on the authority of an open window to the driving rain .
dog heads stuck out and
biting at the
drops .

as a means by which our star-long horizon can be further darkened
—
nothing gets hidden in this seascape;
only more water added between
us.


we are counted on not being able discern the difference between swimming and  having been
swum through .
—

tidal pulses .
storm brow crinkling up, as the nostrils flare against the wind.
night-sail diadem , let loose from atop ill-begotten cedar mast .

shaking
shaking
shaking sea

we must become our own warm ambience
and scratch the hardwood floors with our love
pushing across the
room

M.

Greendark vapor

Broken over
The body-of-Christ moon
In the sky above the soon-to-be old apartment .

I sit like dewless mornings amidst the
Eves
And the evening’s main event,

Disbelieving everything.


Thumb runway of the
Pit .
In your
Sunglasses
Smudge .a

Way of waking .up

it’s a tepid nectar
that now drips from these leather-winged amphora jars :

they circle, like harpies
down to us upon tumble-hot currents spinning off the face of the
earth




but there are subterranean cisterns
of something else

out there :


cool water
against us.


and my syrup-stuck lips are
dry
for
it.

is your own animal survival instincts
it’s not for medicating away
it’s for acting upon
                To
S u r v i v e
                  .

the difference between an act of friendliness and an act of friendship.

the greatest sickness remains
fear.
so much in the way of ill deeds cemented new realities while the whole world hid away in long hibernation

do not go quietly this time
do not go quietly.

“Fuzz fuzz”
The old black sweatshirt
Came out of the donations bag,

At first just to reorganize.

There was a thin scent of the perfume she used to wear in high school.
And That was wild .

I had not thought about it
Much

It was ugly
But was once  comfortable _
It used to be mine
But then was only in my keeping

I can remember
Offering it
Sometimes
On cold summer nights.



The sweatshirt
Went back in the bag after some lint - rolling
And
Other deliberations.

I used to be young.

We were mostly
Happy.

im the cold thing
no van full of legs
no passed skin
  . v unfortunate

words fail
where only touch shall suffice

etherium
elysium
etc.

Blue
Sky dome
We
Roam
With entangled
Groans

And the saxophone
And the saxophone

they do everything they can
to remove love
from Man’s life

why has the brink
always been
the
Muse.

Muses now.
Muses, now!

Pantheon ,
Panther,
Points in your name.

Power in your name.

shirtless shepherd, stormsail-hopeful
scumlove galaxies above to
sail
by

starving, it swallows her offerings_
licking at wounds with certain intent
   as easily
as the lapping up of these gleaming beads      
         caught running, with
         equal      deliberation

The name of the thing
Is not the thing /
The measurement of the thing
Is not the thing /
Nor, the unit of measurement /

The costume of the idea is not the idea /


That is to say,
The house is not made of wallpaper, nor
Paint


The words we are using ,
Serve as only the lowest common denominator  -
Seeds
Carried between
Islands

By movement in the air.

Things are much
More
Thing-ful
Than that

The
Gods
Have come
Home
To die

.(
(
swing like flower vines in the
sea-breeze face of the
cliffside

your hair
sells dancing glimpses of ancient
memory
there .

the shimmer-sailed ships
leave
the shore / /

hot cheek
on the cool tile wall

lashes fluttering wet
breath like vaporized diamonds into the slushy planet churning like time beyond the strategically - cracked window .

i
feel your heart in mine
which is    a stupid thing to say
but
an important   thing to
           mean

/


no hotter pocket dimension
this side of
inferno

There is no true discipline :
Learn everything
And use the best of
Each

Good luck.

we need
we feed

Apolo comes dressed at the night

They call him, lantern holder
They call him, light bringer

He comes
He ****.

one of us is a kite .
and the other, is a pile of jackets on the bed
in a memory about a family gathering.
//the ultimate goal of recycling remains
black plastic clothes .

unodysseus,      i had
               known
               t h e n .

leaving psychic breadcrumbs to follow back
home/out
again

the undertow takes time to notice
as each washing pulse
whisks away
more [glamorous, radiating shoreline]



. h/e.


if we
shall remember
what has been robbed,
it may yet be        
     reclaimed

Hip space dog
Peanut butter days are here again.

Heads adorned in plastic thorns
Teeter
Side-long across the neighbor’s dead
Lawn//:tongue-******* the anthill
Orifices.busy little workers for a
Long-dead god.


It’s an arms race out here
It’s race wars in their
Char broiled
Minds

It’s kindness, broken evermore .
Ring around the rosy-faced, ****-eating grins//:We all fall
Down.

in a world without god:
within a community of believers,
a god’s Will will yet be done.

as ever
and again shall be:


the
             most tangible horror
of
                           Man.

you called me home
with an invitation
to
claw your body clean
apart .
“closer”, you smiled :
as i
came

to the

late stage coopt of corporate agile cultists,
usurpers of the diverse paths of our futures,

the human condition is
a
temporary
inconvenience

in pursuit of a new and truncated eternity


CLUTTERED rooms full of minimalist art-objects for the unconstituted mind

Think the truth is invented so that they don’t feel left out

And the other ones
Feel like truth is invented so they can do the leaving out

Why must either be accepted

Dawn gurgles past the horizon somewhere
As the sparrow lays dying on the sidewalk
Waiting for the

Neighborhood stray to to find her.

I have seen their eyes :
Dying birds

They watch you

I don’t think it is quite “fear” there .
As death comes, their is a quiet acceptance to the light of dawn
And the promise of warmer pavement on the chilled and broken body
Before
Nothing

[the eyes watch with the same energy
As the sleepy dog curled up in the corner chair when you enter the room.
The eyes open to watch the rusting of bags while you search for lost keys
. But the dog does not stir much. Trusting
you. And being too tired to play
]

It is a casual thing
And nothing much else

That’s how it is with mornings.
The sun warms the pavement
And
Sometimes that’s
    Enough

it’s nestled in deep :
that thing that was
planted
then

I was one who thought he’d never let rust form on his nice pocket knife
But here I am- 30 lbs gained in a year and only use my leatherman for opening cans of chicken and tuna for the dog

Rust on blades for leaving in puddles by the kitchen sink

Forgetting to call friends

Being me-less and without laying hands on any thing real, these days


I used to spend all this time thinking about the things I would get, and take care of, and keep for the rest of my life.

Real permanent things.

Now I wonder

You throw my shape on the ceiling and walls/
It’s a fury that burns with cascading light.
Jittering inside the rooms we fold together for each other

It’s quick and flash-like.
Striking often,
We are strobe centers for hot fingers of electricity searching outwards in molestation of the quiet august night.

Y

There is an incredible somber
Poignancy in the phrase :
Don’t be a stranger

It is a plea upon the continual shaping world
And those who will remain within it
Bounds
For all time to
Come

And remember kids,
Only dead people can have acceptable ideas about the nature of our human lives.

the gate, we find,
is left unguarded-as
you
trace out your
glances towards me like glancing blows from fangly dog-mouth
scraping :
up and down
these
tired thighs of
skin


and greedy hands, we find,
are easy to
guide

there
  and
Elsewhere.

what have you done

with your world in one hand and the worlds of others in the other
teach us something before the summer
drys up the river
and delivers us from our hearts

//we trace over eachother’s outline in wild gestures:
taking measurements
      
trembling with bodies like shivering beds
          meatpalms up
          begging to receive
something in the invisible, irradiated dark

creases in the same giftwrapping bag that makes the rounds
    year after year
we shave off every last fiber
of our oldest tinder pile
in solemn observation for the
thumb on the cold glass
universe

|the porch door|
is not a set of words
it’s a thing
   a sound
of slamming shut
the rolled aluminum rattle
the smell of wind , maple buds , and
days that have beginnings and ends

i can see the grass
back when green was still a
color
i can hear the creaking piston-hinge
and
the
reckless
slam

of all the futures being
shaved  down
to the
core

||

The hungry wind prodding the meat on my bones to measure its tenderness
Tugging at my outer garments and tracing its icy fingers across the folds .and reaching further into my
(core)

gulls rule the shoreline in nobility.
as we are all subjects to our surround -
sound - world
so too, must the place
         subject

all heads throb
as
         a
papered-up-shop-window moon
decomposes without much commentary

the stars are out :
sight-hounding for mortals
to dine
upon

and i sit,
belly-full, and heart-hungry :
hoping to
*****

just past shadow dance
and the puppet theater of her ember ring

[i am the branch breaking in the dark ]

in her dark
in HER dark

i step.

bone.grey blanket
under shines the night,
casting longer stares into the tangle of looming shiftsleepers.and.groaning.boughs