As all the pollywogs woggle in the ***** galore
Resplendent in all dawn, as the rising star
Of an off-world dominion. delivers sparrows to sunshine
Hoisting wisteria to the throne of the senses…
Wafting in semaphore, so periwinkle
There are no eyes that may behold
the totality of its gossamer expanse.
the sheer sprawl of a most holy congregation-
of dizzy miracles, draped in ivy and morning dew
deliciously rampant with unbridled blithering
bathing in the rays of a faceless yellow
teeming with butterflies
cocooning no more.

All this in an
open door.

thunder paws at  the navel of night with cumulus talons
muffled in the coil of moonbeams
stammering lightyears from home-
pooling beneath pebbles
strewn across a broad regalia
of off roads
knitting secrets with spider genius,
bejeweled with enough stars
to avoid lonesome…

and owls enough hoo.

all alone.

Though it’s little more than a few things-
scattered about
Life continues to bewilder our tambourines.

Winters are longer than whiskers in milk
And Summer has you always in Love.

I was Black yesterday. Blackity, Black, Black, Black…
On my way to work, with my ***** hair stenciled to my Crown.
I was Breathing like Air was a Birthright
And my shoes slapped the concrete
Like a *****.

Because the Rainbow isn’t Suicide Anymore
I tread where my eagles congregate in perpetual sky-
Above the Ghetto of my familiar rivals...
Soaring in the Raiment
Of a Particular Sun that never casts a Shadow
Where my Brown Eyes kneel.
I see the Light… and unleashed, I strut like a phantom-
Your equal in all things…

However suspect,
When bombs go off
at point blank
range

Invisible to Cabbies.

You have too much Stephen King in your knapsack in Dunley.
And something that looks like homework half done
and the bus driver smells like a snowstorm
with polyester eyes focused on your next prison.
king of yellow promises with black stripes.
And the school across town has loose girls with cooties
but they teach you how to kiss and everything’s jake.
You have time on your hands like a **** on a gripe.
And 46 butterflies know your name by heart

because collecting them
was science.

a dandelion with a crown. the sun.
it hovers in the up above
suspended in perpetual expanse
the darling of our prayers
anointing our cavernous dark
with unprecedented
sprites.

the way it’s glory is removed
is intoxicating in the least paroxysm
of our motionless spasms of inertia.
the way it hangs ‘ore pavilions
twilit on blast in the void
summing our notions
of an opposite happy
with a subtraction
of an actual
fulfillment.

we rise to the occasion with our wits
floundering in the spoils of dead logic
rebuffed by impractical magics-
as savage as a plume
of empirical evidence
that Nothing
Happened.

we dawn as the sinking
extravagance of our ascent
implodes.

ginning the loop of so many delusions
it’s a promise we might be Human
After All.

It’s 4 AM and your skin is soft birch and your pillow indented.
You fume with stillness where your sleep is deep
And almost nothing is as pure as your inner
panorama of noise
Surging uncorked in millennia, as broad as Time’s banquet
Knocking the arrow of sweet slumber
To describe the arc of a falling star
into an open mind.

When you awake, she’s gone. At first you ponder, incredulous.
Then the Season descends it’s tendrils of departure
to ****** your precarious peace from its perch
like rolling thunder over a gasp.
your bed of fails, expansive in the dim pinch
of not enough morning.
just before the sun has mocked your reveries
into the nook of your crevasse
of miseries.

as her ghost kisses
your cheek.