swain and limber I elope with the prairie, laughing in the face of the sun.
my love unbound, like a joy beyond the province of desire.
my heart, pounding nickels into bouquets.
my eyes unhinged from the dark… light fiends in perfect illumination.
Impossible eyes are mine, full of thunder and fresh sourdough
steaming on a solid gold brick  from my last wall.
your lips are how I farm silver
from a kiss, and my love is all
the *****
for You.

The Billy Goat barley wine went down like a lead zeppelin  
in concrete shoes. Fog crept over the world and words-
were tumbling out of extroverts as the party bedazzled
on the spacious patio, with the forever Christmas lights
and the gas grill and a workhorse keg.

Everybody's darling and
the potheads ponder
in indiscrete pods of
perpetual laughter-
sipping jaeger and pabst
in tribal tattoos.

My mind wanders off
as I lean on a pillar of cedar-
facing a sunset seam that
lay upon the horizon
like a lost dog.

I thought i might listen to my friends from a distance
and glean the hieroglyphics of their posture
to gain a sober understanding
of their shenanigans.

Thereby affording me
a vantage point
with a point
advantage.

But alas, always-
a wallflower in a hammock
doing calculus
with chatter and
variables….

like Everclear in
Pineapple juice
or Colossal *******
like Chad.

When my Karma blew a Satire, I was mocking something as naked as this.
I drank my coffee from a Flea Market mug
with all the panache of-
the happy ******
with none of the manacles
of Self Awareness.

Sleep Being a constant insomnia, where-
barns alongside the road all have faces too feral
for tranquil lamentations. postcard sceptics all.
but they rest in fields
of invisible blood
like Lincoln Logs in a microwave on a
platter of cadaverous
Parthenons.

I lay dormant in the bones of the Sun. Undetected by traditional auguries
As anonymous as an honest word..
As serpentine as right angles in a left-handed Sphere.
Ever keen to be never wicked… but unapproachable by chariot.
Only long walks off short piers need apply.
And oodles of Time
to stop on a dime
by heart.

My apartment has too many candles, so that’s the right amount.
You could sleep through the apocalypse and arise refreshed
and peckish. And you’ll just know where the muffins are.
My terrarium has a name made out of teak and jade.
Several worlds abide where I hang my nocturnals
and I’m lousy with stars in a batch of dark
the size of the Mind.

as I reflect i deflect and wonder where the arrow went, that pestered me.
i speak for the trees like a Lorax on a ******, but with fine penmanship
and quaint masteries. i learn the language of moss
by twilight and beg aeons for an hour
of Clarity… stumbling to Port
as I aright my Ship upon a proper Maelstrom
as viscose as a black diamond
on a candle’s
mind.

In perfect circles we spoke. No virgins to Ellipse but faithful
to the radius of our doom, like a choir to a Chamber
of Remarkable Silence.
Like a backwards whisper
into a megaphone
lodged in the ear of a deaf god
that gets the gist
but never the urgency.
we slept with flames on the inside.
and bled through walls like a stain
aping Picasso without Wallpaper’s
consent

Emerging from the tundra of music
at the kernel of indefinite stars.
full blown glasswood
from a furnace
with all
eyes.

we sustain our love
by wounding wounds
until they see Us
for who We
are.

This love in
a jar.

As is. So far.

Keep your sparrows under glass
and parody flight with your hairless balloons
tethered to a Blarney Stone.

Look where your eyes have stopped seeing
and believe none of it, for fear
of believing anything at all.
But only if you're willing
To never change.

And Mute is your-
favorite button
to never go
missing.

The metallic Everest plasma of the old Wishing Well
Had an Abe Vigoda aroma with a nostalgic veneer
Of lost roads and upset carts.
The fumes are like gossamer limpets
On your golden soul, in a fitful sleep-
to rival all awakening.
The very air had a door that wept glee
and sang of dark angels brooding over
slabs of pie and squandering sunrise
to fork a tongue.

You are always there,
however the leaving arrives.
You’re like a hat
on a hat
Without too-
wise.

Now imagine this.
You have all day to get somewhere
but you haven’t any goldfish…
And that makes you king of the world.
but you can’t lance the boil until
you abdicate the throne of Yarn
and bind a cat to your shadows’ pearl.
The black thing you carry in your pocket
is the eye of all Typhoons
in your lap.

Imagine opening your eyes-
and being surrounded by Thursday!
So much velvet tinkering with grey things
and gimlets… torchlit fantasies slurry forth
in an unending tide of appetites
disguised as appetites
in disguise.
Sunspots on paper plates
and taffeta medallions
all in love with blue cranes
and very little else
that you lack.

Imagine that.

to see you is like someone lost a bulldog
and the dark side of the moon, bathing in night
is all the fingers I have to grasp your leash
to tether a star to your ice wolves
and sandstone.

to touch you is like someone lost an odd spark.
and the heart collides with an afternoon,
laden with Hematite and
Doll’s Eyes

All the wrinkles of a rampant peace
besieged afterdark with your knives cool
and your limbs
numb.

To see You is like Someone-
Lost Someone.

I can't go anywhere without Being There.
but I’m not around so much in a Prison.
I tend to wander.
I claim the sun in a hole
when I’m in it.
And ponder
wings.


II


stones i have known are not
your average stones.
so i steal cameras.
to see something other than-
granite as a heavy peppercorn
Or The stars, an -
Other than-

Something Other than Me


III


these are the dreams folks.

what are your terms?
can I offer you a drink?
is your cocoon luxurious?
do we  have an understanding?
are you one size?
is there a wormhole that you prefer?
or all about the deep end
of ending this?

what are your terms?
do you have songs in your mittens?
are your balloons delirious?
do we have an answer as fancy?
are you quantized?
is there a Dirge that you were
that your life  forfends?
or is it bliss?

what are your worms?

where the pumpkins choke on campfires
and all the noise is a weekend-
staving off the solar flares
of an absolute
pyre.

strong lemonade for my perpetual disquiet.

in the bads
where the goods
go mad
and the hours
at hand-
stifling
as you wave
to reverse
an advance
but complete
a full Curse’
on a
Half-Life.

there are songs that are too many things
and catskills and blarney, jumbled out of focus
to appease the unnecessary Agency
of our Practical Demise.

in the bads, we return from somewhere that left when we did.
love, an Impala with an open mind
made of thorns as ratched
as a claim.

and a blind wine.

On the Northside of a very private Southside-
where a Midwestern Daguerreotype
of Some Kind

[ Eastbound ]

On Pure
West
Business.

Had mine eyes fallen
upon worlds
between
wheels.

Having learned much from toil-
and extravagant galas
my appetites subvert
the meringue
as an infinite feast
unfurls.

breaking bread in an alcove
of cinnamon stars
in a pitch black white
that goes with everything
you’ll never Know.

like a flawless gauze
wrapped around
an itch.

II

In the telling of Sunfish Fables
one must contort the bend
to render a skeleton key
to a locked Rune.
Ya gotta foil the fates fancy
with turbulent renditions
of inner hurricanes
that cast such spells
as to weather you.

even at the bottom
of the sea.

you gotta burn rocks with your teeth
because your tongue is busy .
sleep after death
because Now is too soon
to forget how to be
Alive.

And too brief to
believe
Until it's
True.

To hand I have imperial wheat and the humble shuck.
The froth of Life’s undulant bulk, like a wave of tons
Skipping stones across my troubled heart-
To pale the girth of Jupiter
and ruin.

Mad with plums that read palms from ***** to Left.

Mad with cherries
that sting
a bit.

Draped in beans that Ivy
to a Giant Pause.
For a Fee to deFy Forked Tongues
With Plain Dreams.
And Golden Geese defrocked
Some.

Then to the Center of It, you and I.
The smallest Kings in a whiff
Of Dominion’-
Lording over mirrors as vain
As our countenance!
Woe, as we tinker-
With the Worst that makes
the World go ‘round.-

And Find You, That I Am Me.

NOW THAT
might be
profou
nd.

tipping the scales at half past a vanishing point to an argument
we’re like a tribe of unbridled huckleberries, spoiling for a jam.
but then… we lose the wind to a terrible storm far beyond our sphere
and labor overmuch to assuage the curdled grommet
of our foisted  appeal to an unvoiced fear.
we slip into our rainbows and swim unfettered until a wing breaks
to sing an anthem to gravity’s callous law. gobsmack in the perilous nativity
of your awkward alliance with the Mystery that conceived you-
as a Lost Boy.

you’re always the Beforeigner.

So Now.

So Now.

So Now.

No slumlords in the orchard, only the good Lord’s bounty
heaped upon troubles and shimmering defaults.
where life has loaned you-
a lemonous sun, as ashes belie the anthracite
smoldering in clandestine doubts and rarified hope.
This world is teeming with life without irony. Teeming with you-
like a vestigial immortal, entranced by a wasp
in an apple tree.

In the doll spot the violins in your eyes
are not the choir i was looking for.
merely the shell of a silent scream
in semaphore *******
lavishly devoid.
Pondering the revels of Last Things.

I came upon your homicide by chance.
tripped over your open wounds and hung lights
on your bones to find the empty wells
yawning with grief invisible… and all the secret storms
of your tepid furies. i read your mail.
in a sense.
i saw the background of your foreground
as the planet you believed in.
and waved at you “ Goodbye”
because backwards
Day.

Jim has a crow that barks like buckshot
and little men duct taped to kazoos as baleful
as a siren on a beached whale’s conscience.
a blue slug addicted to krill or be krill.
That crow has a talon as wide as the world
and a song stripped of hymns like flesh
from a bone of contention.

II

I can’t breathe. but my
last breath
said so.

death and taxis
avoid eye contact
to delete you.

III

growling softly...

summer is sputtering out and fall
is fluttering forward with hammock eyes
swaying in the riddle of sunlit caverns and dark fires.
in my bones i can feel the changing of the guard.
how a sun is plucked up
from a yawning chasm of noel
and black chandeliers.
comets that pray to the ellipse
and never the cause..

but the season rumbles and laments
any aspect of the other.
with the rain pining for blue skies
or blue skies dreaming of gray.
we are joined in the calamity of
marching against Being.
by Being so hard that a link in a wound
is more an iron pillow than a spirit
of Morpheus, Day-walking with a
communicable
Flu.

Before You Flew.

It’s like sleep is treason. I disembark from a loadstone
and revolve around an endless disjoint.
It’s like being exposed to the radioactivity of a dead god.
but with graven images on your hands
and the milk of human blindness
in a butter churn -
you never ****
with.
udders are like fountains of wane
when your thirst is preternatural
and your tongue
as tethered to
Tantalus
as every hour at beck and call
is only listening to you breathe
through your mouth
when you have
nothing to say.
It’s like sleep is treason, gussied up in pinched gold filings
and rust burnt daffodils. it’s like  not attending the beginning -
but claiming to be a witness. more a rumor fog-
on your windshield...
telling the curve of the world that your road
leads to answers.
sleep is mocked by the hemisphere we believe in.
unraveled and plucked from-
dim glories to face the brutal happening
of being Alive.
sleep
is how having no choice
tells you how to be awake
when the time comes to be asleep
through a war you can’t win
until you betray the comfort
of your Albatross-
and your world-class indifference
to the Mystery
of You.
Sleep can never lay siege to the tyranny of your Illusions
but can always discontinue your savage love
as it Is.
within you.
this species of sleep has all your tears in a box
and all your hope in ivory towers
of Strange Rodeo.

all the trains have lost their cars and the miles sprawl in leagues
toward an alabaster eating the yellow from a black heart
as moonbirds swear fealty to deep light
and careen into blithering with all the noise of wounded camps
and the gifted cauldrons of our unspoken words.
there are flags in the twilight, resting on a spear at the foot -
of untold Otherness.
claiming a kingdom, ransomed to the Highest Believer
and tethered to a stone that adores weightlessness
but has too heavy a heart to simply float.
should oblivion be deferred, it would take a tide of blood
from a frozen clot. a burst of uncanny resolve
that inveigles the lost symmetries of alluring Dystopias
with a gentle grenade that has lost its **** mind.

THEN you can see the Exit
when it darks
and all thought balloons
of the truly Lost.

and get gone.

in the local rag the tales rattle like corn in a can.
the sky from below is so removed, we call it “ The Sky “
and nobody notices, because it’s too True to be Real.
the stern lamps that gaslight the night vision of dwarves
and Romans, scald the little cheeks of a new black
with their earnest waste of time…
given that the dawn will overtake the night until a star dies
and your letters will be read to flames
as dispassionate as a breeze.
in the local rag your horoscope is a nested loop
surreal and oblique like a sand dollar
for a windmill.

a trojan ghost with
a tea cup full of sparks
and a madness for
a map to
a map.

i’m on my hill, and a swarm of long Tuesdays
perturb my actual Monday night
pooling at my disconnected feet on the grounds of anonymity  
where I trim the verge with cattle eyes, gawking at Time
with my ruminant mouth slack, and my spires arcing bolts
from the crown of a troubled Sky.
my pumpkins are not the same. they have lost their dreams
to a labyrinth of vines… tumbling over dead leaves and applesauce sunshine-
but only in the margins of our conspicuous stupidity.
inflamed by a cold sun.

i’m on my hill, as Leviathans repel from low clouds
to barter teeth at my table
for a long song about a boy full of fables
and a Sea in his Palm
full of worlds.

Politely pining for Plums.
That's a Social dynamic; integral to your Kafkaesque Self Awareness
and it must be appeased. But i assure you; you needn't bother waiting to be entertained in any event... and the seeking of a thrill is no mocking of a bird.
It has flown without you
and all genuine delays are at the feet your imaginary Life.

You might recall the imperfect stillness of your haste. How it halted.
How it gained an inch in hell by waving hands
at a Taxi, stalled at the wreck of all your unspoken Banshees
Balking at Time’s sinister rebellions against the flesh of your everlasting Mortality.
You succumb to too many Truths and meteors.
Ambling in the fog of All Things
Adjacent to -
“ Why ? “
.

All the ill homes ditching the hearth of a quiet in favor of a dust up at sundown.
chemicals in the frost,  digging into limp houses and chunneling the bedrock of an underneath as barren as the up above. As only a fairy tale can scar a blemish.

Optical violets
conspire to blossom in your benighted tomb
should you live there, with all the irony at your disposal
to lay siege to your impregnable-
Mice.
They know all about the clock
but nothing of the gears…
too busy easy eating charms from a ghost hand
in a parlor of lost boys. too busy slipping into cauldrons
of bespoke misadventures and
terminal revivals.

You bloat the river
where a crick would do.
Your fathoms blast the narrows
of your endless beseech. You implore that the world
should come apart more gently.
That it should sleep when the evening is callous
but long in the truth.

then dreams permit pearls that permit holes in theories.
And all the comely dawn
is vanquished by noon.


II

For nothing is as always
as another thing forgotten
when you meant too.

i cannot occupy mars but have sown my feathers to a star
made of happy glass and sorrows beyond my kin
and i have ventured to the rim outermost
to pinch barnacles from dragons.
and nothing has been the same
since the dawning of all my worlds
tumbling into space
between Words.

when your sun is too high, all that matters is how your moon is waning
and some of the far things become up close when you venture from your anesthesia
and succumb to the wayward lithium of your bright mind on a dark sea
slumming with stars so astonished that the dark is gasping for shadows
but your treasure trove is a moveable feast of ferocious puns
dipped in the quill of Time and marginally antiseptic.
you click with the void but the cure
is an actual oblivion
full of You.

and you love like a crazy thing when living out loud.

he sleeps in his car because getting there was exhausting
and the highway had a soft lane parallel to the speed cage snake
that wandered off into the desert where it lost the horizon
to a silhouette of cactus praying to the Sun.
as it sat.

tumbleweed grit in the yellow canvas of dawn
like an alarm clock of spikes and low dunes.
he fidgets for the wheel and the keys the whole shebang.
with crystal cotton in his eyes and no coffee to believe in.
and adjusting, he weathers the turmoil of rude awakenings
in the radio is broken world
of a long way home.

the wind chafes the manacle
clank born maniacal, sidewise Wednesday-
stuck where the chemicals calm down
the real things-
stuck to your windshield.
something like a varmint
in between
doing nothing at all
and being so dead
it can’t be a
miracle.

but the going keep going when the staying is a vacancy
as wide as the dark side of the Truth.
you can go there with your strawberry eyes
but not all of you, see too much
until you do… with all your candles
out of mind.

and all your utter lack of proof.

underneath the bridge where the trolls eat goats and the rays of the sun are rumored
to be Pisces and the world is an odd duck, galumphing along beside the other world
you’re actually in.
there are songs about the territory but-
no melodies to remember
them with.

we sleep through the screech of time
and canonize the raptures
of our complete illusions.
born in a cage of open skies
and cul de sacs… we depart from our roots
to sprawl amid the vanishing and -
all waves of endless
deep.

Like
a speck of dust on a lens
is a ziggurat
to a lens
cap.

and a condor
to an almost
Life.

The Keys of the Keeper
Ain't never found
A lock to a Door
Too bashful.
But they sway from a chain
In Aspic.
Jewelry as Stoic
As " Why are you asking?"
When a dozen Illusions
Have all the Answers.

And how Golden you Are
is not so very Alone.

I suppose.

But everything is
where you are the Most..
And some things are tears
That Laugh.

We should get a drink and untangle the myriad vines
intertwined in our Autumn on a thorn’s errand.
We should go where the agonies are barren
and as toothless as hoops in a guillotine
drenched in Olive Oil and murmurs
muttering the future to slow things drinking
and we shall have our towers built
by the tall stones of our ingenious remedies
that focus Hope through
Impenetrables-
as often as
Snow.

and our Tales
are not Lies
that we Know, that
We Know.

We should open the box
with the open mind
To see what’s
Outside.
Enlist the aid of
our feral Want-
Cajoling Night Terrors
into the Light-
of our ice blue
Reveries.

We should think about
muddling mint
at the bottom of
the Sea.

a cloud with
no face...

that hasn’t
been any face

Has been every Face

All the
While.

All the
Time.

Like We,

Margo gobs a peach with all the fuzz, fleece of Jupiter but sweet-
Like a tree is sweet for waiting so slowly they suddenly bare fruit.
She thinks about her pillow full of Sleep and Pity
melting into a queen-sized oblivion, marking Time with dim Arrows.
She feeds the wrong wolf now and then.
But she prospers where her sparrows depart from this World
And never Comes Back, so much as Return
To Turning.

It’s early morn with the sky fussy
with purple and red pumpkin
and as cool as a cucumber
on a grassy knoll of
Elysium.

Spoonfed sunshine and headlights.
A vast Pause moving
like a cat on a moonbeam
is Now.

Like a moment stalled by
everlasting Brevity.
Lank flags droop
on pillars

lightning rods face palmed in dead air
.
Bruised fruit cooling heel on heavy branches
launch dew driven arias of succulent oils
upon the calm expanse of Dawn.
I see houses held in suspense-
sprawling like mushroom cabins
with orange windows
squatting under chimneys and indefinite
Serenity.

With all the Grace of an improbable rack of Antlers
the last stars spike the waning dark
as luminous elan unfurls, spun from a loom of all mornings
dislodged from a long Night.
There’s a hum in the World
as golden as a bonny lass.
And a Silence

as loud as you like.

my golatha is mewling in the fringe. lemon rinds polished.
my credenza dust-laden and perfect. like an old promise in moon gingham.
and all of this conjures a portable god and a night kingdom of uproarious gunthers
plundering the under-whim of our daily crisis
by loving the pitch of the sea.
and siren wishes-
privately.

all of this twice and again the world in which to fathom it.
our astute breach of contract, expanding into quadrants of unanswered questions
with all the panache of pandering, to a blush of summer on a ghost’s lips.
all of this always. like a concerned amnesia in absentia. open mind adjacent to a constant door… and a bronze myth.

Myth-Behaving.

The apples are handsome and Pre-Cambrian with their foliage draping the canopy
with apple breath and shadow. An Orchard of Arias, hours from a glass of hard cider.
Cinder mittens on it’s oaky nose; as Autumn recalibrates the haste of fire…
The house slides into a sunset on a cinnamon bun.

I lean back in my chair and write this.



II


There was a God in my Breakfast. Gnawing at my Animus.
Spooking mirrors with my own face. And kissing my feet.

I knew it time for muffins, with Blueberries In
and a glass of cold milk from a Sacred Cow.

I slept through the Preamble of my Eminence
too enthrall of Another, and the Songs that kept track of it.

comet locked to inexplicable Love
feasting on the marrow of Sunshine
and Fuji.

I sleep until Morpheus laughs milk through his nose
and abruptly laugh at us Both. yesterday’s whole-grain toast
on a doily, derelict and butter-cuffed-
where a bite was sincere and absent-minded.
Much like a peasant’s frenzy,
with manners from Empty tables.
Only good enough to gauge
the width of a Total
Farce.

Or sum the Sublime
with a Catalogue
of Lost
Arts.

I awake when the dream begins
.
And you wanna hear me talk about snow right now.

And I bother.

“ The blanket is a kind of white noise that only the eye can see -
   as a Blue Thing.

It’s fading… and nothing comes close to not beholding.
We are all In for the finch and the hare
and the crepe of crisp.

pinned to a theme of our leisurely stroll-
through damp crystals
as awestruck as
Winter at
Spring.

On the cusp of our twilight, serene seraphs slumber
born of golden spite and joysome psalms, woven from unspoken skin
to stitch ice to every paw of Dawn clawing at the hem of Night.

     And where Winter falls, I stay awake to chart comets and chimneys
Like any awkward Silence
thought I might.

Owning the empirical argument
is like a mouthful of marbles
Telling marbles How Cubes-
Think.

Meanwhile...

All the West is The East with its back to you.
And no one can say how pointless
a compass can be
until they’re born.

And that’s how maps
may never spoil
The Lost.

And how Paradise
remains

“ Here, There Be... “


CANTO II


we are half a bird in a sling
shot through with dark wings
and guillotines as precious
as an unyielding spark.  

we are dust where the flesh is not.
and bone where the
songs go.


CANTO III


yea, though i walk through... (The Other Side-
remains elusive.)

too many Underworlds; and all the doors are stairs.

Like a mad god signing your Yearbook
with your Name.

But for Realsies.

Her cologne was hemp and Tuesday; lettuce-wrapped
in comet frost and not so merry-go-rounds.
She hid scars with wounds-
But never Noticed...
Charm- Kissed
by a tide of imponderables-
the size of her Ovaries.
Sleeping in a steamer trunk
to scope the limits
of Her Open
Mind...
As seen through the lens
of the first Blind
Eye.
And you Love Her.

II

You don’t have to sleep where you pass out.
You can study dreams where her feet have been.
Trek the spiral of her Cacophony to a Wailing
where her Heart should Be.
You can believe in anything
that Love allures…
Even-
And entangle your imperfection
with Her own.
But you have to wake up
to Dream properly.
Fold Space
where the crease
is a massive
Soul.
Merge with the
soft clots
in your fire,
and conspire to
move.

Breach the barricades
that thorn
your Roses,
or surrender
to
vanishing.
Know Love’s Garden
for what It
is.

Or Fetch a
Grove.

our skin pushes the river till it splits the sky
molting with waves of skin, deep and fathomless.
i am nowhere, like a weather vane in a cauldron
of Nope.
The winds tickle when they actually Mill.
and a bread from said grain
is a Love I can’t
ferment.

not without your ghost butter
and endless full moons.

For
Love is a Beast
and there is no Oasis
for wanting
You.

As we Diverge... where

We At
Least.

Down by the lake where the air had lost its breath mints and cattails wobbled like golden hobos, you could see a little house across the chop; squatting on the far shore, flanked by tall evergreens and nameless trails receding on ghost feet with tiny little shells for boots.
     Down by the lake you could see a light in the window with the Chinese maple fascinator off to one side in an offshore breeze. And rampant ivy, raiding the pantry of a thatch roof overhang for sun crumbs and pelican pies. You can just make out the door that seems to stand between worlds, slightly ajar.  And a chimney as stoic as a bone with a granite crown.

You’ll be back next year.

I [ know ] what it’s like.
Indoors with an Outdoor Mind.
Fever blink sparrows in Calligraphy’s
Eponymous Wreck of droll Elan.
Outsized Inside,
As ripples in a quiver
may Be in Two Blazes
At Once.

While Love can be
Nowhere near You
When You
Want.

II

I have stopped singing in the usual way, now more concave and scattershot
With bare-bones clacking rough gibberish to the masses in discreet columns
of deployed madness… Cherub-Stung Pontiff of a Dirigible -
Swinging from an Aether Star
Hooked on hooks and crashing
Into something
Glorious!

I have too often the perks
of cerebral Detente
with my Impossible Oceans.
I Swim .... to soften the scales
of my deep fish
Kabuki

I Never Know
Cool Things.


Until I Burn.

Acorns fraternize in the leaf litter, sifting through tired tales of falling.
A yellow sun cranks knives into yellow sinews of nearly perfect grey
where twilight is smiling for no reason,
and we all sleep overlong,
as our tomorrows
lapse into gone.

The Politics of Amber
Is how Love is not the first thing
that you know.
It buries the lead in the forefront
Of a Trojan Horse.
The mane, majestic in the wind-
up your aspirations.
But always where a weeping oak
Had a reason…

To paralyze a
Life.

Or Two.

In my neck of the would bees. I had no kinfolk.
Just churlish Bears and Porridge out of Time
Like an AlmostPurple Stew.
Wings Clipped...glistening in the gloom;
Beating against Time -
Like Champions anointed to a Point
Of No Rebirth. With -
Only the Challenge of ingenious Farce
Banging the pots in our Potsdamer Platz.
With all speed. And all Mirth.
And All Nots.

Loose ships sink lips…
when they speak
Or What-Knot.

The onions were crisp and sugar funked. The pumpkins plump
and less ordinary than the okra with the palsy.
The sweet peas were lumps of gnocchi tucked into emeralds
as ascendent as a vine of pregnant Ivy.
Coin purse puce where the rain slapped
and the fog of our tundra dropped anchor
where our meadows
were bent.

But what Vera wants to know
Is Why?

And what Heaven wants to know
Is Why Not?

game face with no game
tripping over elbows and
undone gobsmacked remotes
that tune into deep figures
sleek features masquerading
as all the fog in a room
full of you,

dormant doormats. done dilly in the privy
of your terminal performance.
your one enormous soliloquy
and all the sparrows
of your Mind.

Etcetera.

Tiny glob sparks of actually dating a girl
And all the calla lilies yarping at blonde varmints
In the Sun’s terrific mockery!
Where you might be at
Might well be otherwise
where the Chapels have real Gods
and slow days are often.
Perhaps your pearls hate the necklace
Not the Neck.
But How you toil is how you breathe
when you’re nowhere exactly
At All.

At All.

Sleeping where the air is green with too many afternoons,
bundled into perfect joys that unravel with Kinships
Set sail on Voids that ne’er return their humble pirates.
Asleep where the villainy is private
And only God Knows your Name
Like a Suspect in a revolution
Of quiet demise…
And a certain kind of beautiful
Besides.

Stone Soup has rainbows for teeth
and all along
you haven’t been Amazed.