Dan Dan Noodles slipping over a gaijin fork-tine at lunchtime
glooped in brown broth, glistening below the wriggle
of a first bite in a $200 suit,,. at a trending Cafe.
Car fumes dangling like phone fobs, simmer in the absolute workday.
chumming the swirl of our cataracts with the blood of our Dreams.
With the sun screaming at the pavement
where we march to our far away…
like slumbernauts rummaging through snowflakes and notifications.
little bells that ring when a space between words needs a thought to stop a train
with an Ad for ******.
Culling the heard.

Love unfurls in the small hour of our moment in the dark
and blooms like a caterwaul of siege-engines, churning pearls into vice grips
clutching the heart where it numbs best; restoring the vulnerable to the throne
and tossing the agony of pointless birth signs
over the Niagra Pause
of our downhill
telemetry.

Love stuns at rest, like a spoonful of lightning from an olive press.

whatcha gonna do?

James Joyce had smelling salts and ***** tins tucked in his Dramamine
and just off the coast of his swarthy daggers, lay all the pirates of bright minds
clumped in a sponge of all the orange that an insipid grin
could forge into a cufflink at today’s prices -
and still bargain.
Frumpy catalogs of myriad departures, woven into leathery air… dark portals and cucumber sandwiches; savoring an afternoon of incomplete theorems
At High Tea, at odds -
with Low Tide…
but consensual by default
Like a lamb in a spider’s web
when all flies are ghosts
of Veal.

Bethesda

fireflies and some kind of perfect icosahedron juicing a stone.

when the end is a ribbon of candor, you only tell the truth
and chew gum at the same time.

these lights I’ve knit into black coins are real lights.
i have chambers of me full of YOU.
i keep swimming with Sirens to pass the time.
i dark happy so poetry happens.
aswoon in the upper gloom of my contemporary ‘elan.
i bear no resemblance to my plight
but rather roguishly perfume the perimeter
of a shadow at hand…
sun ***** for a fact.
like a gypsy with sea salt
lullabies… swiving sweet whispers
that a plume of vapors storm to the hilt
of a calming thorn.
these lights I’ve knit into black coins are real lights
seeping into the dream of my actual prism.
supping on the serious moonlight of my practical illusions.
charmed in the chest.

i have too many genies to betray a message in a bottle
so i’m all the way in love
with the
Wish.

not the best gardener, but the best critic.
I tease ivy into voluptuous spasms
by letting go to let god
do the work of a thousand
busy joys.

i assume the spice knows the dish
but keep copper in my whiskers.
gone are the days of my perpetual
soliloquy… battle born to the air
of all my sorrows
sleeping with ill fish
in dank thought
but surfacing
to continue.

my tamarind pixels lack focus
but all the happy at my disposal
serves the purpose
of my flailing
rainbows die like *******
on a wire,
and all the everything
you came for
is too long
to be
yes

I remember the East Coast, though I’ve never been. Did you feel what I meant by that?
There is something in the air that brings a stone to a feather
and somehow the whole world is more than an absolute failure.
more like a Roman nose on a resolute Bagpipe.
so many terminals sifting through haggard tributaries, anointing the fumes
of our empirical dialysis with all sweet fear of mortal life.
conjoining the wheel with the purpose.
so a stone knows it’s weight… but an hour lacks
a thought to contend with the moral of the story.
All the world like a constant balloon
made all of our things
at a glance.

burning again in my Asian diaspora, solemn as a coin in a fountain
dreaming of a well. i sleep where slipping into something is more
cloak than adventure… suturing the wound that tomorrow brings
with a thread of hope…. combing the bottom of the sea.
i eat all the hammers that an anvil resents.
i awake on the beach with a blue coconut lodged in my desolate wings..
with so many phantoms i can hardly cross swords
with the moon -
too busy slipping into constant joy piracy
and the palaver of my grim adjustments
to the common explode.

these lights that i’ve knit into black coins are real lights
and the sun knows the darkside of a simple prayer is more like a moth enthrall of a neutral calamity.  
there are no kings where a queen
is stitching harm into a canvas of woe. only the indolent pearls
of our most dire pavilions, marching into flatlands
as comical as a flat spoon.

you have summer on your face but can’t seem to simmer down
to a long pause made of brief encounters with sunshine and moon dander.
you’re always coping with the malignant Always
atoning for imagined sins… but spinning out of orbit
to align yourself with a nether world
of plush toys.

gems spoil in the dark.
and you know this at your core.
when sleep comes easy
you remember your name
like a dimmer switch
forgetting
how to
bright.