this could hurt and it will.
it drags your bones
under your skin
leaves you naked
in the droning love
you’re drowning
so blissfully
in
it spells your name
without vowels
and leaves a dagger
to fill them in
you dress the wound
but remain naked
in the fire
of your
sin
you know the words
but they’re gone
you say them anyway
and nothing happens
then you say
them again

old habits.

Varicose Honey Farm in infrared 'elan
a siren's charm exuviates the rim
Of Karma
Where the Rift is harmless, If Harmless -
Is belladonna~
Omni-Colic-Rictus
gets an expert Witness
With a Degree in Soft Spin
And your Lips.

Someone in my skin gets out of bed to spawn

an iron lung, to extricate the wind
of Mantras -
Where the Risk is constant, If by Constant
you mean " Oxicodin "....
Drizzled over pixels of a Thought in Progress ~
Half Forgotten.

My Net collects the alabaster Parasols
A Dandelion lost To a Dog's breath


I put them back.
I put them back.
I put them back.

To humors It May Concern,
i bid you Comedy, at Best.
how the Life-Line, Is the Joke...
like A Lost Chord
is a Best Guess.

but I fluoresce.

So allow me to digress -
into a fetal emission.

a child of light
with old scratch itching
to strike a
Muse.

As I say
yes.

In a dipsy village on the outskirts of Hopenhagen  
i did tend to my ******* sheep and stub my toe on everything.
apparently.... that's what god wants. so i deserve pie.
to this very day, i believe the logic is sound...

like a hammer striking the shadow of a Bell.

your feet smell like gumdrops and moss.

smothering the coals, i laugh.

yeah, i had a headache and a Honda.
i ate the leather off a dead genie in a parking lot.
i was high, though.

wouldn't usually do that.

yeah, i crept through the sunroof of a thousand imaginary love bugs.
and when i was gone, i was gone forever... like any given moment.

but gravity has no jurisdiction.
and now you
know this.

how the bitter end begins,
we cannot say
without
hubris.

but we can say....

i was born underneath uncountable stars and I am Beautiful.

like a rope in a spoon... nothing is sane.
i just have the scent of you and our unbearable togetherness
to fall apart too... i have nothing else.

so just in case i hate you; let's be friends.

sleeping as i do... i don't.
too much about awoke and such...
weary yes... but stumblesome -
in happy ways about it.

climbing out' the sky
for strange candy
is the ground

to doubt it.

the morning came without so much as a fit of dead stars.
just a stoic blue, blasted over heaven, and the day's morass.
i slept through most of it. but had bad dreams masquerading as good times.

i slept on the train.

anyway...Jupiter has moons you haven't heard of.... and Rings !

i cannot wield what i cannot love...
and i don't know things.

i was black in your face today, and the world kept to itself.
spinning and rigidly doomed, rigidly doomed -
without the slightest epiphany. just a gorgeous glut
of stupendous stupidity.

i was black in your face today, and white things happened all over the world... and nothing changed. I bit my nails and stared at the sun like a Boy. I have no kingdom save the revery of my blood
and my much often love of empty spaces.

Life is where you leave yourself defenseless
before you are born.
By having eyes and a mouth and no truth to speak of...
save the tragedy of You...
And the Love.

no more Breakfast tumbling out of a Hornet's basket.
just soft thorns and gossamer wounds. only the ravens that kismet.
only the coffin cuff-links; and the splendid Pit.
only the margin for Errors beyond
your Religion...

and the woe of it.

Valentine's Day is how the mifflewarts expunge your good happy.
It dwells in the innermost fleem.
It has no fortunate rodentia, but scampers oblong
into  a sideways dream.
Lip-bitten. Our kites collapse in come-aparts to go *****.
prone upon the earth of our dim Ding*
when the Clock was gargling
Always.

my madness unfolds like a sordid towel drenched in mute figurines
dancing to a thread count of arbitrary rhythms.
a syncopation and a passion, woven into the marrow of my thoughts.
a crustacean on a star, swallowing it
whole.  

i never emerge as much as i descend.

then i ascend.

Tim had a chip on his shoulder that ate lead paint.
no accounting for taste; but the absolute trauma of having no words
for what You Really Are, has all the attributes -
of knowing nothing at all.

And that's how Tim fooled the Therapist.

Life is a threat full of puns.
squirming in the rictus of our every aspiration.
gasping for Yes.
A dormant gloom, gleefully dislodged from a Happy Place.
with a note from the Doctor
that ate your crucifix
to Fix you.

we All have Issues.

II


but the thorn in the rope
that you're knot
isn't exactly ' Not You '.
but it Isn't.

the way we sweep the stars into the black hole of our worry.
the way we seldom noble; how we choose to blunder terrific
and squander a horde of Time.
how we march Love
into Dust.

what we know
is not

what Is.

i cannot begin. i've already started.
now i'm staring into space.
i can't see where i'm going for all the being there.
like a forest and a tree
exchanging a Polaroid
for methadone.

and a stone compass...

a compass that never believed in True North.
so it spins.

now that your lips move and your breath is heavy-wet with burnt orange sighs, your eyes too deep to see me
from so much love away... now that your arms merry-go-round my wasteland, swirling languorous in lust, unarmed... you are the embers of lost ice, gathered on the farside of dead-center, more alive than krill, clinging to baleen and waterfalls, in the toothless maw of leviathans.

You're mine, again -
And out
to Sea.

my love for you is like an everlasting gasp.
my every breath haunted by a memory.
and now i'm used to that.

when we do not kiss everyday
it's like we never met.
more like we died
to live this way
unkissing.

some of my
dreams
stick to
my skin.

i had someone.

but
not anymore.
i have the polyps
of a false heart.
and a ****.

the
school play
of Hamlet -
I Have.

the
only bird
that knows
where the Trees
are.

I know
this.

at last.

but i'm fresh
out of
birds

and that's
the new
math.

in the morning, the crisp air crept on bacon feet
over the lettuce rumpus of my disheveled blankets -
tossing out the dreams of the night before...
boycotting the revelation at hand
at the foot my bed...

where yawning is sacred.
and well fed.

but memory is vague.
and just a boy.

The heat of day unloads a ton and the air is still as bleached granite.
thistles bristle in discreet steam. thinning and menacing the iron blue sky.
I choose the lemon sun with the ice heart thrumming
at the center of all worlds. and cool my jets.
i submit to the hidden mercy, and succumb to the river of riddles. emboldened.
golden in the old way. but shipwrecked regardless.
i have a maze
that's all
mouse.

I love the night...although its so silent my ears hurt
and there's nothing to be done about it. and i still get mail.
it's just empty and brittle. envelopes of undisclosed, declaring -
" I live Somewhere that mail Arrives..."
and I don't count on anyone
because everyone, is the Other night.

every one.

the night.

the sheer mechanics of having a prayer, is far beyond the scope of mortal men.
we have our doubts. and our envy. and we flock to joy -
if there be Love.

born in the middle of all possible worlds. we dwell amongst ourselves, like savage ghosts.
we float upon the most empty. conjuring our heavens in a frenzy of denial.
our hells have wings,

and who but one of you; could have ever thought of such a thing ?

i open the wound to see the reason i would want to see that.
and keep eating my ham and cheese. woolgathering in the hemisphere of my own paleolithic emotional diet.
i brought the nuts.

one more love in me... mostly ghost pomp
and lavender nocturnes.
my hands cannot grasp -
the very thing I would have first.
but in this Life,
I am asking for your hand.

immersed

September has no pet dander like the midday sun.
it burrows into heaven's closet of Blue... and no one -
suspects the gremlin of Time, of feeding the stray
Reality. On the down low.
It's always-
" How You Like Meow ? "
or nothing at all.
and September

i had come undone... but my virtue,
however unsacred...
saved me.
i simply had to be strange.
and continue.

And now the moon has fallen softly
from the lips of the velveteen void, to arrest
in the dimple of darkness, disarmed and radiant
as plasma and white cheese
on a black eye.

just above a frozen toadstool, hovering in the crisp of winter night
bejeweled in all the splendor of snowflake and starlight -
a wee lass with glass wings and a tiara of mischievous stalagmites
aglow in the Glamour of Her introspection's vanity
She shimmers 'neath the Moon
and disregards
your gazing.

in majesty.

As your secrets bleach in the canopy of dawn
and all the marching hares are strung up
by toad stools
and the band plays dust and maple,
on the moon.

Your very own Virginia -
is now the hallmark of
your revery.
a distinct shade
of rapture...
You have your 4 quarts
of Sunshine
and a barrel of ash
and whimsy.
But we have our
separate stars
to conquer for no
Reason.

Let me say this... I awoke this morning in the middle of a House Call.
The good doctor had bled on the porch where my begonias
were dreaming... but i sutured his open hand
and suffered the telling of his tale.

I was almost asleep, but then the air cracked like a whip
in a hurricane of dead calm. I was startled from my rest
by a hoard of indigo and rampant lovely things.
i chose not to believe in anything else.
and i come back to you

a moment at a time.

in my lost eye, the whole of the world is a gone thing.
a long away orchard of unspeakable goblins
and soft suns.

it would not be so terrible to love forever someone.
but it would be inevitable
and every task under Heaven would falter
should the rainbow catch a glimpse
of the obvious.

i am saying
something now.
and you
know it.

my love for you is like an everlasting gasp.
my every breath haunted by a memory.
and now i'm used to that.

when we do not kiss everyday
it's like we never met.
more like we died
to live this way
unkissing.

the way the blueberry numb skull,
sung from a day's gravy-
and the whole of the Sea
was a flat Earth.
but nothing led to nowhere
till you didn't mean it.
the way the warp
is the way
and the void,
the ceiling.

closing in on the spot....
i find my eyes
wandering
off.
they purloin a glimpse
of something beautiful...
then collapse.
Like two voids,
trading colors
for India
Ink.

you don't have to
believe it
but it has to
be true

it has nothing else going for it.
save the black hole
you came in with
and my very
best wishes.

but i digress.

you don't have to
believe it,
but it has
to be
true.

and that is how i say
what love
means.

i pull up a chair to myself and stare at myself....
i eat the Rhine of a melon of rivers... reflecting and dissolving
into my constituent arts.
i fumble and regain.
then the bubbles burst like pixies
on a stone salt cake. but I dream again. and the pipes of twilight
flock to my eardrums, gutting the writhing dark -
and singing the Potomac
of a sun -

I Thought.

famine chose me to lie to myself. curved my tongue from my truth
and sang new gospels through my fear
that only the moon could howl
or a dog could hear.

not even a nightingale
could sing
without a sacrifice.
i fear.

i bled through my ' No '.

and Nowhere yes
was so.

too many bees were busy. the backyard howling with black and yellow now... the sun high in the memory of Blue.
the heat of a day, baking the laughter and fright as we fled.
oh, how the screened doors quickened -
as we hastily retired to our exhaustive
debriefing, like a gaggle of goose.
for if we were geese -
where would be the breaking of
the rule ?

As night folk,  i am not right. too deep-end, and unquantified.
the high-low blip on the surface of an incomplete thought.
i love to wade in the tendrils of nightfall... and spark.
but i can't breathe all the time, because some **** is real.
and some **** is your life.

In the awkward air adjacent to the quivering sterility
lay the corpse of our Summer... twitch whizzing about the underworld
and all the glories afforded the stupid
and profane.

In the marshlands, where we grew our few dark orchards
and prattled on about the ' state of Things '
but without the Capital ' T '.

how we wrangled Hope into a jar of honeyed feathers
and broke bread, over north winds....  
cackling our sorrows like a hot mess
over stoic boulders
and quaint
sunsets.

and said yes.

however many hours i lay waste
i come upon the moment that salvages the redundant disregard.
i come about.
i assume the stature of an eye in a field of color...
sacrosanct and devoted to the never-ending spiral
of a perfect thing.

i cannot suture the forbidden
but i can usher the warm delirium
of a fresh hearth.
all the bonny winds of leaving
that keep you in your
place.

alive.

and no other thing outside me...

save the night.

some of us boil.

we are not like water hovering over a flame.
more like a flame at the bottom
of a frigid chasm.

unfathomable.

a crust of bread resting in the rustic coma of the breakfast nook.
butter on a plate... chastening the sun with it's mule yellow-
and gravy on your toast because
breakfast.

the window beside -
framing elsewhere, condensing the whole milk
into a colorful speck.
as you wander off into the morning
before coffee... with a mouthful
of toast.

and a host of jewelry... made of sleepy.

without a doubt
we sprout wings in the still calm
and catch the draft in a sleeping cyclone -
ascend and descend alone.
always in the Circus
of our Misadventures.
always in the corner
of our Sun.

how brilliant we would be if the light were out.

he's at the museum. stark pageantry bathing in halcyon.
he spies a frame and dismembers the calligraphy
of color wheels and myocardial infarction.
he smiles at Renoir.

he can not advance. too many white walls
with square holes. better to ponder them
than hurry off...to contemplate the space
and the unspeakable sum
of the arts.