where we come from is not a world. but an unsundered grace.
a sort of beatitude swelling from the solid light of the blithering truth
and the twitch of a ribbon in a ravens beak
as it dives into the yellow sun
in your palm

life is a holy suspicion that something is real...
and the resignation to know nothingness
as the dream that got away
with having you around.

to love.

the air is tremble lucid in the esophagus of my blasphemous ghost.
so in love, my angels blush as they suicide.
my devils shine my darker thoughts and nip my shadow's heel
even in broad daylight, while I'm besotted and immune
to the vigorous lie at the heart of the world
knowing full well, half less the very truth of how deep she is
but never ceasing to swoon in the thunderous caress
of her absolute beauty... that conundrum
dislodged from the invisible
and using her
name

to create you.

out of thin air... the troubled flesh of your actual love
is more than the measure of your grief and by no means
a means to an end
that was as inevitable as the woman
and the sliver of time she occupied
to dissemble my preconceived notions
of out of the blue.-
and Lightning.

On the tip of my lung
my very next breath and the star shaped wreck
of my impending joy.... the blur of my luck -
so golden in the dark...
and all the cloying karma of a rainbow
smoking *****
with a completely blind god
to see through....

with your eyes.

when you lead with your left
all you have left, is the right thing to do.
and even that can be arbitrary.

you may approach the bench
but the bench will press you -
against any falsehood

where the ornament is a winged siren
above the headlights.

you might get comfortable
boxing crows in a corn field, after dark -
but then, you could be an alabaster pearl
in the raven's tear. or some-such goblin
that feeds on sustained grief
and bought that house on the corner
of your mind's eye.

you might swear to eat the pentagram.
but can't even taste a straight line.
it boggles the googly calamity
in progress.

and i can still taste your open mind from here.

the days of the merry tale have retired, spellbound -
by the mediocrity of our tedious dreams.
we are now engorged with the truth.
and oblivious. we astound the yawning void
with our audacity to refrain
from giving a ****.

but the Mondays have rain so soft
it could melt an atom.

and those are the days we turn into Us.
and i forget what's wrong.

in the barn, where the wicker baskets gag on dust askew -
shimmering in disarray as the slanted rays of the sun
slip through the fissures of our ancient frame...
there are new gods now. and they caper through the wires
of our every day... we are consumed by consumption
and have no weariness to stay the rapids of our Idiocy.
we brook no fumes. but bind to the arrhythmia
of our plastic satori.
we conjure no love that is not dead to the world.
it's just dead to the world.

with a barn.

whereupon i found myself walking; i cannot say.
but a brave lad was i... with all the stubborn yolk
of a cauldron sunset... burnt into the world
branding the blackening blue with a last rage
against the dead stars.
i found my cigarettes were now chandeliers !
and most of my ghosts were departed.
up the unnatural spire...

my gaze fell upon
an ascending
why?

and never came down.