“ That’s what This is for.” And if there’s nothing more
then I’ll have at it. Lapse into to a vigorous coma
of devotion. divining my purpose from the soil
beneath your feet, like a zealot from Coolsville-
just a touch in my cup of Hennessey
and leaning into comfortable.-
all the while
watching you steep tea with your eyes far off on a tangent
that must be beautiful. And-
Come morning we’ll have sleep waffles
and murmur our dreams
into java, with our hair disheveled
as our bed
and our happiness glowing
as we yawn.

Adore.

swain and limber I elope with the prairie, laughing in the face of the sun.
my love unbound, like a joy beyond the province of desire.
my heart, pounding nickels into bouquets.
my eyes unhinged from the dark… light fiends in perfect illumination.
Impossible eyes are mine, full of thunder and fresh sourdough
steaming on a solid gold brick  from my last wall.
your lips are how I farm silver
from a kiss, and my love is all
the *****
for You.

The Billy Goat barley wine went down like a lead zeppelin  
in concrete shoes. Fog crept over the world and words-
were tumbling out of extroverts as the party bedazzled
on the spacious patio, with the forever Christmas lights
and the gas grill and a workhorse keg.

Everybody's darling and
the potheads ponder
in indiscrete pods of
perpetual laughter-
sipping jaeger and pabst
in tribal tattoos.

My mind wanders off
as I lean on a pillar of cedar-
facing a sunset seam that
lay upon the horizon
like a lost dog.

I thought i might listen to my friends from a distance
and glean the hieroglyphics of their posture
to gain a sober understanding
of their shenanigans.

Thereby affording me
a vantage point
with a point
advantage.

But alas, always-
a wallflower in a hammock
doing calculus
with chatter and
variables….

like Everclear in
Pineapple juice
or Colossal *******
like Chad.

When my Karma blew a Satire, I was mocking something as naked as this.
I drank my coffee from a Flea Market mug
with all the panache of-
the happy ******
with none of the manacles
of Self Awareness.

Sleep Being a constant insomnia, where-
barns alongside the road all have faces too feral
for tranquil lamentations. postcard sceptics all.
but they rest in fields
of invisible blood
like Lincoln Logs in a microwave on a
platter of cadaverous
Parthenons.

I lay dormant in the bones of the Sun. Undetected by traditional auguries
As anonymous as an honest word..
As serpentine as right angles in a left-handed Sphere.
Ever keen to be never wicked… but unapproachable by chariot.
Only long walks off short piers need apply.
And oodles of Time
to stop on a dime
by heart.

My apartment has too many candles, so that’s the right amount.
You could sleep through the apocalypse and arise refreshed
and peckish. And you’ll just know where the muffins are.
My terrarium has a name made out of teak and jade.
Several worlds abide where I hang my nocturnals
and I’m lousy with stars in a batch of dark
the size of the Mind.

as I reflect i deflect and wonder where the arrow went, that pestered me.
i speak for the trees like a Lorax on a ******, but with fine penmanship
and quaint masteries. i learn the language of moss
by twilight and beg aeons for an hour
of Clarity… stumbling to Port
as I aright my Ship upon a proper Maelstrom
as viscose as a black diamond
on a candle’s
mind.

In perfect circles we spoke. No virgins to Ellipse but faithful
to the radius of our doom, like a choir to a Chamber
of Remarkable Silence.
Like a backwards whisper
into a megaphone
lodged in the ear of a deaf god
that gets the gist
but never the urgency.
we slept with flames on the inside.
and bled through walls like a stain
aping Picasso without Wallpaper’s
consent

Emerging from the tundra of music
at the kernel of indefinite stars.
full blown glasswood
from a furnace
with all
eyes.

we sustain our love
by wounding wounds
until they see Us
for who We
are.

This love in
a jar.

As is. So far.