i would like nothing more
if it wasn't so empty
i would be lying to say
i never loved
how feeling Nothing
made me feel
only the pieces
of whatever
i loved you with

i can't say my friends
have never seen me
taking it hard

when you vanished

i had that that Look
you get when
you finally
finally
finally dare
a very, very
intimate embrace
only Abandon
was perfect
for Hopeless

i must admit i thought
the pain made
your beautiful Cruelty
almost mean
whatever
girls like you
Always tell the Devil
to say

how 'the pain was all she had to give, and my love wanted everthing she had '

my first real laugh... ached...but...
thought you should do Vegas.

or visa-versa.

and so
with that
everything hurt more
just knowing
i could
let it go

i could be removed
and still live with
all the shrapnel
you so lovingly made sure
was in the Bomb

my friends have told me
they saw me surrender

when they knew exactly what it was

when i dared to feel Nothing at all
they saw a broken heart's
first love.

And that look told all my friends
it heard someone say
you died.

and the Devil bought a ring.

the evening sky
returned the last star
to it's assigned cartesian
inclination
and the night calm of barn owls
sank talons of silence
into modern
noise

the
flame
in the pit
is having
the last
dream

of mesquite  

it's
reading today's newspaper
from last week.
relaxed reeds catching spiders
and baseballs
all this

all this is dreaming

yellow
bruise hemp
swaying  
over sand
dunes

backdrop for my wine glass.

deadline
tomorrow
oblivious

i could see god getting the job done. wearing house shoes.

he's bumping into things
but catching anything that falls
  always always
been good at that
however weary
absolute Love

bottle of wine, breathing
won't tell a soul
by telegraph
when a light buzz
perfectly
encrypts a moment of clarity
and every little thing
about right now
is true

wild sage landing helicopters with glass blades

black smearing blue, jackson *******
with van gogh's soul,

brush
in the palm
of my
eye

odorless bathing salts
undissolved
in calm
water
with ashy skin

two cheeks
filled
with silver milk
swollen
with odorless
feeble
attempts
to at least
be
forgettable
nausea ,

counting
the beads on a chain
attached to a rubber plug
wearing concrete shoes
face-down
in placid
murk
Passes the Time,

even at a fraction of the speed limit
  
ulcerous enamel
leeching rust
into a pointless bog
of manganese
and zinc

candle
burning
bees wax
on the
sink

where
she left her
brush

she left hair
instructions
on how to recover
from losing your
head

a box
of wooden matches
can't seem to
get  on
with a crumpled ***
of spent tissue...

a waste basket
that needs therapy
with yellow lungs,
eating a can
of pork & beans
thinking wrinkled hands
are like
house cats

lounging
over the lip
of a submarine
with clawed feet
brass proud

clashing
with empty
beers cans on the floor
sleeping off
the misadventures
of a reckless
binge.

my wallet
splayed prone, under
a slow leak.
admiring the linoleum

seen
better days
in a magazine

a
picture
of a well appointed
villa

it was furnished
with opulent
symbols

they were
empty

on page twelve.

i thought
they
had

a
point
.
i knew
i would cancel
my subscription
even if it
thrilled
me.

it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.

this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.

and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.

I'm full of sunlight and a wreck of unspeakable low tides
I'm aware you could speak of me most times and forget any mention
It's a lot like an affair of the heart that had no mind
Full of thoughts
and it ought to be tongue tied
but it's not...

I'm all over the place
I'm a loon with a moon
That meets me half way
Full....

I'm full of starlight and a fleck of unfathomable dark
I'm full of rage, I'm consumed, At a feast I have it all
I'm alive where I died for the passionate blah, blah, blah
about love...

I'm full of you .....

I'm all over the place
I'm a new thing, old as the doubt that precedes it
Old as the Love that keeps it young
And as sweet as blue lemons

Two made One

Full...

The night had brought with it the hush of a thousand  homes, nestled in the raw

slumber of soft shadows -

moon cast,  in white mist and deep groves of impenetrable asymmetries...

a plume of thoughtful blobs in the shape of trees and dozy chimneys,

crowding the dark knolls

of some beautiful  assembly -

An unbearable Elysium, foam-joy and regal

stammering

the eye of our stillness ...

A luminous rush of glories and old plots of dead heavens

shimmering in the dialect

of mute jewels.



The Deep Night, plush and removed; swollen with the dizzy laws that govern such astonishing things -

An unmasked pavilion, stripped of horrors, laying naked in the ether

bejeweled in the common genius of the supreme will...

the extraordinary -

blasting the mundane from it's faint heart into ingots of exuberant ore ~



O'Sacred things that devour flame

to disgorge supernova           As tapestry.....

A garden of stars most hostile

to the ignorance of our darker thoughts -

The deep night gathered in the hollow of rainbows restrained by the clouds

Of a desperate mirror

One that reflects; to love better the Sun ~

but hasn't the Silver to shine.

the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
              as if emeralds,   had sent tendrils up
              to suckle at the yellow breast, now,   high above     inflamed....
              over soft new
              grass  
            
              like
              strands of green gemstone,
              as delicate as humming-bird tongues
              teasing nectar
              from a titan,
              in the sky
                        
              triumphant in the void,

              a golden bead in the baffling blue !

              cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
                          of a myriad fertilities.
              as if
                        nature itself had known, one day
                       a poet would come ~
              to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
                     in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
              a path afflux
                that ambled near

              and yes !

              an
                        anonymous nomad
              with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
              would indeed
              stumble in      as if returning home
              to a mansion restored to glory
              and seraphic randomness....
              a place
              that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
              by gospels of granite and grain,  grass finch
              and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
              enticed a scholar  from his cot
              to jot ephemera
              of outlasting spark
              before darkfall

        
              and so... there

              amid all allurement   and soft machines

              a word-smith gathered
              poesy and prose.
            
              muse-driven
              this one served
              an invisible
              sovereign
            
              one  

              of unsurpassed virility
              who charms       kaleidoscopes
              with  offhand sketches    
              rescued
              from
              a landfill
            
              a basket weaver,  
              that unravels to
              achieve pure
              forms
            
              a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
              as ampules of anagrams
              were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
              without hope
            
              a falcon   frolicked above the lowborn lilies...  
            
              with eyes  
              too keen
              to see a
              blur
              as the hand
              of god
            
              or a vole
            
              as a lifeline
              on his
              palm.