the oil in the lamp is dreaming of a flask of star garments
draped over succulent blue where the pink is bright green.
crass haloes melting in sterling eggshells
and dusted with cardamom and lost socks.
the soft spots of the world, all dreamt by flame
sleeping in a viscous pool of itself.
swinging from a brace link
in a fable.

the cracked *** in the corner is dancing.
while disable.d.

we are born in the middle of it.
with our questions questing Anubian.
our redacted realities, roiling in the flume
of our heavy chimneys…
swept into voids with labels
that march into dim bleak, with dull bells
struck by lightning, coiled in implausible
hammers… made of last thoughts
and deep collisions.

our mission is agony abated.
should Winter have a star in its pantry
to nurse a dark horse
Then we have a reason
to gallop in the chasm
exuberantly
off course

we are somewhere that gathers moss
while churning butter into permafrost
with dainty little hands, grown savage
from wailing in prayer. we contain a noise
that surrounds us. all the golden pollen
of our dark gardens, swelling in the flame
of our Mystery…. unopposed.
we join intangible things to quicken the hardpan
of our ziggurats. we hum our contusions
into clouds of memory, abandoned by pain
and left adrift in the eye of a grateful monsoon.
culling pearls from loose oysters
where the moon should be.

twilight assembles in the plush velvet ponds of shadow fall and moonlight.
the stars above measle the hemisphere as the world twirls in the dark like a raving Sufi.
we are tethered to a wandering. as the grass of every meadow to a barefoot rascal
taking the long way home
because broccoli.

stone soup steeping in Etruscan  pottery
thrown on wheel from a chariot
dislodged from a bed of clay with a paintbrush
and a *****.
white cliffs staggering along the coast
like a tectonic parenthesis yawning waves
the width of a thousand condors
with eleven words for Albatros
as diaphanous as fog
docking into a bay
of odysseys  
haunting a sandy beach
like an epic ghost.

ozone esters drifting in tandem like sea salt barnacles
crusting the bell of every speck of dew
floating snow globe actual; northwesterly…
adorning the invisible with crepe sunsets, surging the pause
of a baffling miracle as common as time
with purple as deep as a chasm of frozen suns. a kingdom
of rain tilting the horizon with dusky mauve
tinkering with the afterglow of yesterday with tomorrow’s
Shanghai, low in the distant sky departing from derelict notions
of flat earth… hurling through space without ward
or talisman. entangled in the truest thing, curling a tempest
‘round a maypole, spoking the navel of Gaea…
at the center of the Labyrinth
that came with the void.

Blythe bounty vexing the verity of our span
like a boundless mote of crocodilian
conundrums.
beads of sweat gather at the lip of a luminous urn
perched on a plinth behind a waterfall
sequestered in a bank of fog
as noble as an acorn
with a cane.

or a funerary bog
tuning methane with a fork
in the road.