On this day, the sun is wane-weary in the mist of an offshore fog-
come ashore and  gumming the works.
It’s a damp light all around
and the foundry of heaven has come to a halt
with one anvil ringing in steam
as Blue retires
from its perch
so the Grey
mayhap-
and the Dawn
drab.

but the hawk in my eye is immune.

War is never Peace,
This occurs to me
over frosted flakes
in my fleece.

My mochaccino-
Chocolate Mandarin
building a Wall
between Awake
and Sleep.

While purging a keg in the afterhours, pondering the smithy of my iron will to dour.
I clutch an unearthed doubloon with my eye-teeth beguiled by the span of ravenous.
Oaken coils of smoke barrel through the haze of indistinct cherubs
With their ***** war-paint and hooligan charms… wilting in tandem.
I join the delirious marmalade of a neighborhood denial
Adrift upon turbulent silences in loud places…. with my manufacture
Organic and tipsy-fizzle with a hoard of uncomfortable
glum.

Then a Cab.

Living in the City may clip your wings.
But there’s baklava, so….

You pay more to live in a cube
with a longer cube MacGyvered
to a money pit shaped like-
a square.

It’s all the rage
how you are.

II

When you formally meet your first guitar
you get sunburned.

III

Now you eat noise and incidentals. like profound Chicklets.
But your shadow’s sweet-tooth is another way to adventure
from your cavities, with sea shanties from False Hope
Or Narwhal hymns in bright typhoons
Like glass lipids
Burning in earnest
Where the sun
Has a brief chill-
In the panorama of
Your undistorted
Will.

IV

Like riding a bike
with Imaginary Legs-

That Believe that you
Actually Have
A Bike.

along the banks of the river; follically challenged scrubbery-
chokes on damp sand and sunshine… cattails etching semaphore
for dragonflies. bobbing in Spring’s spring… like a vibration
on a breeze with clean thoughts and urban widdershins.
the occasional gnat, plastered to a wind shear is often comedy-
as the passerby dissolves in the waltz of a temperament
masquerading as a global warning…

with cold cotton.

she thinks of me
not often.

When my Calling is Calling
And I fail to answer
The Phonemes…

I’m depressed.

And of course, I must be.
Driven North of my South
By harpies
Draped in flags.
My constant Dystopia
More Terrarium
Than a home for
My bees.

And more Hive
Than any Home
For
A Dream.

A plush junket
Of close calls-
Where rice patties
Wane.
Because Prophets
Fail like crops.
And The News
Is just a new Nothing
In Imaginary
Palms…

Phantom
mad.


II


But when my Calling is Calling-
And Negotiations have collapsed.-
As foretold by Introspection
And served on a platter
Of Absolute Narcissism
Chained to an Unspoken Woe
In my Achilles Heel-

My Falderal, fumbling
For Unfaltering.s.

I almost digress.

III


I clamor to the forefront
Of Myself; maladjusted
To Sun spokes.
Privately
Waning.
A Tempered Steel
In a molten
Kaleidoscope-
Hoping
Love hath a Plan
That a Hell
Dismissed.

Or a Poem
Made sense
Of It...

Sisyphus.

In the copse where the green is noble and remote
and my wineskin sings whatever tune
my besotted soul applauds…
As I gather no moss, no stranger to rough canopies.
as there; i serve agendas beyond
my craven absolution
to arrive be-darkened and be-knighted
in the very crescent of my
incorrigible descent
erupting from a tomb of my own making
with a sprig of mistletoe
in a goblet of Sangria
star-struck by
moonshine...