when the snail is asleep and the periwinkles winkle in the brisk twilight of a perpetual undernoon
and the temple of a spherical calamity is a long pause, jostled into real life by your actual demise like a parenthetical parasite, clutching the void between worlds for the juice of a pirate’s
derelict fiction… spawning afternoons in a pond of after-scapes, aswoon to the purpose of too many worlds to conquer in. and too many apples forbidden… just sittin’ around, doing things that don’t-don’t matter like a vibration with the palsy of a wormhole as docile as Vulcan in a Lemon Tree with an Apple Mind.
a pantry pheasant for a brooch is the real life and the cotton you cotton is a bruised remove
at an angle for a snipe and a caustic Sunday, wrapped in levolor blinds that constantly
maraud the perpetual dilemma ever extending, and approach by storm, the Unending Things
that gather in the husk of our sunsets, like boil on a dying star!
our love squeaking through the hinges of our unattended saturnalias…
squandered by leagues of wandering, adept in purpose without form
and constantly gathered at the hearth of our quiet doom
when the snail is asleep
on the moon.

and the moon is awake
like a Moon.

a poem is an egg with a horse in it.
no ordinary bones. just a beak
and a mane event.
ghost feet
and honeybees
that gallop best
where our terrapins Jupiter
the most.

where we have
our pins for
stars
to fathom
with.

a poem is a dust up
where a downward dog
has chased a car
into a vat
of cats

and that’s who
we are.

and that’s
That.

we kept our clouds behind a uniform front. we had no medallions.
we lacked the tassels of mavericks. barn foxes all, with never-slain eyes
and just a pinch of petulant grit… fit for a moon to ponder.
or a sun to punish for the nerve of a grain-
of inviolate-soul.
we kept our stash
in a coffee can
like a canto
in a cookie.
and slept where bricks
had soft heads
rolling down delirious hills
to harsh beds
and amaranth.

we walked where then fog
was not the grey
but the space between
the almost
real.
​​​​​​​
we kept oblivions
at bay with our
gutterfly wings
boosting signals
from a torch
we could
feel.

then we embarked
upon a song
beyond the
sea.

“ then we embarked
upon a song
beyond the
sea.”

early worm complete.
with lycanthropy eyes
on your last slice
of Pi.

tossing a divot to a ripple
at high tide…

like a stealthy splash
in a Pondering.

with a moon
moustache.

and an Always wandering….

so this morning it’s the Jupiter pants
and cream cheese danish-
on the couch, resounding
and three stooges chirping thunderous ruckus
underneath my captain crunch perpetual
like an always
spark.…

but something more like tomorrow’s fool.

drenched in the cinema
of a private thought.

with an all day
balloon.

braising photons on the bone
a plump star rotisserie
in the palm of my begging bowl
at the hearth of an eye
with all the chambers
of sunset
with a Phoenix
Mind.

with all your doom you murk the underdark
of your insipid calamity
caroling the bells of a unique chapel
in the bleak felspar afternoon sun
chiseled from a monolith
of brooding star foam
and jaundiced
tangerines.


with all your dust
you anoint the desolation
of your contemptible
menagerie of free range
left handed oysters
with teeth
and all the sunken eyes
of a drunken leviathan
howling in a marsh
of aggravated
slumber

where the tune
of a misfit
is perfect.

all the time.

The way a Thing Unravels is the Art of its brutal hum.
It demands a hurdy gurdy where a fife would do…
and all the mimzy of our virtues
at a glance.

It continues without stop charms and long are the hours
of our displaced events. the way you come apart too much
where the threads are apparently frayed but the sweater
is apparently snow.
Poetry Is This.

II

a sleeping vine goading pavilions
of absolute UnSleep.
a Narrow escape
where a Thought
is True.

A Me and You.
Doing the Nothing
That our Something
had removed.
on purpose.

Dawn in my coffee cup floweth over
in the wee hours
of my mysterious exchange.
the way i post up after midnight
with a busy midday mind,
and an apple cart-
of frenzied chrysanthemums.
i chum the waters
for last waves-
in a brush fire of
every wave

And
Like That-
I am somewhat
sane.

with all
the filigree of
a ghost

with rain bones

and too many
beautiful
names
for

" I don't Know "

Nose wrinkle varmints in the snow,
twitching like whiskers
of an avalanche..
chirping moon songs
with a mouth full
of tundra

Snoots in the under stars.

where the peat moss
is on some kind of
fire.


II


Blue has crept into all beds,
our windows perched in
northerly winds
with our cats
lap prone
and our blankets
Normandy


III

Ah. the winterkins
and how very much
they know
me.

there is salt where the sugar flew kites that kissed a yellow sun
and that was when you loved me best and all the pomegranates
guffawed in the fog of war with little rare hats-
made of morning dew; due to some devil of a heavenly.
but it’s Different now, the way a season
snaps like a twig-
and All of a Suddenly
the Moon.

there is salt where
the  cream drew breath
from a marble
open-mouthed
kiss.

But now, there’s Just
the Opposite.

night’s wedge is fancy
on the perimeter
of our undisclosed
location.
our opaque
salvation-
more harm than good-at
full circles.
more apt with holes
in a honey-hearted
hive of all
hearts.

with sticky wings
two skies
apart.

By some unborn perpetual,
I come undone on que.
When Hollow Is the Fiber
of an anointed ghost
And all flesh, at the angle
of descent.
My Spiral is Concave.
A typical Atypical,
Typically thick
In the wings-
When the Sky
is not the Enemy
But merely a-
Want, that I
Lost.

By this much.

What I’m choosing to choose is the Nightworks and Star fizzle.
I come from an uproar in a dour calamity with all the panache
of a sweet sour moonrock on the tip of a tongue
in the mouth of an exuberant mute.
Arms akimbo in the lighthouse
of every mind.

I ask questions when the quest is no fiction.
My unrehearsed position in a galaxy of lies
is a stunning Astrology bomb
with all the Scorpio a Cancer
Can Capricorn
in an Aquarian state
of mind.

I love the things I have lost
and have become distracted
by the gravity of the
very Next Moment.

So I Love You

Now.

And I play video games
with my lemon trees
delighted.

Halting in the frenetic thalamus of a Monday
I recoil into my finery and fluff my mittens
just to be sure.

Outside
the wind is a yowling glamour
of crystalline shuriken.
searing into naked pink
at a typhoons pace
but with all the stalwart
nostalgia-
of a White
Christmas
you Slept
through.

I open the Door
and the air is Spring
on Laughing Gas
Like a Windmill in Don Quixote's
Fan Fiction

and all’s Well that Ends.

I’m coining a phrase in the cheap seats.
On a balcony behind the projector.
My wine flask has red names for Polaroids
And fishnet eyelids like a wizard
with a joke face
at a serious
party.

i snoop for books in Unpolished eyes-
and find them leather-bound
to a howling calliope
of hushed gods
in real time,,,
haranguing
the flesh
in bouts
of unbridled
Clarity.

I encroach upon a node of conspicuous samadhi
with all the fearsome brittle of my inner destroy

Something Creates
where my Null sets a coarse by a star
coughing up a lung
in a Cherub’s
Song.

I keep my Puppets
in a Sock
because that’s
Funny.

and that's how
you Pretzel
a Butterfly

for no money,

i get the hives when my mind Zens in on a brand Knew.
my Ottoman Empire is a footstool in a plush Rumor.
at rest in the best humor that genius can buy for a Yen
when the Yang is an awkward ruby.
i steal from the vaults of a common supernatural
with all the aplomb of a minnow in a mouth.
sleeping on the hillocks of a rust moon
acned with meteor kiss and fierce serenities
the width of Space between notes
in a deanument.

then poetry assumes i have something to say.
only then does it open to the introversion
of my extraverted inner Hermit.
I leap out of conch shells
on some kind of fire
that slakes a thirst.

i knit wings to eyes
and abandon every photon
to my Will.

then

I have metaphors I keep using
whenever I try to be Original-
and i meta-criticize the artifice
of my chosen pearls.
but seldom do I confess it.
the unseemly devices I am left too.
as my Id designs the Ego
of my Indomitable Heart
with the schematics
of my Lost Architect
unhumbled by my Illusions
having spun such webs
as to conquer a Fool
and his Guesses.

I eat stone wheat and the wet essence
of dry zephyrs on sea errands
to blanch dunes
to Beau Geste.
i consume the ridiculous hubris
of my epileptic Angels
and squander no opaque verse
to tadpole.


I Swim In A Yes That A No Dreamt Of

like a ferret
in a healing
scar.

In the Village you get the tang of dead pennies and vinyl
spinning on your Bourbon tongue
and everything’s ***** Roscoe with the jump kids
on Broad Street and the Blacks
polishing rimshots off of stars they can’t see.
Hubcaps vanish like wallets at a crosswalk-
and the rain smells like iron
binging Detroit with fume Kabuki
as falafels alight upon the caverns of asphalt
like a flock of agnostic Finch
migrating to the Temple
of your Migraine.

She’s gone now and nothing can stop you
from becoming a ghost, unless your letters
were never written on purpose
and your absence was the
Plan.

The Jungle is a
stainless steel fog
of Blown Cover
in a war on the
Senseless.

You can’t catch
a Breath
without Catching
Hell
in the Bargain
with a Devil
You Know-

Will Leave.

when your breath is my breath i hardly notice
far too focused on the cadence of your camisole
heaving in synch with invisible me
thrumming with worlds of visible Life.
I surge in place. stunned and besotted.
shivering in a stillness so beloved
that an orbit stalls
for a kiss

As I hazard Joy.

when i was come upon the farside of an indifferent near-miss
i slew no dragons. i cinched my noose like a necktie
for a lost party with all the beautiful doubts;
lumberjacking the forest
for a tree that paid in cash
to have a Northern View
and enough ***** on a hill that
used to be a mountain...
i dreamt of cobblestones
betwixt my photons-
snuffing out the green
for a dull mauve
in a mob of
sunshine

Like a star
without
a sun’s
mind-

kept awkwardly
with nothing
less than
All Time.

At all times.

nobody lives in this tree. knot anymore.
there’s a moss that clots the bark with green riots
and mushrooms thumbing their noses at sunshine
in the dank balance… where the moose is unseen
until it wills it. and winter
has a sun
that hopes
you know
how
to build
fire.

like a voice in the note of  you
where a moat of you
is adrift
where you mostly
true.

i follow
where you linger
in the woods
and espy your
unbridled
wine.

the way you *****
into a wednesday
with a parasol
that prays for
rain.

and your fireflies
are always
in no

palms

Some songs are meant to be little things that expand.
they assume the girth of the world with all the longing
of a symphony

Like a gilded dirge.

Sometimes the heaven
in your hell
is the last
bird.

You live where it hurts
So healing means something
to blindspot in your
perfect oblivion.
It’s how you cope
with an open wound
that loves the moment
you met the one.

Some songs are meant to be all about the girl
and how sunshine adapts to her night.

and some songs are
meant to be
gone.

as your eyes veranda
i embark upon the hollows
that you conquer with your heart
and buy the farm of
your omnipotent
Bees!

as your eyes divide the perils of the world
from the ache of my desire, I succumb to an ancient soft.
i tilt to a majesty that has no bearing in the world
but assaults the imperfection of a black day
with all the vigor of Undoom
to the purpose of my
Unhinged
daffodils.

you can’t be stopped by conventional means.
too exactly the one i love.

how you live in your body astounds me.
and my orbit is bliss.

like it does.

as i recall now in the ethers of my mythic reveries…
so many kingdoms were always You.
even as your spark waned and our hours where apart
from time itself… like a fallen leaf in a pause
on a canvas of unspoken colors
that mean everything.

i believe you moon much too close to the sun with the dark thought.
the stunning glamor of annihilation on the cusp of pain that sings
but you're tone deaf and operatic.
my nerve is the love that summoned me to your torment
like a hackysack to a lazy happy on the green.
i abrupt your gloom when you’ll have me
but i bother most to love you
as you are.

the page was blank
and then This.

i parked words
where they should go
and now
This.

i come apart to
join a choir.
and all
things
sing.

i fetch a golden fleece
from timid scars
and coerce my loneliness
into a corner
of blatant
touch

as my open mind
dissolves
into sea a of
unrelenting
waves

combing every beach of the world
with diphthongs
and amethyst

and too many joys
to deny.

or resist.

The bells are dun. Pewter-smitten in a quagmire of un-crisp pings.
there’s a church where a sparrow would go. but more ravens now
on the hill. bathing in salts and moonglow…
singing to brackish ponds and cattails
after moths have fallen off the tip
of flames
that our campfires
do.

we are so marooned
it’s like we’re
together
when the world
is gone

but for true.

mint julep landscape.
fink whistle barking at dead weight.
charm ***** farce laden in eighth grade.
stuck like chuck on a farm
in the best dark
but dismayed.

stung by a star.
vespers in a twist
where the average
surpasses
and all strange
is par for the
coarse.

hematite in the stitches
where your earth won’t move
is how the moon gets
in.

as she is want
to do.

the chirp in the middle of a hurricane’s blue eye
is a velvet epiphany, swollen with burgeoning
beyond the kin of small life. it’s like a lonesome love-
as broad as a narrow sea.. dreaming of actual love
and sleeping through the apocalypse
with alacrity

and aplomb.

i can see your house from here.
like a handwritten letter in my hand.
i can smell your love in the void.
i thank you for the towers of ablution
bathing in the swoon
of our absolute.

You Recall me to a storm
that had an Eye
for such things.

every day.
by the by.

and my somewhere is you for the dream of it.
and love is how something
gets done.

hello petal.
are you yawning fire?
sleepy head weasel
with long kites in a breeze
with too many termites
in your actual house.
i see your tears
when they laugh at my tears
and you’ve wondered off.
somewhere between yes
and
maybe
knot.

i love your solution
to the whole intractable
bloom.
how your flowers are my forest
is like

wow!

there is no taming the skin… only the move your bones dream
and the perdition  of untapped memes, sprawling in the perfume
of our disquieted assembly. soothing thorns
north of our spine
as crumble joy mocks the the path
of our appalling
with a woeful rime too bright
in the head
to have all
the problems
of being too
unloved.
tonight.

we are not common. we are “ other than “ and then some.
more like a gaggle of geese in a windmill forged in the furnace
of lost tongues. cute and abbreviated . but on fire
like an ice song.
we keep the heat where the actual gods of our demise
laugh too hard to be soft now, because
"Gods".
i sleep in your dreams now
like a nocturne in a fable.
i keep our secrets where they are naked
and too broad to be discreet
at sunrise.
i assume you have wings
and therefore the night
will have to chase
us both.
too fleet to be real.
too genuine
to be
less
than
Us.

when i fell asleep
inside you
love was wide
awake

a tantrum of idle thoughts about you throughout the haze of day
resembles itself like a wave of unrelenting devotion surpassing lanes-
parallel to memory’s road that veers far left of our fondest wish
however we drive our sanity to the nearest bar to forget our hope.
it is love spilling into sleepy spoons
with tsunami dreams of perpetual
You.

Ingenious hourglass pinching a single grain in your sourmash
till it Distills the moment you forgot to be a Slave to your Aftermath
Reigning Supreme at the center of your Winter’s Wrath
Dining on Porcelain Lions dancing on a Plinth of Glass Ravens
As they Laugh in awe of your Emancipation
No longer under Grief’s Lash.

Reflection never stutters…
utterly stuck to who you are, should you Ask.
Faithful to a crisp seeming in the eye halls of your last Gasp,
If only we Knew, before we struck Bells in the Ice Caves of
Our deported Masks- And save Ourselves completely
From Our Symphonies
Of Painful Past.

But for Now our Love
in a Paper Flask.

Anchored to the tip of a vicious pin
too whalesong to cog
careful to strictly wither
with a liberal eye
at the foot of a moon
smelling salts and assaults
upon absolute time
like a
cage-breaker
mending
cages

with smart
hands to the task
at hand -
but dumbluck
for parchment
and large blocks of flotsam
charging into dawn
with an ornate spear
for the heart
of a mundane
dark.
lest your heart
be your
gallows

( tin star
and
hole ).

I have arranged all this just to have a moment alone with you.
I brought with me all the marigolds I could fit in a jar between worlds
and some fireflies that are loathe to forget the weight
of your gossamer shadow, for they pray to their gods
to glow beneath you as I pray to mine
to Love you.

But from an alien palace with an ordinary “ Dasvidaniya “
where my smoke lingers in the curtains-
and my pyramids are spheres…
I demise in my way with a myriad frailties
aligned with false stars and narrow avenues of broad despair.
my chapel is a hook in the sun, full of sabotage
and butterflies. I come seldom to a  pause in all my grief
but every hour loving you
is some salvation
even the ******
can believe.

their fear is the only thing they eat.
bone soup and entrails mind boggling
as every hour is a pursuit of vanity
posing as a pillar of the community
with complete immunity
as long as the money is long
and the idiots are many.

their fear is weaponized
like a Catholic joke within earshot
of an altar boy with
a secret shame.
a soul eating myth
that propagates hate
with all the tendrils of love
that bare no resemblance
to sanity, as they spoil
and collude
to Divide.

i am a massive fantasy,

the rude clock insists that Time is a thing
but i keep squandering my ducats
regardless. my apogee more below
than above… as i whistle past the graveyard-
with a raven on my tongue and star
on my mind.

then stupid people happen.

they blurt into my inertia with all their might
blathering on about how wonderful it would be
to be Fascist. But out loud.

and my life hurts where i’m living it
all the time.

Lillian Virginia took a photograph and stopped making fountains for City Hall, in 1963... She had Miwok dreams
and now, does  portraits of
the South Sierra...
all 1964 and Kodak Moments-
and cemeteries in Paris.
extensively abroad, she died at 31 in an explosion
on assignment for “ Combustibles “ magazine
In 1973.

I play a piano
in my
Living Room
without
Irony.

In a Papertown.

I’m in Nevada and….

Vegas drains a mountainside on the lucky side of a dam
like a rhinestone predator. long cars farce along the black ribbon
of plastic dreams and cigarettes pirouette
in the draft of speeding motorists
with stunted maps.
they go where the lights are laughing.
and stay for the pun.
Cactus and miracles shave their heads
because buying  a T-shirt would be
******,

while meteors and one armed bandits
shimmer in the ruthless elegies
of our superfluous Jade.

i Love Something
Anyway.

there are no simple moons. above all there are only storms that emblazon joy upon havoc
or sorrows beyond the reckoning of angels with bittersweet tinsel
in forgotten trees… nodding off in a forest you forgot.
all tomorrows in the wrong hands is when you wake-cling to the illusion of Otherness
and come seldom to the symphonies that designed You
to spite the Shadow,
it would be wise to eat more flowers
than toadstools.., but more wise
to love on purpose.

In Bloom.

when all the periwinkles winkle in the brisk fidget of Spring
and cicadas chorus in the forest, such odes to Eros, all my arrows
fall upon apples that can’t stop smiling.

my sunshine has no thorns, and soft moths coo in the twilight
of my everlasting beguile.
i am such that i might be gone accept for here I am…
and love has all my luggage and a cat
perched in the elbow of an Albatross.
grinning with phantasmal mischief
against the harm of the world
and sweet nothings
by and by,

Like something strange.

Love is where
I keep my
things.

Love is where i go
when here is
not Love.

I sing too much.
And birds find me
blindfolded.

“ That’s what This is for.” And if there’s nothing more
then I’ll have at it. Lapse into to a vigorous coma
of devotion. divining my purpose from the soil
beneath your feet, like a zealot from Coolsville-
just a touch in my cup of Hennessey
and leaning into comfortable.-
all the while
watching you steep tea with your eyes far off on a tangent
that must be beautiful. And-
Come morning we’ll have sleep waffles
and murmur our dreams
into java, with our hair disheveled
as our bed
and our happiness glowing
as we yawn.

Adore.