Stung by lurch and frequent impurities
slumming in my mind’s eye, like a tattletale
on a hot crime… thumbing through the entrails
of a fabulous tumult on the Meridian
Of Never.

I keep my Love in a Bag Of Moons.

Frozen rivers have a spine
But only the Sun has a river
To Inspire.

when i fell in love i had no word for runaway faster but hang in there.
i had all my problems in mint condition
like a  monkey’s paw in candle wax
but slept with Hope and *** and Perdition.
As your Lips were spoken for… or five and then some.
a whirling dervish of incomplete
Love.

I kept to the Plan.
Loved only you with -
my unspoken tongue.
kept to our barn
where our herd
Heard only the Punch
of our Judy.

Blue
where a Vice
is Anointed
and You. where
a Me
is disappointed

Like a Pro.

We had troublesome bones and almond eyes-
That thought violins would never go to War.
So Guitar.

We elapse
where our frailties hold Court…
So far better to rebel -
then to almost be less perfect
than Broken.

By Design.
Where it’s
Hell.

II


Burning Bridges where a Door is a Worm
In a Bowl full of Doors… you have only your Fate
And shamrocks gobsmacked in the matter
of your business with Always.
You do no harm
where the trains go
but keep your Station
where the Holes
Track.

You Aether where the World Sea
Is as Flat as a Wish…
But Never do you
Constantly
Remove.

all of my thumbs pinch the sun
and the moon remains a cloud.

i have too many aftermaths
but always another lost cause.

these flowers keep blooming
no matter what.

you love your exile
or you Live until
it’s worth it.

I eat the pearls in my oatmeal eye
as perfect defects and ravens jambalaya.
moon-****** and a taste acquired…
I gather where I mostly disperse
No Self Required.

Just books and Islands.

But flies got in.
And grapes died on the vine.
your teddy bear watched you
Lie to Your Self…
and thunder spoke your language
when a wailing
was a polite
hat.

As I lurch from my Precambrian slumber
I do Birds where my windows peek from under.
I boldly go where the wind is a frame of reference-
and serve the Empty a full spectrum of dislocation.
I Unnerve the Actual with a dark Plum
singing something UnNatural.
Grief drains the Pool of every Sea
while Poseidon slights the Farce
Of our Perpetual Carbon Farms.
while slinking into varicose
Dreams.

Disarmed.


II

it never feels like Wednesday the way you want it too.

Songs have simple dreams. They cast their shadows with spark and smoke -
And all things gather at the cusp of a Knowing,
Tremble smitten. A wave of servitude in a Void you can’t avoid -
And a heartbeat that will stop when it’s Snowing.
There’s a Woman in the Sun
And She has your fingerprints
On many Moons.

II

Where the dog sleeps, he leaves the coffee stain of his slumber by dander
and all of your unclutter is drawn to the divet in the **** like an Ape
to a Blonde Chick and a Tower.
You had plans with an Average Day but made it a point
to be Extraordinary… Brown eyes on Boil.
You like to travel
but Nowhere Arrives
when you Go -

Until you get
there.

Then Everything’s a Lot.

Night’s Tomb is The Morning. The Sun is engorged with Glory
And Yellow has a Face… The lawns vary from manicured to feral,
and gobs of Time are plundered by the sane and misfit alike…
Because Theories bleed when actual Living dies.
The Sky is Broken, and all the Candy is not even There.
Too many Reindeer in Coffins, choking on Christmas
and sketching garlands on Ponies that never win Races.
Just Dreaming is like constantly Learning to Burn.
I have Teacups for blunders.
And Sunscreen for
Epiphanies.

You?

I’ve had salt and glee.
Rendered cow fat
and the absolute
Spirit of a Boy.
I have Undone
my Impossible Lute,
to fashion almonds
of probable Joy.
I’ve had Pause and Drang...
Tumbling over perfect Harm
with Loose Stars and no
Arms.

Tuning the radio like a frisky ******
I keep chewing my teeth and honey bees with my gums…
My incisors slumber
When my ghosts are gazelle..
They rend what meat is Shame.
And That Tastes
Like 9 Hells…
Only Petunias admit are Stars…

A Wayward Bruise
While tuning my Radio
To a Farce.

And a Complete
Disassembly
Of a Thing
With a

Heart.

Polaris locked and lugging, about a ton of feathers...
I drag an Angel through a marsh of fallen heavens.
I sleep when the Sun starves to death,
And Join my Grains of Sanity
with an oyster

To Pearl where it Hurts.


II

This’ll Cost Ya.
Waking up in the middle of your Life.
Like an Equation made of lopped sides-
And snug contortions.
Wings ill pitched from the dugout
into the loft of dead air… placid and forgivable
for all the lies of the world ride that wave
until a silence humbles
a reckoning.

We should all of Us
learn the language of our Bones
and banish the weary of our Love.
But Earthworms
Have nothing to say -
And Ravens  
have shiny
tears…

if any.

That will never fall.

Dagwood spoiled by the sun on the outskirts of the meadow.
Tremulous reeds torqued in the bumble wind with rods of pollen
lilting into oblivion on a warm gust of meandering Spring.
Towers of Sky mount the hillocks of the world and daisies run.
I see regal turmoil and jubilant hemorrhage of Grace.
so many owls with wide eyes and earthworms dreaming of Mars…
You can almost be
as fragile
as a gnat of
Time.

And You Are.

When I wake there’s a thousand eyes in my java. I glow like a worm in a cave.
I yawn when the wren chirps and dew, drops from a blade of emerald. I sip the world
with my open eyes.... while holding my breath for ransom.
I see mortal rabbits, dancing in the underbrush
with ravenous fur and sleek plump.
Dark pupils, coy where the picket fence is delusional.
where nature found a way to ignore the perimeter
in favor of the expanse
and my humble
domicile… squatting on a patch
of Here and Now.

You can’t do one thing, without doing two things…
This only occurs to me on the porch,
in the rocking chair.
and I’m okay
with that.

the casino slithers neon alongside the Interstate and roadkill.
a few stars enchant and the moon gibbons in the deep palsy of the up-above
like an angel of milk stone and blemishes.
fireflies in the tall grass morse code their amorous intent
as Toyotas plunge south in the balmy aftermath
of a mundane day.

On the eastern ***** of the glen, where the bees slept
and the breeze kept vigil-
you could see the Summer trumpet and submit to Beauty
With too many acorns for the Atavist.
But all the fiddle-backs to tickle
your midnight fancy.  
Spruce garnets like Lanterns
of Warm Forever.

Unfit for flowers, but always a Season on Stilts
And opiates.

The cars are parking where the goslings go.
Now the aluminum can is shiny
in the ice on the asphalt
like a Valkyrie.
Little tombstones and caviar
ugly in the barrel.
where the chamber
has a bullet to kiss you with
or a Truth to Put a God
in your Hand.

Boarded windows bleached by shame and sunlight
clip the view of the smoldering memories of gazing from behind
an ancestral eye, Clutching your Choo-Choo train
as the snow alters the world with a white parade of carpet
stitched in Winters’ bitter Doily. A fabulous crush of delicate ephemera.
The street lamp praying for another life
backlit by the flames of your visitation… stoking your Southern Star.
The House recants the miracles and the broken step that ascends
while mocking your flight.
The crabapples chuck their boredom to the barren nostalgia
where the soil hid a lush lawn for lawn darts
and chiggers.

Returning has to taste like a penny
To Change You.

Her eyes were like the last cactus in Alaska.
Shrines of blue honey, Always wide and diaphanous.
Glowing in the wind like round kites in Springtime,
So glorious are all the flaws of Her Symmetry
She sways the Tide on a Moon.
So my Love is in Orbit
Because.

Like a Loon.

Poems wither on the Mind. Try not to fret.
So many glockenspiels, alive in our hybrid Brigadoon.
Like merchants and sand *****
spelling your name with a zero
shaped like the Letter “ Because”.
you have no Idea.
But that’s like a Frequency.
You barge into long Ignorance
slowly conquered.
As all the while, the Stars are moving.
And Mystery remains a blush
of Wildfire in a Tamed Bugle
lodged in a Glacier
Of Grace.

I do not carry a Bible but I cup my hands
in a River like an armless penitent-
to best the misfortunes
that conspire against my moral Spine.
I wear glasses now, And type, type, type.
And There’s a Monk in my Soup,
Sinking into the broth of my Engine.
Coiled in the simmering
of my liquid perspective
bejeweled in waves.

The gift of wine. My glass cups a ruby pool. And there are moths in the shed
dancing unforbidden in shoals of suspenseful dust. As I court the approaching nowhere
with a Spirit in my Grasp. I debunk the ruin of my days with my casual glooming.
Soaking in the bloated beauty of our constant world
as we blunder on the surface
of our childhood dreams…
A bronze rope
spooling from the sun
has found my
open hand.

Upon felling an Oak.

G’Day, Mr. Sunny Bones. May I prop up your tea
with a sprig of mint and julep your corona with a sugar cube -
bathed in impossible sweet ravens, jostling for clouds?
Might I offer you the pillage of my mind as we stalk the Other
like rainbows stalk pots of gold? Would you like to imbibe
a silhouette? I have Just the Shadow.
You see; Mr. Gone has come to town, and a red dress is darling
on a pillar of smoke.
I love your watch the way a pillar loves alone.

little dragons scuttle in the barn and Neptune deceives a comet.
Spring is all the carousels rolled into one balloon.
anthems and Time Bandits.
sharp loops in a spiral of deciduous Labyrinths.
groping for snow on a flame.
where the wrong gods go, you have all the whalesongs
and the honeycombs...
you have just enough actual delirium
to kiss a comatose Mirage.
with lips to polish a glyph of moonshine

in impossible medallions
of remorse.

on a Cliff.

all of my Islands have honeycombs and harsh bark
where shrubbery blubbers in too much sun
and halfwit Karma blunders in a cup
of unquenchable designs.

Wharf ******
on the plank of the following prank.
heavy like Moses.
Ordained by self-harm
and actual Pirates.

breathing Majong Cactus
Where I Temporary
Go.

numb trumpets on a spoil of whimsical cacophony.
ebony lobes of empirical atrophy… thumbing a ride.
a hubcap dynasty hung from a jagged joy
snagged in the actual grief,
all the berries on the vine
in the purpose
of a spangle
of some
delight
of somehow
delight

without Pause.,

all those miracles at your dainty feet
have all the naked and the marooned
in a fathom of kelp beds on a spool
of Saturn.
We gather at the dearth of our perpetual
diaspora. Long in the wrong tooth, where the stars
misbehave to get to the harsh Truth.
so many moons left unconquered
a spittoon of tombstones
believing in raw bones
and Abigail's.

II

just a tooth in the Sun, hooked where pavilions
congregate like hot salmon clouds of Destiny, forked-
where the Anguish Blooms like a tyranny in a Night Poem
gloating in the Pond of our Ponderous Conundrums…
slumming with pearls of impenetrable disarray
where our open ghosts are bargained
on the altar of a too distant Star.

And
sleep has the meaning
in its grasp
but nobody knows
how to sleep
when it
counts.

where you're Not
so much at
last.

Ducking my calls
because elusive is all the rage.
Connected by way of departure,
we have our holidays
in craters… like all the idiot moons
but have no stomach for an orbit
of respect. just a jot of glum
on a poignant tongue
in a Night Socket.

Beating wings against an open wound
where the wind is salt
and shards of everlasting
Comedy.

Constant.

I come upon the winding road in the thicket
with a candle on my forehead, forging ahead
in the delightful remove.
Where the curves of the world
have cobblestones and ivy.
Briarpatch eyes and lazy ravens
painting the sky
too Blue.

I keep my leaving in my stationery hive of rain
and long mourning. Happiness chips away at the frost
of a dormant grove of beleaguered charms…
where hornets sleep on spikes of spun sugar
and canaries  are more yellow
than a laughing
Truth.

Fearing Death I had polyamorous flowers.
Kept them occupied for hours with April showers
wisping in the muse
of my torrential
Minerva.

Slung low in the hip of dawn
I quake with ankles akimbo at sunrise
in my Night Kingdom.
So many blind Butterflies
to never catch-
sipping the Nectar of a Nod
where I kept It
seeping a
Dream.

Looming over sunshine wrinkles in the front lawn
on my moon patio, in my house shoes.  
Morning robe rumpled and comfy… drooping -
from my frame, as I shambled standing still.
Like a frozen scarecrow with a nervous tic
because of the Meds.

And it’s Wednesday.

the lawns are on pause as the light lathers
a hemisphere of manicured magnolias
and apparitions.
some joy is slain, and yet
the decals of Spring Guinivere
as naked as pollen in a breeze
of mirage. intermittent.
like a long day of extraordinary things
that didn’t happen
until you looked.

I saw a little Peace of me
in the War. slept through Grad-School
like a mad Fool on an Honest Quest.
speaking to the cheap seats of our Honest
Orchids...
I’d rather the Moon Mints
of an average Average…
slum ****** sick
with a Beautiful Algorithm
that No One can hammy galump
when the fade spark
is Actual.

Sunset gilded… the horizon’s orange vapor is capital.
Long pigs gristle in the clinking wind
of a thorough typhoon of God’s
Rapturous Apathy.
But my Horse knows my Name
and cannot Die.
Not without a Canyon of explicit Cul-de-Sacs
as Viral as the Common Cold.
Perhaps a riveting ascent into the Aries
where a horned goat is throat prone?
where a slice of banquet is a Sacrifice-
to the Unknown?

Perhaps...

Laugh or cry, there will be Nothing.
A great act of Entropy. And long Smoke.
All the rooks in a bin of Academic
Impossibility and The Joke.

Squirm as we Must, the cornflake
of our Aperture… to find the milk
Of our Sight… where winking
is a Milk Cow in a Forest
of Dry Leaves, and Parked
Scars…

Keeping my options
closed.
And all
Mars.

Knee deep in the brick stew.
Marmalade wasps with cast iron cashews.
born of a nut in a spoil of iron
gazing at the hard light
love locked or lovelorn… empty banquets
Calcutta my teeth,
and i have too few tomorrows
to arrive at your cul-de-sac
with a grape punch
full of open hands,

i startle the pigeons, yes -
but never the Fates.

Keep joining. It will hurt,
but it will Heal.
So saith the
Noise.

Bent like all trees in hurricanes
with curious fruit in my mandibles.
a manual crank spark
for actual Variables.

So saith devoid.

Our beloved
Noise.

for sleep reasons
all seasons atrophy
half a mile
is more like
an inch of marathon
and twice deep.
keep demons hooked
on your books
but read into it.
caterwaul by proxy.
true things only.
got this.
Lie in the cut
and heal it.

for sleep reasons

Awoke.

The Oklahoma beach is a creek.
with crawdads and snapping turtles
hissing at a Halen Van, parked on a soft curb
in the sticks, full of too much fun
and an off-road.

too few ***** toads
and scissortail’s
to remember
both

dead silence living
for a high note
listening to shingles
on the skin
in the game
as intently as
a hermit
to a
Caroling.

groups of divine divisibles
colliding as surreptitiously
as Fate can afford.
Junebug’s in a basket
of arbitrary
caskets,
and landslides
as human as
Loving.  
.

Brigadoon Ex-con.
Carefully culling the Word
From the Wrong one.
Keeping it Real
Til a dream suffice.
Melting the Ice
of a Heart Spot.
where something
got lost…

Exactly where you kept your Dumb At.

So Long Live the very
best thing
that you’re good
at.

so sleepy now… but with all engines running into turmoil
too busy to be redeemed. more longshanks than swine.
with too cumbersome a soul
to be Actually with...
as long as the angle of my descent
is the square of my somber Fall.
Joy lay saner, where the crazy began
because hoofprints
were brisk shallow
for all the sauntering
to an abysmal
collapse...

soooo sleepy now… the Bedroom’s the outskirts
of a private Diaspora. with Charlamanges cookies
and a dearth of impoverished -
harmonics. sleeping through the worst  
Conspiracies… So Songs still sound
Like Nothing, -
with just a pinch of Thought
where the Salt
should Be
Unanimous

And Lost.

As ever would
Be.

wake up every day. On Deck.
yawn at dawn.
ain’t said **** -
Still, put a fool in Check.
lick my lips where
the Morning Moon
left lipstick.
I wink,
Then It’s On -
to the Next-Extraterrestrial.
I pack Light
when a Knife Fight
is one of the
Variables.
Can’t be Seen
At the Scene.
But “ Not Be Heard? “
Unbearable!

Whatever Wit
you’re with
is stitched to the roof
of your spit.
Wish varmints
tipping hats
at a Bar mitzvah
tripping over
Ambercrombie
till a Finch slapped
and a beak hit’cha.
can’t fit my flow
in your creek
then let your
******.

sitting in the chair by the window. very tweed.
tamping a pipe that’s just a pipe. orange rind
for a sun. heavy lids dazed by dim delusions.
swimming in a sea of profound sitting. urchin
in a tidepool of earnest journals and pressed
flowers.

the kind of flowers that never forget to stay.

In the Tall Garden where Wisteria propagates
a thousand arrows of soft in a torrent of breeze
you can listen to the world nosedive into peace
and swear to god you love it.
these are the perks of a perfect thing.
woodpecker pecking his noggin in the morning fog
lifting from a plane of Eden as lazily as maple
a choir of underbrush phantoms, chirping indiscreetly
as the sun rises to her perch in the ***** of heaven
as Blue conquers the night and chickadees hasten worms
to the Otherside, with black eyes as innocent
as snow.

enormous fronts
life gives me lemons
too many
I just add *****
and get wit it.

don’t want no daft
only the super cheese
of my elective accurate
spoiling for a fight
with some actual Has-Been
spouting wind like a beam
of something less
factual.
i get to placate the drum
of an enormous plume.
shunt funded by short sight
as long as every afternoon,
is plague ****** gifted,
that’s how we do
in the projects
that have only to yearn more
than esteem less than you,
clipped where the wing
is sky blind.
soaring solo in a fog
of fetching
regalia.
north of an absolute
choice.

in the blows we come to with soft arms and a dozen novas
so many rags are well worn in nothing more than a mirror
we Narcissist. Amen.
too deep are the shallows things we get into.
bunched in the fervor of our Usual...
soaping steam like an actual thirst pirate
choking on a Stream of Consciousness
where it hurts
it’s more like it sings.
But worse.

deep pheasant feast full of mulberries and ******* in aspic
as I windge.  a tornadic thumb on my goslings
twisting feathers into ink
while marching up my spine
like your usual
epiphany.

i love how it never Is
and assume the Fae folk filagree
more of a spark
than my own denial of glamours.
saving my breath for a clam
in wax
stealing oxygen
from a pearl.

as all the bones... when I do.

a snail, plumb in the crease of a wilting green leaf with a loose tooth.
all the theatric lemonade at the box social, basking in long overdue
and upfront Delilahs… scorpion averse in a diabetic coma
made of so many wishes
you can’t live with.

the snail disembarks from the usual blarney
and writes a book about an up-close bird
with a beak as ominous
as a pop quiz.

while The Play is the Thing that keeps asking Why
when there’s a perfectly obvious
Gadot.

Oh, you got jokes now? did I inspire you?
my inner cleft palate, too savage for your average villainy.
Oh, I get You...
Ghost town deputy -
slapping tickets on my flow.
but
I don’t know you though...
just so you
Know.

my wings sting hornets
cloistered in an endless performance
of how we love things.

troubadour magic
where the windmills are
semaphore

balking at the Fascist storm
of your prattle.
to make battle
with young stars
more golden than
your Solution.

more than your binary coffin spittle
in the wink of a furnace in the palm
of a shell game alchemist.

but with all
the jewels
you can’t
leave
with.

because I said so.

that ad on my porch is like smoke preaching fire to an ice cube.
got me hot, ironically; all of me purging a T.V. Dinner.
some of my best jokes are Friends.
but nothing sells *** like a useless needful thing
on a loop.
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Marginal!
we’re all in,
barking mad at the cathedrals
of our perpetual sieves…
sifting through giants as granular
as a perpetual
Scheme.
the bees keep dying,
but we’re selling Biaural speech.-
to a hivemind. squandering the verity of a reason
buy shilling the dream of a better Whatnot
to not have a Nonesuch
in the bargain
of our
Stupidity
versus
the entire peach
of our wanting.
stone pit gleaming
like a Disco Ball
At the heart of a Lie
for a Human.
as gullible as
Alive.