My brow furrowed as she read my palm
and whispered of growing interest.
"What?" I asked; I had my qualms
about the foretelling of a future
I haven't decided to live.
But I smell the darkness in the incense.

I trace the tendrils of the incense
with forehead firmly within my palm.
The streets below are live
with persons of little interest,
hustling toward a fuller future.
Renew me, my qualms.

Not that I had qualms,
banana-flavored incense
replacing patois in my future.
The lurid waves slide over my palm.
instill a touch of colder interest.
With each sandy step, I live.

And as the water fills my shoes, I live.
When I quietly lose interest
the ocean shows it too has qualms.
The brine coalesces like incense
as my nails dig into the skin of my palm.
For I seek a better future

than the unforgiving future
that chose not to live.
The salt stings the holes in my palm
and instantly I have no qualms,
just a lingering fleck of incense
arousing mild interest.

The ocean betrayed not the slightest interest
being the shepherd of my future.
Rivulets of water became the incense
That I would breathe to live.
Instinct expressed fervent qualms,
as I pressed my mouth with my open palm.

It was the incense in which I held the most interest.
Her finger traced my palm, mumbling of a better future
ahead for me to live, free from petty qualms.

Too much to drink,
now you need a lawyer
or a wife to beat.

Now you're in it deep,
can't you adjust?
Just tolerate the heat.

It'll all soon be done,
then you won't need to worry
about not having any fun.

You woke up in the gutter,
thank god you did.
Your smile makes my heart flutter.

You came home late, it's early.
Don't tell me I fret too much
when I try to drive you to Hurley.

You'll never get older,
you'll never never change.
Sometimes it seems you'll only get colder.

That's why you wear the
silly fur hat with that
long plaid underwear.

Yes, it's cold in here.
Your feet are wet from snow
because you walked to the pier.

I don't know, why don't you just
jump in and sink into the inky
depths if you must?

One can save only so much of you
before the rest of you becomes
too empty to keep on.

I heard someone whisper "he's such an arrogant *****" as I entered.
Those crooked sons of ******* don't have any idea,
I'm the kind you hardly ever come across except in winters,
when all the street rats are begging for heat.
I command attention at the head of the table,
I am the head of the table,
and sever the head to **** the municipal body.
The wigs and robes and gavels I accessorize command it too.
When I sign things I do it haughtily,
I carefully etch each and every ******* letter onto writs of demand.

I stand!
A hush lingers,
I catch the eyes of Walter Weiss, he lies with every breath
and did you know he is unfaithful to his wife? I heard.
the shudders are shut, my druthers. Oh, Walter!
notarize my forms of annexation, please.
and take down this:
To whom it may concern:

You have 7 days to remove yourself from the premises
as you are aware of the edict that preexists
and preempts your residence
and your squalor misrepresents
your laziness.
Signed: The holding powers, in eminence.

Oh Walter Weiss, address it to yourself!
I pride myself on tact.
And package with the writ this evidence form
sent to my office following a secret examination
conducted by the Department of Residential Safety and Heath.

Do not bother me with demoralizations, Walter!
Due to discourse with the Act of Discontinuation,
(which of course is subject to broad generalizations)
the lien sector of the Savings and Loan Association
have concluded you are found in violation of, through reasoning by generalization,
failing to pay duties on your mortgage issued by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation.

Oh, Walter, how distressing!
Don't falter, acquiescing
is always the way.
Just never, ever forget to pay.

I.
My eyes are heavy in my head,
or more accurately, my lids,
but my mind is running figure-eights,
thoroughly, like fits,
and at the cross of the eight,
the little pinch, the skinny waist,
one point manifests itself to every sense,
sight, touch, smell, sound, and taste.

This one point dares consume me,
my skin condusive, tinder,
and my blood begins to boil,
and reason have I devouring to hinder?

I don't think so.
If not for the advancement of theory to fact,
for what does a man live?

Everything else is merely cobblestones
along a bridge, civility, politik, tact.
Ignore the brightened
neon agitprop I say,
and carry yourselves headlong.
Nothing else have we
on which to agree,
but on the idea to think,
this alone elevates us above
the throngs of simians,
gibbering like themselves.

Gideon himself believed in thought,
believed in product placement as well,
and with simple words this world
has onto it been wrought
with sorrow and beauty,
but of course, hell hath no fury
like an illiterate with a Bible.

II.
You might as well give her a brick,
one cannot force an entry with a book.
Nor will she, however,
understand that blatant libel,
but it's irrelevant,
as this is the last place
I'd expect her to look.

She, indubitably,
is she of good fortune,
or rather good misfortune,
or rather than rather she
of a wheel of fortune,
a wheel that seems to have
finally
stopped
spinning.

I fear now she is a victim
among victims,
perpetrated against by they
whom she had once before wronged,
and if they were arsonists,
they'd be ******' torchin',
and she certainly wouldn't be grinning.

If she has wounds,
and I'm sure she does,
or will soon get them,
she better get licking them,
because she's about to rub up
against those pillars of salt
she created looking back.

A funny thing about those pillars,
and I'm sure it's common knowledge,
they were once your friends.

Sure, I see a few tears aflowing,
but I'm **** sure its the salt in the eyes.

This carnal kernel of misogynistic
jibba-jabba came to my attention,
my attention, not because I cared too much,
but because of plain 'ol curiousity.
You see, want, and you shall recieve.
Ask, and you shall ******'
find the **** out.
Simple as that.
Now, following that logic,
and I try to do so with furiousity,
even a mental gimp'll
come to a reasonable conclusion eventually.

III.
Conflicting sides.
One can discover the truth sensually.
I believe that the ability to perceive
people's emotions is as great a gift as any.
And of course that means
one can decipher motive.
Who has motive?
Ah, to know that,
you know the perpetrator.
I discover motive sensually,
and the trail for the contractual
assailant has been had,
the jury has deliberated,
and they find GUILTY!
Oh dear lord!
Can it be true?
Yes,
and based on prior history,
it ought not come as much surprise.
One thing left to deside, of course.

The sentence.

There were two balloons
and a vinyl kite wedged
in the branches of the lemon tree
and I ate a sandwich
with cheddar cheese
and watched a little girl
cry.

She was sweet, weak, sad,
she had a lemon scented sigh.
I imagined how and why
and when she would stop
to dry her eyes.

But those tears that flowed
will wash away the tears
that flowed down yesterday.
It eased the weight of thought
off my mind and rent
the lemons from their
rinds.

And each new lemon seed
grew another lemon tree,
and each new lemon tree
grew fresh new lemons innumerable.
And each balloon and vinyl kite
that floated in the breeze were caught
and held for ransom for little girls' tears.

And each little girl with years
and years and years will be a little woman
that has no time for kites,
between the money spent
replacing them for
crying little girls.

An earthquake sev
ered the land from the
other land, disconn
ected the bridge from the
shore.

I felt the rumble in my glass,
saw the ripple in lady dacre's wine.
The quivers influenced the
nerve endings at the base of my spine,
and the dimmed lights flickered
almost imperceptibly.

I saw the faces of the lazybones
in the bar, the panic-

Most people survived.

Ha! and I had hopes
for a better ending.

Placing my hand on the window pane, I felt it knocking
outside, as the rain ****** buckets and washed my car.
Every few seconds, the sky was talking,
but I would never let it in.

I stepped down into a dour acceptance
and bought a moderately-priced raincoat.
The spitting sky would never cease
And I began to imagine which items I owned could float.

I wished I chose swimming lessons over piano,
but at least because of it I had one.
I figured it might become a useful raft
if indeed no one ever again sees the sun.

How much water can fit under the sky? I wondered,
and at what depth will my body finally rest?
I realized I hadn't the time to consider intangibles
or to issue to God any vague, indirect requests.

I pressed my forehead against the glass, just stop!
There was a moat between houses now,
with pets and telephone poles and trees as islands.
The chill of cataclysm began to freeze my brow.

Later on my roof wearing my raincoat I daydreamed
about the things I loved underneath the silvery-grey.
I waved to my neighbor and he sadly waved back,
and I held up my glass of wine and watched the world wash away.

I'm a monster | an abberation.
A sightless loon | a desecration.
What do you want from me?

I live in a fantasy concentration.
A constant mental demonstration.
What do you want with me?

I'm sick.
I fail.
I quit.
I whine.
I want nothing but to make things mine.

I avoid.
I covet.
I'm paranoid.
I pine.
I want nothing but to make you mine.

I own your every move.
Control your mind and lease your soul.
You're amusement | there's no other way.
I swallow life | there's no other way.

"Can you honestly love a dishonest thing?"
Lie to me.
Lie with me.
Lie right through your teeth.
Tell me of the joy.
The light.
The sweetness.
Underneath.

Here I am
Tell me I'm lying | and hide
Your pain beneath your skin.
Tell me that you're pleased | grin

Let everyone else go.
No one.
Can know you like I know you.
No one.
Cares | cares to care | can care.
I see you laid bare.
Open | for me.

I know you | you are serpentine
Lie to me.
Lie to me.
Afford me a second look.
You are serpentine | simian.
A match | a head | a book.
Beautiful and useless | brazen and prey.
A word and a mind is all it took.

You are serpentine.
Coiled into knots.
Breathing like a drum | coming undone
Turning poison [cannots]
Into years of history-

Realms | orbs.
Spheres of stunning beauty.
"Digest a world of interest."
I eat your eyes.
You are serpentine.

I was approached long ago in the Red Star Lounge.
"I offer you personal lessons on the art of detection,"
the stranger said. Now, my disbelief has been on suspension
ever since I arrived,
but I knew that accepting this offer would be less than wise.
I asked, "What do you mean?"
He answered, "Do you notice this ring on my finger?"
I nodded, he continued-
"Now this..." the last syllable lingered
in the air as he paused,
wishing I grasped the suspense he hoped to cause.
"...is a ring, but it is not ordinary." He stared at me-
Too intent to be a glare-
"Than what is it?" I queried.
As if I even cared-
"Its power extends beyond this mortal realm,
and if you are ready, to you I bequeath it."
"If I were ready?" I stared back-
"How can one tell?" I had had about enough of this, I was exhausted.
"I'd deduce if you were prepared,
but I know already you are-
the look in your eyes,
I've not seen in decades,
in my travels near and far-"
This wandering loon, this destitute pariah,
and it was I that captivated his attention.
His attention was rapt, though wrapped too tightly he was not.
It was Orpheus I thought of, and his lyre,
as he removed his ring and offered it.
"Wear this, assume my role-"
Burned was my wit-
I accepted his gift,
and as I gazed at it foggy-eyed, he told me-
"You must comply! Put it on and do as it commands!"
I was in a daze, too confused to flee-
"Do it!"
So I did-
And nothing happened-
He stared at me as if I were a ghost-
"Well? What does it tell you?"
My face went sanguine with rage as I answered virulently-
"Nothing! I hear nothing! You are a fool!"
He looked dejected, grey as a ghoul-
I was mad at myself for buying into this nonsense,
though I felt guilty for being so cruel-
"Are you..." He paused as he considered my eyes. "...sure?"
"Yes."
"Then give it back, you aren't the one I was looking for."
That offended me-
"Wait, wait! I implore you to wait!"
I concentrated on the ring, I will make myself this one.
"Just give it back," He held out his hand-
"Maybe it just isn't going exactly to plan," I conceded.
He still looked defeated,
but his eyes were the eyes of a tormented man.
"No! Return it at once!" He seized my wrist.
Instantly I made a fist-
"I feel something! I swear it is true!
I know now exactly what it is I'm to do!"
He struggled to open my hand as I clenched it ferociously-
"I must travel this land, gifting all with my wisdom!"
He sneered at me and bit my thumb-
"Why won't you believe me?"
"Because you're a liar!" He said, as I bled into my palm-
"You can't possibly know that!" I shoved him away-
He pushed me back and I fell from my feet-
He pounced on my chest and as he spoke I felt the heat
from his words-
"I made it all up!" His spit specked my cheeks-
"I stole it from a doctor, I've tried to sell it for weeks!"
I couldn't understand-
"You were supposed to wear it,
like it,
keep it,
then pay me to thank me!"
He rose and I rose, and I dabbed my face with his shirt-front.
I felt betrayed from my head right down to my toes-
"But I don't have any money-"
From the look I received,
I don't think he considered that funny-
"I know what to do..." I said meekly and smiled.
"...the ring speaks to me, I must be the one,
the chosen,
the golden child..."
He hung his head and shrugged
and I thought of the doctor he mugged,
and then I thought of my hatred for doctors-
"But keeping it I don't think would be proper."
There was a gleam in his eye as my hands came together,
but as hard as I pulled, the ring stayed right on-
"I think it's stuck," I said-
He stood as if his bones were made entirely of lead-
Frustrated beyond speech.
I kept trying to remove it,
but it wouldn't even budge-
"Maybe you should get some soap and water,
maybe that'd get it off-"
He scoffed-
Turned, and walked away-
I waited awhile, but he never came back-
So I still wear that ring to this day,
though it has yet to utter another mention of my duty-

Then I went to city park
to feed breadcrumbs to pretty larks.
I brought my niece Elise
and my nephew Patrice.
Well we stayed 'til after dark.
My brother's wife, she called me,
so I waived the dollar-nine fee.
She wants her kids.
So I closed my lids,
and I told her that that won't be.
Sorry, I'm taking them now, they're mine.
I'm not wantin' to listen to her whine,
so I hung up the phone,
let out a moan,
said it's time to go, it's after nine.
The children asked when they're going home.
"Well, we're hittin' the road, going to roam."
After 77 miles of driving,
they both got to crying'
and I told 'em to SHUT THEIR ******' MOUTHS.
I pulled over the car at Oregon Shortine,
took the W. Michigan Cross to Madison
merged to Blancheflower Ave.
Wait!

I said stay right ******' there.
I opened the trunk.
And with a THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
I bashed out their brains on the seats.




How are you, my friends?
I miss you, I was hanging out with some unsavory joggers,
and they always wanted to see some buffalo.



So I cleaned the seats.


I love a machine, I love a machine. I love a machine. How can this be, how can I feel so eruditely unclean? Is this the ends to my ill-gotten means? So how are you?


Then I left them lying there, across from the Lebanon Computer Cafe.
So I left them-


Advise me...


It was after all getting late.


My life is a net, my life is a net. I swirl and unfurl and stone the design, I curse myself, my heartstring facsimile. I played piano to forget, but my mind needs 89 keys to remember how to do that, and all I had was 88.


So I went to bed.

It was tea time.

This truest love, triumphantly
   is a bird of prey
marauding 'twain these grayest skies and tenured gain
dine with blessed distinction,
feathered queen!
And any mice caught in between-
   For does my love in summer's rain
prey on the solace of my nightly dreams

Do gauge my love as span of wings
   the distance 'tween each finger
Her wings are spread and through the sky
she soars in arcs and swirls
Each and every blissless night,
   she passes coyly o'erhead,
The curtain in my blood unfurls
and this presence ever lingers-

Perched aloof and tauntingly in a bending oak
she says: "These stars that hover
             above the sky I disbelieve-
           Their palaver, quaint and lasting,
             I disbelieve-
They grip and guide my flutters as an ever-tightn'ng yoke."
Each hand I place o'er the other,
'til each branch is a rung, ladder to the moon.
Said: "And coldly does this horrib' moon smile,
        she laughs 'til my tail is the dust
        each stroke of hours and minutes speak to me
        this cunning moon pours in our hearts this lust-
           How could these shambles any trust?"
This sky, though blacken'd,
cannot rend apart what's happened,
and all it sees with terrible eyes
can prevent not this love fore'er mend-

She glode politely out o' reach,
To soar delightly by me-
Said: "I see the jilted morning glory
           bowing to the moon.
       Each stalk twines traitoriously
           a capsulating swoon-
       Each fruit it bears bequeathes 'nto me
       callous forms of elliptic bracts,
       eats as nothing more than flax-"

For every morning glory's betray'l
I'll harvest ten thousand Orchids from the meadow's fringe,
plucked from the margins of the bog-
This love is not a passing arc
that follows does that jealous moon-
I'll trek the acid, foy an' dinge,
and, if those mice do not erstwhile dine on this orchid's seeds,
that which lays dormant, 'neath the leaves
will send up freshly blooming stalks.

He's King Louis.
I went to school with the regency.
He's superfluous, and
he taught me grammatical consistency.

Since the first day of education,
he showed me cultural emancipation
behind the bleachers in the gymnasium,
between three and six on Wednesday afternoons.

He wore a crown of indignation
to guide him in his transmigration
of lines no boy should cross.

He takes the bait from all the teachers
and all the handshakes from the preachers
until it's not just the heat that makes King Louis swoon.
The priests, they tell him in their French,
"**** de Monarque se viendra repentir!"
Much, much too late, the little wretch.

King Louis knows arithmetic, and
he listens to The Smiths with it
and thinks the rumors just aren't fair.

He knows the kids are uncouth gits
and all their sweaters are too loosely knit
and they don't spend nearly enough time on their hair.

Because he was King Louis,
time spend wading through the past is not a fling,
but a testament to getting up and staying there.

This is not atrocity
This is the basement
This is the sea receding like lips to reveal tooth-like shells
  
Amongst the bullet casings and corpses felled leaving the boats
This is the sand like an inverted moat around the
Kingdom at sea, and this is the Remainder.
   Yet they remain jubilantly-

Is this what being jubilant means?
Chamomile anklets adorning a hanged child.

This is not atrocity,
Ignorance wielding pitchforks and fire.
Anger alight and hostility riled
This is not atrocity.
This is not far from this reality;
Remember this child-
  
And the mob piled like tinder on themselves
Convincing carrion feeders
And unimpeded breeders that
Halt the march of science that
This is not atrocity.

The certain hot song by which Earth is greeted
Has an immediately recognizable tune.
And
This is not atrocity;
It sounds more like ******, ******.

But I can't hear it
And I have no fear anymore
I open my eyes to another routine killing, and I know-
      
This is atrocity-

But a necessary one.
It's hardly enough to stay alive
And as I and we strive for
Money and coffee and love,
I and we let
atrocity
enter us.
Climb into us like a hand does a glove,
or a puppet.
It is not nature;
Nor fate;
And one needn't be dead
to appreciate the ability to open the senses
and actually sense.

And this,
I am certain,
   Is not an atrocity

You handed me your heart and I held it
felt it, squeezed it through my fingers
staring lingers, that's the ringer
it kept time once, pendulum swinging
in metric, you were electric
ten ticks for every tock
it was a shock to see you waste away
tumbling like a lock, in decay
gave it up on Christmas Day
filled my stockings with trinkets
then meshed with the machines
that beeped and kept your time
ten ticks for every tock
I sat beside your bed,
ate vanilla bean ice cream and
stared at the sea foam green ceiling
and counted the time between beeps
ten, ten, then eleven, slowing down
it wasn't in my head, the nurses
said it was routine, a regression to the mean
but it was your heart that was routine
keeping time safe
but then your eyes were empty
and I could see interplanetary space
in between the accordion regulating
your breathing's pace
then the beeping ceased
and where once I was with a man in a bed
in a room with machines and statues of saints
peering down with stoic grace,
I was then alone.

The invalids,
misanthropes-

Spell-check your ego at the dooooooooooooor
And though I fancy that fancy liqueur
I'm of sound mind and jaded-
Gore doesn't bother me and my eyes are all faded-
I'm a child of the devil
So let me level with you-
I don't know what I abhor more,
All this violence in the world, or the lack of haberdashery stores
So I'm of reasonable theory,
And awfully good at this-
So let me circumvent this infinite abyss-
Yeah, I'm *******-
Send me your tired, your weary,
your weird and your eerie,
and I'll eat them with a spoonful of peacock ore-

So I'm better at this than you are-
And I'm from France-
That probably makes you leery,
But my pants are clean and I'm the God of War-
Inadequate!
Mundane!
The pedestrian,

Heretofore-

I crush you, I'm a crusher-
A garbage compacter pall bearer usher-
I'm of appropriate quality-
I spit at inequality with a certain measure of frivolity-

I'm the benefactor of a luster-
So let me rush you into a hasty decision-
"I don't know about that," I hear you utter,
"Stuff it, yo!" I tell you, this is intermission, not the gutter-
So I'm a trap-

As comforting as a spinal tap-
Happy as a lark but fashionable as a jester's cap-
and with a wire cutter mouth-
With which I eat things with a forkful of infidelities-
Though I find the rings hard to chew-

People, they just ain't all golden, not at all.
Not even silver, magnesium or copper.
Maybe zinc, because it tastes like ink and it does your body good,
but you never get enough, even though you know you should.
But had I the means, and the ends were understood,
would I be zinc? Would I carry the common good?
Would I feign precious metal? Or am I nothing but wood?
I met today aluminum, he said, "I'm bad luck."
"I know it," I said, "You're out of your element."
"My melting point is 660.2°C!"
I told him my name was Kristian Huselius,
but that turned into a testament.
"You're just lucky you aren't a duck," he said.
"Maybe, but I find I've got too much will."
"You can't spread will on bread, my friend,"
he said, much to my Brazil,
"but lucky for you they make contraceptives in pills."
I didn't want children anyway, but when Boron arrived,
I was feeling less than sublime.
Boron said, "My name rhymes with '*****'!"
"No kidding, Boron," I replied.
"I can come in both the dark crystal and brown powder variety!"
"That may or may not be true," said Aluminum,
"but at least I benefit society."
Oh, yeah, he said it, he went there.
"I value correctness and propriety!" Boron shrieked.
"And you can be flimsy, squishy, and weak!"
I wanted no part in this, so I meandered.
Not too long after, I met Helium.
I told him my name was Carlton Deandre.
"I don't believe you, mealworm," he bombasted.
"You're gaseous," I said, "I wouldn't put it past ya."

A model-
be efficient
A perfect engine
nigh omniscient
Neither claim nor hint
alludes to friction lost.
To wallow-
hex apparent
Vexed religion
oil derrick
Neither faith nor glint
reflected love at cost.
To follow-
mixed emotion
Pious signet
faux devotion
Saving grace and bliss
cold as the morning frost.
A sorrow-
manufactured
built conviction
savior fractured
Neither waste nor sins
do human creatures wash.

Identity resolved, blue ribbons taut-
I am speech, a verb, a praise, a participial phrase-
There are many battles yet to be fought,
but with respite and awareness of everything throughout,
and to know one's self is to know the world-
Action vernacular, I use words like disappear to identify-
Find one's self in all mundane, rain and flame and claimless blame,
I am the Earth-
Words like crush and blight,
For philistines and charlatans, I preach intrepidly-
A zeal-
Belief is as an ageless hearth,
smelting swords for smiting fear,
for pain and trepidation to disappear.
Reborn red-horned, and one dozen eyes can see
I'm a word, a noun, a ****, a key, and All alive is a mirror,
It is dangerous to utter truths when lies are all the rage,
But I reflect the truth-
Every creature, refined or uncouth,
is a form of life, a light of myself.
To forget is just as whimsical as a simple turn of phrase,
all I can advise,
is to simply turn the page-
Normalcy and tact are artificial-
At base, one's merit is no longer superficial,
but to assert this fact-
This is the greatest battle of all.

On the train, the "Caretaker of ******* Masses"
Taking classes on fascist *****,
hiding my eyes behind rose-colored glasses
I am in transit:
On the rails between Wayne and the Western Passes
the shellgrasses on the plains
on either side of the train surpasses
the wane of the forest in the distance.
A florist in the aisle peddles her wares
The poorest seated triple-file give her longing glares
"Will you buy some roses today?"
She holds no roses, only hay

Fingers on the arm of the chair
wafting in the smell of her hair-
You there?
Come, my dear, if you dare
quietly, how will you fare
if you hear the words I have for your ears?

She passes, another transaction
supersedes this attraction:
No reaction? No pause.
Even in asking my question withdraws
to the rear compartment.

This line is miles through benign black pines
and white cliffs, stained by time
Every hour she hovers near, marked by the whine
of passersby lamenting their confines-
Every hour fails to entwine us,
so I sit alone with wine and swine.

The conductor tells me we've arrived
but I consider it survived
I've died and revived by the short hand
in anything but repose.
Disembarking, she brushes my sleeve,
then through the crowd on the platform leaves.
Never to receive my rose.

Pre
  serve myyyyy
                      bones.
I've been delayed,
a breath betrayed
by getting paid
and it cuts me to my roots-

So send it all,
         send it all
       so send it all
         send it all
back

Pro
   tect meeeeee
why        ?
         What do I warrant
         less than a torrent
         of ambiguity?

**** it all,
    just **** it all
**** it all, all only time
       picture this

fixtureless and frozen
captive and hope is this
a smolderer
heat below the ice
confused by up and down as sideway is just as respectable

help with thisssssssssssss
this pile of lines scream make me a circle.
and my stack of circles reply with I'd rather be a cloud.

the clouds have coughed
and coated me with coats.
You can't adjust the wind but you can jump off the boat.

It's like wine
made in      the gutter
fermented by the sun,
broke the diatribe's flutter.
I exchanged the anger for a bottle
for my cellar.

In 82
words, I add 6
locks for 88
keys, then wait!

In a perfect world,
the skin of these 10
fingers would be gloves for the sinews beneath.
In a perfect world,
my 32
teeth would sing psalms to the brush.
In a perfect world,
my 2
eyes and 1
heart would beat and blink in unison,
and behind the ashen sky
the majesty of interstellar space
is almost detectable.

And in these 82
words, the world
becomes perfect,
albeit briefly.

I caught my eyes in the gold-flecked mirror
And paused to trace the diameters.
What should have appeared nearer
Developed its own parameters.

I paused to trace the diameters,
And discovered the golden flakes
Developed their own parameters
And coalesced opaque.

Upon discovery, the golden flakes
Formed a cloud inside my iris
And coalesced opaque,
A golden plague or virus.

A cloud formed inside my iris
And obstructed the view of the sun.
A golden plague or virus
Traipsing like a legion.

Clouds obstructed my view of the sun
So night seemed to stretch beyond
Traipsing across the horizon like a legion
And elicited in me a muted response.

My life is a conflict,
for instance, I'm anti-
prefix and I print thou
sands of leaflets to end
waste and promote recy
cling.

Is nothing sacred? No
thing ventured, nothing gained.
Even the cows appre
ciate the milk of hu
man kindness. Nothing is
sacred. The snare drum in my
heart has lost its tautness, the
springs have become strings that
are pulled not by heartwarm
ing scenes but the slowly
chilled grip of calipers.

*****.

Twirling like the devil's baton
a cyclic cul de sac
'round the positronic menagerie,
speared from stem to stern, floor to ceiling,
arched bowed bent backs saddled ridden tools
adolescent ne'er-do-wells and prepubescent fools
all desiring to sit nowhere but by me,
by me, by me-

My friend of cosmic dawn, take my hand and
traipse like a runner in a blind alley.
Lead me to my quiet stead, walk and stamp about,
my cloven-hoofed associate, sarcastically devout,
and show me that everything in this whole world
is presented via legerdemain, deceitful cleverness,
but it cannot cure my lightheadedness, felt by me,
by me, by me...

She said it's "Brittany, not Britney,"
as we walked over the Mathematical Bridge.
I asked her if that was a reference,
but there's more than just a difference in nomenclature.

She said, "My name is Brittany Etheridge
but there is also a Britney Etheridge,
and she's a walking disaster."
I said "Hey, I never knew..."
as I looked into the river.

"Did you know about this bridge?" she asked me,
and I answered, "It's just a way between shores."
But there's always more to what is there, there's history.
"It was here before computers, before the wars,
before Britney Etheridge."

I could see my reflection in the water below,
warping my face with the current, and
it left me with nothing but a desire to know the history of all things,
but mainly Brittany Etheridge.

She told me, "Isaac Newton built this bridge
without any screws or bolts. Now that's engineering."
And I agreed with a nod and a smile.
"Britney Etheridge wouldn't care though."

She kept talking after that, but all the while I thought
about the bridge, and how there're screws here now.
She told me, "Isaac Newton built this bridge
without any screws or bolts."

A:
Claw at the satin ceiling. Being
buried alive
is a ***** detail
best left to jealous lovers.
B:
Insert your index finger
through the fabric of the lid
and tear.
C:
Taste the tepid soil and tell yourself
the sunrise waits for you.
You are the giant squid, meandering through
the velvet ovens of dirt.
D:
Each digit on your flailing fist
is a fleshy flower in concert
with your wrists. Protrude.
E:
Read your stone-etched name
aloud. Sound out each etched sound.
Each syllable.
Trace it with your fingers.
F:
Shield your brow from the brilliance
of irony as you begin to crawl back in.

If you would permit me, I'd like to close the blinds, for
in only twenty minutes the sun is due to rise.
It tends to taunt the people
lamenting your position,
so if you would permit me,
I'd like to close the blinds.

If you would permit me, I'd like to sit a spell, and
wait until your eyelids close, and whisper, "Do farewell."
The love: Your veins are guiding to your heart,
to insulate its rooms,
so if you would permit me,
I'd like to sit a spell.

If you would permit me, I'd like to calm your nerves, for
excitement does accelerate, at least I have observed.
So please, for you, and yes, for me too,
just rest and close your eyes.
So if you would permit me,
I'd like to calm your nerves.

If you would permit me, I'd like to bid you tidings, for
no longer in these hallowed halls will your body be residing.
What seems like ending might not be so bleak,
for this galaxy cannot hold you.
So if you would permit me,
I'd like to bid you tidings.

The mailbox that bears my name was filled with notes from God's secretary,
each notarized with an antioxidary,
regretting to inform me
| a meeting cannot be yet arranged,
{that} the schedule will just not allow |
And as my eyes palavered with each and every flowing word,
{The clerk had impeccable penmanship}
the sorrow hit me like a God ****** hammer,
falling flaming from the gloomy clouds,
splitting my skull without a sound,
and if I could accurately express exasperated stammering,
my letters in return would be that-

So to temporarily occupy my infinite time,
dine do I, on plates of leaves, as the guest of hounds from Hell,
And O! they do not bellow but whimper quietly.
They softly said as I was fed to second-guess my piety,
but whether they meant to be so dour it was difficult to tell.
So as I ate my mind escaped and I fell and fell and fell
(not unlike a hop/skip/jump straight into a well.)

The hounds with zeal! they laughed at me
as I tumbled into darkness.
O! how lonely falling is, it can only end in pain.
As I swirled into the pit I see my past is feigned.
The darkness then began to waste away as light unfurled,
and fast and sure my flailings ceased, and I landed on my porch.
The force my feet had bent the boards and my mailbox erupted.
The letters God had sent to me fluttered coyly in the breeze.

I remembered how the lamb I had eaten was most oily,
   and I vomited-
But all that came from my tired organs was the milk of human kindness.
I rose and stood la'statuesque,
frozen,
like a victim of a Gorgon-
My limbs then quit;
I acquiesced,
and fell again onto my porch.

I could hear the cackling that drifted from the matted muzzles of the hounds,
hiding in the shrubs nearby.
I tried to yell
but hounds from Hell
can only hear a lie;
I whispered, "Yes, I'm doing fine, I ask you, don't assist..."

The laughing stopped a'suddenly and silence took ahold.
I lied, I lied!
I lied as I were dead.

The hounds understood and turned to dust, vanished with the wind.
O! how lonely falling is, the landing ostracizes,
and there I sat, a porch pariah,
until the mailman returned with the sun,
bringing bills and notes from God,
and soon my mailbox will again be filled |

| And confound me like a divining rod in a boat
When everything points to true and right,
abandon do I all my hope |

You are a field of juniper trees, and your fruit serves as spice.
Bear the meat of your branches to sustain my flesh.

There is an idea that I'm the thicket and the mire.
I am a fen, obstructing the progress of civility.

You have your saving graces, like being late for work.
The windows and doors that break up your walls have purged you.

Talking to you when I'm dour is like tiptoeing amidst 88 keys.
I speak to you in scales and you reply in minor chords.

Diametrically I fear the morning may bring slight frost.
You are still; persistent with the coyly threatening.

And though one of us may be artificial, I was trying to be vague.
But sometimes I get so involved in the actual literal meaning in things.

When you enter, it’s as a fog would, a cloud come crashing down.
And I have failed to avoid the damage in your wake.

I am the coy smiling handsome man
and my feet beat the darkness away when I rush.
And I rush, in the alleys, sightless,
an actor led by lines of wilting dialogue.
And jasmine litters the gutters, fit to be dredged, the
aroma and the petals streaked with reminiscence.
I rush. I am the man toward an apogee,
a scalpel, with tastes as keen as winter lavender,
and eyes that feel the weight of tastes behind them.
As I dredge the depths for rarer tastes
I rush toward the gutter.
And like the gutters I thirst, in the levees and fen-
In the fen the rush of prey caught
Idling fills the space inside my eyes like oil,
and I dredge the lake for traces.
I am the actor, the dredge, my wit rehearsed
and I am acquainted with the lady of the night.
I smile as she caresses my oily deluged eyes-
And her eyes are filled with bile,
accented by jasmine, even
in the dimmest light of
gutters are rushing to an
apogee, fiercer than I'd like them to
appear, but I am the scalpel, to incise the insincere-
I am the prince, an heir to exacting the coerced-
I watch her eyes like windows from the gutter like a vigil
and hold tight to her breath.
I pour her blood in paper cups
until her breath is weightless-
And I rush, an actor, in the scene that we portray-
I am the giver, the oily deluged eyes that close around the flesh
and rend the fruit from the rind.

I’ll split the hairs, I’ll split an atom
And never leave the bedroom.
I most identify with December,
Not because of the crushing temperature
But the lack of cosmic dawdling
Is no more mesmerizing than a frozen phoenix.

And as she arrives by train from Phoenix,
I study who she appears to be, the atoms
Composing her auburn hair with dawdling
Authenticity shout “Take me to the bedroom!”
While the wedge of geese in this temperature
Head to the Southern Hemisphere’s December.

The common chill of this morning in December
Prevents us from rising from out the covers like a phoenix,
And our blankets like ash defend us from the temperature
That stills the vibrations of the atmosphere’s atoms.
I curse the insulated walls of the bedroom,
Trapping in heat and discouraging our dawdling.

A rafter of turkeys outside my window are dawdling,
Printing their runes on the documents of December
Between the thickets surrounding the bedroom
While the sun, golden like the plumage of a phoenix,
Awakens in my bones every dormant atom,
Instilling in me courage to brave the temperature.

I follow her, dressed, from the bedroom
And her footsteps serve to punctuate the temperature
Like the smoldering beak of a phoenix
Too busy being risen for dawdling.
She leaves, by train through the chill of December,
Me daydreaming of fission. The splitting of an atom.

I’ll split an atom daily, safely within the bedroom
And sleep through December’s pitiless, hollow temperature,
Waking only for dawdling until Spring is a phoenix.