the sheer mechanics of having a prayer, is far beyond the scope of mortal men.
we have our doubts. and our envy. and we flock to joy -
if there be Love.

born in the middle of all possible worlds. we dwell amongst ourselves, like savage ghosts.
we float upon the most empty. conjuring our heavens in a frenzy of denial.
our hells have wings,

and who but one of you; could have ever thought of such a thing ?

i open the wound to see the reason i would want to see that.
and keep eating my ham and cheese. woolgathering in the hemisphere of my own paleolithic emotional diet.
i brought the nuts.

one more love in me... mostly ghost pomp
and lavender nocturnes.
my hands cannot grasp -
the very thing I would have first.
but in this Life,
I am asking for your hand.

immersed

September has no pet dander like the midday sun.
it burrows into heaven's closet of Blue... and no one -
suspects the gremlin of Time, of feeding the stray
Reality. On the down low.
It's always-
" How You Like Meow ? "
or nothing at all.
and September

i had come undone... but my virtue,
however unsacred...
saved me.
i simply had to be strange.
and continue.

And now the moon has fallen softly
from the lips of the velveteen void, to arrest
in the dimple of darkness, disarmed and radiant
as plasma and white cheese
on a black eye.

just above a frozen toadstool, hovering in the crisp of winter night
bejeweled in all the splendor of snowflake and starlight -
a wee lass with glass wings and a tiara of mischievous stalagmites
aglow in the Glamour of Her introspection's vanity
She shimmers 'neath the Moon
and disregards
your gazing.

in majesty.

As your secrets bleach in the canopy of dawn
and all the marching hares are strung up
by toad stools
and the band plays dust and maple,
on the moon.

Your very own Virginia -
is now the hallmark of
your revery.
a distinct shade
of rapture...
You have your 4 quarts
of Sunshine
and a barrel of ash
and whimsy.
But we have our
separate stars
to conquer for no
Reason.