pull them weeds from yonder brick, be quick... bedazzle me with corduroy and ambergris
be thick as thieves; be all things faithful to the shadow, and in your passing scrye
the odd ghost. decry your abominations as the fodder of false hope clothed in the style of the regent
of Amiss. on the Isle of a Man.
clip the nettle from my tongue where i'm most stung by misdeeds. amplify my misery with a joyful
peroxide, the living thing in your  chest of winters. your remarkable damnation in full blossom.
more awesome than fog diamonds in wet eyes grazing on refractions of something unknown
and that's how you see it.
a gargantuan
sliver
of
now

we are windows with lapsed insurance but see fine print where there is none
and that makes us innocent pillagers. the village learns to ween the system
from an iron fist to adopt an irony. but i digress, where the last appearance
gypsied the locals with petulant integers. the riven burn ! to clean the wisdom
of our schadenfreude. the image turns to ravine
the slender
isthmus.

but
pry it
from the
vapor

you can
knot.

captain kirk ate kittens. the azaleas
marched in the dark
and no moon wept snow.
it was that
dark.

all quiet rot, healing now...
we clay inside but dis-urn
we have no kiln. no kin.
we move
like a dreaming fetus
in the womb of all prisms.
like lightning on
a pin.

we have ever been  
the king's
vassal.

star chattel in the manger .

happy mad
hatters.

who you been, if you ain't been high ?
my nickles, your dimes. our dub chunks chucklin' in the standard pharmacy,
your loops, open. my loops-deloop.
are you positive
your Spaniard's larceny
will trickle the odd prime.
your canvas ravenous
in the sublime.
with THC ?

what is that ?
earwax !
you might live here but you might be fooled.
someone is bound to
tamper with your
vapor

leave me nowhere to run from
and i'll close the distance
like a
fly-trap

when you
venus.

fed the birds
my monday. held out my hand,
and fed them mirth
from a lifeline pun.
blackbirds.
early morning
connoisseurs
i fed them

my monday.
all gone pecked. now, first suspect -
in a ****** of crows. i rose
from the damp. surveyed
the scene of the crime
and bled. no contest
nor are there ribbons given
even if you don't
want one. you'll find
another monday
with a stray
dog star... a crown
for a chipped
tooth.

it will always say  " You shoulda'  seen The Day Before...."  then promptly -
plop on your stoop... and vaguely,
as if seen from three paces
behind stained glass...
Sunday sulks into view
like Dostoyevsky
belching "Hey Jude" backwards,
just strolling down
East, Main street
with an egg-cream
and a fist of
kettle corn.

soggy in his meaty paw
an earlier downpour
you slept through.

or maybe, this just happens to me ?

now then. birds fed,
i wandered off. biting my
upper lip to keep
Christmas in
my Edelweiss
grip.

left the birds a book called " How To Fly "
and they still flew
away.

at dusk above,
clouds scud like loose teeth in upper gums
purple-pink in twilight. a deep night, seemingly ' on pause '
as all dust tumbles from bare skin
into the naked cause... our minds defunct. our minds undone.
our soul's law
at the very heart
like all
gods

where the birch and elm keep
lean rabbits, and stab at thee with long shadows with ashy knees
and bramble rabble; a riotous acreage of predation and escapeful providence
far beyond fences and subdivisions
where men add
by dividing
and knit with schisms...
where the earth has fangs in the ocean
and long nights.

your
answer is sovereign
and hunts
foxes
with your
eyes

do you have mental jewelry, or anything of the sort ?
any spangles to mesmerize the solitude of crowds ?

do you spearfish in sand dunes ?

heavy crowns float in amber, where you breathe dense thought
you are slender as the nail in  your palm
anointed to poach the seldom heard

beneath the random you are certain
spinning in illusion
open to the rogue star

lunging for the steeple of lost charms

a miracle, you knew said nothing
but you heard it
anyway ?

these are gems
your tongue kissed in a fit of pink.
your luminous dark, weaving sharp cotton to photons as swiftly as first love.
you are remarkable. so mark.
these are the feathers of dead wings, staring at the sun through the ashes of Icarus
unharmed.

a blindfold of petulance between the deep and the blue
aloft.

this is the air that we breathe, you and i
the construct, struck dumb by the fierce knowing of a soul
the ponderous gaiety of lithe thoughts
that shimmer-*****
in the bleak fears
just cause.

an Earthless
poised in random
sky

but now
adorned.

Dead beat in a shallow grave
Heat sink of phantoms,
basking in the marginal dusk of a hymn...
Stung by feathers
Hounding Oracles to prevent
Omens.

Dim Hope The Raven-
And now more cautious, the Gods you Ransom.

One entire Myth comes screaming into view
From No Perspective
At All Times.

And the Signature is in the Hand
Before The
Name.

my origami,
a thin line of sunshine and a private war.
the nucleus of an extinct thought, gathering believers
on the outskirts of nearby.

the wrong thing...
a more dead husk than a fresh ****
or a new joke.

[ my long night. the covetous murk of a bright lie. ]

my only calling,
the mute jawbone of an expert hermit.
determined to offend ought
but the sermon

as the enclave denies. the right thing.
a more rapturous con
than a new deal
or old smoke.

a song's blight. luxurious cirque...

denial
and out
lights.

in my caste, we live too long.
to the nub. we are legion and madrigal.
we troll in the narrows of your one good love
the first hurt that said " again " .
then just flew off.

word is, you have no white lie.
join the club. we are even at odds. the peak of one hill.
we know where the arrow's going, but
the first hurt that meant nothing
meant all.

your warm lungs are 7413 words
crammed into free thimbles of loose change, as inevitable as loving you
for no reason. you keep the summer squash in winter's balloon;
where the ice speaks.
fire is our way
of life -
dying to mend fences
with barbed
wire.
no matter how soon.
it gets prior.

all that.

and nothing more would be too much.
but no worse.
an hour of outlandish joy
with all the
perks.

7413 words.
and none among them
worth
the whole  
thing

for certain.

i think.

Quiet rabble of leaves
Against curb
Naked canopy
Rain sieve trembling
Above moss stone
At rest...
Charcoal metronome sky
Low hum of omen
Damp crows
Gathering fog of
'morrow's
flowers.

Languid vines boil
Against oak
Trunk course
Festooned with moist ghosts
Amid lush drone
At rest...
Drab conniption of limbs
Braid the whim of God... And
From below
Mine eye's upheaval,
To it's knees.

is this about vampire bats licking your feet ?
perhaps about a wise-man, seeking retreat ?
a dense fig, fogging your lens
an Adam in the apple of your strife
serving cruel gods
and bubble gum crisis.

is this about how i found out that you **** ?

where i chose curtain no. 2 and enslaved myself
to everything  ' you '
wearing blue
gloves

angels must be closer than you swing
from such Halos

open to the long lawns of Elysium
a shade

remote.

Moon precisely ineffable
Engulfs a skyline's silhouette with threads
Of shadow and meticulous
Magenta.

A grain of Night and color, smoothly pollinate
Metropolis and Heathrow
With crush velvet promise, all around
The denouement-
Of half related constellations
Anywhere.

In the meantime, there is Nothing.

A scarecrow made of glass...

An atmosphere of clarity
Deliverance and Rebus...

Bright and Dreary motion
And Darkness, everyone...

Darkness.

There is trivia

but our terrible symmetry
could no more abandon
beauty
as the universe
could abandon infinity.
the creator
of this moment
has no motive ulterior
to the cause.

The destiny of stars is no bad destiny.

There is trivia.
Then there's
you.

a crisp jet of lavender lingers in the afternoon sun; drenched in milk-bone quiet and long stunning
ominous lungs, heaving an old cheese in a damp cave of lost reason.
undone.

you seem lovely.
untroubled in churning
dysfunction.

a cog in a wheel of misfortune.
with bells on.

a soft cough is often lost in ramble, turned and double-crossed.
a lunacy of macaroni, and quite tasty paste -
the usual gods decanting the vinegar of all hope lost...
and a wasteland just going to waste.

what doom is this ?
does it trouble rainbows, or climb spikes in blood sugar ?
does it still keep you where the dark-side of the moon is the first light ?
a soft cough, a red robin, and a thought

thought ?

it is sensible to be traumatized by absolute certainty.

however; the joy of fishing,  
will remain Ineffable
so don't even
ask.

it is beautiful how beautiful that is

Our destinies arrive
and then
we're off the map.
We kiss harder
with our tongues, perhaps
but no one
knows.

gotta toadstool choke-hold
slipping again
and a sharp dull ache
where my mind caved in
and a pound of flesh
that itches and
spins
where the devil
cuts
new teeth
to eat
me
with.

this dream has no other dream
it lingers in the fair Between
and seldom in the inkling think the slightest thing
less interesting
than an overture, an ode to Odin
or a stillborn child's

twitch.

in a box of halos  you will find petroglyphs in the hollow of bright yellow sugar-cube skulls  with red dots
you will spread the virus. or hire lemmings to do your bidding in your war
on angels with too many arms. on those little plastic shakers, with the little holes: filled with glitter.
your annex of Poland, last june, and your Easter revolution... i could go on. no less bitter.
but many harms have visited your dullard nova
you could spit in god's hand
and fix your cowlick with your reflection.

Hating it makes me breathe thistles and good luck charms
in broad daylight...
the supple damnation of frank discretion
sweltering in the fevered jeer
of introspection

after dark.

I loath the thing that brought you here but haven't the faintest idea...

laughing at my paranoia, you can drink pianos
and sever the cut        

from the knife
howling for constellations
between
the market
of the
blind
and the
free
light

you can count on something, haunting your nothing

and the clouds

leave you rain

enough

to cry.

Even in the apple blossom moss of your sleep
A plod across the marsh of it, is such a placid deep-
And a withering of agony
a thing to keep...
Than ever was the promise
Of  a hell beneath.

The quaint and gnarly burl of frost     affixed      to half the stars you marvel-
Crisp dark pleats
In absolute
Garments.

Tethered to your sleep
regardless.

Heart of heartless.

it's only cold
when i buy you
flowers
and drive half way
across town
and miss
you

by 5 minutes.

it's only cold
when i hold you
complete
in my body
then painfully
wake from
the dream
that

i'm having.

it's only cold
when i step
outside
in subzero weather
without
my clothes
on

but let's face it
it's only
cold.

only a poet knows what a genie wants
and that's to be expected. Melville sent a whale to do a man's job.
a poet is all desires haunting quills with soft focus
poets are known to fabricate the actual
on nights with no moon.

unhopeless.

bristle cone pine, a wine-stained, burgundy -
conniption of green fires, yellow tinged. sunset.
a fresh net of spun gold, roasting fecundity -
a bristling of midnight at day's end, thundering.
a harangue of unyielding pattern
her hair down; now as always... conquering -

all of me.

that tree on the hill, in the midday sun unfurled
a majestic gnarl of old glory, sustained by a bounty of Time
a thing full of slow thoughts, thoughts that precede our asking
whose branches have forsaken hands
in favor of open arms
that have no word
for love
and
yet

that’s all it does

we sat beneath it’s wholesome fuss of ripe fruit, sinking in.
you in your yoga pants, poaching a dragons egg
in thick blue grass
i in my cups, sipping vineyards of brandy from a deerskin champagne glass
staring at your beautiful joy
the both of us slouching on the couch of Creation
each
with our own
remote.

we were up-close

noses pressed against pollen parasols parading in heat mirage camouflage
holding a moment without pause  
we picnic in the thicket of an endless gift  
like ants on a blanket
the width of the
world.

no one dies in a dead heat. they just arrive uncontested.
a slapped cheek,   if no one comes first
a slack thirst for comets and bedlam
and new germs.

you send radar to your wigwam and burn churches
you lose some.
trouble is
you love it when
the wyrm
turns.

don't be alarmed. i have no brick hat so there will be no tornadoes.
sleep now... if you would dream
awake; you'll see the world end
and comets stall in midair
apparent.

sling your ribbon in the fey dusk
and fetch mussels from tide-pools of emaciation / gather your things

it won't be long before the love hates
and a weary lingers lovely
and returns

humid temperance in your tussled hair
you are fair to begin with
a more wholesome lust-
my ***** could pray too.
you give this
gravitas -
while withholding a miracle of aftermaths.
you're spot on.
manifest this for me...
bring out the outcasts of your hinterlands and small tokens.
bring out your fists so that i  may comfort them
with too warm kisses.
let me languish in your paradox
swollen with joy
totally into it,

let me love you like like like like daybreak mending.

i'll size you up
on a pedestal
and catch
you

like a lover.

try me.

The rain that fell the night before
had never seen
the sun.
The early birds were bathing
in the rainbows
of the dawn.
Morning came, regaled in blue -
and blazed a trump
of Spring.
It rallied over damp and dark -
berserk with songs

to sing.

The rain that fell the night before
had never seen
the like.
The laughing dew had never known
the magnitude
of sky.
Nor laughter
had it known at all.
" How long
have trees
been green ? "
the answer had to wait
for god
to know his dream
had dreams

The rain that fell the night before
had never wept
a grain.
Had never felt a feeling
that a cloud
could never
name.
The rain became
a mirror
that had never seen
a soul
but knew, somehow
it had one
to savor

the unknown.

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.

Lately it's the crowds that have a loud cloud around you
and adorn your every step with thin air; you know i could swear
Their empty words seem to surround you like a fog
I'd rather lose myself than lose you, but they bore me
after all you might be oblivious
but I doubt you find it obvious
the world revolves around you

but I ellipse.

Unwinding comes upon you.
Out here, your ******* mute the flatness as they rise ungathered....
Breathing for the first time
Silence.
You can't imagine South Africa
You vaguely recall your white brothers
herding your black brothers
into Desperate quarters.
Building separate but disheveled lives
According to the color of their Skin-
Beating your black sisters down
and out of their bodies
To become statistics, to become stains...
To become a dream
you are having in the desert.
Dissolving comes upon you.
Out here, your eyes feed
they fall over the the vast undisturbed evidence
Of God's womanhood, rejuvenating your actuality...

Populating yourself with your Self.

For the first time.
Silence.

And you can't imagine America.
Who can? With it's sweet liberty
And pill grim's pride
Eclipsing every mountainside with billboards
Bright and Wide-
Pointing the way to the next city
you can't find a job in, because you're too old, or too gay
Or too real...
Too bad.
That flag has fifty stars. No Light.
You partially grasp a diluted vision
of having a vision,
replete with Ideals, Shadow Governments and Human Rights but...
Slowly, all that's fading now, to become poetry
To become headlines, to become a dream-
You are having in the desert.
And out here, there are Indians
holding onto something Intangible-
Like deep purple and stray dogs.
Babies being born and weaned on Truth.
And you For the last time

Silence.

edge of the World; the lip of a spoonfull
of neptune breath and jewels
where elephants room for the night. full
of blue doom; a bed and a pool
the edge [ was a world you slip through ]  youthful
no pontoons. next to a mule
with an Angel. cruel neckties, spiteful
apples, atoms
and you

the Spaulding gray   and blue Danube
diffused.

O this is love, a womb of golden itch and endless mantis, praying without lips
and sand on the fetus of time is unzipped, a new line of sharp soft
is love, this.

this is how i know you
so hard

the camphor of your exhale, is me -
easy breathing the tear gas.

i bark like a dog.

i chase habits with discipline; chumming the waters of known sharks
that pray on other oceans and hunt other seals...
like prey.

i'm so elaborate, my symbols call ' time out '
just to catch a glimpse of my
always.

i tangle me.

a morphine drip of metronomes
yawning splendidly... a tide of pools.
an uncommon dress -
in a code, derived from the stomach -
of the throat...the next, next;  and the kept boat
capsized.

no joke.

Ha.

yes is not a word that suspends hesitation,
and the moment, The Very Moment- occurs prior to the Will.
yes is not a word that subscribes to the animus,
but rather has a spirit of it's own construction
like a tiny god builds an army to keep the peace
on the first day of everything.
Smiling.
yes is not a word that compels-
yet announces the vow before faith has a chance to pass a Mirror,
and vanity of the eye is not a possible world.
like suppose you had a vision of your soul before the Creator had exhaled into clay
such a word as 'Life'
and thought
"Yes"

in my dream
i'm on a plane
beside a horse
without a mane
and out the window
only sky
the color of No...
as deep as kites
And there was a boy
his name was Yes
and he held a rope
he stole from the dead
the aisle was lightning
speaking in tongues
the flight had arrived
but the captain was gone...
and i heard the wind
condemn the lit fuse
and the wings were clipped
and the stars removed
the ghost of Jack Benny
had swallowed the key
that opened the box
he left in Belize   [ and ]
i sat in flames
and enjoyed a cigar
and i lit the ****** thing
to see in the fog


there was a girl
kept from the pilot
she was a threat
and you knew that she liked it
long in the tooth
but wrong for the mouth
i never heard
what each hell was about
but everything changed
the plane had landed
in the palm of a glass hand
random - Oh...
we had absinthe, guilt -
and candles
sand in our wounds
but only one camel
i sat for days in the night
and dreamt it
drank from the fuselage
of my symptoms
strode across miles
and miles of inches
doubting horizons
the sun had believed in
then you crossed my path
in a chasm
told me to open my eyes
if i had 'em
then you laughed
and it came out backwards
stole my joke
then you left what you
asked for...

saving my life

i am slipshod Monty
wonking the gossamer lust of ill fortunes
strewn to all winds
a lisp of  beacon
churning in the midriff of your titan virus

crumbs of ore
bejewel the wet femur
of our last corpse.
your merry Shelly
is morose
than less
god.

bending runes; you nip tink and **** from odd drums
summoning the haven of your wrong

repenting in the
pent up
down.

just 'cause.