I have been green. I recall.
withall of my purpose burgeoning
in Blythe ponds of uncommon joy.
my yurts are open to closed snow
but nothing gathers at my feet
so much as the fumes of verdant dreams
polishing the banisters of our compass
with all the fervor of a slave-
to freedom… but having no moon
to conjure with
I have no sun
to barter.

As the afternoon ponders the early morn, I quaver and Damascus
every simple coin into a rake of unforgiving steel. my sword deflowers
my sheath like a hornet forgets black honey on a fraction of an asterisk-
bathing horrors in Sunshine so massive, even eyes forget
what they’re looking for.

For Hours.

As the marionettes swarm the unity of our fated strings
dangling from the hook in the sun, simpering in weary delights
we join the spite of our peers with the disjoint promise
of our estimations. We assume the proper god
for the derelict prayer
on the lips of a broken
conundrum, humming verbs like a lunatic
to better scope the open remove
of our return

For Hours.

today is the best guess of an almost Wednesday
spooling jewels from a cracked Always
in the manner of an upset Muse
spoiling the venture of our Providence
with the venomous joy bespoke the wandering Kind.
as poems displace the glow of our actual talk
and aaaaaall the way down
go our prayers.

like a Boss.

how can I control the weather with a withering stare?
with an artless glare into a tomb of unyielding ire?
the type of gyre a rainbow would torment with flare-
combing over the blindspot of our every desire?

these days the weevils march
into the cerebellum harkening the barrow-born
and disquiet. we somehow slumber near-
the cyclones of over dumb.
we succumb to the torrent of our grimoires.
chastened only by Time enough
to **** it up completely.
we are indiscreet en masse.
like a horde of uncomfortable Truths.
and a basket of uncommon proofs
ogling the myopia of our hive
madness.
how we let the squirrels do their thing
is a mystery,

on this globe of woe, our Love generates
the next impossible flower.
our usual display of ignorance is curtailed
by an hour of minutes being beautiful...
the span of our lives.

Sour Sugarcubes are Choirs of UnSung Salt

II

at the beginning, all was a capsule of gleek
glaring at the sun with all the pivot of a dismal Tasmanian Devil
levitating neutrons to new Lows… coming about like a train-
with wings
scaling the heights of Our caverns-
like a nosey Dwarf. carving blood into a river of unrequited treacle.
the Quest of Kings, bound to the bottom of a tyranny
that spells the word for Happiness
with an X.

Yet Love Happens, Yes.

whiskey neat in a thumbnail chapel on the edge of the world
coated in black honey turning blue for a cause.
scribbling on napkins of unkempt self-harm
while garnering the empathy
of a dead god.
praying to the withers of a horsemen
for the lack of women
on the ranch
your stars are
sleeping on,

coy chattel herding thoughts of a flume
marching against clear skies.
slaves to our miracle.

sipping sparks through a straw.
we are all the Other one.
summering in the ramparts
of our descent
as we winter less
in the sunspot
of our acquired
tastes-
so long, lives the waste
of our time
till each tick
is a boom
whispering the egress
of a locked door
on a cliff of
lost sky.

how beautiful my wounds today-
As long as the Healing
Lies -

like the truth of It
Unkind.

with the phone ringing andmynotansweringthephone stinging
i clapped thunder with my hands-off approach.
retreating into something undulating at light speed
but careful to shadow box all ominous disclosures
of unbridled defeat.

i knew when the turtleneck was a masque.
winded by stealth, I beheld the quickening of my own devices
stalking the hammers of my swing.
never careful to be unamazed.
always mindful of a mind blown
to keep the peace at bay.

or in my arms.

and that took awhile.

you’re all wine and horses. parasols on stilts in a squall of calm.
you lurch like a pidgeon at a love note. cooped in your wide arches.
I’ve seen you sleep through the rapture of your own demise
to capture the spark of your rascal for harvest.
you gloom if it’s pretty. but you never know the difference.
that’s why we met on a hill full of holes.

“ wells “
they call ‘em ‘round here.
but they never
answer.

and that’s got you spooked.

Like I don’t know.

the brawn of small clouds
camped in sunshine; scudding a deep blue
as the Sun tanks the Palladium
of All Dark… dangling from a trick Unexplained
in a world UnObserved.

Drupe in a plows thought… an ‘ Afterward ‘ that bears fruit
as the Gardener wanes. Moonlorn and intricate.
all days dunder in the rough trumpets of our entire songs.
as only our sirens deployed in anguish
ever scope the happy of our Finding
Love.

As much as you Autumn, you can never orange a jaundiced epiphany.
you can only prune the prunes and filibuster rainbows to the spectrum of your grief.
within these margins find release at your perils relief.
******* to the sticking place, all the wandering reasons
to remain Unremained in a place Unbeen.

All the while, sleeping in the forge…
we cobble our stones into cairns
of unrivaled dyslexia. we Ambien in the thicket
and snap twigs.

craven are we -
in the manner of hollow wolves.
or hayrides in Antarctica.
we thought we could master
the average plague
with extraordinary sermons
to serve as serum and solace
but Certainty shackled to blind suns
see only the
Name.

as I conflate the Theory of Me
I slumber in bins and roast my ingots in foil and ambergris.
I strum violas out of tune to embark upon the lost waves
of my errant Muse. I sedate the bleakery
of my human malaise
with a jolt of  “ run of the mill meandering “.
as uncautious as a knave at Court
when the King sleeps and the Jester
cavorts.

I sneak inside my pollution and render the fat of the lamb
as an offering to a clean thought. I go where my ghost prayers
still believe in atoms and atone for my prodigal
calliopes. I Muse against the world that dismals the darling accolades
of Our disquieted Joy Speck. I foam at the mouth of the Ganges
like a Mad Spartan. Humming the Unusual departures
of our mundane perpetual. Our fleet roots to a spot of bother-
on the hem of Spheres, where no Music
is Undone for lack of Trying
to Compose It.

Thunder is how Yellow speaks to Red furies -
dancing in noncanonical Stories
that collapse to a Star
You’ve Chosen.

and all the flamingoes
stop where the sky
UnOpens.

fin.

I awoke to shed water, then back again to bed with my fuzzy relief
drooping from my sleepy mug. I coughed into a jar of night bees-
laying siege to my most pedestrian pillow.
my beleaguered strides catheter the stream of my unconsciousness
to a far shore where my pets never die and I have you -
to talk too, or glory bang the void with our impetuous existence.
as the gift that keeps on giving us a hard time-
oozes from the lemniscate of Our rim. As poetry malingers unabated-
like a sovereign cadaver in a hall of-
shy mirrors…

I awoke Out of Bounds.
like a native of Null Space.

looked up from a womb of empirical alarm
to fetch the farthest things my Grasp
could ever Believe.

I tunnel where the Morning is spent on the Midnight Dreary
and emerge, incapsulate of no Fate
but my Own.

In my inconstant Inner Haiti
I scoop a broom from the pillage-
of my dust, to sweep
all apathy Eastwise-
out of an Abundance of Caution.
I plunder my Enigma
to confuse less -
the ramparts of my clarity.
To festoon dark quadrants-
with oddments of discontinued
parades.
Always In my loop, my Spine-
a darling knot
cloistered in the open
Question.

Quivering in Dismay
like a hapless
Bruise.

Binding a Cause
to Its Rumor
with -

Absurd.

in the air, all around conspiracies of beauty decanted from a golden lute
jostles the glorious canter of peace, herding all the little things into perspective
like a border collie, combing the outskirts of a wayward. and somehow a balloon
tethered to the wind of a dead calm. you can smell the pontoons of shimmer -
and shed your grief upon the endless rain. sunstricken by the thunderous moon!
you could almost spell ” atmosphere “ with a spoon.

blue skies as alabaster as a Llamas open mind. mad Laureates fanning the flames
of phantasms. hoarding their calligraphy in steam trunks to cross the Rubicon.
coiled like a viper of innocent photons… dancing on a twig,

oak is laughing now, all calm has verve and splendor.
clouds dive from the sun heart of the Implausible
and all grace falls upon the awkward diorama
of our very souls
at a glance.

some of my circles are sharp cliques.
angular ponds, bobbing for forbidden apples
‘neath a disco ball with asthmatic stars
in a vacuum of positive scars
as loquacious as a long pause
gilding the ludicrous
to **** Time with panache
and seal the sphere of our knives
in the womb of whetting stones
affable in amber
like Champagne fossils
out of tune...

in a flute

You’re tightrope-Jelly...
full of beans on a string.
Strapped to molasses
like a garden hose-
to a Roman aqueduct.
Clogged with hollows
and a perfect
expiation...

charming the blood
out of a Blarney Kidney
where a Stone donkey
kicked Thee.

your stars are without proof.
but they got you for a song.
horseless stables unstable now
for the lack of your glad feet
upon the glunk of your casual
flaws.

I assume that you assume
and deliver clips of entirety.
with shards of bespoke Myth-
and cavitations that swell
the heady blink of a lunacy-
You could Kiss for
no reason.

the width of a sliver of peace
is the inverse of all Overtures!
plucky tinkers. affix fobs
to fluorescent apertures…
as to a chain of keys
to a chain of unbearable doors
and all your very much
Loveliness.

Who Is You Are?
I may ask your Self.
But the Echo in Here
Keeps asking me
“Who Am I?”

nothing special, this way comes. only the tedium of adequate days
where the light is enough to call nightfall “ the dark, white meat of an eclipse “
while stars are the implausible sirens of a quiet.
or a “hum” without lips.
we attempt to infuse our wayward epiphanies
with a veneer. never a deep stain for our shallow ponds.
only the very best things for a reckoning
to stumble upon.

and sleep through.

we hoard our moons where our perishables can sing softly
as the entire world forgets how to hold a note-
accountable. we resound in a vacuum
of Unrequited Introspection.
we see the Other as Ourselves-
but come undone
for giving a
**** to
salvation-

on a platter.

there are smug villains in my oatmeal-
and ravenous enclaves of my useless toys.
i have Islands to speak too.
but not a one to call Land.
just a clump of implausible retreats
in a war on my perfect
vacation.

a hole in a fork
like a howl
in a mirror.

always.

without gills, we breathe on the moon.
the humble tortoise has a house and our theories
are quaint. we have all the havoc of time
in an opulent balloon.
an unusual as usual, floating in open wounds
where the worlds on fire are the frozen ones
and all the Islands of our apostrophe
all pause the revelation
as quickly as you
Like.

summer in a spoon is all the cheap heat of our medallions
suckling the ambivalent inferno  of our ice age
spooling an endless wrinkle of our entire folly on a plinth
‘neath a pillar of vaporous Dawn!
Empirial in aspect,... but as fleeting as the miracle.
concave sparks are the Eldar Sign of our implicit medieval chicaneries.
all is the storm of an imperfect thing gasping for black holes-
at the senior prom. the corsage of our immortal souls
adorning the brevity of Life Itself.
we continue in this way
for no reason
with a hat.

i wanna get into
living loudly.
into saying something-
for once-
at the very least
twice.
i wanna get into
killing boredom
with a blind rage
and X-Ray
eyes
and  a heart
at the heart
of an open
mind.

in all the wax and wonderment surging between the toes of such giants
as all possible moonbeams in a choir of Sky!
you break through the cardamom Kafka
like a biblical plague.
you sunder unique pirouettes  
that blossom in the mundane
like a perpetual
denial.
then out come the unbelievable crescendos
of all the perfect worlds as thunderous as opposing fumes
in a vacuum of splintered Divinity, chastened by
wildfires that love thee Best
in the afternoon of our entire parade…
clinging to the symmetry that keeps your hand in mine.
and all the Uranium Valentines
in a Heart.

In a Heart.

In a Heart.

In a Jar.

behold the truant destiny of our impoverished joy.
swing from a star as ghostly as most of your dreams-
only to dangle from imperfect charms.
gleefully extinguish the harrowing of every day-
upon the lisp of a cliff. in the sharp dark of an unwavering moon.
goad the remedy of You by barking at a star
like a slave to freedom.
or an hour in a cup
of snow.

how i justify the miles between sparks
is how i dare to love.
swollen with unkempt hives of bounty
at the very heart of a ghost
as real as pretending.

these are days of our actual calamity
and the poise of our eventual
collide.

this is the moment that I see you
always.

sifting through stars enough to shine.

a lump of coal on the tongue, like a rogue dark star on the tip of an unlit epiphany.
love has its Fools and all the carousels. but nothing can rehearse a reprisal… if the dream
has neither fear of it or notion… all the implausible directions are just ‘round the way…
pole vaulting over stone slogans in the trenches
where wars are Love.
quite naturally.

sometimes you have to breathe
without meaning
too.

it’s all
a part of the plan
how marbles sharpen
their bandoliers of refraction.
In Thrall of an
Angry Sleep.
and a novocaine Ponzi
Scheme,

to mean Nothing
to.

Oswald had no chemistry that hung in the trees like gossamer threads of dream…
he only had quadrants of ambergris, drifting in the iron lungs of impossible Tuesdays
twirling all the calendars of false pavilions on a carousel of too many moons.
Oswald had diamonds in open wounds. He saw how the beautiful ones
had Mondays that Saturdays envied to distraction.
and all the Roman roads were mapless.
Oswald combed the earth for a fraction of pearl
but found only a bounty of weightless
Design.

too heavy to be god.
too beautiful
to be
not.

gather ‘round politely and unsung marigolds will almost love you more.
soar into the anguish of your unspeakable dream. guide your wayward to an afternoon of plausible rapture.
succumb to the forest of your practical Paradise
without the margins of your echo
finding walls to believe in.

All your doom in a box now
as happy ducks marmalade the pond
with cuteness beyond calculus -
swarming the elaborate morning dew
with an average gobsmack
in the meadow of
my off-handed\
star.

All that and a barrel
of plums.

plums full of morning
and heartache
with spoons

for all my exile I am tethered to the hub of my birth.
woven into the very fabric of my tatters.
in every shingle of my solitude resides an igloo
of perpetual enigma… some stoic crucible
crimping the lightning from a lodestone
bathed in Borealis while tempering a penny
for your thoughts.
to part with it… I need only have words enough
to ask you something that
my heart can burn.

like a lamp in a ghost owls’ eye;
perched on an olive branch -
from an isle of man
in some remote sea of you
where doves trim the verge
by starlight…

should the moon
be full of dark -
for all my
Valentines

She keeps eating the lights. I watch how she gnaws on the bones of fire
without utensils. how her maw clamps a lamp with ravenous aplomb.
She keeps eating the lights and i can’t see the rest of her hunger.
Perhaps this shy Golem wears a cloak?

She has upended the Sun.
Trumpet mute fiercely in the gale of her silent scream.
she keeps eating the lights.
a claw made of sterling glimmer lashes out
from underneath the turbulence
of a Woman.

She keeps eating the lights
because dark matters
apply.

all night.

how merry the weathered stones, how jaunty with vigorous erosion, exposing-
clockless epochs of perfect zen. all shipwrecked in the intricate glamor
of having all the facts and solving none of the riddlesome noise.
just all the beautiful things caste about in the strewn Oblivions
of an impartial Cause.

Our bearings are slight adjustments
in a cavalcade of operas
hopping trains.

mars ready, in my marvelous gong
all day long on a frond of foam
curling in the huddled smoke
of my most oaken throat
some calamity frost on my most costly
Summer.
The Sun is a glum trumpet.
howling at the
Moon.

entangled in the triumph
of The Light.

get on with it. all the living you can do.
i suggest you move the moon
three inches to the right.
sleep faster.
wake when all the living in you is dying in you.
overcome the despair of your Irony.
boldly go where you’re leaving
so as to return unrepentant
in your Living
stroll.

be all about your journey.
forgive yourself when necessary.
harbor your lost compass -
in your blindspot.
and get where you’re going
On a Lark.

so it’s on, with the shallow breathing
in these pools
that curdle lightning
as it falls; emblazoned -
from an angry squall,
smack dab in the middle of our
War on Things.

so it’s on with the curse that Meaning
forgot,  in a tantrum
of unbeleaguered
Serenity,

a quiet sort of madcap in
a straw bonnet.
because Life is the Verb
that you’ve frozen by
Hand.

till it was priceless.

the wide-open sky festooned with fluffy pearls
and one relentless sun
with all the blue in the world.
butterflies at play
lilting to gibberish fiddles
in scarlet yellows
beating the softest breeze
into a pulp
of Time.

the underworld sings. over the din of our perpetual stammering.
we live where the Hope is sparse but hearty.
gluing our heels to our shadows
like misfit toys from a Loot Chest.
while eating all the orange
out of Fire.

F. Murray Abraham on Rye.
Sardines in Sardinia
with Stone Soup -
And Unrequited Stuff.
Like an Aperitif.

As Foolhardy as Love.

As Deep
as a Batch
Of In-Between.
with all
the Awkward
Silences.

II

We float where we float.
Our dazzling Oblivions
like a riot of tinsel
in the heat
of all Desire.

Like a Blind Kite

On an Island
that will eat a Dolphin
because “ Why Not? “

All Things being equal…
Why stop?

It’s Tokyo.