Polaris locked and lugging, about a ton of feathers...
I drag an Angel through a marsh of fallen heavens.
I sleep when the Sun starves to death,
And Join my Grains of Sanity
with an oyster

To Pearl where it Hurts.


II

This’ll Cost Ya.
Waking up in the middle of your Life.
Like an Equation made of lopped sides-
And snug contortions.
Wings ill pitched from the dugout
into the loft of dead air… placid and forgivable
for all the lies of the world ride that wave
until a silence humbles
a reckoning.

We should all of Us
learn the language of our Bones
and banish the weary of our Love.
But Earthworms
Have nothing to say -
And Ravens  
have shiny
tears…

if any.

That will never fall.

Dagwood spoiled by the sun on the outskirts of the meadow.
Tremulous reeds torqued in the bumble wind with rods of pollen
lilting into oblivion on a warm gust of meandering Spring.
Towers of Sky mount the hillocks of the world and daisies run.
I see regal turmoil and jubilant hemorrhage of Grace.
so many owls with wide eyes and earthworms dreaming of Mars…
You can almost be
as fragile
as a gnat of
Time.

And You Are.

When I wake there’s a thousand eyes in my java. I glow like a worm in a cave.
I yawn when the wren chirps and dew, drops from a blade of emerald. I sip the world
with my open eyes.... while holding my breath for ransom.
I see mortal rabbits, dancing in the underbrush
with ravenous fur and sleek plump.
Dark pupils, coy where the picket fence is delusional.
where nature found a way to ignore the perimeter
in favor of the expanse
and my humble
domicile… squatting on a patch
of Here and Now.

You can’t do one thing, without doing two things…
This only occurs to me on the porch,
in the rocking chair.
and I’m okay
with that.

the casino slithers neon alongside the Interstate and roadkill.
a few stars enchant and the moon gibbons in the deep palsy of the up-above
like an angel of milk stone and blemishes.
fireflies in the tall grass morse code their amorous intent
as Toyotas plunge south in the balmy aftermath
of a mundane day.

On the eastern ***** of the glen, where the bees slept
and the breeze kept vigil-
you could see the Summer trumpet and submit to Beauty
With too many acorns for the Atavist.
But all the fiddle-backs to tickle
your midnight fancy.  
Spruce garnets like Lanterns
of Warm Forever.

Unfit for flowers, but always a Season on Stilts
And opiates.

The cars are parking where the goslings go.
Now the aluminum can is shiny
in the ice on the asphalt
like a Valkyrie.
Little tombstones and caviar
ugly in the barrel.
where the chamber
has a bullet to kiss you with
or a Truth to Put a God
in your Hand.

Boarded windows bleached by shame and sunlight
clip the view of the smoldering memories of gazing from behind
an ancestral eye, Clutching your Choo-Choo train
as the snow alters the world with a white parade of carpet
stitched in Winters’ bitter Doily. A fabulous crush of delicate ephemera.
The street lamp praying for another life
backlit by the flames of your visitation… stoking your Southern Star.
The House recants the miracles and the broken step that ascends
while mocking your flight.
The crabapples chuck their boredom to the barren nostalgia
where the soil hid a lush lawn for lawn darts
and chiggers.

Returning has to taste like a penny
To Change You.

Her eyes were like the last cactus in Alaska.
Shrines of blue honey, Always wide and diaphanous.
Glowing in the wind like round kites in Springtime,
So glorious are all the flaws of Her Symmetry
She sways the Tide on a Moon.
So my Love is in Orbit
Because.

Like a Loon.