magic is a real thing… it has no bones but
all the moons in a nebulous symmetry.
we swim in things we can’t correct.
and yet, there lies the bloom of our -
Infinite Jest.

magic is a real thing… sleeping on the floor
with the cold sparkles and marsh marionettes
glowing in the farthest thing from practically Nothing.
Like a Boss.

we go where the real things **** us and return with fresh hells
to feather our nested resurrections in the face of a Comedy.
so magic is a real thing, sleeping with Strangers
an opulent soliloquy of unexpected
surrenders.

magic is a real thing… but the ***** of our Narcissus
daunts the pavillions of our introspection. our numerous harmonies.
so real we had habits.
And that is.

my imperial darkness is so bright
it knows how many lights
to take away.

how many moons to forge
in a black kiln on
an Autumn day.

how many thorns to invite
to a crown…

in a throne room
made of

no rooms.

and an Always.

i keep losing things.
i keep finding out
things are gone.
i'm a perfect hole
in a pocket.
whatever that means
and double it.

The world is a rogue wave in an otherwise tranquil cacophony.
Like porridge in a squeaky door hinge too sleepy to be orange.
The jawbone of an *** at rest on a window sill. next to a Pi.
The world, a smoldering flume of genius, unbridled, by and by.
a continuous ravine of asymmetrical adoration.
as we inhabit the foreign,
native to Fate.

We sing the body eclectic in a percolating rue of an infinite gumbo.
Like Venice, with Florence in its teeth. our pompadours-
shameless for sport.
The heart of a battle trout in a river of Trojan lures are We!
dangling from a current as swift as any eventuality.
An upstream vagabond of illustrious toil in the wee hours. Common
as weevils in a Gin. sweetening the palate of an unctuous ablution.

sleeping through the good parts
our eyes on spikes
in the dark.

what love has done is not so much the moon in a cup.
it’s more as if the sun had all the sky
in a thimble…  and I had the eye of the world -
where my witness was gospel
and my time, a nest of unimpeachable
surrender.

what love has done is more than my angst interrupted.
it’s more as if a dove had stories to tell, but only a song said best.
every windmill… an uncertain calliope less inert
than my reckless cacophony
driving a nail into a palm
of endless.