in sheepskin and marmalade we palaver and jig our rods in the Nile
but seldom, Our sunspots blighted and the constant barrage of
darkening's become the strobe wafer-thin ramblings
of madmen with catheters for priests,
and Catholics for conniption fits
for faraway kings
to dish about in near-away
parlors of unpolished reality.
Yea! sans varnish and crickets with rickets
and a whole host of dismay, dismayed by gardens-
and a whole menagerie -
an appeal to a constant
NO!

receiving a fair bit of the Real on a stick
and a few fairies
in the wing ***** of our falderal  
Nesting in Summers, too keen on Winter
and anointed by the drizzle
of a sumptuous outsized
Joy

a dangle in the tinsel of a calm.

half annoyed.

when the snail is asleep and the periwinkles winkle in the brisk twilight of a perpetual undernoon
and the temple of a spherical calamity is a long pause, jostled into real life by your actual demise like a parenthetical parasite, clutching the void between worlds for the juice of a pirate’s
derelict fiction… spawning afternoons in a pond of after-scapes, aswoon to the purpose of too many worlds to conquer in. and too many apples forbidden… just sittin’ around, doing things that don’t-don’t matter like a vibration with the palsy of a wormhole as docile as Vulcan in a Lemon Tree with an Apple Mind.
a pantry pheasant for a brooch is the real life and the cotton you cotton is a bruised remove
at an angle for a snipe and a caustic Sunday, wrapped in levolor blinds that constantly
maraud the perpetual dilemma ever extending, and approach by storm, the Unending Things
that gather in the husk of our sunsets, like boil on a dying star!
our love squeaking through the hinges of our unattended saturnalias…
squandered by leagues of wandering, adept in purpose without form
and constantly gathered at the hearth of our quiet doom
when the snail is asleep
on the moon.

and the moon is awake
like a Moon.

a poem is an egg with a horse in it.
no ordinary bones. just a beak
and a mane event.
ghost feet
and honeybees
that gallop best
where our terrapins Jupiter
the most.

where we have
our pins for
stars
to fathom
with.

a poem is a dust up
where a downward dog
has chased a car
into a vat
of cats

and that’s who
we are.

and that’s
That.

we kept our clouds behind a uniform front. we had no medallions.
we lacked the tassels of mavericks. barn foxes all, with never-slain eyes
and just a pinch of petulant grit… fit for a moon to ponder.
or a sun to punish for the nerve of a grain-
of inviolate-soul.
we kept our stash
in a coffee can
like a canto
in a cookie.
and slept where bricks
had soft heads
rolling down delirious hills
to harsh beds
and amaranth.

we walked where then fog
was not the grey
but the space between
the almost
real.
​​​​​​​
we kept oblivions
at bay with our
gutterfly wings
boosting signals
from a torch
we could
feel.

then we embarked
upon a song
beyond the
sea.

“ then we embarked
upon a song
beyond the
sea.”

early worm complete.
with lycanthropy eyes
on your last slice
of Pi.

tossing a divot to a ripple
at high tide…

like a stealthy splash
in a Pondering.

with a moon
moustache.

and an Always wandering….

so this morning it’s the Jupiter pants
and cream cheese danish-
on the couch, resounding
and three stooges chirping thunderous ruckus
underneath my captain crunch perpetual
like an always
spark.…

but something more like tomorrow’s fool.

drenched in the cinema
of a private thought.

with an all day
balloon.

braising photons on the bone
a plump star rotisserie
in the palm of my begging bowl
at the hearth of an eye
with all the chambers
of sunset
with a Phoenix
Mind.