we are all of us; Love, that has not understood -
the meaning of Itself. far too fragile to grasp the
varnish from the night picket fence. but ever mindful
of our boundaries.

and found it.

when it never
made
sense.

in the weeds where the dark bees
believe in dark dreams; savoring the frostbitten
nostalgia of wet mittens and smokestacks
hacking hearth-smog and dingy bitters
against clouds from a nameless
grudge... spawn from downcast holly.
where red berries
gasp for yellow
in the crotch of a wooden Fluegelhorn
sprouting from the branch
of a hedge without
Lips.

But a mouth full of snow.

II

in the weeds where the dark bees
believe in atoms of uncorrupted joy and pollen.
where they collude with silent majorities
and swindle sunlight for a spawnsong
anchored to the beak of a kestrel...
shrieking the maniacal disquiet
of a perfect moment.

rattling the hinges -

adored.

without
a key.

she's standing by a beautiful girl
with eyes that cannot sleep. she perambulates
her east berlin. but can't seem to sink
like a stone. she has her vapors
in a long box of shallow
smoke.

she's having the dream about impractical gods again.
suckling plums from dark trees, swaying in the bathosphere
of just enough Wednesday.

exquisitely alone.

Basking in the dolphin sun, frothy pearls of laughter abide.
Children at play... and blue thunder sky blotting out the void.
All around, a great swarm of beatitude, unhinged from the workaday.
A grand tumult of sugar, cast upon the waters of Now.

We eat with our hands.... all dreams.

And have all dreams, somehow.

CHAPTER ONE: "Down Here, Every Thang Is I Level. "

they skate, when the lights bark -
like hard rabbits, harboring no hope
and too much dope.
and fatherless.
so follow this preamble
to its conclusion,
and ponder it.

the streets don't front. but the lost ghosts -
are on to Us...


CHAPTER TWO: " How Ghettoes Eat Cheese To Build Prisons "

It was next week when i knew
i would be too black to ride my bike.
so i stole a car from night's garage
and that's when i was stereotyped
and tiptoed into footnotes of my struggle
a neer-do-well. but held my bells close .
to sing a song, i couldn't sing
myself.


CHAPTER THREE : " Shouldn't You ? "

I have no words for this.