl (dark hair)
who's a fictional fantasy fairy
and leaps from balconies at the end of all his dreams
signaling-
DIGITAL ALARM ON HIS BEDSIDE TABLE WHICH RESTS BESIDE AN OLD FAMILY PHOTOGRAPH AND A STACK OF HENRY MILLER
/STAND STILL LIKE THE HUMMINGBIRD/
AND A SMALL STATUE OF THE BUDDHA.
Lord in HEAVEN
(the office girl)
who's tapping her feet on the elevator up a few stories
to Electric Light Orchestra
and has a dog at home
who loves her like
THE SUN
ON A SUNDAY!
(name is Phillip, after her overdose 2002 brother)
oh that MR BLUE SKY!
“How CLICHE!” she thinks laughing to herself
at the small things.
Lonesomes of somewheres are begging for another cubicle
like her cubicle or a lover
like any lover
praying to that LORD IN HEAVEN
for tiny material wants in
tiny material churches.
LORD in heaven!
(Mundane MUTT *****)
pretending he has Schizophrenia
and conning a middle aged autistic woman
residing in a small Canadian town
out of her government cheque
(1300!!!)
later arrested and
SPIRALED INTO PRISON BY THE LEGAL SYSTEM
AND NOT SOON ENOUGH FOR A VAMPIRE LIKE HIMSELF
to be mangled by
iron bars and
PEOPLE SHOUTING IN THE MORNING
another one for our tax money. He wins in the end, I suppose.
LORD IN HEAVEN!
LORD!
ONE ABOVE
AND BELOW
AND  IN LAYOVER PLANES
HOWLING JETSOUNDS OVER
TAIPEI
TO VANCOUVER/
AND ON THOSE RATTLING BELLS
OF INTERSECTIONS
PICKING OUT OF
TRASH CANS MUMBLING
THE PROMISE OF ETERNITY TO
THOSE NOT LISTENING/
MY BIBLE
IS A FIST FULL OF COINS
PRESET FOR THE COMMUTE TRAIN HOME
AND LISTENING IN ON
BIRDCAGE CONVERSATIONS
OF THAT DISCONNECTED
SYSTEM OF PEOPLE
INFLICTED WITH
A SIMILAR PAIN AS ME
WHO MIGHT NOT LOOK AT ME
BUT UNDERSTAND.

LORD IN HEAVEN!
The leprosy
humanity
going from here to
there
and trying to learn a little
while they're at it again
F
  A
    L
      L
        I
         N
            G

                 A
                      P
                         A
                              R
                                 T

Our lives are roles in the constant show entertaining
unquenchible audiences of impermanence,
death applauds and bows his hat
the charcoal curtains slide in to dusk
and stage lights flash on break of day.
Everybody to your places!
stars are exploding in distant galaxies
and a black hole the size of twelve billion suns
is absorbing this universe as we laugh and as we weep.
Rome had fallen and we too shall fall as all things do
clap! clap! clap!
Our lives are told from our ankles
we're praying and meditating and chanting
while the candles bury cathedrals on their last few minutes of light.
clap! clap!
dreaded oblivion is in our rifles and bombs,
in our hearts it's lurking that  ruinous leviathan,
The snapping inclination for decadence
is always there backstage shadow of mind.
Progress has been built on increasingly violent tragedies
there's only so much blood this sponge can soak
this earth can take.
clap! clap! clap!
Someday we'll be engulfed by cosmic grenades manufactured by
all those gods we read in books and pamphlets
and while our little corner of the macrocosm fades to black
it'll continue much the same some light years away.
The show must go on!

In sheltered gaze
the swan of consciousness
becomes liberated by

        the calm death of March

As a noble
mother fits into her own
neon curvature,
      complacent fisheries sigh in
       ashen tones with smoke mixed in the
       puget air
      
        I thirst for the horizonless
        milk of the clouds
       and to be gradually
            rekindled

             -my soul to
             imitate the repose
             of your features

I slumped to the type-writer on a foggy December morning,
tired,
recently broken up with a pretty girl, Allison.
She was 32, older than me and
had long dark hair, pale skin and a habit to chew her fingernails.
Outside, the trees were bleak and jagged, raw from the latter-year chill.
My TV had been left on from last night, displaying re-runs.
Re - “I’m sorry about last night”
re - “It’s fine, look. I’m coming back to pick up my stuff later today, don’t go anywhere”
Re - “Okay”
re-runs.
Previous girl, Wendy, she was nice, worked at a grocery store in town. She could play the flute, though not very well. Sometimes she’d make horrible noises and call those sounds what we were, messy and all over the place, but that’s what made us “work” eventually she moved to Arizona to get back together with her ex from high-school.
“Explain what it is I’m doing wrong?”
“Excuse after excuse you’re always away, off in your own mind. Yet here you are, in the same ******* house all the ******* time”
ex.
Girl before that was Emma, she had a great singing voice, taught yoga and owned two dogs, one was named Oliver and the other Pam.
Pam died very young, nobody figured out why.
Emma cared about her dogs a lot, said she needed some space so she ended things.
Time to sort through life.
“Sort through these boxes, would you? There’s one of Pam with my mum, she looks so cute in this one”
“I met all sorts of people at class today, this one girl, Tracy, wants me to go out with a few friends later, is that alright?”
“Yeah.. yeah sure that’s fine”
fine.
I think I was sitting in front of that type-writer to begin something,
something passionate,
fresh and new to spice up the mornings..
Maybe I’d go for a walk.
I had some boxes of Allison’s things beside the door, it stunk of her perfume and was full of clothes and shampoo, some pictures, too.
Staring at the type-writer was a blank page, Jesus, five minutes I hadn't written anything.
I began with
“Chapter One”
Before getting distracted by those re-runs on TV.

Stagnancy living
in colorless morning.
sunflower sunshine disconsolate
the rooster sings
eulogies and clamored verses
ringing alarm bells in cockcrow
cough drone weary eyes
dew-tied memories of
reverie weepy
aching legs and chest pains
cotton cozied pills crashing
underneath plastic caps
prescription taps
Tylenol Benzedrine
relapse body thinning
cities wearing
ergonomic tragedies
encircling business quarter
daffodil rooftops
steady rain descending onto
varnished sidewalks.

Addicts pirouette dazzled the
hazed-minds dreaming of
Aprils and consistent harmonious
ecstasy visions stampeded
by the brickwork flickered with
lamplight demons overcast this illusory Babylon
trembling flesh retreats into the shadows it came
and nightmares remain similar to days before and after.
Recycled horrors lightning flash abhorrent death
whether they be wearing black suits or black robes
scythe or satchel the wide eyes scour gaunt alleys
for fixes to fix the monotonous life bewitched
with false material variety anxiety deity
Desecration City express way to depression
oppressed people hide away in simultaneous acts of
camouflaging fireballs
spiraling into decadence.

Diamond days few and far between
communal woe reverberates through skins
and skeletons in opening of top story windows
during Winter. Despite the fragrance chaos,
pandemic paranoia,
extinguishing elation,
All bodies continue to be
alone.

Here we are!
To live and inevitably die.
But before we do,
let’s put it off and ****
all the life encompassing us
until it loops around
and kills us back.

A ruby suitcase emits egotism to a wicked one
who rests upon it like a vault of accomplishment.
Small snowdrops freckle a crows beak in December.
Autumn calls for keepsakes like a doll's dress
(A repressed memory)
Gifted to you by the Serendipitous Psychologist
who holds a Venetian mask to Her eye

(The forest retaining it's Summer form behind bare branched truth)

Jesus Christ is a child spotting the
street corner behind you
on the public transit.
He can create gold out of anything!
Including a shy abuse feeding off the heart of those we pass by.

Nothing is really estranged except for our perceptions.

A Monk inflates a BLACK BALLOON to float around
in an apartment with aged paint and
THIRTY TALL MIRRORS circling each side of the DOORFRAME.
Nobody knows why,
but he does this every day at 6 even when he's feeling
under the weather.

Laundromats are the most romantic place to meet somebody who shares the same infliction as you.

The drunk on the corner of Government St was here yesterday
and has vanished
(Their place to be is a match-strike away in any direction they hear it first)

I like to imagine the woman who lives across the hall from me has named her favorite potted plant or painting or
associated an object with a positive memory
(Perhaps a time she was in love)

The M O O N appeared the hue of harvest
yesterday, and I'm still burning.

Hummingbirds give advice to those who are open to listen.

Allen Ginsberg ate at my favorite restaurant,
one day I'll be placed where he sat,
writing poems and continuing a
legacy of sorts.
For those who are crazy enough to write their monsters down
so anyone can see.

Nothing but a straw man is itching the flesh of every false King and Politician.
I need a pungent flower to make them sneeze out the ******* of this
Nation
(We have amputated enough as is)

Another rural goddess steps off the bus and
some nights after an encounter like that
I watch the circus, wrapped in blankets,
laughing at the hypnotists until they laugh at me.
Arriving back home bewildered and confused.

Don't listen to ME, I haven't slept in WEEKS!
I suppose in some ways that makes me happier and more miserable
than you all.

Why can't people dream as vividly as dogs?

The eccentrics and the madmen do cook up this routine world.
Scrambled eggs on an old *** simmering.
You're a bloke, ya yolk!
evoke my jokes!
now scramble my sides!
and leave me to choke!
consume me like you do all things else in this life!
As Vonnegut would call it
"A Breakfast of Champions"

Myself caught in the heatwave sunlight, brown eyes
furrowed in the sun, scarf loose on my neck/
the transcendental Denpasar morning-birds
are playing their melodies in my head still,
three years post-Indonesia.
        All of my soul to India now,
        sky the pink of painted elephants
        on Jaipur dawning,
        my afterlife was somewhere here
        perhaps two generations ago, chances are.
               Vijay Raghav Rao and Alla Rakha
               playing the Tabla/via earphones/treading the
               Funary Box City (Kashi) future Spring
               hands held together keeping calm pace.
               Looking about, my twenty-two year old face
catches humid wind
S
I
L
V
E
R
S
H
O
P
tattered bike leaning on the gated guest house entrance
     PERENNIAL AZURE SHIVA SITS CROSS LEGGED/
     COBRA NECKLACE IMITIATONS ON THE GODDESS THROAT/
     MEDITATING SHIVA/
dulled from years and corrosion.
Brahmin center of the market street
flapping it's tail,
sweat beads from my forehead bleeding
to oily pavement.
At last the months have come for the river Ganges,
April penumbra/savage thunderclap
while school children uplifting the heart
                 AND MIND
are ROARING in their laughter
the CONTINENTAL DISCORD OF JOY
sleeping with their eyes open
while others are too tired for the Earth.
Sidney Bechet floating swan songs during
the black hour cremations/
“Bechet Creole Blues”
CATERWAUL IN THAT              VOID
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF DEATH/
LUNACY OF LIFE
                     (I've arrived at the simultaneous crossroads
                                                      ­  of both)
searing flesh in open air pyramids/
Manikarnika Ghat,
Asia  F
          L
         O
         W
          S
through dreams
like inevitable prophecy
and as ash blends with stars
the CITY seems fulfilled
and mystifying
in it's
                      (((((RESPLENDENCE)))))

Serenity coils like a Babylonian serpent
around simplicity and sincerity.
The soul burns eternal, perennial fathoms
of expansion and purity in wisdom and the search
for the crown of grace in this reality.
A crown not made of gold.

Call delicate sirens of the working class!
half-*** minimum wage poverty line
subsidy sages hollow of materialism devils,
devoid of darkness internal fire strike rage
and hellion god bowels light flickering shallow men.
The rich men.
The truly poor men living in clouded manors on
Ignorance Avenue.

Delicate sirens not so poor after all,
not so empty or so full.
God is the prayer call
and siren droll
and *** roll-in-sleep afternoon shore-breeze faint of hope
approaching winter-fall showering divinity flowers the same material as Peter's scraggly beard while he coughs his angelic bronchitis wheezes, purifying the western air.
Peter is apostle
his snores are their own gospel
the doves in his dreams
will always be there.

The battle goes on
the bottle goes up
the rattle hollers out
the chatter not without.

Sirens call! Call with short breaths as
the world cyclones through universal woe.

The furniture of complacency comes burdened with
Eyeshadow & Mercurial past-idlings/
I have no theatrics to share with you dear
Eccept the sidewalk for all its smoke,
Accept my heart for all its dust

Nervous flames of a violet under close inspection
Deemed too upset for office countertops!
(I will avail you of the screaming that goes on here)

Machinery of white sleep
Surrounded by freckles & laughing
That makes the headboard shake/there is drunken quarrel on the street
There is pacifying the horror of someone's misgivings ! Everything in its place like a jewelled
Skylight or the hallway aroma of stale cake

& a hundred starving dogs quiver at the sight of you
(the sea decides that it doesn't want to **** anyone again
            my shoes are starting to wear down
       The ******* mouth of the sea is sorry
       Is so sorry for all those it drowned
        The lion cloaked in laurel caged at the center of the sea
      Is growing old
      & sick with innocence)

     Bloodied flowers crown her hair and shy roots remember the wars of her thickened heart
     The softness behind her ears like spots of April honey
    
     (A veteran of what we are capable of inflicting on each other!)
    
I know the stench of the sidewalk,
Mirrors do translate the language of thoughts/
                     Remedies are concocted under invisible snow
                     (mist & directionless droplets make clear the sky and
                     The whole temporary palace of
                     Picketed clouds,
                     A visual hurdy gurdy)

In darkroom tone-
We, resigned to another daybreak
In seeking the holy flowerbed-
     Do smear our kissing words to
     Lipless leaves
     & mournful faces

Everyday the weather tastes like Amusement Park,
drinking a glass of milk right after brushing my teeth
reflects nice pop art, worthy of being hung on an imaginary wall!
she loves me
she loves me not
she loves me
she will riot,
surely!
I can already hear the fire.                 Where in the world is she now?
Making angels in the Moroccan sand or... (well that's just it, if I had any idea I'd tell you)
                                      "I hear she lives in a big heritage home!
                                       struck thirteen various colors, making
                                       paintings with her heart!"

                                      "No, no.. you got it all wrong! She's
                                       chewing on crayons and spitting out
                                       watermarks! Something to do with art, tho
                                       she was always fond of that stuff"

I'm walking past a bygone stucco house with a bold red sign plastered on the backyard entrance gate, it says
"BEWARE OF DOG"          across the street, a woman walks her Yorkie
                                               n' I laugh to myself.

Everything feels like icecream cones
or romance movies, I don't know.
All this traffic is flashier in the sunshine,
the leaves on trees are glossy, just like Indonesia!
(I miss it still)
Mailboxes have sudden whales on them, decorated with the ocean
or seashells or bikes leaned on an ivory fence          and something
as simple as a song can take you to a hot place where you can get away with wearing anything!
Maybe an exotic hat..

People always asking me, first thing they say
"Oh oh oh where is she now??"
your guess is as good as mine
I'm not gonna go looking she doesn't
want to be FOUND see
that ruins the whole point..
                 and really when I think about it
                 all of us are slowly disappearing

These are the days of bus stops without needing a coat, journal entries I find impossible to decipher in the months past when they were written,
                 souvenirs and misplaced phone numbers..
                 slowly evaporating to time
                 +  the sacred cross-continental.
Days of leaving my umbrella behind
to hang on the dusty closet handle,
yellow fading out,
that too, bygone.

Donovan's "Ferris Wheel" resonating thru my bedroom backdrop

                           "A silver bicycle you shall ride
                      To bathe your mind in the quiet tide"  

The bicycle comes closer by the day/
catching the heat of nearby July/
reflecting my decisions on it's mercury surface/

Somehow, my naive midnight Tofino phonecall to an
eyeless air been answered here,
in a different way than I expected
but no less appreciated.
Thank you.

SOMETIME BEFORE

The closet was lit,
barely flickering
while
Lucy searched around the mounds
of toys
and I could only watch, she had a rotary telephone
down there, the floor would creak
and whimper in reaction to the sudden release and drop of
more toys, more action figures, more lamps left behind
and dollhouses swept aside while Lucy dug in there
reaching around those dark places spiders love to hide
when finally she turned to me and found it.

“Monopoly!”

FORTRESS

We'd set up
a tent
on the far side of her room, snow
was falling
and tapping against the windows
and her skylight
which softly came down
so we couldn't see the clouds.
Inside our fort,
the blanket tent we played Monopoly,
we played for a while and she looked so beautiful there
with her black hair
and freckles
and she looked at me while it was her turn in the game
and she smiled and I felt like I was floating off into the skylight and even further than that.

LAUGH

Lucy was laughing
at some stranger
yelling down two floors
at another stranger playing
loud music
in his apartment on the side
parallel to us. She was
laughing quite loudly
and I had to tell her
to hush or the stranger
might yell at us too.
We crawled back into
the blanket fort
and packed up monopoly
and she asked
“what do you want to do now?” or at least
that's what I think she said. I wanted
to kiss her
I wanted to
kiss her
and those
freckles
and that
laugh.

LIGHTNESS

AA
Lucy's flashlight
wouldn't work without
new batteries it kept
sputtering on and off
like the closet so she ran
downstairs to ask for new
batteries
and I laid face-up on the carpeted floor
at the skylight
and the snow which covered it,
the only sound which got louder
and louder was the ticking of a
small clock on her white stucco walls.
I felt the carpet, clung to it with my fingers
and even though her room wasn't heated,
lacked a fireplace,
and all I had on was a t shirt and jeans.
I felt like a pyre
growing and growing until
suddenly the whole place was
engulfed and my cheeks were rosy
and I closed my eyes
carefully listening to that sound
of ticking
and Lucy running back up the stairs,
it was December but it was so warm
in here. Her hair was black.
The dark wasn't all bad.

SLEEPY

“I got it working” Lucy
announced proudly with her
flashlight planted
down on the floor
and spaciously
making our fort more
alive, our shadows bold
and inescapable on the surrounding
walls. We told a few lame
improvised ghost stories
she found some of them funny
I found some of them funny
and we both got so sleepy
and we found ourselves
laying down inches apart
I told her she was pretty
and she kissed me
and she only kissed me once
but once was enough
for me back then
and everything
became fuzzy
while my heart cycloned in my chest
and I didn't feel so sleepy anymore


APRIL

Hercules was fighting the Hydra,
Lucy and I sit on her couch downstairs
it's spring and the windows are open
her mom paces outside, cigarette in hand
her dad on the computer behind us
and I wait barefoot feeling the rough
texture of her couch and
Lucy fiddles with the
VHS case of
the movie on screen
now. Her hair is black
and falling past her shoulders,
the doorbell rings
and my mom is here
bag in hand
I get up, give her a hug
and I give Lucy a hug
the door is closed
we walk together
down the stale hallway of
her apartment
we get in the car
and pull out from the parking lot
and drive away
and that was the last time I saw her
and I wonder
if Hercules ever defeated
the Hydra.

Humanity is a single tear of eternity
dropping to cement like rain
decimating the smallest scrap of matter
ingrained into the pavement
for only a moment.
Humanity is radiant
and soaked in sadness
a star among stars.
Humanity is humanity,
songs inside symphonies,
telephone calls faint in
circuit across America.
kisses invisible in darkness
coverings warm and soft.
Humanity is.
Just is.

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

There will never be enough

poems

out there

to wholly describe

the simultaneous

allure

and disquiet

of isolation.

Round candle circle
light bounding wall to wall
dark vinyl corners and alcohol spews
from the dry lips of young people talking about how
the power has gone out.
There's Bossa Nova and a floral couch and conversation
decorating the room
cars hurdle on in the black, ferocious nighttime and I'm cold.
A GREAT PINK BIRD
Plastic and commited to a vow of silence hangs from the ceiling curved
like a beautiful woman, some of us are in bathrobes, a stretching tentacle hits the brain an incense smell
bubbles foaming in the core
a wicked liquid!
names are being called!
drunks DRUNKS DRUNKS
Drums DRUMS DRUMS
Literary minds taking puffs from the mechanical grapevine
center of this room now foaming
and a flute rises in sound
!L O U D E R!
The painted fruits have arrived!
Including the drag queen and the one who slept soundly in Saint Malo
(who currently reads from a flaming newspaper)
Smellings salts sharpen people's noses, an instantaneous rush and
nauseating sensations, SNAP OF ENERGY/
Which has disgusted Imogen and been repeated by everyone else
curiously.
The lights came back on hours ago.

India is on the mind,
talks of Varanasi now that it's previous inhabitants have moved to Spain, another step in their vulnerable but accepted state of mind
and journeying to find a definition of self
(Which I am going thru now)
The girl who held a flower sweetly bloomed in Alaska,
The girl who dances alone in an isolated cabin up island who still occasionally drives to the dentists office 45 minutes away in a small town I used to call home,
The martial-arts teacher/meditational healer who recited W.C Williams with me on the bus in July's romantic ash.

Where is
it?
Where is
what?
I and you and we
What to do
Where to do it
What times might it call upon us
It (this)
The current and present interval of morning
hours where my face aches from (trying) to sleep funny.
No, really? where's it at?!
Birds rise from a wintry treeline, a stranger waits at the bus stop,
I'm freezing out here the next morning and predict much the same
till at least March of next year.
Bones are blooming around me, youth to swell and
love to feel
we're peeling petals
and shedding subjective gold all over the linoleum
but don't ask me who made it I can't tell ya nobody can, later on as a windswept forest road covered in loose pine needles and fir branches
hits the eyes
I walk home and listen to a man imagining his own private orchard.
I'm reminded just then that Albert Camus once said that everyone has (at one point) experienced or will experience the realization that everything (all of it)) is simply absurd, and always has been. We either choose to accept the world, and recover from an overwhelming Nihilism, or decide that it's not worth continuing our lives.
But after a sight like this I'm also reminded that
sometimes even you or I could be beautiful.

Eternity is closed !
- come back another day with
flower smears for eyes and sincere
passion on your
palms          (weathered)

I need another Russian Doll -
Princess to frequent curtains
fashioned from fire & lead
equaling out to crimson folds
which mysteriously call to
the mystical hierarchies of
imagination

Silent requirements signal beneath the steps
which welcome
one (a stranger/
an Ibis-Beak cane & dark coat
stamped with August rain)

They arrive unexpectedly, as if to play the game
of cliches, they carry promises fashioned in foreign ports
tapping my knee
instead of my shoulder
having only known or recognized
entombment
                               (there is no hyperbole which lacks within
                                Nature's haunted heavens)

My strange visitor leaves / glass umbrella
in hand / to privacy / our brief interaction begins & ends with simple eager undertakings implemented
in the afterword  

What is in another's contemplation of me?
whiling in manifest Theosophy -

- Thought form -
Primal child-rage / whisp of violet smoke &
inksplotches abolished, mutually panting.
Our decorated
four-legged hunter
has arisen and impatiently
craves for the Earth to partner at last with
the Sun

..The Sun a blazing dime
I can smell crispness
in the air

And it's difficult to remember something as the very name of Eisenhower
Or flowerbaskets
And tired movies made of silicone and
Aftersex
Or sixteen candles echoing out of an imaginary suite with cigarettes at every table
And green lawns
Barbershop conversation
The reflection of the sun in special trees
Or my best friend Jesus Christ
Or the smell of the theater that one day with the cynics who just got back from a tennis match and barbwire still laced delicately around their thoughts and
Nihilism
And automotives
And priestess Jane or Henry's gloomy doppelganger who reads alternative magazines and loves the aesthetics behind broken glass
And fine tuned musical instruments

It's difficult to remember
Lonesome Fridays smoking on a park bench trying to finish the puzzle
Or synagogues you've never been in
Or insurance
Or newspaper articles detailing the misadventures of Mr. City
(Of course of course! Take your shoes off at the door and make yourself at home)
We're tossing all our sewage into the ocean
that's far from clean as it
LOOKS anymore these days
That's anything
And everything except for the glowing mountains seen faded and wintry behind Apartments and the
"Glorious Mexican House of Spices"
Never been in there either

It's difficult to remember
Times of Mr Twin Sister
Or Joan Jett in the hallway
In a highschool who's psychology classrooms have become a time capsule in the ground/
Or the gentle skinny ******
Wearing Broadway makeup and
Kafka tattooed on his shoulder
I like his hat
He looks at me suspiciously
Or the guy who is yelling his order at the counter when it's quiet here anyways
Or the mariner who has a hobby of the saxophone
Or 1970s *******
Or the sheepskin bikeseat fad that's yet to come but I'm predicting it now!
Or two dollars and twentyseven cents at the beginning of Allen Ginsberg's America
"I've given you all and now I'm nothing"

It's difficult to remember
The Oriental
Sacramento flies
Midnight Moon
Quarter to four
"The Immortalization Commission"
Remodelled hotels downtown
Where mandalas on the floor became a
Tiger lily luminous
And the kimono is yesterday's painting/
Dearest Darling
When I was feeling down!
A staircase in reverse (??)
The sound a kiss makes
It's difficult to remember
Colleen's earrings
Or Washington State
Or air conditioners in Bali
The Indian ocean's daybreak hymn
To Seminyak
Or whatever happened to Steve from the Airplane out of Taiwan
On 3 days awake
Hello Kitty nursing stations
****** (Kubrick's version)
Cardboard taking up half my bedroom
It's difficult to remember until I jot it down and then its a sudden forever
Sunshine Superman in a cafe spontaneous
drawings with someone I just met who has some ******* attitude/
Who hops fences and has feral ideas
People! En Masse! Te Amo!
You're all in wolven liberty
And vague postulators
And holy prostitutes for the dollar
Sad eyed intellectuals
With undergarments made of breakfast cereal/
Seaferry poetry is different from
Trestle in August poetry
Or henna handshakes
Or the Napoleonic era
Sweet Cherry Pie
The tulip's tongue
Garabajal
Cloudy first day of July
Was hotter yesterday
But not too hot

It's difficult to remember
Antiquity
The pale horse Studebaker outside the clinic
With a glossy red trim and **** I wish that was my ride
Andy Warhol's exploding plastic inevitable
Nearsightedness
Angels and their ability to shower with a a snap of their fingers
Distant harp music
Better him than me
Bananas almost ripe
Green aquatic
Reclusive junkies
Palomo's appliances
Questions for the next time
How much I like what you like and how I like that you like what I like
Ahh that's not my bus
I'm trying to get to the city!
That one quote Socrates is known for about knowing nothing as true wisdom
Supermarkets being built on top of liquor stores burned down a while back
Monopolies
Tragedies
"No Love Lost"
THE HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL
Your guess is as good as mine
Never tried to eat Asian food in Asia
It was all pasta and good cider that tasted like pineapple
Rain hitting the window and I'm
Drowsy again
God Save The Trees!
Curly hair looks good on boys
Torn up blinds
Queer as a three dollar bill
If Bill costs 3 dollars I'm sure he's caught something better safe than sorry
Sage advice
I'm the very model of a modern major general
Golden yen and international currency
Incense in the bedroom and how good it smells
There's my bus! Applying for a better job than the one I got now
But that's how it always is right?
Chasing satisfaction
1007 apt
Porch ornaments
Unique names
Unique style le style
The extra charge on foreign ATMs
Cordoroy polo shirts
Flooding in New York!
When someone's face screams *******
"Slippery when wet"
Dine N Dash
Grass gone yellow
Confidence in dyed hair and capes as long as wedding gowns
But less expensive
Doors that always seem to be locked and I'm wondering 20 year later what's behind them?
Albino animals
White thoughts as clouds or
Abstractions
Weathers nicer in Florida but who cares
Festivities this early in the day
Automatopeia
Do sad orphanages still exist?
Just like the movies
Midnight in mirrors
That sick puppet at the shoe shop used
To know how to really hammer it down
And now he's weak and forgotten
Never heard the words of a true prophet only Oceania
Or the private temple near Apollo Bay
Like Japanese gardens behind that gate
Will I ever see it
Make a proud example outta ya misbehavior
Form without function
Exhausted spiritualism
*** Kettle Black
negative photographs of dark rooms
And there's laughing coming from SOMEWHERE
Essays on kleptomania
Had a bad dream I became a cliche
Surrounded by other freaks and there was a lovely ***** I fell in love with her
We married in Oregon by the sea her name was rosy
***** rosy
Check your mailbox for nails
And what you don't wanna hear/
If you were a vegetable you'd be organic!
Empire
Satirical bubble gum
Satori
Linda Lovelace and her special party trick
That's someone's fantasy
Diamond in the rough
Mister guy with two black eyes frequents the adult playhouse
Hes fully stocked on fishnet leggings
He's too proud to put them on himself but
Has nobody else around
Boo hoo
Swigs back the whiskey and trips down the stairs getting a third black eye in the process
Marion came by with her dog the other day
Wanted her box of clothes back but he loved to sniff them to remember her
But she wouldn't have it

"Honey I'm going to call the police!"

"Ah they don't give a **** they have bigger things to worry about"

"Yeah you got that right shrimp **** enjoy my unwashed *******"

And she never came back again
He started losing the vertebrae in his spine 1 by 1 and you know where this is going
I won't say he was a poor man because he had it all coming to him the *******
But he coulda had a better start if you ask me.

It's difficult to remember
And even more difficult to forget
After the fact

Seagull opera
Giganticism
Portrait of the artist as a young man
Losing one's pencil when the best idea of your life drops down from heaven and into your sorry head
Signs graffitied to have funnier meanings
Cruelty
Impassive
The Loyal Lioness
And Bangladesh has too many kitchens
And not enough dishes
When I was young I used to say Island as "is-land"  
Which is true it is land
But the Europeans probably stole it from somebody else anyways/
I left my future behind
And objects in the mirror are closer than they appear
Im no illusionist
I'm terrified of the cracken
Father feels the same way about
Hotels
Why bother/
This has been going on and on for a while are you tired yet
Is your patience being tested
Mine isn't because this wasn't an all-at-once kind of rambling
It's extremely important to laugh at least
Once a day
Otherwise you'll find yourself a politician
In no time at all
Rockefeller
(         ) Quaint home to die in
I think
Trains create great music
Float on
Sink into yourself
Roses in a crooked alley
That's people
Busy busy busy busy
Let's describe a situationist
I'm not a fan of bright colors on clothes
Your best shade is blue
Bricklayers transcription of Don Quixote to a skyscraper
Rocket thyme
& Garden
Erratic children's
Insomnia
The doorbell repeatedly
Vancouver riots/ I saw that live on the news!
Pictionary with the surrealists
N Dada TV set MC Escher
Antenna
You're in the Twilight Zone now
Dear Ramona
I'm trying to make it up to you
With a brightness only seen when you're ready to see it so please for the love of God don't blame me when it's not appearing
The tapestry hidden
Keep your blankets clean
And avoid hospitals unless you're fine with fishbowls & the halogen
The water gestapo
Storage lockers full of unacted plays and
Antique microwaves
Emitting the nostalgia of the cold war era
And what a waste of time that was /
Walter Wanderleys presence in Autumn universities
The opening of Vivre sa Vie
Salvador Dali's pluvial taxi
Lightbulb epiphanies
Aquariums and their protestors
Zebras in the shade
Two wrongs dont make a right
Elizabethan theater
Saloon shootouts in a fever dream
I lost and bled out all over the rustic wooden floor
A maiden reached out for me and El Paso did play I woke up and pretended nothing happened/
Funerals for bad People who did bad things
My first memory of a cat beneath the mattress
Hello Dolly!
Auditory learning
Psychotherapy
Lillian the landlady lost her ladle and labeled little Lyle as a lair
The Black panther movement
Reading symposium some years ago and
Making note that Phaedo was still my favorite dialogue/
Zen Buddhism
Xoxo xoxo
The day Gypsies were replaced with
Surface ****** appetite
And not the real thing
Newspaper clippings
Hypnotism when all other options are out
Mystical visions of sidewalks
And the love of your life stepping through a door you've never seen
Maybe Yes No I Don't Know
Creature comforts
Che Guevara's problem is that his beard made him too easy to recognize
(Also that little hat!)
Chinese cough medicine didn't work
For long I still wheeze sometimes
Domestic violence thru the wall
Ceiling fan probably doesn't even work!
Dimpled laughter
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
In skytrains to Commercial
Bermuda in her mind
And courtesy in her voice
I'm no Arthur Rimbaud
But you already knew that
Alcazar of Seville
Filling up the shipbottle
Here's your paradise
Now relinquish it as it is
False!
Hare Krishna
Nowhere Fast
El Diablo and the
Portofino loaf left rotting on the countertop
Latin children speak of the sacred viper
You'll hear of it after this but we'll never see what the ******* meant
Heads alternating round the social current
Of my lively city
There's a dog soaking up the rain
And songs are made in honor of
Recent catastrophes
Trials are dealt
Cards cast to the gutter
New York quiets down for the news of another war
You scratch my back I'll scratch yours
Skeleton key
Ballad of the last wailing zoo
THE ATRIUM
Complexity in simplicity
That's how Brainard got me!
Elderly overcoats
Hiding purest LSD
Is a fan of Hawaiian T shirts
And a communist
What if I was a Freemason
Or owned a tanning salon
Faint crimson
What did Marv look like again?
"You're surrounded by people who love you"
Coffee when one needs it
GOODBYE BLUE MONDAY
Tattoos on the wandering man
Oriental chimes and the people who own them
Bus stop regulars
Vines overtaking power lines
The hypnogogic state
Strawberry light softening
The mind
Sister Ray LOUDLY PROCLAIMING
doitdoitdoitdoit
Passing the graffiti n Pluto neon
Halal wide awake another Saturday
Where's the Karaoke
Flashing by here
Those who find comfort in a bridal scavenger hunt
Or expensive beer
And here comes the hooded clown
Clamoring about his favorite
Loudspeaker
Telling me my time is soon and the noise
Drowns out the drowsy bliss
After hour spirits the perfect time for
Writing and trying to read distant Chinese
Indecision on the tip of the tongue
"NOW WHO IS THAT KNOCKING
ON THE CHAMBER DOOR?
COULD IT BE THE POLICE?"

I'm completely off the topic
And into Apartment lobby photosets
Low battery phone calls
Confessions
Nauseated reverb
Trying to see the attachment people got with bingo halls
And moving companies
Ah no luck again
Eve is at it with her showtunes
Halfway methodology
Triage
Paisley headbands left
Distraught on the quivering
Heater
Dwindling sunsets
We're truly disciples of the moon spirit which grants us more energy
(This is according to a drunk I met one night)
Or ***** old men
When the horizon is engulfed with
A winking cinder
Suitcase at the door
Last time
First time
Magician never reveals his fetishes
(They all have to do with bags under your eyes)
Employment office dramas of my friend the one who blinded a social worker
And the one who blamed Islam
And the one whos philosophy entirely consisted of Spooky Action at a
                                            DISTANCE
Parisian riots
Queer youth
Didn't make the team! Jester
'cross the hall who's beard suggests
Ishmeal n car battery n expired vegetables n rain which crosses the line n
***** cranberry n
Poorly fitted suits n
Harsh pigment n incense shops n
Bocca     secret towns
With churches more beautiful than any you'd find in your own city
n the cultural market
Xylophone ear to ear
Soul cleansing starting at only
$89 (with a 6 month guarantee)
Sophie's birthday and her picnic at Victory Park
The nearby bums trying to sell tea mugs and
Loose wires beside gated convenience stores
I'm an Island away attempting a poem
And never bought a scratch n win
Or heard the same song more than seven times in a row or been in a column
Or escaped the washhouse
Invested in a birdcage for next year
Been to a palm reading
Visited Oasis
Smoked salmon
Told anyone else about Montana
Screamed the things I'd like to scream
** Word of the day
Or kissed a lunatic or swallowed the corpse of yesterday
I keep her on my neck until
I'm too anxious to let go
Counting streetlights
Jeans worn in and faded to be sent off to
A lonely caffeine addict
Christmas Eve I'll be reading a postcard from San Francisco
Asking the same questions
My imagination is made of a different material than last week
Now it's the same color as your hair
HEY that's a good pickup line to use in the heart of the Canadian Embassy
Drinking discarded music resembling a sweater you may have said YES to if it wasn't so unsure of itself
And now Mr. Acker Bilk ascends thru the window of an August home
Like a lazy hornet
I'm still lost without identification
Or a nice belt
As happens when one uses a quality item too casually
How did uphill suddenly seem so downhill?
I'll claim a waterfall
For SALE that inevitable Indonesia
Greyhound O another greyhound O another greyhound
I'm fretting too much about not enough
Delayed the Airport and the yellow question

????

II

What if I knew how to read the curb?
Or translate drunken droll
What if I was never tired again and could
REALLY do anything I set my mind to?
What if I was the first cigarette that cured cancer instead of caused it?
What if I could end superstition
And walk underneath any ladder I wanted?
What if I could make it with a young Audrey Hepburn!?
What if I stopped pretending to be a microphone and got on with "it"
What if the grocery store closed later
And I opened earlier?
What if parking lots werent so sad
All the time?
What if gravity simply had enough of exotic birds and specifics?
What if we stopped trying to recreate what is truly lost?
What if foreign children embraced
Wasting time instead of
Midnight starry bicycles
And the antics of a monk
Disguised as a romantic?

There are those that worship God
And those who worship the Sun
And those who worship nothing at all
But I suppose on the last bus
We're all the same exhausted
Voice who can't wait for next pay day
What is an empty bank?
Or authenticity
What is there to prove anymore?
I hope I don't die tonight and regret
Being impulsive for once
You're a smart shadow
And a dull character
Pushing the last of the daisies
Get the lamp to turn on again
Give the pavement something to look forward to with your walk
Be consistent in being inconsistent
If there's a word there's a ***** and a poem for it!
We all oughta worship
Nothing at all except
Clarity
Compassion with ones neighbor who either forgot the pay the electricity bill or couldn't afford to
We're a swimmin

Death is lights on the sixth floor

of an apartment building across the street

turning on at 5am followed by the sound of

a running tap flowing through

an open window.

I

I have seen an
Aztec owl, kissed by the eternal
kaleidoscope of morning,
robed in Yellow air

Light escapes its hungry beak
and joins the Sun in harmony,
break of day rekindles the brickwork of archaic memory,

The Owl has lantern eyes which have witnessed innumerable births,

     -and the cultivating of this cherry-wreathed Valley, where we eat and
   write music for the soil's tender womb
                      
Opal condolensces for sleep
and sadness, the Owl gifts a necklace embroidered with apology, coiled 'round your neck, in times of gladness and tragedy

II
      
...and do not fear, for cradle, ring, and tomb
   all repeat in cosmic fashion
  
            (you will eventually return here, to the sea, you always have)
            
          Remember the attic where youth was stored away, to be replaced with exotic patterns, coral bulbs, cotton and laughter
        
     There, lay a glasswork child for your chest to keep safe. Your past. Your past of plums and skirted dancers, desert glow, Caribbean sleep.

(your mind rests its quiet curtains, but the classical radio station can still be heard)

III

An owl of sunset mosaics
     enters your dream, illuminating
the revisitation to a Mexico City
  that was flooded for Mountains
  
           ..soon to recede and quake, when Winter's spirit fades once more, there you will unearth
            Tenochtitlan.

Old Katherine Kimberly had a sty near her eye
it was a bleeding abhorrent electric
dream spilling out her sanity
the sty was not just any regular sty
it was a satyr placed there by cruel forever
just because
why not

old KATHERINE KIMBERLY had a
mute cousin who came over for tea
when K.K was feeling down, he wanted to be a comedian
but this wouldn't work out for obvious reasons.
old Katherine Kimberly
had a recurring nightmare involving the world around her inverting it's layout, a backwards realm with backwards chairs and backwards backs
everyone looking like they suffered a dramatic accident
spine snapped but still walking
she was the outcast with her even shoulders and
delicate form but there it was that sty by her eye
wouldn't quit not even with sleep.
She went to see a doctor about the nightmares he prescribed a miracle
didn't work
so she went to church
met some wiry bald-spot
evangelic addict figure who
gave her mysterious bagged-and-untagged drugs
(those didn't work either)
nothing would help.. Kimberly came to the conclusion that the sty and the dreams were correlated in some spiritual, cursed sort of way.
Nobody could see it they promised

"No! no! you look fine, everything is in order god knows what you're on about Kim"

but she scratched and scratched for hours in her bedroom and looked in the faded mirror with microscopic detail and sure enough it was/gone??
since when??
she could feel it there, she was no hypochondriac it was alive and feeding off her still
that HORRIBLE THING!
some months now or maybe more it had always weighed her down but now gone
or never there...?
IMPOSSIBLE!
this wasn't over, old Katherine Kimberly would tear this ****** apart on a sub-atomic level and make sure it would never haunt her in any respect from "this day forth!" she said poetically,
wearing a conservatively fashioned dress with green flowers on it
and green grass, too.

She took to the New York subway on a Wednesday, the time was.......2pm
and she was headed to the drycleaners but not the one closest her apartment, the people that ran that one were pushy and irritating.
She was going to "Maude's" she and Maude had lovely conversations about the Gardener who lived one floor up from her who sometimes allowed a small hello from his lips on the way up, off of work.
She liked what he liked
or at least she imagined that to be true
but then again we all do that
it's a bad habit
he could be a total *******, she thought.
Old Katherine Kimberly walked in and opened the backroom there was Maude listening to Brian Eno
(Cindy Tells me/HERE COME THE WARM JETS/1974)

"THE RICH GIRLS ARE WEEPING"

Maude heard K.K come in and swiveled around in her office chair with the one off-kilter wheel which she didn't do a very good job of fixing.
"Well I don't shop at Ikea, its no wonder why, Kat"

"This sty! I know it looks like it's gone, but it isn't, do you still have any of that herbal remedy stuff you told me about earlier?"

"yeah, yeah.. the stuff you refused take way back when?"

"I admit I was being stupid, I just need help, I'm out of options and I'm kind of on a bad trip right now, see? some ghoul at the church gave me these pretty pink pills, said they were from mars and that they could cure anything! O Maude I was desperate and now I'm hallucinating all sorts of wack. I'm afraid I won't come back from this! I dunno what to do Maude! I dunno what to do!"

"Relaxxxx poor doll, you're always getting caught up in messes like this. It's like I said! you gotta settle down with that Rupert, he seems like a genuine guy, real caring, real. I'll help you, I have that herbal medicine in my car I will be right back"

Maude left hastily with a pat on K.K's shoulders as she went
K.K was going cuckoo
she suddenly felt that on a very metaphysical level her atoms were remembering this drug
always
and that when she died, eventually..some innocent child would be reconstituted with her atoms
to live with this for all time
and to be forcefully admitted into a psychiatric ward
pleading for lobotomy!

"What is this? what did I take? does that Kubrick-looking ****** use this often? how is he even tethered to reality?" she was dizzy, good thing she was sitting down..

Maude came back, shaking her head in sympathetic disapproval
"Jeez.. you've gone down the rabbit hole as far as ailment is concerned, that's for sure"

"What do you mean..?" Katherine Kimberly kept her feet grounded to the carpet as to not sway reality to a snowglobe catastrophe.

"Well you say the sty has something to do with the nightmares, or vice-versa, so you took drugs from a complete stranger! only made things worse, I'm sure.. and now you've come to me"

"That's true" K.K agreed
"Why do this to yourself?"
"I've been lost, out of tune, completely washed.."
(((((())))(((((()(((((((((())))(())))))))))()()()))))((­(())))))))))
she was going to continue, but felt like vomiting

She lept from her seat and hunted for a bathroom,
A vicious tabla bleached her brain
with supernatural viscosity
her body played like a cosmic instrument
for a higher being in a higher realm.
Next, the frantic sitar which reminded K.K of July and
the humid balcony marijuana, Ravi Shankar melodically spinning in her living room.
This was a much different experience.. as made clear by her
convulsions
the viper's final dose of venom

"The great spirit lifted his hand without much ado, and split apart Flower Mountain's ten million layers." - from Elder Ting Stands Motionless. (Blue Cliff Record)

"-******* that ******* from the church
why I ever listened to him-
-I feel like I am afloat atop the world able to see the stars as vibrant eyes! but I'm wavering without a sense of gravity. I am at once motionless and spinning!-"

A lot more trouble than it was worth,
O the wisdom of consequence!
K.K, poor doll, lucid consciousness
and an acute awareness for her disposition in this Universe
and all alternate universes for that matter.
(Including the version of her that decided against taking those pink pills from that pink-cheeked man, Stanley Kubrick lookalike ******* probably only posing as a religious man, they never met in one reality, they ****** in another. In one he is god! he is the only god! and in one she is god! anything better than this reality now! her lungs foaming up with death)

GLOBE-O-VOOTY/
GUIDE-O/
ME SOFTLY/
GET THIS THREY-WAY/
OUT FROM MY MIND/
(That's VOUT language for you, there. Slim Gaillard's timeless bop language)

after puking up the rest of her morning meal
she wiped her mouth dry with her sleeve and
reunited w/ Maude who handed K.K that herbal
music
and wished her well

"Look, I know it's none of my bussiness.. but if I were in your shoes, I'd make some changes.. that's all I'm gonna say about THAT"

so Katherine Kimberly went home, she wept
wept about her disposition
about her mistakes
about that inoperable mental sty which was more than a sty
parasitically latched onto her for ages
she wept about how boring people were
how after all this protest and bloodshed
we're just the same as before if not less intellectual!
this fever dream of a day hath made her realize
that she SHOULD make a change.
Hell, Maude was right, sometimes insufferable (tho not as much as others)
She couldn't keep doing this, whatever this was.

The herbal medicine was contained in some cutesy vial
a kind of amber-shade
thick liquid.
Just in the fashion of Lewis Caroll she
drank up her prayer potion, with the sensation that the room was expanding around her, shrunk down to the pathetic dreamer once again,
and so she tried to sleep this desperate sickness off.

One floor up, Rupert thought about whether or not he should *******, he decided to make some coffee instead, continuing where he left off on a new-age book about hypnotism.

(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.

& the Capuchin dances on a grand piano
Lit by a candle
I'm gonna catch that ****** someday
But he is good at hiding and bringing me
Baskets of dead flies
With a smirk that says he knows
Exactly how sick he is
Unbathed and starved.

Sheathed in stolen jewelry
the Capuchin
Mocks Salvador Dali hung up beside us
I attempt to strangle him but he knows better and wraps a necklace around my throat
& tightens in a boiling silence

Meanwhile the kettle is unattended
And hot and I can't breath!

I suppose I deserved this with how much I hated and dreamt of escaping this monkey..

But sometimes karma simply comes back around and
Shows you who the real fool is

The piano is terrified of losing me

Fierce is god impenitrable
glad glad glad there is a
Fire up the street called Heaven
There is

A woman wearing only one shoe who is taking
an exhaustive drag of her smoke in the
early morning where birds are
still heard in
                                    !!!!!!cities

A hymnal a
heralded nest of savory berries A quartzstone is trapped in time a myth is made more ridiculous when proven real

Continents wither where the flies glue their

regal canvases on downtrodden earth (missing Pangea)

Or smiles everlasting smiles meanwhile
(Blonde tongues wearing fashioned wigs)
in constant state of beguilement

The Neanderthalic stones will be unforgiving to the REVEREND who has collapsed through his song the song of lead pipedream fantasies of sexless dogma YEAH monkhood yeah Ghat burning holes in twilit schools of thought or no thought at all


I can

hear the collective Faerie outcry that silence has presented itself HEAvier to their wicked careless bodies ok I am innocent of love I love your innocent love I am careless(of their wicked careless bodies)
ResemblingA swans actual duty to die
a swan lies a swan lay
like an even more beautiful swan
on even more beautiful swanny grass
To die by swanlightSUN and MOON white like the swan where we soon listen closely to the swansong a celestialLOVELY
rhythm of gilded forest (((((orchestrals
The swan leaves us in happiness of bright groggy light
                         O (of which in chaos of day I am again innocent)


     The Reverend's desperate gaspings into a  micro -phone for a macro - cosmic prayer idol o idol where is your capability for worship idol o where is my chinstrap o idol where is ****** youth or the romanticized eternal SUMMERS I sing
     O bible O cloudland O where is your telephone operator is they deceased by their own fragrant holines? The church
     Watches the Reverend neverend his television routine of clamoring death odes
     Watches his senility come like an implorical shadow outline watches a demon lick its dreamless lips beyond the periphery of godless dreams
     Watches
     Reverend lose his sight in anInstant
     HeWAILSheWAILSandWAILS can you hear it Thomas De Quincey can you hear the sandbeaches ringing more clearly than the ChurchBells or the ****** Pagoda for torture /

his soul is to sleep in the (mossy)mountain the fire of the (forever)street called HEAVEN the mountain column supporting the sky(swan)gate of heavenHeaven!welcome

   to:

I (Reverie)

Thisbe senses diamonds in the dusk/
Turner protects himself with cozying ash created from the minerals of adoration

The street is a hundred constant cinders
Communicating with mystic language
Repeating itself

While the newsstation weeps
And front yards hold their damp cheeks
Cherishing the child who is now gone

The envisioned tower, embarassed with its Windows n lack of decorations/
Not even the cobwebs will settle in vicinity!

A paranoid Sculpter cant sleep and so takes to Spanish poetry

"You're giving out your tarot cards to
Yusuf what will he do with them!"

A mother says to her child who
Incidentally goes blind in that exact moment

An epitaph for the ashtray sitting precariously on the stainglass table on the porch where an
Empress seeks shelter
Carving at her senses with
Violent monologues about religion
Courtesy her friend

(A stranger to risk,
Some tired dull balloon rises up within her consciousness going higher and higher!)

II (December in Moods)

Mauve temporarily fills the room
Your soft breathing brings an elation
To the dresser at the foot of your bed
I can't rest here beside you
I want to kiss you
And your sleep

The discontent arrives
In shrouded form
You resign yourself to the kitchen watching logging trucks forever heave around the bend of forestry
Threatened with the possibility that they'll lose balance and collide with the house

I visit during Holidays with marigolds and fantasies of Asia
& with sweetness on verge
of imancipation
You kiss my face
attempting composure
As the radio promises
That this Winter will be especially
Frigid.

I apologize for my arrogance!
In losing friends, betraying my past beliefs for
White wine & phenomenology

You recite a foreign anthem with whispers, curious of the mathematics of romance.
Questioning yourself but especially yourself in relation to me.

III (Josephine, Burial)

In contemplation
A dog listens to nearby whistling
Of a young girl home from school/
In six months she'll fall victim to the divorce of her family/
And in twelve months
Accept that her mother had a lot of problems
It isn't her fault
It was never her fault/

In sixteen months she'll chip her front teeth on the coffee table

In three years she'll decide on a better first name
"Josephine"
In four she will legally change it and

In five the previously mentioned dog will be buried
With his owner's favorite scarf

IV (2015)

The August heat causing distant roads to waver in illusion while
A home catches fire

Luckily not my own

I save my mind one night before it loses itself to pure imaginative flow
In midsts of 108 repititions of the Gayatri Mantra
I remember that!
The portrait of a french woman robed in sunset colors is taken off the rotting walls of a Cabin, auburn with evening rain.

Silence!

V (The rosebush blushes while being painted)

Yggdrasil is being renovated a few blocks away & a garden is unable to answer
For its
Unusual poetics

The local raincoat impressionist observes
A fantasy hidden in the soil
Nurturing itself
With percieved
Infant curiosity

The terror in the wind was returned

the terror of a faded chanson
  
my nose is bleeding again

  The banished outlaw that lasts
   through February surviving off therapeutic liquid (from the river)
    
    desperation settles in my head
  preparing his rounds carefully
  
  how many times
       the cycle continues
               how many times
                     the ranger wonders
              
A tower of roses lay dormant
in exile, unmapped,
waiting, and my heart persists to see it in person instead of this textureless carving of memory

  like a poem on an olive wall who
  seeks an understanding with the
  c
  h
  i
  m
  n
  e
  y
        its narrow, black eye
gazed at silken eternal and
        the Sun
        & romantic language
              O to be grateful for the Moonlight
                kissing me at dusk
                (The wall dreams)
               now focused on the living room clock. expanding
              
                the Winter coming to its end

The sound of this poem is
Harsh grating steelwork
In a wet and lonely subway.

You are in love
it is almost Christmas

The smell of this poem is lilacs and the recently deceased
Which isn't exactly sweet or
ugly I don't care anyways

The owner of this Poem resides in
Regret
Which may show
    But really
            On the precipice of an alteration of
                            Identity, he dreams every
                            Night of
Freckles & medical examinations

The hero of this poem is you, the reader,
who continues into the unknown progress of day
Perhaps whistling the song you have come to associate with a year now gone

The end of this poem is
missing! ,

The prettiest butterflies
                                          tend to be those who wash their
                                          c o l o r f u l    wings to   p a p e r
(ANGELS  PAINTING  TRAIN  CARTS)

I
find
everything
every
day
to
be
so
tired, tired, tired.
                              Children are decaying faster than those who raised
                                                                                                             them.

Love
        in
            a
              dark
                      room
                                set to
                                         ambiance and
                                                                  laughing
is an overture to some future fascist

(Or a whole generation of fascists)

Sweet Oriental Angels

with your cloth-thread harps

play your song on dizi flute and

mandolin echo soft

in the foreground

to the cruel industrial drum

of a new world.

This palace orchestra scrawled on scriptures

now a specter of labors

and dawns coated in smog.

Flowers grow tired in the morning,
as people disrupt their sleep with car horns
blaring the industrial alarm clock to mountains and
whispering gods who smooth the leaves with their voices.

The architecture students have created a rat maze lecture hall
for students to stress in when fog rolls through the campus.

Now is the time for sentiments, anyone who has told you different
is too dull to carry any or too cold to care.
People pray for commodity.

Why have the Dutch left Asia? (less than 24 hours)
The absurdity of things is a white white sun worshiping itself
indefinitely.
Poems are autobiographies as autobiographies are poems.

Philosophers do not accommodate false prophets.
Philistines stray from therapy in paintings.
The depressed don't wake to traffic jazz but rather the silence of sleeping birds.
The sociopath will not make love without a motive.
Pacifists will not even battle their own sadness.

Autumn arrives with a few wraps on the door of an old folks home
(again)
Priests have daydreams and then suffer from a terrible insomnia.
A cigarette can last as long as the lungs that feed them.

Hospitals contain their own life cycle, I was born in 1996 and a few floors below my infancy
corpses lay in the cool sterility of a morgue.
People I would never met
(Except for 19 years later as I pass them in my local cemetery)

Projectors contain all the information needed for countless hives of youth to swarm around another thing to bury under the weight of narcissistic culture,
who's reliance on materialism is a growing fruit gone rotten.

The diverse architecture of Tokyo is really quite fascinating
(a city I would pay to get lost in)
Taiwan has existed as a single airport that reeks of tiger perfume
and sells cheap coffee in February.
(our reality is our perception of it)
Vancouver's train system is a rattling electric crib.

.......People count sheep, sheep count factories (?)

Psychic tea readers have fallen to the poor habit of leaving one's china out in the open for anyone to stumble across and become the next doomsday microphone.

Here comes the martyr on a carved wagon of moonlight.
Observing the bathroom flamingo called youth
perching upon a grenade.

In suspended cotton glow,

My ****** architecture wondrously

waits permeated with the hollowness

  that comes with mind's dissolve in love.

(Even the birds read ***** politics and would rather hold wings to a drastic shift in light as appeared thru the nest and branches so connected with foggy earth
&
Even the jesters who's knees ache with
Lost children resolve to speaking Poems to the Forest who have not forgotten June's princely fever
& Even the cynical italian officer
Who's briefcase molds behind his arched
Brittle spine can relate to the fullness of
His daydream
& Town Hall accounts for each passing hour
& Taxicab antlers offering welcome thru its veiled windows do keep the radio of India praying)

I am finding more and more used condoms on the carpet of anonymous rooms/

But at least the refrigerator is stocked with Wine!

My tired eyes,
my fatigued mind
falls slow and time becomes obscured by
the drowsy raven sailing sunset sky boulevard.
My phone is ringing orders and misdirection calls,
that funny little radiation box hollering voices
of somewhere, telemarketers in India, automated messages,
spurious connections anywhere but here.
The rain-shine of approaching April Wednesday
trails golden hues among the treeline being viciously
torn like a gradual atomic bomb flattening the hoary hills
and spectacular firs beryl in frequent times of showers.

Each day I hope for that fabled resurgence,
nearly a year my fingers have been crossed
while wars are still wars, politicians still politicians,
gods still gods. Everything is so still, silence among fury.
Carpet bombings, protests, genocides, reforms, riots, the drowsy
raven circles in view of the window and my thoughts cycle around
my washing machine consciousness wiping off the grit of untruths
of everywhere else but within myself. That seems to be the problem
with most people.

As the clouds roll in, as the sun subsides into darkness,
as my mind is clouded by that ever-expanding raven encompassing
night sky and nightmares, I realize I hadn't even gone out at any point
that day and probably wouldn't the next.
We've become so dull some of us.
Vacuums inside of vacuums.

bathing
chandel      eirs
    exhausted by
nomads retreating within
the
paracosm of a Mountaintop
 
         snow in your voice
a bell being sounded
       bell(((((
              )))))

   receptive to the running water
  a sauna made of afterflower
      you have heard the gospel of lazy shoepolish/obsidian palms

     and worried over
    beaches that are really just an exte
nsion of the whole
jealous Pacific

flaura shyly stripped of glory
     whisp ering
like a convent
 about the mist applause

  the python noise of
hot springs
                     where its inhabitants were born/why they release a certain
desperate O
  to the mountaintop sleeping with        spirited confidence
     this palace of stone which relies
on no approval
  not even the sky, or the early tangerine
dawn
    not silence
        or previous wars, these travellers seek to cocoon & spring forth as a
       colossus
    that no longer has the capibility for tears
           where home becomes world
as rock communions with Yggdrasil
        and the leviathan of time will
collapse
    unceremoniously before the first leaf
 of the newly formed valley has
ever heard
Autumn's seductions
    
       ah, the golden migrant wreathed in
   the liquid base of their worship
    may oneday achieve
  an
absolute renouncement of the soul

   for a bluebird to be born
amid the
overgrowth