i passed out and had no dreams. but i remember it.
it feels like a long stroll off a short pier.
and the wind is strange.
a perfect blur of resistance across a warped plain
of never there,
i sang a song that had words that had no meaning.
i gave my heart to a howling moon
and came back to myself.

in the Imperium of Last Things
i Love no less.
i enjoy no more than all things
and Love best.

at the lip of a pool, i suspend time to forage through the reveries of lost love
and like thunder i roll over tragedies and dull days,,,i wrinkle my eyes at a stone sun
and embark renewed at a crossroads tethered to an iron halo.
i drink more now. my Bourbon soliloquies banter like a bantam **** at all Dawns.
but the irony is bracing and the ice is breaking a vow of iceness… now a conflagration
where a glacier burns like a sun and marvels at how tepid Hell.
i loved too much. and that was not enough. and you can tell.
so now i gaze at the impossible with a child’s eye and a poet’s dark.
i sleep with myself in my chambers of unseemly devotion.
i love everything and nothing.
and i yearn to yearn without yearning
all the while.

that noise in the margins of our orchestra
is none other than... The Other...
and not the cackle of a silver crone.
more the rumpus of a million bees
in a riot of sunshine.
like a Theme
to a Thing.

now that our rainbows fit on the head of a pin
a sorrow has lodged in our moon with blue lips
desolate in the feast of stars in orbit of a broken heart
and a glass thorn.
now that our lives have oceans of boredom and loathing...
and glorious Parthenons of Unbearable Weakness.
now that we shoulder the burden of obscene freedom,
casting our nets in redacted tomes
of ancient wisdom
where we dare to live aloud
and yearn for Silence.

now that we meet ourselves, dangling from a premise
are we more likely to becalm the waters
of our separate mirrors
or stoke the flames of oblivion
with soft lips to a stone
in a cloud?

a narrow tusk of crosswind grazing my cheekbones
as i lean into the teeth of a comet... wincing and turbulent
but still a boy. tossing moonbeams to a catcher's mitt
and all the while bewildered at the sum delirium
of Life's yes.

embroiled in the kingdom of the smallest things...
i trundle from my Kismet like a drunken crow.
i skip the stones for breadcrumbs on a perpetual wave
of vanishing points.

And fall in love because, because... because.

it's like the ghosts have all the notes
for all the holes in all the harmonies
a harbinger marooned between an echo
and a living thing.

love is like a nest of all vanishing birds.
just a cusp of abandon and sky.