she’s painfully skinny but has ropes in her veins that saddle horses.
a nose like a hawk with two green eyes bathing in gold flecks and ambergris.
she has two hands like most people, but they have grace -
decanted from a snifter of opposable thumbs made of glass
and spun sugar.
steeped in the warbling of her Angelfire, all reckoning with her genius
is an exercise in futility. she is none of the above.
and it’s the very best strange.

I didn’t realize how late it was and kept eating cigars and spritzers.
chuffing on a spoonful of Mercury and bath salts, while having a debate
with a silent Mime. a mime, so ascetic that a grain of invisible rice
was a banquet. And pulling a rope made of empty-
was the gravy on the biscuit.
a flag at the summit
of a goosebump you were pawning
to a merchant
for a chill.

a bespoke menagerie of awkward McGillicuddy
carefully abandoned by the Hour… toppling the swiss clock
of our glockenspiel, over the horizon of my Optic Nerve.
serving the inkling of a thing is more rampant than devotion
to an actual god… and love has all the trappings of genius
as our serenity is an eternal war
that begs the Question
blindfolded

without asking.

it’s early morn and the air is barrel-shaped
with burgeoning twilight wane
and the shuffle of chickadees in the snow;
while gathering wood for the fire -
I’m surrounded by porcelain shadows
crunching underfoot like packing peanuts
made by Trappist Monks.

Life keeps smoking the Same Brand. So Tarpits are Superstars Now.
How you fit where your anguish is entertainment-
is exactly how a shoe tells a shoe-
how to step.
The rook is in the belfry… dustlorn and ponderous. a kookie apocalypse
charging up a moonbeam, on a runaway train. Palming a locust
and its’ Opera. So Life hums and throttles the marbling
of our quagmire; moving mountains to the cheap seats
so we can have an unobstructed view-  
of an Unknowable Thing.

while breathing through our mouths.

adrift in my stalwart canoe, I assume the worse
for the clouds on the horizon are ponderous and lackmirth.
they sleep through a Monarch’s birth
from a chrysalis at the tip
of a peach fuzz.
or a Silence as unruly
as Dawn!
all the dandruff of Angels
without the Fall.

silkworms preening tomorrows’ gospels
are swarming the delicate heart
of our discontinued lobotomy.
weaving hope into the tapestry of venom
slithering bemused in our cauldrons.
we leave no trace of our innocence
but rather stain and meander toward
the apex of our blithering.
so our Maths have maps to our Stupor
Like a
Vector to a Bone
of contention.

Duck fat disarms the broth by lunging for the roof of the mouth
with an eye for entrails smoking the plump thighs of an afterthought
coursing through a vein of roasted turnips and false suns
simmering as nimble as mice, from the tip of a tongue
to a cheek.

At this point; taste is a matter of taste… burning lemons with flammable YearBooks
and MoonPies. golem flotsam like Pinnochio papyrus, spinning a cautionary tale
with a mid-Atlantic accent and smoldering eyes made of spun Copper
and Honey, on tilt in a rainbow of Blue days
knelling at the hem of a virtual cusp
of a Maximum-
coming out
Alive.

long before strip malls had dreams and overdue books were made of flint and carousels-
there was an ancient joy that ached in the real world like an ingrown toenail-
snarling grief into aspic and anomalous carnivals.
coping with the doom of a thing
in its infancy…. while harboring a cool escape
to a quadrant of sumptuous
stuttering,

like clouds on a rope.