Politely pining for Plums.
That's a Social dynamic; integral to your Kafkaesque Self Awareness
and it must be appeased. But i assure you; you needn't bother waiting to be entertained in any event... and the seeking of a thrill is no mocking of a bird.
It has flown without you
and all genuine delays are at the feet your imaginary Life.

You might recall the imperfect stillness of your haste. How it halted.
How it gained an inch in hell by waving hands
at a Taxi, stalled at the wreck of all your unspoken Banshees
Balking at Time’s sinister rebellions against the flesh of your everlasting Mortality.
You succumb to too many Truths and meteors.
Ambling in the fog of All Things
Adjacent to -
“ Why ? “
.

All the ill homes ditching the hearth of a quiet in favor of a dust up at sundown.
chemicals in the frost,  digging into limp houses and chunneling the bedrock of an underneath as barren as the up above. As only a fairy tale can scar a blemish.

Optical violets
conspire to blossom in your benighted tomb
should you live there, with all the irony at your disposal
to lay siege to your impregnable-
Mice.
They know all about the clock
but nothing of the gears…
too busy easy eating charms from a ghost hand
in a parlor of lost boys. too busy slipping into cauldrons
of bespoke misadventures and
terminal revivals.

You bloat the river
where a crick would do.
Your fathoms blast the narrows
of your endless beseech. You implore that the world
should come apart more gently.
That it should sleep when the evening is callous
but long in the truth.

then dreams permit pearls that permit holes in theories.
And all the comely dawn
is vanquished by noon.


II

For nothing is as always
as another thing forgotten
when you meant too.

i cannot occupy mars but have sown my feathers to a star
made of happy glass and sorrows beyond my kin
and i have ventured to the rim outermost
to pinch barnacles from dragons.
and nothing has been the same
since the dawning of all my worlds
tumbling into space
between Words.

when your sun is too high, all that matters is how your moon is waning
and some of the far things become up close when you venture from your anesthesia
and succumb to the wayward lithium of your bright mind on a dark sea
slumming with stars so astonished that the dark is gasping for shadows
but your treasure trove is a moveable feast of ferocious puns
dipped in the quill of Time and marginally antiseptic.
you click with the void but the cure
is an actual oblivion
full of You.

and you love like a crazy thing when living out loud.

he sleeps in his car because getting there was exhausting
and the highway had a soft lane parallel to the speed cage snake
that wandered off into the desert where it lost the horizon
to a silhouette of cactus praying to the Sun.
as it sat.

tumbleweed grit in the yellow canvas of dawn
like an alarm clock of spikes and low dunes.
he fidgets for the wheel and the keys the whole shebang.
with crystal cotton in his eyes and no coffee to believe in.
and adjusting, he weathers the turmoil of rude awakenings
in the radio is broken world
of a long way home.

the wind chafes the manacle
clank born maniacal, sidewise Wednesday-
stuck where the chemicals calm down
the real things-
stuck to your windshield.
something like a varmint
in between
doing nothing at all
and being so dead
it can’t be a
miracle.

but the going keep going when the staying is a vacancy
as wide as the dark side of the Truth.
you can go there with your strawberry eyes
but not all of you, see too much
until you do… with all your candles
out of mind.

and all your utter lack of proof.

underneath the bridge where the trolls eat goats and the rays of the sun are rumored
to be Pisces and the world is an odd duck, galumphing along beside the other world
you’re actually in.
there are songs about the territory but-
no melodies to remember
them with.

we sleep through the screech of time
and canonize the raptures
of our complete illusions.
born in a cage of open skies
and cul de sacs… we depart from our roots
to sprawl amid the vanishing and -
all waves of endless
deep.

Like
a speck of dust on a lens
is a ziggurat
to a lens
cap.

and a condor
to an almost
Life.