Come near me, you can breathe
You can make a century of me
Feel and decrease my any years
Brittle, hung, and brittle spheres
A crystalline commingle, come apart

“The Old Masters Are Gone”
Mares a voice from without
Me. And no touch and about
No others as old nor as devout
Brittle hinge; a brittle mount
A systemic expression with a heart

“We Are All Now Divine”
Lost, not— lost! We are calm
You may make a history, our psalm
See, and have faith new figures will rise,
Brittle. Bring too, brittle guise
In pretending your eyes pay care in-carte

“Lay Your Hands On Paracelsus”
Can’t you smell the reliquaire?
Like quarry-skin stitched, sitting there
Reminding us all of the ancient genes
Brittle making brittle needs
Stay judgments, fear, and the feeling your hearts

“And Bring Them, Brittle, Up To Rest”

because i must create the noises
in my sleep i won’t create noises
in that make is space dust seeming
to create something from deaf, but
collapsing ******

colliding in a semblance of color
or tune or something secret under
halftones in the black of space hum
soft with dust there, spinning, must be
unheard vertices

magic, maybe science scraping the
proprioceptive bottom like burning hair
stranding in orbit, together to wrap
noise into its little under humming
subliminal crease

slowly tease some crack; an ice exposed
from centuries knowing all the heights to
speak o’er rolling hills and stills of data,
grain into the simple cosmic after-fact
in a pin ***** steeps

i roll my eyes back so their iris
can pour a simple affect out it
curves cupping tension and clots
of noises, chimeric blood that statics
outwards, around me

because i must have hold of noises
in a system that can’t detect noises
in that pairing is voidness, clearing
painting nothing that can use of nearing
meaningless bodies

The fact that you can walk a street
And not a tree is not extinct
But somewhere else in cultivation

Seeds seemingly self-propagate
To satisfy an ailing street
Who’s assurance itself completes

It’s not that winter walk a street
And not a tree I want in lieu
Be that a whimper out a root

Leaves like a steam that waters
Leaf when it emerges from the towers’
Windows, many. Hours down the pavement

And not a mound of sweat betrays
Who’s cower branches inter me
Reach from the light to see a face

Creep, as it’s mist, but I’m inert
Seeds seem to cling so just beyond
That steam does never carry seasons

The fact that even in the patient
Love is sanct a street in *******
Lo, labyrinth the tree in sewers

But somewhere else are heat’s sensation
Icy and the answers deep, and
The fact that one can ask of love-

A tree who’s not a leaf undone,
But clings onto the end of year
Who asks what winter street we’re on

I’m nice, I’m fragile. I’m deeply unclean.
Two-faced, I’m writing about my mistakes
In a truest, maybe, snapshot escape

Even opaque, small, mocking pokes
Deepen that parasocial machina
From the black mirror, marching, it groped

I ignore my mind when it’s trying the most
I ignore my dad when he’s dying. I hope
The end is as transitory as it’s in memory

Then am I smearing a brainstalk Gemini
Their name around, on a leash, I spoke
Like ants emerging from the scaffolds of Babel

Like grotesque stats- like millions- Billionsthought
Those that huff endorphins as if in some battle
Half-twins and crows feet back-bearing taut

Rope, learning for the first time to tie them. Again,
in Wonderful Heat, or the West, and a Siege
Spanning, hilariously, the contiguous Bethlehem

I’m lost. I’m dirt-caked. I’m dragging a scene.
Chaptered; I’m acting it out in the mud
In a ghostly transparence before only your sun

Even fainting, trying to see my reflection
Deep- God, “Somewhere!” within the cogwork
Into ‘stead pulled the mud stains suction

I stir, my mouth sputters out with invicta
I breathe. For the sun, can I see still, is living
A last invocation, and its light dims the distance

to do what with
to crack every knuckle
to say matterhorn
patterns sound good
to crack my whole arm in
to pattern about
around on the floor
to feel the nice carpet
matterhorn matterhorn
to see it sounds nice
though you have to turn off
to mind not be bound on
by every to mind gone
pattern has pain gone
to matterhorn at
to sound pattern
comfort to brain or
to body as found on
the floor to do
nothings
to pattern
to melt to to melt to
to mete from crumpled
in pattern to shout up
to carpet towards matterhorn
to for nothings from pattern
to gone is for matter

Haley says Juniper is like a seed which, in his season, never flowers
Says he finds none beside the blossoms in the bench-worn courtyard
Surrounds, does metal which plants plug; deaf, embroiden, decipher
Does Haley, by talking to paper outstand the barrier what Suns for

Juniper swears Haley, from the trellis cracks, listened. Sweat-dent,
He jokes, like acidosis on the two sitting stones her feet frequent
Eroding because they grew, separate, together. He, a secret, and
She absorbed him, recorded, quickly became like the tangent

More like a seed which, all time, can’t flower
Besides, she can’t much see the blossoms within the courtyard
Front metal, surrounds only the smells of perennial ciphers
Comes Haley, her paper never tells of the shadow so felt for

Haley says Juniper is too passing. Says maybe the court is just desolate
Prays “Oh, fairy— one who, flapping, could some restore his deficit”
Hangared, windswept of oil lanterns which dangle, fictional, redolent
Her fairly good senses in put down that wall sitting, stasis indefinite

Juniper bellows out muteness. Stokes, quiet, her imagination,
But there is plenty to water or duck under inside his veranda
Aging, growing uninteresting even, though hardly unfortunate a
Situation is being captive to another’s not seeing your stagnation

Perhaps it’s her which, year-end, is desolate
In wishes, hope for prayings that float for her before his courtyard
Not wick in candles she can hear whisper sick, circular severance
From Haley and Juniper, whom to each other is definite

“Shine their shoes, boy.” Of ancient Ulm,
Or was it Hanover, or Vietnam news?

Whatever lives in a coptering leaves breeze flail
Burns, maybe, wrinkles over evening-orange contrails.

From ‘75, with backpack, an American teen.
You lay in a blanket that’s jungle green.

Born of tension, your luggage weared
Containing the last, probably-more, hundred years.

Pressured under coupled oceans that wash
Pepper, in the coasts, of gunpowder shells.

Every bit, godless, and landless there tread
Which is historically typical of a golden head.

You wait, with a significant loss in sheen
While much younger shoes uncover you from the rain.

“My, what a piece of ancient Ulm! It sits
Only in mud! Yet, what of the rest?

Whatever hasn’t yet lost its old meaning
That shining truth which, before, kept it going!”

Glossy, in all youth, in all sorts of sweat,
Heeded a call to consult with a death.

This set-on, and scattered, and ducked into flight
Mind unconsidered so decades might march out of sight.

Lo, quiet perforce a deep trench, or its field
Moving, not across that diptych unperturbed

Every hole through the air punctuates, shreds
The almost-last scream of a now golden head.

You run, run, run, run. Count how many feet touch the mound.
You envision how best you could look underground-

“Now, see: pressed up against its own shoes,
This thing of gold, it’s deformed and bruised!

Wherever we bore— past some trees, down a road;
Far from Ulm— we made a hole which, in it, erodes.”

Grisly, but plaqued, and so, covered up
The very remnants that resulted its death

From long ago, “This- It’s ancient!” some people say
Shipped back with laurel shawl now as its display

“Perhaps you are ageless wrapped in the old war.
Yes, tatters coming back are worth all the more.

Maybe, yes it was sent through so much wreck.
Before, far back it was born of some thread.”

“Shine its throne, man.” Of ancient blood.
That, on his deathbed is a golden head.