all of my thumbs pinch the sun
and the moon remains a cloud.

i have too many aftermaths
but always another lost cause.

these flowers keep blooming
no matter what.

you love your exile
or you Live until
it’s worth it.

I eat the pearls in my oatmeal eye
as perfect defects and ravens jambalaya.
moon-****** and a taste acquired…
I gather where I mostly disperse
No Self Required.

Just books and Islands.

But flies got in.
And grapes died on the vine.
your teddy bear watched you
Lie to Your Self…
and thunder spoke your language
when a wailing
was a polite
hat.

As I lurch from my Precambrian slumber
I do Birds where my windows peek from under.
I boldly go where the wind is a frame of reference-
and serve the Empty a full spectrum of dislocation.
I Unnerve the Actual with a dark Plum
singing something UnNatural.
Grief drains the Pool of every Sea
while Poseidon slights the Farce
Of our Perpetual Carbon Farms.
while slinking into varicose
Dreams.

Disarmed.


II

it never feels like Wednesday the way you want it too.

Songs have simple dreams. They cast their shadows with spark and smoke -
And all things gather at the cusp of a Knowing,
Tremble smitten. A wave of servitude in a Void you can’t avoid -
And a heartbeat that will stop when it’s Snowing.
There’s a Woman in the Sun
And She has your fingerprints
On many Moons.

II

Where the dog sleeps, he leaves the coffee stain of his slumber by dander
and all of your unclutter is drawn to the divet in the **** like an Ape
to a Blonde Chick and a Tower.
You had plans with an Average Day but made it a point
to be Extraordinary… Brown eyes on Boil.
You like to travel
but Nowhere Arrives
when you Go -

Until you get
there.

Then Everything’s a Lot.

Night’s Tomb is The Morning. The Sun is engorged with Glory
And Yellow has a Face… The lawns vary from manicured to feral,
and gobs of Time are plundered by the sane and misfit alike…
Because Theories bleed when actual Living dies.
The Sky is Broken, and all the Candy is not even There.
Too many Reindeer in Coffins, choking on Christmas
and sketching garlands on Ponies that never win Races.
Just Dreaming is like constantly Learning to Burn.
I have Teacups for blunders.
And Sunscreen for
Epiphanies.

You?

I’ve had salt and glee.
Rendered cow fat
and the absolute
Spirit of a Boy.
I have Undone
my Impossible Lute,
to fashion almonds
of probable Joy.
I’ve had Pause and Drang...
Tumbling over perfect Harm
with Loose Stars and no
Arms.

Tuning the radio like a frisky ******
I keep chewing my teeth and honey bees with my gums…
My incisors slumber
When my ghosts are gazelle..
They rend what meat is Shame.
And That Tastes
Like 9 Hells…
Only Petunias admit are Stars…

A Wayward Bruise
While tuning my Radio
To a Farce.

And a Complete
Disassembly
Of a Thing
With a

Heart.