their fear is the only thing they eat.
bone soup and entrails mind boggling
as every hour is a pursuit of vanity
posing as a pillar of the community
with complete immunity
as long as the money is long
and the idiots are many.

their fear is weaponized
like a Catholic joke within earshot
of an altar boy with
a secret shame.
a soul eating myth
that propagates hate
with all the tendrils of love
that bare no resemblance
to sanity, as they spoil
and collude
to Divide.

i am a massive fantasy,

the rude clock insists that Time is a thing
but i keep squandering my ducats
regardless. my apogee more below
than above… as i whistle past the graveyard-
with a raven on my tongue and star
on my mind.

then stupid people happen.

they blurt into my inertia with all their might
blathering on about how wonderful it would be
to be Fascist. But out loud.

and my life hurts where i’m living it
all the time.

Lillian Virginia took a photograph and stopped making fountains for City Hall, in 1963... She had Miwok dreams
and now, does  portraits of
the South Sierra...
all 1964 and Kodak Moments-
and cemeteries in Paris.
extensively abroad, she died at 31 in an explosion
on assignment for “ Combustibles “ magazine
In 1973.

I play a piano
in my
Living Room
without
Irony.

In a Papertown.

I’m in Nevada and….

Vegas drains a mountainside on the lucky side of a dam
like a rhinestone predator. long cars farce along the black ribbon
of plastic dreams and cigarettes pirouette
in the draft of speeding motorists
with stunted maps.
they go where the lights are laughing.
and stay for the pun.
Cactus and miracles shave their heads
because buying  a T-shirt would be
******,

while meteors and one armed bandits
shimmer in the ruthless elegies
of our superfluous Jade.

i Love Something
Anyway.

there are no simple moons. above all there are only storms that emblazon joy upon havoc
or sorrows beyond the reckoning of angels with bittersweet tinsel
in forgotten trees… nodding off in a forest you forgot.
all tomorrows in the wrong hands is when you wake-cling to the illusion of Otherness
and come seldom to the symphonies that designed You
to spite the Shadow,
it would be wise to eat more flowers
than toadstools.., but more wise
to love on purpose.

In Bloom.

when all the periwinkles winkle in the brisk fidget of Spring
and cicadas chorus in the forest, such odes to Eros, all my arrows
fall upon apples that can’t stop smiling.

my sunshine has no thorns, and soft moths coo in the twilight
of my everlasting beguile.
i am such that i might be gone accept for here I am…
and love has all my luggage and a cat
perched in the elbow of an Albatross.
grinning with phantasmal mischief
against the harm of the world
and sweet nothings
by and by,

Like something strange.

Love is where
I keep my
things.

Love is where i go
when here is
not Love.

I sing too much.
And birds find me
blindfolded.