the doors are not perception.  just locked.
i have no keys but the random is not assuring
and all my rainbows have no narrative
only letters from dead gods
and little else.

the bar is closed now.... and the sun is foreign and In Your Face.
we have our wounds to deal with… and nothing else ~
but how a cluster ***** when a dank star collapses.
i’m nothing else.
and that’s Wit.

dead yes in a hammock of well dressed
like some kinda lime star on a cufflink
sinking its dreams into a morsel of “ What’s Left? ‘
and “ Hell Yes! “ … I’ve got the wound
that kills best.
I can’t seem to be real…
i actually have to not Be There.
i actually have to fold everything into a square
that has a circle for a dream
without Witnesses.

i was never meant to be tamed
and that gallops truth like a tsunami
i go where my stars are dying in front of me.
i carry your picture like a pale of water.
i go where the leaving is gone most of the day
but leaves a message.
i appear to be out of my skin in front of a mirror.
i haunt the corners of my eye
even now.

i couldn’t help but notice you have marvelous black wings
striking in the blast of green bursting with silk scarves and yellow corn.
your beak is like obsidian Vulcan
pecking at the sweet spoils of an early harvest
before a dog bites or a gun barks…. before God even knows you ’re there.
i sleep with one eye open.... not holy.
so i saw you coming.
landing in the twilight bounty of the land like a king of summer nights.
i’ve often found you ravenous and wise.

spinning where the halt of your lurching heart is a musical
surging in the mundane litany of our personas
suffering the same madness that soothes the savage disconnection
of perpetual mortality…. sleeping at the center of wakeful
bedazzled by the prominence of cashew moons and the promise
of absolute doom…. but not without a word in edgewise.
in the margins of an unpublished book.

glowworms on holiday mock the cave on your back
and all the blind crickets
can see right
through you.

i was born when the nothingness had grown weary of my absence called upon to blunder through mortality's purpose
swollen like a pufferfish in a pond of mercury
so gorgeous everything’s okay.
after that, i was born again but not from love’s Freudian vendetta with eternity.
but from an organic siege of my previous incarnation,
born from a wound in the guitar buried in the garden.
i never leave anywhere the same as not being there actually.
i absolutely almost there
at all..

when all the bells have toppled silence and on the breeze rides a summer of stammering stunnery the likes of the color blue on stilts
snagged in the sun’s corona.
like a fish on a hook of sunshine, thought he saw a worm of real life
but got caught in the vaporous torrent of his weakness.
savoring the dawn like a mushroom mottled in fresh dew
twinkling in the circus of  fecundity where the thrum of glory
spoils the view of a curmudgeon and marches on into destiny’s *****
in the clutches of our habits and rabidly
living the dream that’s killing us.

how real can it get?

and is that real enough?