with all your doom you murk the underdark
of your insipid calamity
caroling the bells of a unique chapel
in the bleak felspar afternoon sun
chiseled from a monolith
of brooding star foam
and jaundiced
tangerines.


with all your dust
you anoint the desolation
of your contemptible
menagerie of free range
left handed oysters
with teeth
and all the sunken eyes
of a drunken leviathan
howling in a marsh
of aggravated
slumber

where the tune
of a misfit
is perfect.

all the time.

The way a Thing Unravels is the Art of its brutal hum.
It demands a hurdy gurdy where a fife would do…
and all the mimzy of our virtues
at a glance.

It continues without stop charms and long are the hours
of our displaced events. the way you come apart too much
where the threads are apparently frayed but the sweater
is apparently snow.
Poetry Is This.

II

a sleeping vine goading pavilions
of absolute UnSleep.
a Narrow escape
where a Thought
is True.

A Me and You.
Doing the Nothing
That our Something
had removed.
on purpose.

Dawn in my coffee cup floweth over
in the wee hours
of my mysterious exchange.
the way i post up after midnight
with a busy midday mind,
and an apple cart-
of frenzied chrysanthemums.
i chum the waters
for last waves-
in a brush fire of
every wave

And
Like That-
I am somewhat
sane.

with all
the filigree of
a ghost

with rain bones

and too many
beautiful
names
for

" I don't Know "

Nose wrinkle varmints in the snow,
twitching like whiskers
of an avalanche..
chirping moon songs
with a mouth full
of tundra

Snoots in the under stars.

where the peat moss
is on some kind of
fire.


II


Blue has crept into all beds,
our windows perched in
northerly winds
with our cats
lap prone
and our blankets
Normandy


III

Ah. the winterkins
and how very much
they know
me.

there is salt where the sugar flew kites that kissed a yellow sun
and that was when you loved me best and all the pomegranates
guffawed in the fog of war with little rare hats-
made of morning dew; due to some devil of a heavenly.
but it’s Different now, the way a season
snaps like a twig-
and All of a Suddenly
the Moon.

there is salt where
the  cream drew breath
from a marble
open-mouthed
kiss.

But now, there’s Just
the Opposite.

night’s wedge is fancy
on the perimeter
of our undisclosed
location.
our opaque
salvation-
more harm than good-at
full circles.
more apt with holes
in a honey-hearted
hive of all
hearts.

with sticky wings
two skies
apart.

By some unborn perpetual,
I come undone on que.
When Hollow Is the Fiber
of an anointed ghost
And all flesh, at the angle
of descent.
My Spiral is Concave.
A typical Atypical,
Typically thick
In the wings-
When the Sky
is not the Enemy
But merely a-
Want, that I
Lost.

By this much.