in all the wax and wonderment surging between the toes of such giants
as all possible moonbeams in a choir of Sky!
you break through the cardamom Kafka
like a biblical plague.
you sunder unique pirouettes  
that blossom in the mundane
like a perpetual
denial.
then out come the unbelievable crescendos
of all the perfect worlds as thunderous as opposing fumes
in a vacuum of splintered Divinity, chastened by
wildfires that love thee Best
in the afternoon of our entire parade…
clinging to the symmetry that keeps your hand in mine.
and all the Uranium Valentines
in a Heart.

In a Heart.

In a Heart.

In a Jar.

behold the truant destiny of our impoverished joy.
swing from a star as ghostly as most of your dreams-
only to dangle from imperfect charms.
gleefully extinguish the harrowing of every day-
upon the lisp of a cliff. in the sharp dark of an unwavering moon.
goad the remedy of You by barking at a star
like a slave to freedom.
or an hour in a cup
of snow.

how i justify the miles between sparks
is how i dare to love.
swollen with unkempt hives of bounty
at the very heart of a ghost
as real as pretending.

these are days of our actual calamity
and the poise of our eventual
collide.

this is the moment that I see you
always.

sifting through stars enough to shine.

a lump of coal on the tongue, like a rogue dark star on the tip of an unlit epiphany.
love has its Fools and all the carousels. but nothing can rehearse a reprisal… if the dream
has neither fear of it or notion… all the implausible directions are just ‘round the way…
pole vaulting over stone slogans in the trenches
where wars are Love.
quite naturally.

sometimes you have to breathe
without meaning
too.

it’s all
a part of the plan
how marbles sharpen
their bandoliers of refraction.
In Thrall of an
Angry Sleep.
and a novocaine Ponzi
Scheme,

to mean Nothing
to.

Oswald had no chemistry that hung in the trees like gossamer threads of dream…
he only had quadrants of ambergris, drifting in the iron lungs of impossible Tuesdays
twirling all the calendars of false pavilions on a carousel of too many moons.
Oswald had diamonds in open wounds. He saw how the beautiful ones
had Mondays that Saturdays envied to distraction.
and all the Roman roads were mapless.
Oswald combed the earth for a fraction of pearl
but found only a bounty of weightless
Design.

too heavy to be god.
too beautiful
to be
not.

gather ‘round politely and unsung marigolds will almost love you more.
soar into the anguish of your unspeakable dream. guide your wayward to an afternoon of plausible rapture.
succumb to the forest of your practical Paradise
without the margins of your echo
finding walls to believe in.

All your doom in a box now
as happy ducks marmalade the pond
with cuteness beyond calculus -
swarming the elaborate morning dew
with an average gobsmack
in the meadow of
my off-handed\
star.

All that and a barrel
of plums.

plums full of morning
and heartache
with spoons