The Keys of the Keeper
Ain't never found
A lock to a Door
Too bashful.
But they sway from a chain
In Aspic.
Jewelry as Stoic
As " Why are you asking?"
When a dozen Illusions
Have all the Answers.

And how Golden you Are
is not so very Alone.

I suppose.

But everything is
where you are the Most..
And some things are tears
That Laugh.

We should get a drink and untangle the myriad vines
intertwined in our Autumn on a thorn’s errand.
We should go where the agonies are barren
and as toothless as hoops in a guillotine
drenched in Olive Oil and murmurs
muttering the future to slow things drinking
and we shall have our towers built
by the tall stones of our ingenious remedies
that focus Hope through
Impenetrables-
as often as
Snow.

and our Tales
are not Lies
that we Know, that
We Know.

We should open the box
with the open mind
To see what’s
Outside.
Enlist the aid of
our feral Want-
Cajoling Night Terrors
into the Light-
of our ice blue
Reveries.

We should think about
muddling mint
at the bottom of
the Sea.

a cloud with
no face...

that hasn’t
been any face

Has been every Face

All the
While.

All the
Time.

Like We,

Margo gobs a peach with all the fuzz, fleece of Jupiter but sweet-
Like a tree is sweet for waiting so slowly they suddenly bare fruit.
She thinks about her pillow full of Sleep and Pity
melting into a queen-sized oblivion, marking Time with dim Arrows.
She feeds the wrong wolf now and then.
But she prospers where her sparrows depart from this World
And never Comes Back, so much as Return
To Turning.

It’s early morn with the sky fussy
with purple and red pumpkin
and as cool as a cucumber
on a grassy knoll of
Elysium.

Spoonfed sunshine and headlights.
A vast Pause moving
like a cat on a moonbeam
is Now.

Like a moment stalled by
everlasting Brevity.
Lank flags droop
on pillars

lightning rods face palmed in dead air
.
Bruised fruit cooling heel on heavy branches
launch dew driven arias of succulent oils
upon the calm expanse of Dawn.
I see houses held in suspense-
sprawling like mushroom cabins
with orange windows
squatting under chimneys and indefinite
Serenity.

With all the Grace of an improbable rack of Antlers
the last stars spike the waning dark
as luminous elan unfurls, spun from a loom of all mornings
dislodged from a long Night.
There’s a hum in the World
as golden as a bonny lass.
And a Silence

as loud as you like.

my golatha is mewling in the fringe. lemon rinds polished.
my credenza dust-laden and perfect. like an old promise in moon gingham.
and all of this conjures a portable god and a night kingdom of uproarious gunthers
plundering the under-whim of our daily crisis
by loving the pitch of the sea.
and siren wishes-
privately.

all of this twice and again the world in which to fathom it.
our astute breach of contract, expanding into quadrants of unanswered questions
with all the panache of pandering, to a blush of summer on a ghost’s lips.
all of this always. like a concerned amnesia in absentia. open mind adjacent to a constant door… and a bronze myth.

Myth-Behaving.

The apples are handsome and Pre-Cambrian with their foliage draping the canopy
with apple breath and shadow. An Orchard of Arias, hours from a glass of hard cider.
Cinder mittens on it’s oaky nose; as Autumn recalibrates the haste of fire…
The house slides into a sunset on a cinnamon bun.

I lean back in my chair and write this.



II


There was a God in my Breakfast. Gnawing at my Animus.
Spooking mirrors with my own face. And kissing my feet.

I knew it time for muffins, with Blueberries In
and a glass of cold milk from a Sacred Cow.

I slept through the Preamble of my Eminence
too enthrall of Another, and the Songs that kept track of it.

comet locked to inexplicable Love
feasting on the marrow of Sunshine
and Fuji.

I sleep until Morpheus laughs milk through his nose
and abruptly laugh at us Both. yesterday’s whole-grain toast
on a doily, derelict and butter-cuffed-
where a bite was sincere and absent-minded.
Much like a peasant’s frenzy,
with manners from Empty tables.
Only good enough to gauge
the width of a Total
Farce.

Or sum the Sublime
with a Catalogue
of Lost
Arts.

I awake when the dream begins
.
And you wanna hear me talk about snow right now.

And I bother.

“ The blanket is a kind of white noise that only the eye can see -
   as a Blue Thing.

It’s fading… and nothing comes close to not beholding.
We are all In for the finch and the hare
and the crepe of crisp.

pinned to a theme of our leisurely stroll-
through damp crystals
as awestruck as
Winter at
Spring.

On the cusp of our twilight, serene seraphs slumber
born of golden spite and joysome psalms, woven from unspoken skin
to stitch ice to every paw of Dawn clawing at the hem of Night.

     And where Winter falls, I stay awake to chart comets and chimneys
Like any awkward Silence
thought I might.