Ducking my calls
because elusive is all the rage.
Connected by way of departure,
we have our holidays
in craters… like all the idiot moons
but have no stomach for an orbit
of respect. just a jot of glum
on a poignant tongue
in a Night Socket.

Beating wings against an open wound
where the wind is salt
and shards of everlasting
Comedy.

Constant.

I come upon the winding road in the thicket
with a candle on my forehead, forging ahead
in the delightful remove.
Where the curves of the world
have cobblestones and ivy.
Briarpatch eyes and lazy ravens
painting the sky
too Blue.

I keep my leaving in my stationery hive of rain
and long mourning. Happiness chips away at the frost
of a dormant grove of beleaguered charms…
where hornets sleep on spikes of spun sugar
and canaries  are more yellow
than a laughing
Truth.

Fearing Death I had polyamorous flowers.
Kept them occupied for hours with April showers
wisping in the muse
of my torrential
Minerva.

Slung low in the hip of dawn
I quake with ankles akimbo at sunrise
in my Night Kingdom.
So many blind Butterflies
to never catch-
sipping the Nectar of a Nod
where I kept It
seeping a
Dream.

Looming over sunshine wrinkles in the front lawn
on my moon patio, in my house shoes.  
Morning robe rumpled and comfy… drooping -
from my frame, as I shambled standing still.
Like a frozen scarecrow with a nervous tic
because of the Meds.

And it’s Wednesday.

the lawns are on pause as the light lathers
a hemisphere of manicured magnolias
and apparitions.
some joy is slain, and yet
the decals of Spring Guinivere
as naked as pollen in a breeze
of mirage. intermittent.
like a long day of extraordinary things
that didn’t happen
until you looked.

I saw a little Peace of me
in the War. slept through Grad-School
like a mad Fool on an Honest Quest.
speaking to the cheap seats of our Honest
Orchids...
I’d rather the Moon Mints
of an average Average…
slum ****** sick
with a Beautiful Algorithm
that No One can hammy galump
when the fade spark
is Actual.

Sunset gilded… the horizon’s orange vapor is capital.
Long pigs gristle in the clinking wind
of a thorough typhoon of God’s
Rapturous Apathy.
But my Horse knows my Name
and cannot Die.
Not without a Canyon of explicit Cul-de-Sacs
as Viral as the Common Cold.
Perhaps a riveting ascent into the Aries
where a horned goat is throat prone?
where a slice of banquet is a Sacrifice-
to the Unknown?

Perhaps...