I wake to remember
my sunroof is open.
I wake to leave words on the path.

I wake like a gardener
illiterate in Nature,
who nonetheless prays for the math.

The Solemn shows Wicked
the chess pieces burning.
a light that gives fuel is its task.

I wake just to tell you
my sunroof is open.
My words, as the rain's, not to last.

a thoughted beast,
neither poet, nor man,

let his words construct themselves.

without a care to show
on sheet or screen, (let them),

no need to be, or grow.

with arms to forget
under closing eyes,

with a prize of
only silence,

like the shushing grass,
unaware

of even its green.

Its name is bee.
Its name is fly.
It lands near me,
To catch my eye.

On coffee lid,
On wiper blade,
In barefoot Sun,
Or shoe in shade.

A wrinkling skin,
A finger still,
Remembered breath,
An open will.

It cleans its wing
With steady cause.
I'll take no life
That gives such pause.

It was on our lips.
(And) the downturn was everything.
'why wouldn't you think rocks could be green?'

You turned from the ships like a foam-latent cold.
The snaps-onlooked couldn't believe.

'stop wading, my love,
we're not here to understand'

We're here to look.
We're here to love,

and then leave.

I want to be
the bee that I see
on the small purple flower.

So many eyes, until
there are no others.

  a breath and a buzz and a dip.

Nothing left,
but little lessons for
drawing Love's gauge.

stepping light,
cleaning wings,

    moments and more


                                and more.

I thought you were gone,
but what was there
to begin with?

There were no mirrors, or windows,
only the air that rests
between leaves,

no wind,

save what we made ourselves.

A few roots though,
for a token's sake, and
an illusion's speech.

Entwined like those
two wolves of lore.

Little pities-
we burned minutiae,
and made nothing of the forest.

Pritzle-prang and maple dots,
cafe laughter-doon,
the other-spike of apres-lots
sleeps til half past noon.

I'm lost in fortune reading fairs,
the merry scent of loss,
don't share the fours with Aldebarks,
he vents the gainers toss.

Regard the ring with slower-stares-
the dwarven clowns at play,
the toffee apple wrestle fit
makes ache, a night for day.

The painted lips, the glower lakes,
some girls, for sell, for rye,
no chance to take, Ms. Rosenhips.
I'll leave the half-sheets dry.

So sickly-sweet with menalgaze,
with waste, with fear, with fleas.
No elephants, to drag me through.
This circus is not for me.

Wrest my head from this,
a twinge as illusive as pins.
Rake the bottom lore,
as off the mark as 'sins'.

I'm neither lessened
nor strengthened,
I reek of applemore and soot.
I draw and I leave unconceived.

I grow without practice.
I denote without lye.
I smile hopeless, with gladdened reprieve.

My pallbearer whistles,
and thinks of my joke.
I painted enough. He believes.

Turn tears now to grinning,
as I've learned the unbluff.
May I end this long night with a seed.

I give these shares
with knotless doves.
I give these shares to thee.
I slake the love
with fearless tooth.
I pass your shore to breathe.

The poor-farm root,
the napled glove,
the tongue released to see,
is just a speck
of diamond dust,
a learned soul to bleed.

The days are gone,
too-static-heart,
as will breaks stone in deed.
I settle in,
the warmest darks.
You were the only choice for me.

What you doin' there, Left-eye?

seems you got me confused with somebody else.
standing there ****-lacked with surance
like a stand,
a bird-tooth,
a shelf.

your minory flagrance the runge-jakes,
your fiery holes for birth.

I'm happy enough in the meaningless,
a taxi, directless and first.

I doubt in the walls like a showdown.
I drink the saloon like it's fate.
I'll shave all the mis-hands from struggle,
and pretend I can wake before eight.

you wither the real when it's comfy.
you dote on the fair like a lake.


The wrestling season is over.

We won out,

                                      the Golden Mistake.

the fostry boys and clair-n-tine hills
will wrest away their fears
like marcks-alarns and floaty badge
and puffer-nickel stills.

they'll bother beat with ever chills
and lime-lack in the surf.
I'll wait for time appronaheed,
I'll ferret out the mirth.

you'll not buy wick-ends in their fall
nor taste their merton soot,
you'll waste your fully throtton ball
and save your lamest foot.

as they're the childs of never-been,
the cartwheels at street and rue,
unghost their face as your beating slows,
these boys, to res-cue you.

this won't be re-written,
though it'll be felt fair enough.

it'll hardly last at all,
with luck, it'll go down rough.

the paint, I'll waste on chippers,
the words, I'll waste on time.
the love, I'll serve with clippers,
my whiskey will serve your wine.

I'll knot my hands with good-ends,

"dream fingers, of skin, and spine"

what switch might lay above me,
that I would write forever?

you're no stranger than me.

I'll convolute as long as I see,
with the sea- a shining quarter.

I'm in Heaven, now.
With words.


Don't bother searching,

      we'll all drift well enough,

and breathe,


             and breathe be-yond.

I shouldn't drink.

You become




love's *******.

drink to this, lipless,
"'rotten' isn't what you think",
you tarry the borders in white.

you glisten like factory,
you tremble like gold,
you're edging the ready to fight.

your countenance silver,
your wrangle-send wet,
my finger, your jawline, the light.

I miss what you were.
  You forget who you are.

        Euclidean.
                          
               Forgiven.

  And right.

feathery coontscounce on
the puck for playing.
a lavender make-up for rest.

the lack that you love
isn't empty bar-taking,
you fever the fount as it's bent.

you're lucky, you're karma,
you are what you're clinging,
you're love as it's breaking

you're Stress

you bought it all,
even the taxes.

why would you think
you could rest?

no reason to soften the blows now.
you're locked in. set to love your fate.

a cacophony, and I had to look it up, in your head.

you needn't tidy the swamp. the visitations are waning.

look at you twist, what?
like the moon?

your thoughts don't even
belong to the trees, (and you swoon?)

restless enough, for caterpillars,
you tread nothing.

deepen the lines, luv.
larks are for trespassers,

dump the lot.

maybe, I'm not really here,

maybe, you're not really there.

But I still just assume
forget your face-
a nuclear winter,
a desert for the alkie
hooked on water.

if I could only binary it
as it pops on a screen,
but my hand won't forget
the small of your back anyway-

Waistland.
You boiling water for spaghetti-
An eternity of my palm on your hip.

Yeah, this is as much a haunting
As the moon is a ghost,

no.

No Reaper,
Thus no ghost.

maybe I'm not really here,
but you are most certainly there,

the Immortal,
the Undead,

(strange I follow)    .

A little white ball, misshapen, waiting, on the floor.
Waiting for me. For how long, I couldn't say. Though I'm quite certain every so-called decision I've made in my life has led me to this very moment of noticing. Noticing a ball of cotton, waiting for action, from me.
The eternity I fall into after merely seeing it, is sufficient.
Bones sliding amid muscle, to bend, and there is no foreground, no background, no debt, no ex, no somethingness, no nothingness.
All comes to this,
to this non-action.

I retrieve it.

My ego finds its foot in the door.
And I don't quite whisper
to the little ball of cotton,

"That I might die with
a trace of humility,
that much even."

It's a shame that
both of us were pigeons.

It might have been better-
just one of us.

It doesn't matter now,
whether the rest of the world
were cars, or cats.

We ruled just
as we needed to.

Each of us
more Counter
than Captain.

she gross,
but I grosser,

will to take her back
as I would, in a
heartbeat

love,
hate,

a congress
of hypocrisies,

set upon cedar flakes,

and matchless.

down isn't what
you think it.

the way the sun don't
go 'round us.

misdirected on a hit
(fucky little bullet-dodger)

we ripe for nothin',
curse-tailing the spit-shines.

just back-and-forthin',
back-and-forthin',

till the burden
drop, till the sun-

she gone.

file me away,
till dusty, till the drawer
squeaks, and won't close.

collecting archeology,
no place for me, out
of time, like us (were)

back wrecked and filed
with matching spine,
few papers to yellow.

catch me Sunday.
what'd you forget?
you no boxer yet.

file me away,
a pencil you forgot
to finish chewin'.

You can't tell now,
And don't ask how I know
But I promise
My bones are blue.

I've not been a fish
For thousands of years,
A near past though as
Sailor and whale.

Treading stones like a quake.

We've dipped so recent, so well.
Ache rests like a sinner
With naught to do.

I'll return again, indeed.
But not till you've seen

Just as I promised,
That my bones are blue.

Her soul on its side
Is a brick I won't fix.
Her soul on its side is a star.

I burn as she cracks,
The shine laying tracks.
I follow them, picking up scars.

I'll linger not long here,
The scent soon may fade.
Though I'd easily gather crumbs from afar.

I'll catch what I can,
This poet- a man.
Her soul on its side is a star.

Eyes set
with raven silhouette,
and she's not unlike my twin.

And with every effort
to take her pain,
I breathe.


I've practiced long
to draw these lines.


I found her face-


                                  relief.

there's a dent

right here,

in the couch.


Christmas Eve.

I want a blanket named crash
and a pillow named home.
Save tears for the foreword,
I'll return before long.

Sleep-sing me, Glasscatter,
the metal twists sweet.
The headlight's no Source.
Let oil, as blood, seep.

I turned, not for nothing,
little bird in the road.
We took flight, singing softly,
so glad that it showed.

I fall for facades
  
            like skin pale and crows.


    How can I know what is real?

            It's the resonance.


              Would it meet,
          
                   Would it want,
  
                       Would it greet,

                        Would it show,

          would it take me to task in the night
  

                                                  like the resonance....


Stop spinning my heart, please
      till I'm ready to send.

        How could you be of my path?


                           I swallow the still,

                    change acceptance and will

                           till I skip like a stone in the tides

                                                        

                                                                                 of the resonance.

Do catch me staring.
It's my hardiest dare.

Leave me with purples,
The frozenest pears.

I want but can't have.
I look but won't draw.

I charcoal the water,
A lazy lack sprawl.

Your gaze hits my thoughts,
The loveliest wrecks.

I want you to know
You're too pretty for ***.

How could you be a cavern?

   I still smell the ocean.

          There's naught for our time here.

                 I've learned, to do as I please.

The cat sits rows, and even columns behind you.

        I've mastered the ending,

             Now, let's begin on our knees.


The truth isn't frothing,

            as it did in our youth,

An envy just beginning to teethe.

                     Let's smile the collapse

                  Of our ledges' fear-chancers.

         This ocean's now learning to breathe,


                           and cast


               and cast


and cast.

You don't belong here, do you.


           Captioning meat like vanities,

                  nothing stirs.


You make noise

        the way the tides move sparrows.


                  It's not all for naught,

                                                           I know.


Though please,

           Consider the cease.

                   You're clinging to sheets,


                                  not them to you.

Floating like fans
How we're lovers undone,

Play neat,
Look long,
And clean.

Tablatures razed,
We read songs for none.

The empty
Is marked
And deemed

A Sounder's Facade,
A Shuffling Nod.

The sequence
Is set
And sown.

A vastness to reap
No illusion to weep.

I grin the substance of
All things unknown.

You're not in a rut, luv.

It's merely in a tide pool you sit,
waiting on a new moon high
to meet an autumn swell full.

Find a lax flow, dear,
till comes the gentle ebb.

Slightest grasps at your elbow.

You'll see...

the both of us.

You're not the bobble that I left,
Just the healing I forget,
Just the hook.
You're not the line,
You're not the tow.

You're not the hours that I sleep,
Just the darkness of the deep,
Just the book.
You're not the turn.
You're not the close.

Will I walk?
The tempers rise.
And at my best, the heater dies,
Becoming breath,
By easy dance,
One with the field.

Of mirrored love,
And ego cries,
Feel buried truth as sown to rise.

A letting go,
As water flows,
Become the Yield.

Had your heart tendrils,

  I would tear into your face
like time to deserts.


Your words won't blank me.

Efforts to stone,
gladness to walls,
your lips await the heavier things.

          Three years will pass
    before you know what I see.


I'm lifting full breadth,

              you'll come to me,

                   with small pauses-sad,

                                      I'm lifting full breadth.

And I'll never have to ask,
                         "Is it enough?"


     "is this enough?"

(smiley-eyed answered)

all that's alive
are my hands and lips

the rest is vinery


there's nothing to touch
the brain to tips

just a bested line in me


we're empty enough
swollen rosen-hips

lust's a slow findery

How could I service the demons?
So colorful is the score.

I forgot my place once writing began.
What the hell is a poem for?


(mind your head,
once the elephant said,
"such ego will stain the door")

the shrouds are soiled,
without defense,
the curdled salve is laid.

no time is spent
without pretense,
the just of karma's paid.

we wallow in,
and swallow shouts,
with efforts all but flayed.

so born to age
through wrestling bouts,
and expressions left unplayed.

deadpan,

    fix the light
       in the hall.


slowscan,

    take a flight
       reap a fall.


longstand,

    shorten sight
       drop the call.


wait the rain
    wait the rain
    
           wait the rain

your form
was made
for my eyes

your memory
for my mind

      the fruit will never rot

      
                             it will only disappear