Like a pin on a spike
the dim light creaks dull bright
and fungus glums in the 'tween
as it might... and a yearling takes a day
to bring about the long, wrong night
as amber drools
from the lungs
of a stunted
kite,

the
wind is an idiot
pruning the sun
from a
suspect
sky.

how we talk in the interim
is nuts, but the lust
excels.
it grooms the pollution, and yes
it threatens the fresh blood
of our last regrets.

but... yes

fathom the windmills
of our mangoes
as a fruit -
Less.

some other joy that -
has a boy gone
more less
than
kept.

and
crease the wrinkle
in your starlight
to moon  

if not to
breath

beneath the weight. the waiting and the ever churning grief.
however changed in my human skin
still too human for a civil tongue, too unforgiven to go a day
without persecution.
cloaked in new love's grace, with an ardent heart

and yet unclean... i embark to scale the impossible wall.

and what burns me down
is what i love.
it holds no water in the riverbed
that leads to the Truth
of Me.

II

this weary soul crawls on hands and knees
until it stands and screams, " i have not done thee harm this very day ! "
splayed beneath the grim shadow of a mutilated intention
driven out and whipped like an unrepentant fool
to the slaughterhouse of your constant doubt
and haste to take offense.

there is no safety to love freely and at ease.
only the vigilance of a paranoid -
love-sick as a sick dog
choking on a crust of
dread.

never allowed to rise from the dust i have forsaken
for true love to love thee more.
never allowed the grace of a lapse in my perfection
for perfection is the prerequisite for true forgiveness
in a war with a wounded angel.

so I remain
too human for love.
too human
to not be condemned
constantly.

ever the man on his knees
praying to a spiteful thorn
in his side.

never worthy.  never saved*.

i seek it everywhere. i go long nights into high noon
with my pruning shears and my audacity, to snip blooms
from the moon's fist and shadows from my chafe heel...
clamoring over sharp stones and soft clods of moss sod
unwavering. unassailable and unmatched.
i grasp the happy dream by the mane of it's night-mare
and ride her through the marsh and bog.
i greet the day with a handful of blue lemons
and toss them into the wishing well
along with last year's eyes that saw you leave me
for the spit of a camel on an iceberg*.

and ennui go.

my house shoes shuffle my gait across linoleum earth
and a thin layer of bisquick and dander. last night's raid
on the larder and this morning's coffee quest, collide
in the long slant shadows of a slow moving star, on the rise
like a yellow souffle with a nuclear heart.
i imagine a vertical carousel, grinding 'round the house
of my muffins and octane. dragging pin lights and globes
over the horizon... marching an infinite parade of other worlds
above my crust of stone and blue oceans, crashing a thousand miles
from my domain... i envision the void on a string of pearls
and deep sea horses galloping 'cross the gap...
i toss sugar into a ceramic misadventure from the state fair
and sip remarkable from the lip
of space. and consume*.

soup thin the wind and the telescope now.
you have no discernible soul. just a parlor trick -
and a moon gone fishing.

the withering is how we contain the accident
the cold front is massive and we have no gears
to run the fables -
that our stars
glob.

keep to the wisp in your spleen,
sink teeth only in starlight
and red snow.

that rain in your skull
is the aftermath
of a private
joke.

and there is no telling
laughter, why it
hurts*.

At Depth
Only Love can breathe
Itself
and make more
Love

Any word that
says it all

Made you...

Made You
Out of Echoes
when the Universe
had no walls
and no
idea who
was always tossing stars
over the Fence
and never asking
for them
back

but that
was when the Universe
was young
And believing in Fences
was nuts

You were -
made from Echoes
that Understood the Mind
Of The First
Thing

from echoes
happy to discover
where all the stars
had landed.

Stars thought
Gone.

Stars, the neighbor's only child -
Tossed
From an Unimaginable
Lawn.

over our Precocious
Nothingness.

into my
Heart*.

our tongues will regret yet, the very things we really mean.
before breakfast. rough tongues of the young, too thick to stick a pin
in sorrows with subtext, are not our tongues. we are not, not gone.
we are less than really here; right now. you live out of clouds
around the bend. if you intend to sleep as deep as that, then keep
the keys to the chariot, but lose this address.
i know butterflies that hate you.
these are butterflies
you have never met...
and yet
a fret of miles gain an inch in hell. our tongues tell best, of very ordinary means
by which we end, less. we drone. our own pun; a neat trick we keep.
with love, borrowed. a mock debt; a storm-front of rain-checks
feather our deranged nest. akin to soft sins;
if not wrong, not quite right yet. small crimes.
we will do no time well spent,
any favours.
our clocks are dark.
why mark day one ? and do tell, how so ?
as you know, our sunset
is infinite.
i know stars that hate the night. these stars are deep, so by 'night', meant, 'the night
of our eyes' that by design, no star has ever been -
that did not flee for fear of it.
our night is unkind.
love tortured it. love built stars, painted black. never lit.
decoys, hell-bent in heaven's grip to ******* a flock
of lost angels, locked
in free-fall. our night the basement floor
of all descent.
what stars call ' the bottom of the bottomless'.
we call 'a great place to paint stars black'
fin.

since when, do we not live, and not live to regret ?
our sharp minds are unkempt, but the truth did this.
our lies were tailored, so **** fit. smokescreen jacket, 100% smoke.
double stitched.
that camouflage camisole  ? pure silk.
somewhere, a web of deceit
is telling a fly
about a hot librarian
with black wings.

with your face.

good with scissors.

she wove a façade with her heart in her left hand, behind her back. this heart wept.
these lies found god. when their faith increased their number...
god was family.

i knew    that would make you laugh.

i didn't know laughter could ask for asylum.

this will be dealt with. our games are serious spirals.

our vendettas our enigmas.
our humor; inscrutable.
our telepathy
is disarmed

but never harmless.

when people like us shoot from the lip ? it's a massacre. hollow points, custom made -
black powder ? an unnatural understanding of love. and dry wit, unhinged...
our bullets ?  Bullies Of the Highest Caliber and fluent in 5 languages; doubtless,
The Envy of Contempt !

when people like us shoot from the lip ? with our tongues, armed to the teeth ?
our teeth; a full set of white knives. with our vanity...
bleaching carnivorous
stalactites by day.
stalagmites by night ?

do worlds burn ?
does Sigmund Freud ?
I do not know.

I am certain only, of the following -

" when two persimmons make a pair... lethal persimmons."
" when two pears make one false move... persimmons are like '**** pears !'"
" when persimmons are paramours... and we too, make a pair...?"

Rosemary's, baby persimmons ?

i can tell you there is no such thing as 'collateral damage' at our level of expertise
and nothing bleeds without a permit.
to attain said permit, a wound, from the future -
must send a genuine moment of weakness to the past. after analysis...we verify.
from here, our methods diverge.
but our dis-ordinance
is acquired.

when our gauntlets demand satisfaction, our custom is to trade barbs.
at this, we excel. we trade without deficit.
our accounts are immune to frenzy.
our balance:  pathology.... then

it's 'tongues at twenty paces'
and someone
gets hurt.

by rote we joust... by now, your flank is.... exposed.
so, my dread rose... my blanch thorn... know -

Twenty paces will always be nineteen paces from a kiss.
but it will never be
'only nineteen'.


if you laugh - this has always been true.
if you don't - this has never been a lie**.

the seasons are one season. winter is spring.
i have no books to tell me so, but my wings glisten regardless.
i have no barter to gain a farthing for now...
but i wait patiently.
and nothing has my heart as much -
as Nothing has my heart.

the armor of quiet fire is not absurd.
it's a bold thing, tramping the woods of frost
and fecundity.
it broods as if
i move through the quagmire
of our dystopia... constantly -
raving at the heavens
for the price
of a now.

i have no choice but the choice i've chosen
and random is the language of poets
who know it.

II


but now
is the window
that breaks a silent truce.
a rude plume of anguish
stunning the forest
of your precious
mushrooms
for stale
fruit.

we are a
glorious wrong
righting itself
in the face of a faceless
face.

we are how
we love nothing
and that is our
place

somehow.

in my dream, we have no eyes for blind mice
and that's nice, if you ain't got three, and a grand clock
but we lived in the pendulum of an arc in a long box
laid to rest in a deep room of rich soil, and dumb rocks.
the dream bent, where i stepped aside from my suspicions
that you had eyes in your pockets. while i had only holes...
and paper cranes.
i keep the moss on my fingertips, when i dig into the sky -
to find your face.
and that's nice, if you ain't been grounded; stuck in a fugly glut
of gravity's finest hits. pinned to the wings of a butterfly, pinned-
to an anvil... strapped to a georgia peach.
you always have the shark fin soup, as i graze the pit.
as the pit gazed into me. you sip a bit, n'swell your cheeks.
we are nothing like our waking lives
while sleeping so truthfully.

somehow we're on the beach. where it never started. but deja vu
as if remembering the beach. and forget how we have not the eyes
for blind mice save the eyes in your pocket
while i have all the holes
that you need.

and paper cranes.

II

the bleeding has stopped, where a spear kissed an artery too violently
and shook loose my red roving rivers of rebellious reveries. stopped - and now it's a knot's petty game. it extends my life just to mock complete
Happiness. but i peep the same. i know the moon is the only sister that has my back.
where i have slept
beneath her...
dreaming on earth
dreaming on earth

dreaming, alas*....

down by a rough choke of cattails and locusts
black toads tumble from the cobwebs, croakin'...
a lost dog laps at a stale pool of rain
full of stars he can't catch
and clouds he
can't chase.

there used to be a church back off in those trees
but the road never came
and now the ghosts
never leave*.

climbing out of bed and into my spirits' handsome remove
as the windows breach my solitude with all sunshine and an early mist
reclines like a cat made of jewels; i join the **** of my room with new feet
planted in yesterday's disarray, and a multitude of undone things.
i seek the fumes of my coffee. I scoff at the tattered robe i can't get off me-
for it's comfort is old and friendly, draped over my sleepy flesh...
adorned in lethargy and no small muse, i ***** at the giants that taught me just how the ocean is one tear
wept from a loving dream
that borrowed the eye of a storm
to cry havoc
over truth.

every wave, living proof

Of You.

the
faint odor of soup cans
and well water wafted through the pumice stone
of recycled air and a faint hum. you thumb through the turbulence of your heart's bone
as it fractures. you catch birds to mock turtles.
with no alice.
the sun adds this...  true moons and canopies
soft shouldered earth and dead moths. we're taught
but more lost. the sea chops
so the horizon is a great wave
on a seahorse.

cozy stars applaud. a wisp of pure force.

you're uncontained.
you might be immortal;
but how could you live
with that ?

the snow is only time clinging to your boot
trudging through the havens of your grave mute lips
plump in the weather 'round these parts
where the hearts bloom like troubled bees, and naive art.
while on farms, a dozen lambs
can't spell " slaughter "
with a " Baaa ".

but we have only so much snow.
red or white.
glistening on either side of the narrow mush
weaving through woods that remain nameless
but keep their twilight blushed.
we rush through the trivial adornments of the everyday
like heathens huffing ether,
but keep our scarecrows petrified of blackbirds
having heard the caw of wise raptors
in the fields of all flesh
and unnatural
disasters.

but a friend...

a friend
is a ghost running down
with you.

running... where your rivers have blood enough
to ***** the sun -
but never a
motive.

a ghost with the mind of a moon.

it wanders the shadow fields
of your distress
with your hand in a kissed
mirage.

and
you blunder together
so what comfort comes from sharing
doom or bliss -
comes without harm or hell.
a ghost running down,
comes up to you
and you both emerge
from low.

and Love never doubts
you do.

the wind was swinging from the trees
and mute gulls overhead, slipped in the blue above
swarming the beachfront... gulping salt and silver glints
flapping in their gullets with black eyes
and no dreams.
i walked the causeway and the off road
juggling the change in my pocket with an absent mind.
i turned corners that were never there
and came to a halt as the sun bleached the horizon.
I thought that Beauty was a thing.
and simply forgot to move,

and the world forgave me.

your songs are like dead weight
and living weight. a heavy truancy
that is always late
but never on time for completely gone.
you're always here. belonging to me
and never there.
a curl in the straight line
that leads to soft stones
and marsh.

you test my honest bravery.
you have lungs enough for jubilation
but your theories wane
as I wander... and we suffer the airless bliss
of a toy in the hands of a maker.
we break our spines to build
false houses on mole hills.
and there we manage
the serpentine
to crush the very dreams
we haven't.

the most dim sun is in my hand, and
nothing swells. just the recalcitrant narrows
of a plump romp thru the plebeian joys
of a man's misadventures....

Now
is the only future plan
with it's clocks ticking clamorous.
all diamonds more amorous
than a dog.

today is the future
you haven't put your mind too.
a wisp of required in the miasma of maybe.
a nail in the often...

we are driven out
from our inward inventions
to carry the waste of so much pluck
our chickens roost
in hemispheres.

gone, gone... are the old days

Now is the
only future plan
that has Never
had a
price.

we can only assume God has ears.
but the years wither
as our questions
clump.

And the Present must be dreamt
to console Us.
for we are us... strapped to the oblivion
we love so
much.

the peat moss clings to the invisible effervescence
of the night... and strange jewels
dangle from common tombs.
the soil erupts much, after the day has spent a day
and by the moon's reason
the night is not the sun's
thing.

love is too frail to lack strength.
a soft cobra it be
all jewelled teeth and long, long  -
venom, and sweet sweet.
it coils around the knuckle of dreams
as does a playful serious
disaster...
drowning in the curious
but breathing heavily
the Here-
After.

You're
walking into me
as I leave in blind
pride fury.

You're stepping on my spine
like a demon that
loves the
host

as I exercise
my right to be blind.
But you attend all my funerals
with your children, and club me over the head
with my foolishness
with all the love
you have
left.

I'm awake too, because sleep is for the happy.

I brood
as if content
to face the crowd
of my failures as a father
and a man.

i croak like an owl
with a rat in its' throat
staring at the moon like a lover undone
that remembers she said
" I told you so...."

but a beautiful
full moon

just the same.

but not the one
I know.

tell me how the earth
shakes when my lips clinch.
the blunt quake of my evasive disassembly.
how the world is less ours, as long as
our hours pass
unrecounted, in the annals of my unimpending
confessions.
tell me how nothing is right till my wrong is voiced
and how my shivering frozen tongue
is to a beating heart, where a love
has done a great work to demand
a spoken word
from a stiff
quill.

paint me
as a mute with an affliction.
i say things that cannot save you from wasting your time
but my effort is the slumber we dream riots about.
and the nothing i say fills the volume
of a ruse.

let that be our epitaph
on a tombstone
of ribbons

let that be me telling you
something for
once.

then love will be a beacon
for shy boys  in bold
times

with girls that have sense enough
to love enough
to hurt too.

but at least, let it be said...

I Never Meant
To Hurt
You.

with no room
to breathe, we wreathe the shanks
of our slow breach, with retreat from our null ranks.
we are going to burn for the very thing the water sparked..
the undarked sun of our unwashed medallions; marched
from sea wreck, to the bottom
of unmarked
fathoms.

clarity bleats -
and howls. but the chaos engines purr
like kittens in a bin of catnip and gypsy porridge, as it were.
and however docile the violence of our retrospect, we wander.
but never turn again to the nuisance of what two hearts
may ponder.
and yet
so it is... we kink the smooth blithering of gnats and hatters.
but only have ourselves to blame
for what if ?

if anything mattered.

don't
even sleep
now, in the demon of
last week.
keep your precious love
that made you sleep
and be lovely...
Ain't got no dream
the real thing can't be
so so real with.
but nothing cures a disease
like a doctor that kills
everything.

I can fall apart
like you
and give the world
collapse.

swell
to the point
that I , perhaps
have a rumor
that tells the
truth

But you
could be good
and absolutely ...
that would be
strange....

And
nothing forgets
like knowing exactly
how you
stray...

I can fall
apart like
you
and now I have
too.

I could be
good
but all my Devils sing
right at
you...

I could be gone
as gone
is the One place
That I had
You

but
love is a rut
that betrays the love
that made me
Love you.

let the world
be one
more thing
that just doesn't
matter
.
the
whole ****
thing
be what you want...
but cannot
fathom

cool your
demented leaving
and come to the lust
that chasms.

give me nothing but
your best returns
and have Us.

I can
fall apart like you
And I do it .
and do it
daily.

I map the surface
of removed
and live dead, mainly.
i got those stupid little things
that mean nothing.
and something else that God
pretends
is wrong....

Let us feed the rabbits.
then go to bright shores
that a garden is what we make of it.
let us pretend to know
something about the earth
but care enough
to squirrel away our
moon dust
for kisses.

let us join the vast star fields
of our small pavilions...
and perhaps go where nothing
has ever been so
bright.

let us join where our bodies sing.
and make love out of wet fears
that sweat the salt of too deep oceans
that know Us
for how lonely
we've
been.

let us pray, but not to a god that has no mercy
but to a parasite that
loves the Host

completely.

what  troubles me,
i cannot say... and by that
i mean
i cannot say
well.
but never rest assured,
for assuredly
sleep is far
from my tongue.
further than the ineffable.
and what i cannot say well
must at least be poetry
you cannot
know

well.....

it's all i've got.

like a nest of cream-filled ice cubes
melting in Antarctica.
or your fingerprints on an oar...
but an oar made of
dead boats.

you are not a dream
i'm having.
i am having a fit
that we
are dreaming apart.
we are as rare
to each other
as glass
smoke.
and not one of us knows
how to strike
such a fire.

After the ghost is gone
and the house has no more you
i am something else that sees you there.
I am nothing save my memory
and you are nothing
if you're truly gone.

I put my lips on your lips
and I'll be ****** if that didn't fix me.
just to tremble is belief
and nothing is wonderful
as knowing nothing
for sure.

I'm Cuckoo for you
and you know this.
i slip through the stream
and you notice,
I love you because
you know this.
I'm weak in the knees
'cause I'm focused.
you got the juice
that i'm used too.
more than the spot
that I'm into.
you go where no one
comes from.
and i get you back
'cause zero
is one.


'

Shouldn't I have
loved you
more ?
you seem less dreamy
and the night is fast
like a bird
heart.
But i've been numb.
Remote is a form
of music
but fragile.

it's not cheap
to be real
but slavery has a way of sexing the fool
and no one knows
how much
you hate
till you look
at You.

something
that helps is not perfect.
it merely names the dementia
it coils as mortal as the disease.
it's more ice than sun.
it's any wonder and obscene.
the pluto people are Us
but we are not too far
from bleak.

we are There.

i keep nothing in my keepsakes,
how wonky the uncool love we have for nothing.
we are unjoined and the peace of it is
at war.
we are no other than ourselves
and yet we lack the spine to amoeba from the sumptuous opinion
of a silent evolution.

love is rude and brilliant.
it curls it's toes and slumbers in the roost
of Oblivion.
it's more real than your declarations
but has no rain
that a desert hasn't scoffed.

Memories are dust with flesh.
we fudge the true glum of our footage
but edit the puke of our uneven perspective
to see better the void of our relentless
being...
For Thine is The Kingdom
of some Reflection
and Mine is The Word
of a Mute

and no
Joy .

time is a box of fire.
you can't remember the solitude
of your first word
but your last one is just as forgettable,
it gives me pause to expand.
to drum the skin of our neutered womb.
it brings 'round the impeachable sun
that desperately needs to set
and clings to features in the landscape
that have no idea who you are.

time is a box of fire.... where we burn our poppies.
we leap to pavilions of lost history
and gorge ourselves on brevity
with thick tongues fluent in stuttering.
everything. Everything burns.
and the sum of any choice is a beautiful girl
that can't understand why your flames are frozen
nor how icebergs insist you won't
be missed
adrift.

i never got the hang
of a million stings
all the bees and not to bees... their honey venom
churling the rut of my hive-mind
the smoke of my tremulous eye
coursing through tomorrow's detention
like a world of hurt
that's just a place to lose
my precious things.

then you said me.

you said
my hands were not grenades..
you swore fealty to my blunders
and stripped the dark
from my stars... to better shine.
you  brought me kismet
and blue lemons...
and i never dared
to love so much
but never had a chance
to not believe
you.

from here i know your name.
and your ******* are like the moon in my pocket.
a jewel of medication
that bites the hand of a jealous god
to favor the mundane heavens of a boy
in complete love
with You.

Is that your unbelievable ?
Are you saying -
you really can't believe that ?
It's just
my love for you
in a thimble...
curling into a wave.
and you can't even
sew a button
on a thumb.

or keep an idjit from a windmill.

II

this is the end... so let's begin...
a coma is a form of happiness
that sings numb - but loud -
.... loud; not so much.
like how we whimper in the face
of our own face....
but refuse to face the music
of our own silence.
how we give each other, the Other
but never the One we are...
and simply the Yes
of a thousand dead clocks
that lack the Time to wait
for the both of
Us
to be the
both of
Us.