my forest is the key to a door of trees... an ambient reckless.

let us keep the forbidden as a friend
and estrange the wane moons of our desires.
to better come to terms
with our actual fires.

let us yearn less the lesser things... and be swoon
amidst the plethora of unsung joys.
let's join the incomparable affinities of our affections
and swarm the hollows of our
un-gone dreams... completely.
let us go there, and be tranquil...
for there is no other god
but the One before Me.
and i put you above it
because you
Love me .

I proffer my humble things
at the altar of your resplendent dreams.
I come feathered in the majesty
of your inner Serengeti
with my clubbed foot in Paradise
stamping the fires of inconceivable hells.

Oh Child of The Long Long Love
I bring you my husk and my plump truth.
You divide the wheat from the chafing sun
and break bread with my mortal tongue !
you are abroad from me, however _
but your memory up close, endures
like a happy bee sting
of random recalls.

I will never know another such as You.

And That is the fact of my precise Love.

Please, go on to your unbridled graces, adorned in splendor
as you are want to do  in dark continents... constantly.
And let me Love You as a friend
that grew a memory
from a life...

that met You.

In the way the wind
loves a windmill and a daffodil.,,
I love you. i course through the beauty
of our disaster like
an oyster choking
on a
pearl.

you are the exact of my fuzzy.  a plume of gone.

we are the windows that have no weather beyond them.
just the tornadoes of idiots
in the hurricane of blight.
we have no boundary... save the absolute wretch
of our affection.

II


The hounds of change
have ice teeth and little Time.
they sulk in the marsh
of our private thoughts
and **** ****.
They go where no love
has hated better.
but love the jewel
of our awakening
like sleep were a
promise.

and a Lie.

not so much the sun... but the moon today,
how it fetches the glint
from a fire of doom
but slips the lie to the truth
in truly black
rooms.

the barge of my waste
is time spent with you.
and no other
thing kills
as sweet.

in the valley of the hollow
i begin my lurch.
I tumble through the awe
without my skin, and it hurts.
i blunder through the stars
of our astronomy... no doubt.
but i would have you
as my nothing
to have

something.

too have nothing
about.

the dog is sleeping in the filth
but is happy. but not " Happy," Happy.
it dreams a dog's dream
and sniffs the rear end
of a front.
it smells the lie in the corner
of a round room
like a man that loves
a girl.

and assumes.

forward is the only way -
to return ...
it bends the reason to it's will.
it bargains the rude truth
and the simple one.

It
hates the
way you
love
the answer...
when there
is none.

and there is
none.

itching to be real.... the sum of my days
plot the course of my misery, like every man.
i join the circus of our low thoughts
and boost demons to a plateau
of grim love.

i am pecking the flesh
off a skeleton key. wiser than my jokes
but foolish just the same.
i reveal my numb skull
but hide the virtue
of my heart's
want.

docile in the kingdom of pure love
i announce the primacy
of death's door.
i forge ahead
to slip crippled angels
new wings...
to mock the inane gravity
of being a Man....

and with a woman's dream
i conquer the  world.
but
never have to say
what it means.

at all.

A poor dead house
simpering in the gallows
of a just regret.
an uncoupling of a sun
from it's moon.
leaning in the southern north
of a belligerent east.

the paint is failing.

and the windows face oblivion...
but the staircase
leads to heresies
so beautiful, the march hare screams -
and all whimsy folds.

the old things youthen
in the marsh of our misgivings
and the rooms are bare
save one hope

choking the stars
for a god.

every song
one note.

in between the raindrops
and the ridicule... the wondrous suffering
and the ham-****** Sun.
a clump of rogue joy
suckling at the **** of blindness.

erupting from a void...

I found your
noise.

i found the feathers of a Stygian nest
nestled in the cool teeth
of a dragon's corpse.

this dawn has no sun... it has an eye.
it is nothing but dreams and a risen Christ.
the long beyond behind me, is the avalanche... the tremors
in a golden misery. a blunder on glass stilts.
this dawn has to step outside -
to have a mirror. it has to bake the clay
that made a man.... into
an iron wisp.

it has to occur to God
to have your entropy be a deep kiss.
to obliterate the schedule of planned events
and substitute the void for the real fear.
is has to occur to Us
to have no reality other than this.
to celebrate the anvil of cartoon antics
and most refuse the void
with the mind clear.

' bout a train don't come.... been always here....
sinking into the ravines of your cabbages
and sulking in the mulch
of some soiling ambrosia.
a cure for Krackens  in your refractory-
stammering the diphthong  
of an adjacent
howl.

but not quite an amethyst
at rush hour  

but a diamond in
the hush.

a black diamond
within us.

in the old grass we found lead weights and paraffin
arranged upon smoke and earth... gilding the cannibal suns
with flesh-tones and bedsores. we forged ahead
of our Heads again
in disarray.the long Joke of Birth... tilting the rhombus.
we cumbersome.

you are not attached
to a dead weight.

you are heavy.

II


if it bleeds
then it must love.
and the hours swarming the continuum
have no time for the minutes
of your day, you are too full of loss.
uncoupled from  the shelter
of nonexistence.
you grieve in
real time.

you are too beautiful to mean nothing

but can't recall.

the cactus stands alone. long shadows perch in the landscape.
brooding in the rust of twilight, as an autumn moon scorches indigo
lumbering over the horizon on all fours. now only five stars
in the sky ... but soon a riot of ghosts,

something looms in the loom. it has broad shoulders -
so giants may pass and kidney-stones lodge in the smoke.
there are too many lovers clipping eyes from their stalks.
and blindness is the new tongue
of a lost mouth to a cave
of Petroglyphs.

a remote species of man
eating dirt and vibrations.
a horde of monkeys with souls
damning sunshine
to a clouded
thought,

every canary has a star in its' mouth
that can stop a .50 caliber bullet. and little black eyes.
the south face of a north wind
has always been polite
before shattering your bones,

it is peculiar, but the very thing that makes you breathe
makes you need too.
the fix is in.

II

cruelty is the soft grit of pitch dark.

III

every canary has another word for suffocation.
it rhymes with kerosene and licks its' teeth.
it sleeps in the barn. Feasting on horses -
and dung.
it sounds like falling and glowing, but feels like
extinction. it obliterates the need for another word
for Hope.

Or something else as trivial... to abandon.

the break of day is usually the femur.
but the moon mends
where a shadow falls to it's knees
and begs forgiveness

like a bruise with a muse
the shallows at my depths hum the arias.
they sing the body neglected
and the famine
of immortality.

the long stretch of compacted space
between the morality of a living stone
and the wavelength of a
heart-worm...
can only be measured by tears
in the rain.

the kind of gully-washer that makes ironic
both eyes as they weep...
but somehow makes your face
fill in the blank stare
into Oblivion

with a bald point end.

windmills grind
a breeze into a wisp
as wrung dust, floats
in dust moats of cumulus rust
like the  fatigue of a sixth sense
in a world of five comas
and a hunch.

a world of long shadows
with a brief harrumph
of brass

from a blood-yellow sun
and a bruised
lamp.

the catheter of a ******
and a pearl's
edge.

apple on my head
arrow in my mouth...

and a goose egg.

i am unknown.
however i bake
my cake
the quintessence of a fool
is His oven,
or Her
mcguffin...

so
let the heat
play Winter's Thoughts
and arrive
unspooled
before the likes
of me
and my complete
collapse.

I am redacted
from the narrative,
much like -
your reason to breathe -
lurks behind a
myst.

or a fog is a glimpse.

You

you
un-suture
the parabola
from the arch of
all Monte Cristo !
you shank the villain
as villainy is your twin.,,
we cohabit  
the one
and split the difference
the same.

from some " within ".


II

much
like thin filaments of music returning to a stream
to bow their heads in the Eucharist of a slit wrist  -
we are confluent in the chambers of our undertow
and serve such masters, a world can endure
but hardly love the triumph of the cube
over paisley cubes,

III


i almost say something all the time.

IV

all the Time,

your paradise is giving me hell... yet -
we bark at the same moon
and all's well. we strike the brass bells of our Wednesday
and keep havoc on a leash. drinking mint tea... pealing anguish
from a flask... stalking clarity with a cowbell -
spoiling ribbons of the sun
with night streaks of blind lemons
coiling in the blue sky of dread reckoning... a periscope
in the marsh, festooned with limp reeds and wild things...
my eyes clunk in the Mcguffin
and go the way of Eastern men with rope tricks
it clicks on the steam in my kettle
where harm has a hammock.
and a gentle breeze typhoons
in a fools mouth.

as the whirligigs of Autumn
preach Spring

in Amsterdam.

i'm left out.

i was there. then i just wasn't there.

sinking into my living-room, i surveyed all disasters
strumming a flute like a winded pigeon
gargling muffle and a clot of choke
strangling the sun, where a moon happens
and the light changes the marrow of a constant
trading iota for the magnificent
in the language of the
minuscule...
sinking into my living-room, prying barnacles from sunbeams -
worshiping the nostrils of lost houses and  breaking vows
like a man cub in an hourglass
i marshal my hope in the end days.
i go where the dead birds sing in dead trees
and keep their feathers
for my back.

though unable to fly, i'm walking on err

intimately capsized,

outside of the spirited delirium
of our quaint sabotage
and with all the moxie of a tick,
nestled in steel wool -
head down in the futility. beyond -
the aspirations of
a snowflake in an open
wound.

love
is the riddle of
our days
every

Night.

and we swallow
with our eyes
no moon.

somehow i slipped in
and languished. i evolved in the cracks of the moon -
and killed a sparrow of moments
in the dense room of Being There.
if i trouble the waters, it's news to God.
and the vipers in the sun
spit Mondays
like a bullet from
a gun.

i'm beside you
but my shadow cast -
has merged with yours
or it's high noon.
i'm like a breeze
in a hurricane.
a trumpet made
of bricks
and wishes,

i'm there.
but the stars are not my stars.
and my heart is not
the center of
the world.

i love you and the world
is less a world
without you.
i'm in the emptiness that dwells
between souls that
have never met.
I am the thirst and
the wellspring.

like an -
endless pang
and a bottomless pond
with a stone skirt.
i am devoted
and ever-so
imperfect.

i love you
and the forgiveness
i plead
is not for me,
it's for the hell
i put you through,
so soon after
we met.
i am the one thing at the bottom
of a wrong church
bloated and
godless...

with only Love
obvious.

and Shame's
oddity -

flawless.

put me in a barrel
in the pouring rain
wipe that smile off your face
when you say my name.
keep your clouds to yourself
if you do that thang
with your gospel tonsils
on x-ray steam.
and prepare for the worst -
sort of pristine gloom.
but rebel in the dirt
of an ink blot moon.
your salmon skin
is so south of my veins
it's an arctic star
where the empty
remains.

napping in between a planet and the void
never strikes us as uncanny, but rather; glances
off the blind spot of our soul's eye
merely a shimmer of awe
in a doldrum.

a pinch of ghost in the holy mess.

the wide hips
of the moon
in a box.

never been. but i imagine, it coils counter-clockwise at the ankles
of your pedestal. it must surely breathe fire so soft
that dew lingers on the tongue of a star.
a star -
behind the green pearl of an emerald place,
dislodged from Time
and ever tethered
to no reason.

it must be other than. and farther from. and nowhere.

sublime.

the long onions nod in the fickle breeze. they etch their slender shade
upon the dizzy grass and the low things crawling. they manage to say
nothing about you as you pass, delighted... but then, you never stroll through Paradise and see onions first thing.
You ponder the steps you take
to get there...
and the apple in your
pocket...

first of all.

part your sea, and i swear you'll never overcome my surge.
my petulant swell of upheaval, upheld -
by the angels
of our darker thoughts, and the parody
of pure reason
where a
heart
stops.

a sudden gravity floats in a heavy seam
of dead air. it disentangles the pyramid
from the eye... severing a dot
from a matrix
but keeping the barn doors shut
should our animals
plot.

and our jailers
name it.

i have an ocean to promise you
Nothing is
sacred.

The Nigrescence Of White

if you want me to sink into this thing
you'll have to loan me your Titanic.
whoever tunes your piano must sing
and the fables; break and panic.

if you want me to know what you want
you'll have to know me as a cynic.
where all the dogs think they won't -
but they will, they will, they will -
if a bone's in it.

a good thing is a Unicorn. but one that bleeds.
in the Harlem of our garden, a Cyclops plots
against our flock of sheep.
we are teetering on the brink of an awkward laughter
reverberating off of false Gods.
we are dithering the quince and the steam
from our dull kitchens, casting pots,
against the harangue  of bleached dreams -
and the nethers of our sworn clot

virtuous notions
and dim
thought.

how do you cross the street
with tomorrow so completely
a near miss ?
are your skeletons as eloquent
as frost fire ?
and how do you account
for all the rain ?

seems a pity to lack so many hands as Shiva
in a downpour of your very own Sun.
when the clouds part with gathering
and gather yonder -
leaving you the view of your delirious star
and the valley of what
has never been
known.

goodnight and good luck.
may your hemispheres release you
from the globe, and your journey be wicked smart
through the jungles of unrelenting
deep.
may you find there what you lost by keeping
and abandon your crown of thorns, in favor
of a velvet noose
should the mysteries prove anguish,
is a virtue of mortality
or else the joke wouldn't work
to pay the bills.

the driven snow is driven bleak
and swirls of ghastly gorgeous
swoon in the nubile gossamers  
of undulating mist.
she is completely mad.
thought she saw a cat
perched in a quails beak...
singing cordial grimms
in a hologram
of dead love.

what are those petals in the iris
of infinity ? are they her soft hands, or papyrus ?
a sheet of hot winters, crinkling in the twilight
smelling of whale song and apple sauce,
her hair in a braid

of ravens.

go ahead. keep your gospel. but be not faint
in the hallows;  inconstant. stretch the fathoms
of your fathoming to the outskirts of fell grace...
and stub your toe on a perfectly hideous
god.

keep your trinkets in narrow crustaceans,
but sleep - where your damnation is a coin
and a bed.
deepen your sorrow where the joy is spent
and the sky, a crisp skin on a desiccated
blue.
be thankful for the hell you keep
but ascend the zenith
of your every
harm
to find your
proof.

be droll as the wet fools cavort in the pit. but -
keep your feathers adorned
and your feasts mobile.
glow and be done with it
if you dare...

but keep your heart spoken
for the night.

we're safe now, my sweet. love has come dangling jewels that have no frogs. and our temples are makeshift and dandy, but our gods are ******' nuts ! it's like the same thing that made you is the same thing you deny. but we're safe now, my lamby lamb... and the harps float in the web of their tyrannies, as the clock strikes a dashing figure in the window of our placid riot. and none of us are cool.

On my knees
where the sparrows
nova... and the long, thin
whiskers of Time
thumb the fob
of our dissident
Luck.
The schoolgirl in your mind
knitting halos with amethyst
sins.
a poor cloud on the veranda
of our unhappy Manse,
and a quarter moon
to lie
too,

some of us fade.

sink into the peat moss of our tapestry -
and there ; surrender the bones of contention
to grieve no more the plight of stars
having succumbed
to the moon.

some of us dissolve.

like sugar in a spoon
over a candle. or a horde of promises.

some of us are gone

the way happiness and a room
are a hope and a
hell.

but some of us are you.

and you're not.

every moonbeam is a laceration
of shadow. a slit in the skin of a
black heart, convulsing in your
mirage. an imaginary sonnet
killing bees and Time.
every moonbeam is a patron
of the Arts. a hard raven and a fist
of belligerent worms.

a coil of angry
jubilation

and a selfless disregard
for the Sun

where you left
it

lowly.

the sheer anguish of knowing you exist
corrodes where my happy fell

climbing out of you
is like clipping my wings
for a campfire.
snipping my glimmer
for paste
in a mortal and
pestle.

a craven cracked vessel
in a kestrel's
beak

like a handful of snake
and snow.

the last wind
up a flue
to kiss the carcass
of a dead
bird

is your laugh

and my
breath..

the flowers
are gullible lovelies
bruised  hinges in a flute
where the music fails
but Spring entangles the weavers
of Day.

Like the spider
of the Sun
is clinching to an avalanche
of some dark
pun...

Some English
on the ball
squares the
knot.

But the circle
jerks
and the dream
wants.

whatever it means
it means less...
but forever
it means

regardless.

it's like
the rain won't fall
until the sky
slits it's wrist
and the pure love
of the tainted
a black dove becomes ;
and an amethyst  
at night.
a black yellow
where a heart
has fainted.
and a solitary
white...

dreams
of black
lights.

I'm done killing flies
with honey today
and the sundial
in the garden
will know the moon.
i will chasten
the charlatan of midday
with the deep scarlet
of waning light.
I'm done killing flies
with honey today
but I've begun
a narrative of feathers
with a dove
with no
faith.

it never nevers
until the sun finds you
and the moon leaps
into your hand
by design.

it never loves
until the price is vain
and the sutures are ripe
as snow.
it never leaves
because the kiss
is cruel
when the world
is the
world.... but ask
a jinni for a lamp
and be
nightfall.
see what you get
when your wish
is half full,

when your star
is a tree
and the mountain
a grain of
sand.

and your lovely,
a less lovely
as you
lie...

***** our fingers, we do. on the porcelain and the rampions.
we are twisted into crapes, the shape of which
are halcyon, though we refrain from them.
We are ' something else '.
the salad is the farce and the painting; yes !
the gruel and the cinders in the mock turtle soup
of our living quince and the meddling
of our every-ness.

clink our eyelids. we do. on the lamp-stand in the Hampton's
we are gifted and innate. the grey twitch
accounts for them bones we contain from sin.
We are " something felt "
the ballad is the Art and the Nothing;
yes ...
the cruel, is the mender, in our lost little group
of unseasoned  heckling and
our Winter's
truth,

and absinthe.

But there's Something Else.
and Nothing

Less....

than Atlas.

i am about to be nothing.
on the cusp of a wisp
i am dis-jewelled
and the farthing in my hand
is a clip of my purchase.
to destroy is to be a manling.
i come from dust
and this is the love
that has no name
but claims the cinch of my wrist
'round the throat
of my tulips.

again....

i am made to unmake.
i claw at the virtue of my truth
only to suffer
the cavernous ploy
of my wishful thinking.

you are the sun
that spoke my name
and said "why? "

i am the smoke
in an otherwise
sterile balloon.

the crust on the bread we break
chafes the palm homely
as we twist the loaf of our repast
releasing the heat of hot embers
growling in the brick womb
of our rustic ovens...
crumbling aglow, after the dough
has risen like a Christ
to a crisp.
long after the yeast has spat hollows
in the flesh of our sour toast.
it burns unburdened
beneath a barren  grill, inconsolable.
croaking smoke and ash.
pitching cinders up the plume
Promethean.

it is the morning.

so our wolves will have
their rabbits
as our pendulums,
our mortality.

but the feast is not our bread...
it's the crumbs.

much like a day is long
when a wink is an act of violence.
as a world is a woman
when a man is a stone and silent.
much like a moon is wrong
when a star is an actual copilot.
how the earth is a pillow
where your head conspires to
annihilate
a dream.

but different.

to the light we shadow.
like immigrants

to a home,

you will outlive your usefulness.

you will find a toy that will **** you if you let it.

you will indulge in small games
and win nothing.

you will sink into the earth and be rid of the sky.

you will love someone and that will be unbearable.

you will lose your mind and that will save you.

you will curl around a blow-fish
and whisper in it's ear
the word " relax "

you will never know the reason
you had any wisdom.

you will suffer for your art.