As the afternoon ponders the early morn, I quaver and Damascus
every simple coin into a rake of unforgiving steel. my sword deflowers
my sheath like a hornet forgets black honey on a fraction of an asterisk-
bathing horrors in Sunshine so massive, even eyes forget
what they’re looking for.

For Hours.

As the marionettes swarm the unity of our fated strings
dangling from the hook in the sun, simpering in weary delights
we join the spite of our peers with the disjoint promise
of our estimations. We assume the proper god
for the derelict prayer
on the lips of a broken
conundrum, humming verbs like a lunatic
to better scope the open remove
of our return

For Hours.

today is the best guess of an almost Wednesday
spooling jewels from a cracked Always
in the manner of an upset Muse
spoiling the venture of our Providence
with the venomous joy bespoke the wandering Kind.
as poems displace the glow of our actual talk
and aaaaaall the way down
go our prayers.

like a Boss.

how can I control the weather with a withering stare?
with an artless glare into a tomb of unyielding ire?
the type of gyre a rainbow would torment with flare-
combing over the blindspot of our every desire?

these days the weevils march
into the cerebellum harkening the barrow-born
and disquiet. we somehow slumber near-
the cyclones of over dumb.
we succumb to the torrent of our grimoires.
chastened only by Time enough
to **** it up completely.
we are indiscreet en masse.
like a horde of uncomfortable Truths.
and a basket of uncommon proofs
ogling the myopia of our hive
madness.
how we let the squirrels do their thing
is a mystery,

on this globe of woe, our Love generates
the next impossible flower.
our usual display of ignorance is curtailed
by an hour of minutes being beautiful...
the span of our lives.

Sour Sugarcubes are Choirs of UnSung Salt

II

at the beginning, all was a capsule of gleek
glaring at the sun with all the pivot of a dismal Tasmanian Devil
levitating neutrons to new Lows… coming about like a train-
with wings
scaling the heights of Our caverns-
like a nosey Dwarf. carving blood into a river of unrequited treacle.
the Quest of Kings, bound to the bottom of a tyranny
that spells the word for Happiness
with an X.

Yet Love Happens, Yes.

whiskey neat in a thumbnail chapel on the edge of the world
coated in black honey turning blue for a cause.
scribbling on napkins of unkempt self-harm
while garnering the empathy
of a dead god.
praying to the withers of a horsemen
for the lack of women
on the ranch
your stars are
sleeping on,

coy chattel herding thoughts of a flume
marching against clear skies.
slaves to our miracle.

sipping sparks through a straw.
we are all the Other one.
summering in the ramparts
of our descent
as we winter less
in the sunspot
of our acquired
tastes-
so long, lives the waste
of our time
till each tick
is a boom
whispering the egress
of a locked door
on a cliff of
lost sky.

how beautiful my wounds today-
As long as the Healing
Lies -

like the truth of It
Unkind.

with the phone ringing andmynotansweringthephone stinging
i clapped thunder with my hands-off approach.
retreating into something undulating at light speed
but careful to shadow box all ominous disclosures
of unbridled defeat.

i knew when the turtleneck was a masque.
winded by stealth, I beheld the quickening of my own devices
stalking the hammers of my swing.
never careful to be unamazed.
always mindful of a mind blown
to keep the peace at bay.

or in my arms.

and that took awhile.

you’re all wine and horses. parasols on stilts in a squall of calm.
you lurch like a pidgeon at a love note. cooped in your wide arches.
I’ve seen you sleep through the rapture of your own demise
to capture the spark of your rascal for harvest.
you gloom if it’s pretty. but you never know the difference.
that’s why we met on a hill full of holes.

“ wells “
they call ‘em ‘round here.
but they never
answer.

and that’s got you spooked.

Like I don’t know.

the brawn of small clouds
camped in sunshine; scudding a deep blue
as the Sun tanks the Palladium
of All Dark… dangling from a trick Unexplained
in a world UnObserved.

Drupe in a plows thought… an ‘ Afterward ‘ that bears fruit
as the Gardener wanes. Moonlorn and intricate.
all days dunder in the rough trumpets of our entire songs.
as only our sirens deployed in anguish
ever scope the happy of our Finding
Love.