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.

Standing conifers
girdle them down
to recumbent silence,
their eyes-formed-plates
laterally diminishing in eighths,

They wait cross legged,
sheltered by palms of rock
and shattered limbs of lost parts,
their minds slowly wandering,
wrapping up the sky and up
to rest in sky

They are dreaming of singing,
dancing so
loudly
in the cold and new night,

If you are worn,
take musk upon your hands
and onto moss-ridden stones throw
upon yourself the swell and
look,
it is large and empty,
a disruption of rock breaking in the air

It is:
root splits stone
twining dirt into
valley covering,
splitting pine into pine
and path into path,
cutting and wandering
by the foot,

A microcosm but repeating itself repeating
itself,

Disrupted, and if upside down,
falling into sky.

The arms of eternity open,
like a sentimental bolero played
at some in-between place,
they open lazily
and incandescently,
encircling the comically and silently raging,

Poetically, and gently,
the phantom draws her wings towards forgetfulness -
at the eye of the temple -
distant,
full of guidance
and potential.
The profound silence of bitter lives.

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

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.

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.

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,

Visages perch like leaves offered to the sun,
as we lie below, sleeping in a stream,
toe-to-toe, our gills inundated with burning.

A half-light permits itself to be shown.
Its voice is used.

Sea monkeys may sing their fragments.
Their dreams are sharp coral
that drag power from the broken body
of a shore.
They are in sin -
a thing owned so unseriously.

With the setting sun, the great aftermath
looks on in leisure, and as a slave to the mystique:
time’s wide course
does not return nor continue accordingly.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Felt like the steel tipped edges of a fake sword,
A young lover's sting, inclined to make one sob
And feel sorry

But no, not a word
Spoken 'gainst the face of the snob
Never a parry
Nor a word against sherry

All people in old age seem to go mad
The brightest eyes also lost into darkness
The coldest rent to pay: our revelations
So take all chances to shake your soul
Because you'll be sent packing soon

A glassblown apple
Built with my own breath,
Absolutely clear
With refraction betraying structure,

But a hell of a hassle
To carry to death,
It shatters more readily
Than amnions rupture,

So,

I am forced to conclude
That mine is missing the years
That dotted the mighty fruit
That I liken to constellations,

But unless I am *****
My teeth and fibers make tears
So to preserve the jute
I stare at red contemplation.

I put shrinking rage into a cage
at the bottom of the sea,
gave two bubbles as companions
which made it float like a bee.

Sixty years later after many tides' lap,
my child before me will ask,
"Who is that bird who against your cage taps?
Is it looking to get free?"

Wrinkly old me will twiddle his thumbs
rub his temples for a bit and say,
"From that question, another riddle,
now go run along and play."

Then in the slanted evening light
a jumping will spider hail,
Where I'll slouch down to look at her eyes
as she sits on an oxidized rail.

Resistance of the wind gives
rise to sentience inside,
realization that self is on the
fence of rejection and love.
Feel the hurt eyes looking out to the world,
always with love
and always behind bars.
Relive the old age that
you will experience near the end;
there is nothing to fear,
but fear is real.

You are my klutz,
my wonderful one,
take after me for a while,
then, leave me be.

You are my gentleness,
neared by this,
that lives after you
in returning bliss.

Speak easy as led by good feeling,
a meaningless pass,
a meaningless pass.

Imagine young Rita to be
too small to walk Mingus properly
And instead of a yuletime stroll
a one-dog sled team over yonder hill rolls

Towards the sky there are no fences facing
Thanks Bob, great job
I'll keep that in my head for a while

Wait for me, though as I attempt to bash in this ceiling with my thick skull.

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

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.

Mailed her off in a letter
To somewhere over the horizon
Never gonna talk about love
Signed, sealed, delivered

On the way to three 16
Crested over a highway hill
Saw the entire town in a fog
Sky, fields, and river

Raced her down empty ten
At 7:56 am
Took Exit 1 and parted ways
Signed, sealed, delivered

Somebody I never knew
already passed by here.
Myself a traveler,
a stranger local,
told me so, my dear.

I long to meet,
and retire at last
into your willing arms,
wherefrom then, my friend,
will we await the end.

But for now,
I travel on, in search of you,
my dear, whose soulful gaze
has drenched my soul
into the continuing days.

The loneliest librarian is in the
heart of darkness
I saw him, old, bearded
on three sides book cases
on the open side, a desk
he faces outward into the darkness
drawing notes at their best.

Look away! in the distance
an army and her generals gather
Up ahead, a conqueror
metal jangles, saddles horse

Cries the pony boy:
I miss my mother
let me go back
what does this all mean?

Studying now, the librarian,
notes in check, own pen
scratching, no metals
only and only
his mind and an ink-filled well

Spearhead, arrowhead formation
a king and his khanate lean forward
into the permafrost, snow lashing
wind blows against but cannot stop
fierce wild will
and only the willows weep

Cries the pony boy:
Radically, may I be afraid
of the dead, arms asunder
so much love! so much love!
what does this all mean?

And far, far ahead of this army
librarian sits, silently
loving nothing, everything beside him
he scribbles notes
A love letter? tiresome if so
upon closer inspection...

At the center of the dark dark forest
where a lonely man rides in his kayak
lantern fixed upon a frame, making his boat top-heavy
he bobs back and forth across his body of water
he is haunted
he is lonely
he is a skeleton

Now grand general crosses the Styx
Ice clumps brushing gently against his ships
cold enough to **** a horse, set blood aglow
with blue, so cold it could not rot.
To valley forge!
to valley forge
to forge a future.

And pony boy cries:
What does it mean?
my father is gone, gone before this war,
he once said, it must be, be,
Did he mean...

Finally, up ahead, the librarian draws
untraceable lines, he knows the army is at his door
lonely, shaking, only the conqueror made it
and he is almost dead too.
Scared, sacredly, he finally hands the librarian his match
and sobs, softly, under breath
"Time, time is, time without,
time too
starts anew."

boem
da wurd get put in da field
big ol grammar
big nemeanin
we say gud ting
or say Emotshun
du not mattuh
boem sez

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.

Yae, she's difficult,
drags you by your feet, strangles you,
a light between the clouds wouldn't help,
down here in detritus, covered in kelp.

No name, no name can be spoken,
that would capture the terror, the pride and the error,
of a possession bursted, and also of a soft arrow miss'd.

Sweetling, she is difficult,
Charybdis is beyond hunger,
but better to be twisted, wet, and spun,
as long as she sinks your mind til it's hung.

Born to be a bumble bee,
Bumbly more than acceptable,
Bumbling opportunities,
Dim at best, shh ghmm ack ole

Friends we are
You, we, bumblers
Bumping things too far
Until off with our bums

In prison will write book
"Bumbler Chronicles"
I'll put that I bumbled first
And that you bumbled
Ever
After

By mirror I saw her as my own,
she sat undressed, pity slouched,
makeup putting on, then,
by ice we were separate,
man I alone in she,
riga mortis and she dies,
I say -
no! stay back!

as my throat holds,
I am left alone in blue,
black water besides
my earthen trail,
yet all I see is you.

Write till your itchy fingers fall off
When the party's over, write some more
Write into the mist, write from the veil
Hand your heart to readers and write while they feel your pulse
Write like you're being chased by dogs
And when they ask "who's side are you on?"
Write like you mean it to their faces
When they're leading you to the noose
Ask for one final request: pen and pape
And write down a moody poem and draw a picture too
Write upside down, write on a rail
Then build yourself a glider with your writing and write while you fall
Write in a wooden house, write poems for louse
Write, write, write, write, write in spite (if you have to)
All in all, no further explanation required
Just write, alright?

My affection,
Playful-
In grace and trust,
I long for thee
for my cruel truncheon.

Whose swinging ruse,
a lighting crack,
Brings swift joy-
     which hope employs.

But what cruelty,
what miserly soul,
Whose weak mind knowest
the bestest of thee!

Oh vanity
Oh sanity
Sisters that I can't please
Tugging at both my arms
As if I were cavalier

Oh paucity
Oh raunchiness
I fatten upon a feast
Though shame and morning and mourning and frost
Wake me up too early

an old blues musician whose poetry is absolutely timeless!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4dOcvQdv9fM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VcvKFBwxzj0

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.

Stand with your legs shoulders apart, traveller
Accept what I tell you nakedly,
Christianity is a giant horse
Its muscles bursting with blood,

But like many other to pasture,
Beasts behave brokenly,
Is it then a healthy force
To wish upon them a flood?

Traveller,
Traveller,
If you say it must be done,
I'll lay it all out on the table

Practice your long division

Good morning secret readers
I'd like to tell
of something I saw pass my window
last night.

Last night
though a moonless night
was fret with strange rumblings
and pitter patterings
all about my house.
Pah, was it a mouse?
No, it was my spouse
lit up from her sleep
by who knows what, but
she was spinning
there mumbling
in a sleeptalk.

And she says, and she says to me
"Arlia, my husband,
over the many years you have done me
no misfavor, but I would like to
request a simple repose
away from the stink of your feet.
I, for the life of you,
could never tell you myself.
Love,
the nose."

And just then, I noticed
the bell of a great brass horn
leave my room through the window;
it had been there all along.
Confused, I leapt
to see who was now snickering:
a fat fairy baby who had been
singing mischief into my dreams.
Fat fairy! Thanks
to you, I dip my
feet in Epsom salt...

I believe in freedom of speech, action, and copyright
But... wait a second...

I wander under hour
watchful of demise
listless as the sunrise
fouled upon a set.

I watch for your demise
and ponder why do mine?
Would I ever knew ye,
Mine would sunder yet.

Jimena Hubbard was a poor lovely boy
Who grew up in the countryside
Rocks in his fists
He squeezed them hard
His muscles did the twists
And now his hands quietly wave away mists
A fish out of water
He wandered with otters
With berries and kittens
The world was his fodder
Then Jimena Hubbard met Hummina Bubbard
And Hummina Bubbard is now Hummina
Hubbard

So are
Martina
Lunesta
And Farina Hubbards
Through their old folks ponds
They swam and they ran
In their mouths, crabapples
And in their fists, rocks
They played in the dirt
And tied hair into knots
Then Martina
Lunesta
And Farina Hubbard
As grains do sway
Untied their knots
Now Jimena and Hummina
Rest in the soil
Three daisies in place
Where their love once toiled.

Gotta fancy fantasy
Gonna roll out of bed one day,
kidnap this kid in a car and roll off
into a sunset with $5000 in the
bank and two guitars in the back.
No drugs allowed, buddy,
but I ain't gonna tell you that.
Gotta make you love life again, yes I do,
gonna show you how pretty the world am, yes will do.

What a mixture of life
from the eastern wall
all the way down
to the western shore
where the sailing boats
lie to depart shortly
into the vast seas beyond.

Hear the children scream
as their lives are burnt
in short by the master
wickerman who stands along
the wall.

The fire comes down into
their dreams at night where
they rest oblivious to their
ominous watchman.

And what is the wall
ask the tower guards
who can look down upon
the land and see it all

It is only a mountain
that has stood there since
before you remember;
only some see these structures
melt into the sea.

How far is the eastern
wall from the western shore?
Ask carefully, few men
have traveled the land
on foot

How many lives does this
world cradle?
Seek slowly, as only the
mothers who have held the
hands of many babies
know how fragile
all is.

If given the chance,
throw your self into
the ocean to rejoin
the endless blend of seasons

Otherwise, climb down
the eastern side of the
eastern wall into the
mute land where the
wind does not blow
and where the stars'
screaming is your only
company.

But if you gaze upon
all places and see that
you have nothing to say,
sit down upon the bay of life and
become the thunder
you once sought.

How high the sky flies when it is filled with winter rain clouds,
I feel like I'm inside an egg.

For some reason this runs my imagination,
to be inside a white shell, elation.

Stranger still is when this shell cracks open,
I can see the black sky behind.

In conclusion it's not only egg I love,
But also the egg's occlusion.

Funny thing it is to say,
I love cracking eggshells open.

Witness them as tides
Still some last forever, find
Time with no empire

The living day, at sunset,
scatters all the happy creatures.
Suddenly it gets so quiet;
everyone is gone.

How frightening this is at first,
being left without a warning,
while dark descends with a cool,
and nothing minds but silence.

What a somber feeling,
to have walked a changing world,
and then having to stop for nighttime
reflects a deep unease.

Is gold
All you poets slay me
Please take my hand in chaotic marriage
I am happier to love than I was before

Thanks, fellow Doritos babies
And anyone who came before
Also thanks to those that are youngest
Who I wish had more courage to write more

Failing the fox
It's no pleasure of mine
But what's done has been done had to be done and then some
Silver lining aside
And there are great lines that hide
I'll stay south a little longer tonight and into tomorrow as well
Wishing, washing