There are a few of us out here
Browsing through deep canopies
Where the stars linger on our breath -
Like dew on a log.
There are a few of us out here
Blazing trails that discontinue in the fog
Where love is made, and blankets unfurled
Like knee patches, worn
By the miles

And miles

And miles.

My thoughts are like gamma rays addicted to *******

Fiending for absolute Truth
Or a new use for Head Space

They come in a swarm that *****-slaps any bats in my belfry

And rational thoughts flash mob
My cherished illusions
Daily.

I'm on the front line
Of a Psychic War with the Brain-Dead !
My Kung-fu is Confused
By Hatred as an Argument -

Racist Beliefs as a platform to start with...
Asinine articles of faith
As arcane Armaments
Immune to subtlety ...Q.E.D. ~
or any proof of concept !

They've kept the Rubicon
Uncrossed by the Curious

Held stock in kerosene
To burn books too luminous
for
Fearful Men, Unaccustomed to Promethean Gifts

And the Unquenchable Flame of Paradigm Shifts

Mortified by any Noble Pursuit

That diminished the Lie

To magnify the Truth.

ripe fruit unconfined to the width of fruit

frightfully absent-minded of it's metaphor

burgeoning with sweet to burst-

...’The slowest devastation of a perfect sphere.


Bloated in the sun

at the peak of yes

a trifle to a god; and everything He meant.

the raw sub conscience of Love Itself.


Forest olde and valley wide

heeps of time upon time in a bramble of lush

vast with green enough to burst

...the joyous vegetation of a perfect world.


Garrulous in the sun

at the peak of yes

a testament to god at His first attempt.

the sheerest genius of Love

Thyself.

Truth.

To know it
Unadorned in the Raiment
Of My Theory

Completely Naked, and as useless
As pointing in a Congress of Crows

The mortality of Wisdom
Is equal to the span of our Assumptions -
Making a year of devotion, the length of time
you wandered in circles
convinced of
Something; Reality could not Fathom

Nor any wisdom prove

The Truth is how Reality assumes a shape
Before the Things to come
Assume otherwise.

So our Lies have been tampered with...

before our eyes.

Soft rain has fallen
And tiny jewels are fastened to the landscape.
Succulent prisms lay strewn about
And the night sky hums.
Fumbling branches, the North Wind has apples
Falling to the damp earth -
A 'thud' becomes a murmuur in the lush,
A blanket of dead leaves
Absorb ripe fruit
And clouds part, revealing the full moon
A blush of white lights
Sparkle in the wet eyes of stray dogs.
The Milky Way... gilding creation
With Giants the size of pinholes
In a black melon.
Between low hanging clouds, a billion worlds burn.
And earthworms, born without eyes...
Look up.

To marvel at the Heavens as they drown.

You have a Wednesday stuck to your oversized, hand-me-down, turtle-neck sweater.
The one with a hole in the elbow of your right sleeve.
It was hand stitched by a real machine, but not in Ireland.
You have a Wednesday snagged. Perhaps a loose thread became entangled, midweek ?
And now you have Wednesday, everywhere you go....
I only mention, because I noticed...
And it totally goes with that Monday
In your eyes.

Is that your Existential Crisis; parked right outside ?
I hope you fed the meter.
I can see where you spent your spiritual currency.
From every angle, simplicity of design !
Just a chasm and no plot. Elegant lines -
That wind up vanishing from the ' Unspeakable Frame '
Beyond the Border of What You Dare Think...

I have one just like that !
But mine has a concrete hunch about the whole thing.
A suspicion engine
So nothingness can't seem to live without me. But -
I see you have that thing you just hope isn't the truth
And I used to have that -
But now I just have a Headache.

I'm crushing on your Ayn Rand funeral parties
And that outrageous, bobble-head Doubting Thomas on your dashed hope.
Let's sit at that table by the window
And stare at each other as long as the window has nothing in it.
That should give us aeons to get to know each other.
There's no Law that says " I'm sorry for being such a stupid Law "
So without pause, we should defy our Separateness.
I'll ask for a clean fork in the road
And we'll see what that get's me....
Ah-ha !
I finally got a laugh
That didn't come from inside my skull.
A laugh that had good taste in men, and no idea where it came from -
But remembers how the couch made the carpet work.
The Abyss goes with everything, but you left it in the closet...
You know -Why unpack ?
That laugh was naked.
It gave me those Goosebumps
That can beat up Other Goosebumps.

Would you like to have some chai ?

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.

As I was born under a New Moon; I am always given pause by a mad flush of stars, deserted in abundance, piercing the ruby throated dusk; uncollided, a blush of dead fizz still very much alive...And I would touch it... ~ touch it
damning rainbows to neglect and torrential rains
basking in sunshine ~
but not mine...I am pondering heaven now
and how
it fits in your palm.
How everywhere a shadow walks, the stars shine
right behind it.
and no one finds a single flaw.

i am the alchemy of distilled spirits.Spirits abducted by Ruin-
that has such beauty,
your weeping would reveal, the very name of the villain.
And exactly how you got this number
in the first place.

Again, that was then... and This is how we love each other in a black room with our mouths sewn shut; typing riddles in plain English that fall upon an Eye's Ear... an alien braille of goosebumps in a vacuum at my fingertips, tapping keys that build doors Between
that lead to this very place.

The keys had to come from some where, ?
but we're not thinking about that
right now.

in the basement
where we keep our little gravities-
apparently the earth gave way
and hell announced a cavity.
allow for strange attractors
to collapse before they're intimate.
and never take the stairs
until you've locked the room beneath it.
according to the rule
there may be echoes from the chamber
a misery of wraiths
or a raven in the manger.
or a hackle of contempt
the very air, a shrike of drone.
an epistle from a hornet's nest-
at the back of our throats.
in the very, very quiet
where we keep our little maladies-
apparently the basement is as good a place as enmity.
allow for cain and abel
and perhaps you have the half of it,
swinging from a hook in every room we've heard it laughing in.
according to the rule
there may be black so black it's blackening
and everywhere the hoards of wane
dispel the moon
because.

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.