Bring a thousand miles of rusted gates.
Slurry upland and rest
by the prickly
Holly nest
grazing on the leeward
of changing hills,
dwindling roots.

It’s shadow, a memory,
as shadows are
hiding the face
, avoiding stepdads
And consequences
Of the nuclear family.
In lucid daydreams

are the muddy puddles
filling in the potholes
Every winter, we
embrace like the
Goodnight kiss, saying
Does it mean anything if
cows are happy?

When the storm clouds
settle in bulbous purple
Expanse across
waves of field,
And this town’s complacent decay
Is just one year
further along?

When always there are flies.

If perchance to press lips blush with blood, beaded with sweat, throbbing with nerve endings, to the soft flesh and wispy,
invisible hairs of a peach.

If flagrant in the demonstrations of ecstasy, it was only because I couldn't pretend otherwise, rendered helpless in the sweetness and wetness of the nectar.

If the heat were an illusion then my breath said otherwise, the condensation being gas, being liquid, but most importantly,
being.

If I could be convinced of the infinite then it could only be in this moment, when I tenderly so
ate you whole.

Upon and lake perchance to dream
It floats in fall convert to steam
Create the inward and twice ash
The ants devour the lonely lash

Fresh dances raze beneath obtain
Stuck double poet breath attain
We fly we love over the cloud
In creeks in dark macaw his shroud

Light frozen there bereft undress
Gone sigel leaps express duress
Deny denote the soft white waves
Inflict inform a child's last days

Broad field lacrosse ferment the oaks
Short hymns baroque taboo and spokes
Flee singing hymnal there withstand
The treated better half yourself demand

The monkey strives for both abode
Japan devout the flame in road
Iran disburse a name it mutes
The donkey runs his mane computes

We fish and sleep believe a sheep
It's further than we see, the neap
Our mother calls the hen unknown
We sign and dream return to home

Sled fast conceive that in whiplash hues
Feel fat step back the stars confuse
Petite croissant exist embrace
Averse baguette awoke efface.

Upon and lake perchance to dream
It floats in fall convert the dread
Curate the inward and twice ash
The ants devour the lonely arc

The dances raze beneath obtain
The double poet breath attain
We fly we love above the moon
In creeks in dark macaw he sings

Light frozen there bereft undress
Gone sigel leaps express critique
Deny denote the soft white waves
Inflict inform a child’s last days

Broad field lacrosse ferment the oaks
Short hymns baroque taboo and sad
Flee singing hymnal there withstand
It treated better than yourself

Bring a thousand miles of rusted gates.
Slurry upland and rest
by the prickly
Holly nest
grazing on the leeward
of changing hills,
dwindling roots.

It’s shadow, a memory,
as shadows are
hiding the face
, avoiding stepdads
And consequences
Of the nuclear family.
In lucid daydreams

are the muddy puddles
filling in the potholes
Every winter, we
embrace like the
Goodnight kiss, saying
Does it mean anything if
cows are happy?

When the storm clouds
settle in bulbous purple
Expanse across
waves of field,
And this town’s complacent decay
Is just one year
further along?

When always there are flies.

That moment when the thing arcs
ever skyward, continues beyond, enters the unattainable
past it’s being as thing and as dream, and you
realizing it’s lost, moment being memory of your death but
still in as and as in of and as in being dogma
inherent within performance and performance
as plan and or of and by design as by anti-inherently
non-inherent as is if coherence
unveils capacity of being in and of within though non-being
non-sequential arc of sky bound
ordained oath, moment, realization
being by suffering of pangs and of suffering by desire
of ever landing sky as earth, as thing and as of thing without consequence as of thing
thing thus glides lightly and by thus swivels though gratefully
thing disappears deeper into cloud dust
cyan vapor of expectation lost
transubstantiates from quotidian miracle into movie you’ve already seen
in moment in flesh
of flesh of several flesh curating
flesh of creation, as explanation,
as grounding as anchor to one of many passing stills, as pressing the thing and you
flat, as you and memory of you, as thing
as they as moment as you.

Mornings are a time of brand
recognition, are the affirmations
of our silicone dreams, are the
insipid anchor of our biological
imperative, are an invention of
themselves.

Much like the poem writes
itself, the morning spreads
as part of its self-invention,
how particles of light are self￾fulfilling prophecies similar
to a spontaneous stream of words
filling a vessel in no particular
order.

The morning appears flat, but
at its edges it bends seamlessly,
is a disc of unfettered
centrifugal absolutions,
posits unanswerable
equations until night
overtakes it and makes it mine
again.

We keep morning hidden
under the sink like a
disinfectant, like spools
unwound and repurposed,
faded spectrums of
observable patterns, fixed
in the sense of observation
as industrial strength glue,
inviting God to see if It can
undo what consciousness has
borne.

Necessary of onion
by onion and through onion
necessary onion
onion laquered
stimulants, rest
high bridge formula
with footprinted snow, flecked
with spring grass
green light of rash
of broken skin of
red postules flood
in valley of valley
of least resistance
consecrated
goose down mystery
aisles flush with
flooding valleys begins
recondite conditions for
all eves of spectral,
ice skates on self
replicating graph of
destitute and of savor in
binge watch Americans binge
fetish announcements of coral of
nylon per regulation
per workers safety and isolation
news travels, ague fashion of
landed boors bereaved
in fleece in gold of
gentry, pro forma ribbons
in arched halls’
winning rabbit.

From behind ash dusted coasters sat the worsening situation of the increasingly less young, or more accurately the banal.

Bared it’s teeth to the mirror, it did, above the green bottles of forlorn gins. Ornate borders of streaked glass,

muted tones and expectations. It could happen at any moment. Never be too happy. And exponential corridors

you walk for so long that you begin to consider the exegesis and the Eucharist, that you run your hand along the cracking wall

paper, to feel it lift away and sigh at your touch, only slightly more amused than before, consecrated. Where near the end,

light comes in slivers and the water rises from the floor to meet your nostrils ever so graciously. How the void comes to you, and not the opposite. Knowing

what we did, then, was a matter of breath and perception, the totality of chance and redemption. Fine concepts for fine folks. Motivational geometry.

The fleeting mistress is a Malthusian catastrophe, but she is ours, and we are yet to discover any other way of
touching her face.

For many years now, I have watched the rain/I have scraped the ice off my skin/I have sat in a luxury sedan and dreamed about things, things that don’t exist now, things that never did exist, I have memories of dreams, I have memories of Brooklyn/it is two seventeen am, I have taken three hits of acid, i am sitting at pier 1, I’m drinking triple x vitamin water, it is snowing, the east river is on fire, a van arrives, fourteen Hasidic children get out/it’s  three thirty two am, I’m in Times Square, It’s forty two degrees, I’m wearing a t shirt, I’m running from the cops, the cops were never chasing me, I see Carson Daily/it’s five forty seven am, I’m on a rooftop in Bushwick, midtown has vanished behind pink fog and smeared neon, a woman is orgasming loudly, a **** is crowing, I stand swaying, on the precipice between infinite possibilities and nothingness/it’s three twenty nine am, I’m lying in the middle of Atlantic Avenue, I’m making snow angels/twenty three minutes from now a woman I met on ok Cupid dot com will be playing me tom waits records, I will think about another girl that I love, but who does not love me/forty eight minutes from now I will emphatically ******* onto a large pair of *******/I have walked many blocks and over drafted many debit cards/I have been watching the rain for a long time now

Raining hell and fleeting
karma, again, in the fetid brush,
again in singing debris
afloat on leviathan,
again in a thicket
of notes, some
flat.

Again in generation-wide psychosis,
madly revolving across the
peninsula, their hair
ablaze, leasing groceries and
starving whole ecosystems
of luxury isolation.

always a nostril away
from being under the current,
always floating in the morass of
prejudicial survival skills,
always faintly more you than
me, always bygone echoes
of feeling, shadows of dust,
always favorable to disquiet,
alarmed at
how close the sun has gotten
over the years.

There is little blood
            left in my fingers,
and I admit that
            my toes are turning blue, and though we were warned of such things happening,
it still makes me uneasy,
            as if their appendages have broken free of the old-fashioned mysteries and
set out to live a new life among the jays and sparrows.

            Is it true that all glass is a mirror?
I’m not sure, I studied the humanities, or to put it another way
            I’m not sure of anything
outside of heat and the evaporating
            solitude that robs us of the loneliness and innocence
that permeates animals and children.

So it is that I request you be still
            and quake silently in the dark noons of the garden,
bestow your autumn hands on the dim odors pervading the curtains
            the affairs of a monstrous tragedy are the bedtime stories we want to hear repeated.
The fawning fever dream of a new possibility,
            spiraling vision
inviting flames
            into the habitual
such that
            burns are inevitable
and the scaly skin
            that’s a daily reminder,
another part of the routine
            another fancy lotion to remember
grieve! grieve!
            the quiet solemnity of drug store aisles,
faded UVs and blinking
            ads, abutting the space between
human need and such deviance as industry and organization.
            There are finally more living than dead, now.
                        it’s fine
I’ll only seek recourse if the rest of things turn out more boring, seeing how I couldn’t celebrate my victories, anyway, it seemed absurd to mourn my defeats.