look at them bones all scrunched up like thorn pudding.
focus on the squid ink murk of your pine fresh linen
and uncork the vintage of your red vineyards
snarling 'round dead posts... on a gently sloping hillside.
thumping miracles.

join me at the temple of the spine, and i will petition
the long lost soul of your life's reason. I will take core samples
of your wet kiss, and slowly ***** the stars into place
that will keep your smile lit, and your thighs unfalse.
i will bark to Love's God and channel the requiem
of your grief.

you will only suffer the sting of bliss, and pirouette
on the tip of a snowflake's tongue.

the day came without the full sun
with only a speck of flame in the iron chintz of the sky
and towers of dust, hovering above the low glories
where the rabbits hid from the fox
and strewn jewels were spent
on shadow coins... and all the worlds between us
clung to the husk of joy and kept vigil
in the stillness of our ungolden
pond.

but one river became two, and fed the placid pool
that slake the thirst of lost men.
a woman there, was standing
and the moon removed
no star.

consigned to the mirth of flame
and a thousand shoes; we waltz into grinding beauty
delirious and unsaved. we yearn for all graves
that open from the inside... that we may embark upon
untold follies and haul our stones to our stars
to smelt a new god that refuses to answer.
but the question is a worm
in His Truth.

the mole in the iceberg
dreamt of spring. and chain smoked.
he thought about other moles
then got distracted by the furniture.
it came to pass that the mole caught a glimpse
of another world. then shrugged it off

like what?

things fall into place, when gravity talks.
as the boats at the docks bob in the sea of discrete rivers
surging in the span,. and you might be surprised to find
an elbow macaroni sculpture
erupting from the skull
of a honey bee.

these days, are now like paper so thin
you can see yesterday, clawing at the hem of your skirt.
but ghosts are like daffodils.
and in a hundred years
you'll be old enough
to pluck one.

the ink has set. and the knives forged in the clutches of butterflies
confound the weather. there is nowhere and where you're at.
nothing in-between, so the vertigo is inevitable.
we are shiny pennies on the corpse of Time.

marvelous things are awake when you're asleep
and they slink in the twinkle, maneuvering amid the myriad
and the clouds that wash their hands of you
never let it rain. so you scorched your cornea
in a vacuum.

and you forget that, every day.

caught a snag in my fitzgerald, my blood full of carny folk
and very mustard stars, strung on a rope... been lax though my icebox.
totally chill, till the wind kicks up a firestorm from a lit cigarette
in a cyclone. i eat too many things that never knew me.
and my cane is a blade of grass.

i;m wearing blue flats and hovering over a coal miners daughter
and she is in awe. i park my things in her handbag, and hold my breath.
i let god do my bangs in the front, to hide the eye that can't stop
staring at yyyyooouuu...... i feel something brush my leg all the time now, and we haven't blinked in years.