Leave the clean up to the professionals,
the conspiracies to the airs.

The dance macabre, music all-strutting a
life-expression,
worn in the ingratiating shimmer
off Time’s surface,
bright as a smile
and decent as a memory.

Like a worn blade
incapable of cutting so much of
what is needed of cloth,
and leaving only ruin
in its wake.
Just so,
matter turns to finer matter,
and of the, well, supposed immaterial,

the
to be not-to-be-so abstract
that-is-a-life,
a worn-to-pieces quilt of
finer thread than dust,
ambivalently contrasting
in the light of:
what is useful,
what is not,
loves me,
loves me not,

Alchemical winds
guide matter, groaning against
the firmament in its
transmigration:
foundations of the world.

Such madness;
as a heavenly body
turns its face, revealing and
concealing at once;
as a fruit fly
clones its black
cloak under the
plain daylight;
as a hat
lies upon a coat rack,
and haunts us at all
ungodly hours of the night.
A ghost! - one that
we mistake for whole.

Such empty evil
as a vessel that consumes others
like itself cannot be a sin
greater than creation.
And as all things cast shadows
in the light,
so walks a shadow
that some call a friend -
a visitor born of the same
fate as your own!

Illustrious visage
offering everything of your spectral body up
to the eyes of mortals.
A revenant memory,
poetry incarnate,
a heart of bliss testifying
through simple presence
the adversity of life
in her monstrous majesty.
It is you who
guides us
from one hollow to the next,
you who
tells a secret,
when cradled by the void.

Streetlights glide past on a Tuesday night,
so alone, and the air,
cold wet.
Your faces form a phase like
a string of pearls,
occurrences distributed in space,
Watching mournful over the
deserted pedestrian causeways
eliciting sonderous ghosts,
Leaving voicemails
for romances that never happened.
And selfishly, I presume
a perspective,
Or really, I dream up of a
place to meet you,
like an alleyway (I am a **** in this instance),
Or the leftovers of a wedding
eagerly awaiting the clean-up crew.

There is another gravity
which falls into the stars,
whose weightlessness enables
the tendrils of space to abound,

whose blackness befits the shadows
cast by needling trees,
a circumnavigation
brought about by ease

Mother Mary with her tilted head
suggests,
with her Posture,
the light that illuminates her shawl.

Like a leaf tilted by the weight
of water,
the sky demands Enough and speaks,
easy words.

For a time, when the world is silent,
not even
a mystic experience could perfume
the inventory of delight.

Even the light is hollow bubbles.

Blood in the blue,
a direct proclamation of fate,
guided like an arrow,
an actor, or oneself-
a mere impulse-desire in the velvet ruins of eternity.

Temporally displaced,
The hidden moment of a lifetime’s innocent
desire to become
nothing more
than this, that is here,
a dream working on the edge of town,
an elephants delight,
a signal flare on a dark sea nesting quietly underneath an endless, black sky.

We pity those mortals
who have tasks at hand,
who, if they turn the leaflet,
must do so within the lap of an hour.

For the gods who abode in wilderness
attain the aspects of midges,
and fruit that strikes the barren floor
must return by way of mold,

And the idyllic breath of trees
is tainted by those of spiders,
who pass the day by hanging web
and small talking with their cohort.

Water, which does run its course
in magnificent reprisal
of the solidity of dust and mornings
that come crashing down on morrow,

Must take its penitence in life,
locked by pen and reed,
in its return trip to the sea, it meets
all possibility.

All foolery turns to error
when sung within a hymn,
we mistake that grave thing, Time
amidst the company of ghosts.

The bandied craft of time
So gentle and limitlessly insane,
To be out of the mind,
within,
and in between too,
To have punctured the void with great rapidity.
We speak no language.
We know no lust.
And always, with the longing…

As Cupid’s arrow strikes the ladder
and rains down mists of distrust
on the Garden of today,
We are here to uphold the law
in the Sphinx’s eyes-
We are in between.
We are worth.

Albeit
a renown tosses about the town,
an equal silence returns it.

A rerun,
that’s all this is -
the only way to explain the misplaced,
cross-laced habit of the orphaned matter
that knick-knacks the ankles of abode,

By the hair of the dog and the rising sun,
purity is in the coo-coo announcing the arrival
of the Monarch,
and with it the madness like the kissing of two petals,
in the break of a wave and also in the Sun,
and in all poetry of people.

Farting felicity -
How long gone, now a
distant star in space-
as a gurgling brook of
heavenly murmurs, disquiet
thrumming combo, turned
crescent flesh, brutal and subdued until,
one socializes, recombines,
and altruism visits, presides, provides.

Carpi, digitorum, and flexors,
metacarpals, index, and fingertips
dangle a top for a gambler's game,
and, with it, the fate of outcome, and
woe for the long-begotten soul,
the soul drab in its rag, robe, and *****,
whose wealth subtracts as it doth add,
and a wise fool realizes -
Time and grace,
Love and death,
departure and arrival,
is but ******.

Commonness of the flowers  -
virtuous insignificance,
invoking visions of royalty
for ants, and snails, and such,

How trivially contests mankind,
what costumes their children wear,
while, silently, a bulbous sun
sidles across the sky.

met a stoner on the highway
who was crying like an angel
of grace, leavened
like the abacus of misery’s
loom, a fellow sun-washed
tarnished
goodness graced
ill-believer who
saw no distance in the stars
and burned his soul with needles,
coming down on a young child
eclipsing serial apocalypses
in calypso’s grace,
a *****,
or a *****, poisoned
on a long winter’s algebra
entering into a space of
infinite solitude within the held notion of all beings,
O Shadow,
oh strange manifest of worldly sin,
where is my friend, oh master of destinies,
what shape is he in? does the dream
of a lost dogs sorrow hypnotize
like the eyes of a sparrow,
shooting like an arrow from a
deep dark hello,
how does one to think?
know?

I

Salient soliloquies startle unemployed brokers breaking windsurf and almond joys against a heavenly myrtle, or
Shallow ponds of serendipity swallowing enormously at bandits who bait their breath as minutes retreat, or
this poetry is about reminders, or
Children hiding under ghosts evoking dead pools of drinking moss,
who dream of knowing silence

Who,
spreading dyes of crushed grass give scarecrows a purpose to perch,
In a land called Home,
In an outlet called intelligible,
during a shared history, which,
Under dissection,
startles earthworms from their native volumes now standing naked in the daylight,
The daylight, which is contained,
a specular cocoon or an inverted dome: the sky.

II

a pinwheel,
when spinning, is unsuspected of employing Nature’s most dangerous tools,
One of flatness, one of exuberance, jubilation,
of the dirt that falls upon ones clothes as one passes through the pines and pins of solitude,
solitude, which,
in a wave from the unknown, dispose of forgone longings through the greeting of a friend who remains a stranger until they’re gone.

Well first i went up santa ana street,
hung a left, at little ida road,
and by and by the rain it came and washed out all the dirt,
and into those little running streams.

The concrete of the bridges they sung with hanging moss,
right over the heads of the horses,
and bit by bit the rain it fell and receded into earth,
oh heavens it was one downright cloudy day.

oh mystery it sung a song one precious and unborn,
of a mind much too loosened on the earth,
how a soul might plod no-one can know, how you feel much the same
day after many membered day.

many mottled heads they hang in reproachment and in mirth,
the jury of an open field of grass,
and all who come who dare to listen can only find a friend,
in the falling of the long remembered rain.

oh mystery it sung a song one precious and unborn,
of a mind much too loosened on the earth,
how a soul might plod no-one can know, how you feel much the same
day after many membered day.

A handful of the rosary:

One for the bell,

One for the crow that flew the town,
upon the spire’s clattering ring.

One for the herb
meant to freshen the room,

One for the beating moth,

One for the well-worn apparatus
that keys keep hidden for the host.

The great big sea
perpetually bewilders.
The unreasoning wind
gives us the flower and the bee.

What alien law
does the wild ranger keep?
Or, alien to the tongue,
to give it a name, sleep.

Geography, she is a Queen,
who's sovereign to Fate,
her jurisdiction facilitates
the bounds on which actors play.

Entanglement, or otherwise,
a soft impression left,
a silly thing to introduce,
a solemn thing to guise.

She is the master of the late,
she rises beneath the sun,
and yet, when all is said, and done,
she propitiates no name.

So whatever, winds the wit
that could match her own,
to take a leave, the actors bow,
and peregrinate home.

That the body is a man,
that I do not know.
The body, rearing, is a Titan;
sand, its simple subject.

A baby, dying, upon its birth?
Tis' truth, we're blind to see.
A baby tells you with its eyes:
a soul can only know.

That animal who judges
wraps itself with weight,
who sees, blindly, its own versions
of that notion, fate.

If divinity had a plan,
t'would not be 'fore the flowers,
proceeded, wrecklessly, to 'pense
their friend, the baby worm.

What is there, then, to say,
that company should need?
Pray, perhaps, a happy rain,
or a day with which to wait?

Talk works best when certainty’s aside,
so the company’s address is wavered.
The message, therefor, a matter of formality,
and the meaning, made direct.

Such is the secret of telepathy,
of the mountain mouse’s cherade,
What would the owner of the Place
do sooner than trivialize?

Solaris and symmetry
Half-darkened in the moon,
To eyesight gives sanity
To the heart, a single mind.

The ocean, yawning, is the beast,
Now simple majesty.
Its eyes, winking midst the slumber
Of the century.

the lost conspire
for some oblong heresy:
the earth says must,
yet the heavens desist.

so long to hope,
or so they say,
that which leaves the soul
for better judgement.

or heaven yet
might visit your doorstep
and send you a sign
in the shape of a smile.

That's the animation!
- that captures the heart
and flourishes a bloom.
Pity though,
for I see it not,
and must dwell upon a Who.

What contract
binds my desire
to righteousness?

Oh, that righteousness must be oblivious to such fiction,
for Love is not calculated,
and no mortal could account its worth
being limited in time.
Therefor, should I languish to attain such love?
Or is even suffering necessary?
Let it be subtracted from life, and then see.

To release the unwholesome,
the unwholesome,
which has a life of its own
and flutters like a nightbird...
It is so limber,
It should exceed my grasp.
Or else, let it be some cloud that casts a shadow on the ground. Who would service thee in such a way?

So simple, to walk to heaven.

I see people
who wax and wane,
who are once kind, but then come to doubt themselves.
Perhaps there is no such thing as Love.
But, if there is, it comes and leaves souls untouched. Gentle thing?

I imagine people go entire lives without warmth, who were shunted so, so as to subsist on merry blows.

Would a loving God clapse her hands down in Law? Be there some poor chap who fits the bill, t’would be one who is the master of none.

Retribution is a troubling thing.

Position, at its utmost
buckles into meter,
losing originality,
condemning itself to fate.

His sister is Horizon,
annal of the past,
coming up to meet us at
the moment before dawn.

The records show that she has moved
but no one here has seen it,
no one can read semaphore
save the lovely moon.

And if we ask her for her word
she echoes back but silence,
so must we waste the evening
without accounting Highness.

It’s tough to be kind
when one is alone,
for life seems best
when shared with the other;

To cherish the story
of one not your own
is a pure devotion
to the living heart.

Sacred silence,
sanctuary,
sword held to the sky,
marking
some obscure signal,
some obscure sign.

Sphere of liquid
Gaia holds,
a nursery of fish,
decoration
for the lorn,
the love-held way
of late.

the universe is a resting place
for those defeated souls
who dwell in the security
of departing the unknown

green palms
exploding open
effortless
and concentric

spirograms
or feeling tissue
lifting an eye
to heat

a laughing minion,
waving all limbs,
rolls in a personal
rolls-royce carriage,
waving bye-bye
to every object,
oblivious as anybody
laughing at nothing.

A bullseye of velvet,
Ventricular,
Soft on the spot.
In bounding,
Sacred.

Devotion is what?
Tis’ hellish? Be free!
But, by the binding?
A shudder, tis’ breeze.

Sometimes we must play the fool
to be kind
to understand

The honest guise of another person
betrays itself
as useless stuff

So we surrender to face the day
to duck and weave
to wake and jest

Just so we may understand
another footprint
another step

Cinnabar
prods the person
to sunlight, trade, and time,
The civiliz’d do celebrate
what made the empire fine.

What schoolchildren adore in school
is what to all is heir,
The knowledge of practicality
made from the bursting bone.

Solitude
over many hours
is like a parade of many insects
of different species,
each a self,
each of a face unknown.

A passing mark,
like a comet, itself
from a distant source,
recognizes that it has no house
here, among the homes.

I proffer a flower
for you to smile,
But for your heart,
you frown.

May it hide
on your shelf,
with the dust
and the sunrays.

Forget it,
the sweetness
was not cupped
to my ear.

The hummingbird ate nectar
As I watched from across the way
But, closer scrutiny revealed
There actually fluttered a moth.

Mark- the funny feeling of
Meaningless eons of time
Dressing up a fluffy insect
And confusing a wandering mind.

Nothing belongs to me,
And that is my war,
Myself condemning myself,
So far from the world,
far from Life.

Perhaps the pansies know the thing
which makes them rather happy,
By happy, hap, that I mean
which, pointless, might say poppies

Though a struggle, pleasure none
may these plants endure,
The universe turns a fledgling care
as on the path one trudges

For what upon the earth does press
the setting for the story,
But the careless ease of poppies
passing on a day

A desire is infinity
but limited in scope,
To the well-worn feathered being
t’hither gusts a hope.

I am tired now after a quick days repast
Of waking up late and eventually getting to work
I drank
One cup of tea and three liters of water
And ate two sandwiches and twice I ate supper.

It is quite early in the morning now, and I have not allowed myself to put my parts back together after failing, just that daily task of
Not wasting time. But now, I retire.

The morning fast approaching
Leaves no time behind,
Just as gravity’s keep has swayed
Yet another tides the day.

My dad introduced me to a shiatsu practitioner,
Shiatsu is:
Japanese acupressure.

The gentleman, named Fujikawa,
told me the body is mechanical.
Pain, he said as he pressurized and stretched me, is real.
“Real pain” was his phrase. He repeated it often.

Fellow reader,
take care of the body while you have health. The body is a gift from nature. In my own case, I grew up not exercising much. Exercise may be a missing part of your life. —

I’m leaving all the time.
I chase the part
only to see it off
into the heavens-
while me,
here,
crude,
continues disillusionment.
You will never be mine.

The heart is a fickle thing.
Though warmth is in its nature,
what one counts as kind
the mind demands as tax.

Home for the holidays
And even though I have woken up late every day
My mom has waited for me to go out to lunch

By the grace of Neptune, and the humor of heaven,
We are free to carry on erroneously.
To the unsounding ailing, time has no meaning,
And in reality, indeed, presence is fleeting.

Patrons sit in a Chinese restaurant,
They look like quilts.
The subjects of anonymity. Trees bent down heavy with fruit for their families.
Rich with memory, they are the royalty of fortune, having found
nothing perfect, but something adequate
that makes sense of the wild
Of city towns and streets. They hold close to each other,
like jackets in this coming winter weather.

Sorry tonight,
the road was long and dark
And I could not see my friend,
or at least her face, in my mind’s eye.
Sorry, I guess, for being numb and devoid,
and yet my apology is a feeling,
thus I hope yet.

It’s been so long that I do not mind lying,
though by truth I had better yet set that down,
for I can’t keep track of myself, a mess I’ve already become.

Yet things are not so bad, not so barren as the tough vine,
I wake up every morning and, bless fate, I have a means to follow, that means within my heart. Were that means ever to die, may my heart beat again that I may reform some new means, one away from fate, one made within the realm of honesty, where my agency resides.