Owning the empirical argument
is like a mouthful of marbles
Telling marbles How Cubes-
Think.

Meanwhile...

All the West is The East with its back to you.
And no one can say how pointless
a compass can be
until they’re born.

And that’s how maps
may never spoil
The Lost.

And how Paradise
remains

“ Here, There Be... “


CANTO II


we are half a bird in a sling
shot through with dark wings
and guillotines as precious
as an unyielding spark.  

we are dust where the flesh is not.
and bone where the
songs go.


CANTO III


yea, though i walk through... (The Other Side-
remains elusive.)

too many Underworlds; and all the doors are stairs.

Like a mad god signing your Yearbook
with your Name.

But for Realsies.

Her cologne was hemp and Tuesday; lettuce-wrapped
in comet frost and not so merry-go-rounds.
She hid scars with wounds-
But never Noticed...
Charm- Kissed
by a tide of imponderables-
the size of her Ovaries.
Sleeping in a steamer trunk
to scope the limits
of Her Open
Mind...
As seen through the lens
of the first Blind
Eye.
And you Love Her.

II

You don’t have to sleep where you pass out.
You can study dreams where her feet have been.
Trek the spiral of her Cacophony to a Wailing
where her Heart should Be.
You can believe in anything
that Love allures…
Even-
And entangle your imperfection
with Her own.
But you have to wake up
to Dream properly.
Fold Space
where the crease
is a massive
Soul.
Merge with the
soft clots
in your fire,
and conspire to
move.

Breach the barricades
that thorn
your Roses,
or surrender
to
vanishing.
Know Love’s Garden
for what It
is.

Or Fetch a
Grove.

our skin pushes the river till it splits the sky
molting with waves of skin, deep and fathomless.
i am nowhere, like a weather vane in a cauldron
of Nope.
The winds tickle when they actually Mill.
and a bread from said grain
is a Love I can’t
ferment.

not without your ghost butter
and endless full moons.

For
Love is a Beast
and there is no Oasis
for wanting
You.

As we Diverge... where

We At
Least.

Down by the lake where the air had lost its breath mints and cattails wobbled like golden hobos, you could see a little house across the chop; squatting on the far shore, flanked by tall evergreens and nameless trails receding on ghost feet with tiny little shells for boots.
     Down by the lake you could see a light in the window with the Chinese maple fascinator off to one side in an offshore breeze. And rampant ivy, raiding the pantry of a thatch roof overhang for sun crumbs and pelican pies. You can just make out the door that seems to stand between worlds, slightly ajar.  And a chimney as stoic as a bone with a granite crown.

You’ll be back next year.

I [ know ] what it’s like.
Indoors with an Outdoor Mind.
Fever blink sparrows in Calligraphy’s
Eponymous Wreck of droll Elan.
Outsized Inside,
As ripples in a quiver
may Be in Two Blazes
At Once.

While Love can be
Nowhere near You
When You
Want.

II

I have stopped singing in the usual way, now more concave and scattershot
With bare-bones clacking rough gibberish to the masses in discreet columns
of deployed madness… Cherub-Stung Pontiff of a Dirigible -
Swinging from an Aether Star
Hooked on hooks and crashing
Into something
Glorious!

I have too often the perks
of cerebral Detente
with my Impossible Oceans.
I Swim .... to soften the scales
of my deep fish
Kabuki

I Never Know
Cool Things.


Until I Burn.

Acorns fraternize in the leaf litter, sifting through tired tales of falling.
A yellow sun cranks knives into yellow sinews of nearly perfect grey
where twilight is smiling for no reason,
and we all sleep overlong,
as our tomorrows
lapse into gone.

The Politics of Amber
Is how Love is not the first thing
that you know.
It buries the lead in the forefront
Of a Trojan Horse.
The mane, majestic in the wind-
up your aspirations.
But always where a weeping oak
Had a reason…

To paralyze a
Life.

Or Two.

In my neck of the would bees. I had no kinfolk.
Just churlish Bears and Porridge out of Time
Like an AlmostPurple Stew.
Wings Clipped...glistening in the gloom;
Beating against Time -
Like Champions anointed to a Point
Of No Rebirth. With -
Only the Challenge of ingenious Farce
Banging the pots in our Potsdamer Platz.
With all speed. And all Mirth.
And All Nots.

Loose ships sink lips…
when they speak
Or What-Knot.