you know the rain for its staccato
of intimate noise. the wildebeest-
deluge-migration by the thunderous
hooves of infinite raindrops.
like recalling a song
only you can
play.

there’s an acorn made of sensible things
never in your tree. your branches sprawl
unencumbered by the width of a paradox
dangling from an infinite Other.
you extend your extremes
by simply living through an eon
of overexposure.
you wane like a champion of Nightfall
but your Love is another ******
thing.

my teeth rake the radio like a sieve at the heart of midday
straining the kelp beds of the horizon for crystalline krill
dulling the pain of our daily dread with a happiness
made of cyclones and Lincoln Logs.
i usurp my last breath. my tundra is sincere.
i go nowhere in a single bound.
and it's like the world
won’t let me
in.

I go where the trees are sleeping in droves.
in the peace of somnambulant groves;
perched in frostbite and sugar, with all my teeth
and postage stamps gathered into a pile
of awkward. But I continue like a crop
of circular arguments.
i hang stars where a storm should be.
and can’t remember where i was
Wednesday.

I'm always this.

all the world in the world is all wegot.
crushed pearls of wisdom in a cracked goblet
of divine fire.
we have Hours where a century would sleep -
through,
none but ourselves to adore into Oblivion
with all the hubris of a bris
at the summit
of some other world.

wegot mushrooms where the sun don’t shine.
and that’s just like having

something.

how dim are your headlights?
I’m asking while you drive.
I’m wondering where we go
when we’re gone?
I’m sleeping when the world comes
to an End,
with a comma.
right through the bliss of annihilation
too busy dreaming
to be bothered.

dreaming of grief
as a landscape with an offramp
into ****** fears of your warp.
I’m asking because the sun will die
before your answer
but the question will echo
like a song in the throat
of the very last
bird.

on my skin lay the words that can't be tamed
and all manner of beasts snarl in golden rickshaws
ferried up the mountain pass to my pyramid
floating on a cloud of lightning, woven by hand
in the heart of Darkness, beneath the canopy
of an old Oak...root bound in the soul of the void
but flourishing, my head wound feeds the branches
when i sleep underneath them, it seeps into earth
that has no form... and I have an insomniac's dream
in the middle of my awakening, by the sound
of your footsteps...
as you make your approach from the East
and bring with you the scrolls of lost tongues
and the rye tales of the crow in winter...
with your eyes marked
by having solved the Mirror's riddle, in the dark.
and your sallow cheeks, flush with empathy and famine.
your coarse hair, descending like elven craft...
resting on your shoulders, as if draped over a banister
of an endless spiral...
I see you before the light strikes
my optic nerve.
Long before the sun
was born...
I crawl from the space -
that contains my shadow
and greet you at the foot of the stairs
where your tresses
caress moonbeams
and I smile
so deeply - even -
the stars in your palm, stall -
their ponderous orbits
to behold.
And I hear
what you have to say
about love and the virtue
of flesh enmeshed
with a Spirit
to untangle
Eternity,
and your voice is soothing
As i listen to the Truth on your lips
till you pause.
then i tell You " It is good to see you, as always...
and would you do me the honor
of sharing my blanket made of glacier skin
and stardust feathers stitched into the dewdrops
i harvest gently, Before dawn...
off the glistening shells
of iridescent beetles
and bluegrass. with my eyelashes.
here beneath the Oak?
It would please
Me.
and our head wounds feed the tree as we dream.
on the roots, we slumber into worlds without end
and i fire my maid for sweeping
the terrarium.

let the world turn with its burden
churning the Sun’s apathy into
Buttercream and Absinthe…
like all the boys in the dark…
with all the girls
in a spark.

let the air have
no king but
a thought.

by my calculus, the star is an expanding collapse.
a furnace of Lagrangian Ghosts
warping the membrane of an entire wisp
of grandeur.
a particle of infinite jest.
like scrimshaw for Job
in a Never Whale.

or a Black Hole’s Tattoo.

The East is singing. Like a slug of happy Banshee
at a salacious angle across my decedent pillow, while my phalanges
***** for your waist like a sleepwalking magnet
to the sun-drenched ***** of an impossible Mermaid.
It's Josephine for Breakfast….and all is steam.
And I Amazed.

I storm to my waking place
and serve no master save time
I linger far afield in extraneous metaphors
slumbering in a pillow’s kingdom
with too much joy
in my never there.

the crooked cookie is more how the morning
is a midnight on a ******.
a whiskey halo with a tumbler of divine angst.
wall nuts and hemispheres
swimming in tandem.
gorgeous wheels of sobering
Next,

it is the evening and all the world is ablaze with phosphorescent eyes
on long stilts, below the moon’s prayer and above the verdant green
poised in the endless Beauty of the vast creation
swollen with dew and perpetual laughter… like a happy cog -
in a wheel of unbridled Love.

it is the shiny Night with all our parables sinking into the Sea.
all the fathoms of our credible dementia
are illustrious in the extreme.
and falcons soar into open light… astounding the ponderous Enigma.
Joy has a word for Bliss
beyond the Alphabet of Poetry.
It lives in a kingdom
made of new flesh
where a Bone
should be.

It has no name. this wonderment… it gathers in the cauldron of our distinct apparition. we desire and desire… we swoon in the sway of a random riot. rolling in the sphere of our Right Angles.
kissing the invisible
like a visionary blind Truth
in a blanket
full of blanks
that reminds Us
To Behold.

strolling the block where the after-hours smother towers with black snow
and Halogen lights with black velvet haloes.
I go where the moths grovel in mobs
towing a lifeboat out to Sea with a straight face
staring at a Northstar made of bottle caps
and headlights… humming to themselves -
because it’s midnight now
and nothing can stop
them.

you have slept in the barn
when you had the notion
and haystack eyelids bejewelled
with evening dew.
beneath the stars you have wept
lucid and bewildered.
with only so many tortoise shells
to intercept the ocean
caterwaul… with hollow houses
of slow ghosts.

you have made a path
in the sodden earth
with misbegotten hurt
and jolts of jubilation.
gone East in Westerly ways
bathing in thimbles
of burning desire.
you’ve made a living
out of dying on the vine
in full bloom.

like a plausible
hope.

a butterfly was asking for pennies on a bookshelf
as dusty as a mummy.  i was absentmindedly
threading tea leaves
with sharp snowflakes and
milkweed silk.  freehand…
with a Needle made
of Eyes.

Drums are drums. beats me…. but they over-pray for rain. nuff said.
they sing in the choir of my invisible. but not so much
where i contain my rhythm where my loving heart is beating music to death.
Drums keep coming like Always.
why do I conquer sleep with poetry? how does it end?
it never does what you want
but You want IT to do.
you want it to slather the skin of the future
to get past the gathering of lonesome
and no other thing can rimshot
your quiet.

I abort the assumption that my life is a narrow frame
and the idea of a frame.
I collude with my better Angels
and drink with the devils that remain nameless.
these days i embark on crude soil
and wishful think the rest of my redemption
like a gyroscope in a soap bubble
toying with the notion
of True North.

I exude the Arabella of my Comedy.
and never am I in Love with the viscous deluge
of my impending calamity. I eat the root of the rain.
but I upheave.
I challenge the voice in the noise. singing backward
from a hollow.
there are more things in my revery
than my sorrow.

sleep is a slow thief with sticky embers.
drooling languid fire where the wick
is most likely limbic nerve.
i prevent myself from a Hell with my name
because your name fits
and that’s my
world.

In the moment everything is still
like a humming hornet in a begonia of irascible
misfortune, made glorious summer.
all the worlds engaged in fluorescent play.
the opal of all agonies
displaced by all the ghouls
of rabid faith.
our epiphanies are random
but we define the sojourn of-
our solitary Togetherness.
as our every kingdom is an abandoned kiss
where the stars; all falling-
are falling for you.
and all the worlds, some sort-
of hemisphere
of destinations
on all
sides.

oh what is this space between words and the emblem of speech, enchanted by the calamity
of opening my mouth to ask the very same thing?
oh how do i bloom so much with all my fairies Fae and all my moons New Earth
surging in the pixie ****** of what i can only assume is my purpose
among deader men than my living hell?
oh how i beg to be loved like a coin!
oh how i strive to slit the throat of a laughing troglodyte to let the sun shine
into the purpose of an idiot.
i consume what disbelieves the power of my weaknesses and secure a place in Valhalla
full of plush toys for Gypsies and waifs of every sadness
doing nothing but getting hit… by dead-end jobs
in the mouth of profound madness…
on this side of happy….
which incidentally, is the dark side of smiling
out of fear like an ape
with a word for a
man... without a god.

Canto I


The Dream is The Dreamer. I Intuit by strife and yards of Sleep.
I know the very secrets that I keep… and keep them coming, from underneath.
I swerve where the world is flat and the stars, less cheap.
All are Suns to plunder for the Heavens that are jealous of the Hells we seek.
Without our barbs, we are wires that electrons elect to flee.
So the light we gather is nothing more than the lies we speak.
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow… is only half as deep.
I tread where the Angels have false hopes
and conquer everything.


Canto II


Somewhere in my Soul is the last gasp I’ve been keeping
for the curtain fall of a dull day, perched on a steeple wilting.
My Church, Flesh, and Blood like any book you’re reading.
I assemble my disassembly with all the fire in my teeth careening.
Top bad for the Lost Ones. The way they trouble the void with wishing.
I summon the marvelous crux of a Fiction I am sincerely believing.
And make it so.


So beautiful… I’m still Alive.

If Wednesday had a boyfriend they would rendezvous on Monday.
They would eat fried rice and stroll in the rain. Without umbrellas.
Monday would be horrified. But Simply Horrified.
Tuesday spreads a rumor and I still can’t find my cellphone.

In a sea of screens,
there is only one blindness
to see with.
so cherry blossoms
are no longer meaningless -
On Wednesday or until
they Break-Up.

and Friday gets all that Rebound Action.

Sleep has been a sluggish pixie and the moon a constant Patheon
Of Twilight Sirens. I am lulled into molasses eyes and am never sane.
Only a  ghost in my sheleton. A malingering cocoon
in the shape of a perpetual Snow White Crane.
I garden the grove of Midnights inner thy
and valiantly persist. I lay siege where I lay down my arms to suffer peace - as merely a mirage of luminous Tchotchkes and stolen kisses from Abyssal Lips.

Under wrong stars, I roam the Halls of UnTime. I go on my way where looming is sprinting into stagnations embrace
with all the vigor of Hermes. Floating in the hall is like surfing a dark gods wave. An undulating fog
of prodigious oblique.  in haste.
I am a Time Machine that writes poetry
and may never finish my Tea.
Earl Grey.

With the Soul of a
Frozen Agog.