The way we
Danced til three,
Stood on golden sands,
Sang above the stars.
Unforgettable.
i had no name for it.
but called it something
i would never forget.
summoned the whole world of me
to  Love more than expecting
my Life to change,
i took a look at how beautiful
my empty hands
were capable of.
and had you lovely
in the back-end
of my complete
surrender.

II

tough as nails
like tomorrows disguise.
a true delusion
doing real things
for a while.

i keep nothing
where i keep my secrets.
but i hold fast
to all my
ghosts.


III

someday you will read my palm
and cry for real.

and i won’t stop you.

we keep breathing because it’s simple.
our cherry pits are cherry pits.
full stop.
not banquets of blossoms on duck fat amethyst.
we have the gravity
of all the missing.
you have the eyes of a golden cut.
i have the heart of an eye
on a Guillotine.

just a **** where a God should be.

seldom do you come to this place but we remember you. surfacing at random -
to odd applause and all the gaudy paradigms at your betrothal.
wed to the mark of sugar cane. you sustain your incomparable vigil
on a toadstool in a cuckoo’s nest…
shackled to a Fae
sunset.
Like a dime to a
lost deal.

I have seen your moons. crumpled in the disarray of lost orbits
tunneling through the miasma of an imperfect rebellion made of plump lips -
and applesauce.
a golden blue atrocity, unvanquished by a spot
of False Hope… on a speck of Real Life.
you have a temple to attend to.
you have all the
harm of sleep.
too alive to recover a memory.
and too forgetful to
recall.

your periwinkle is all the blue corn on yellow-green stilts
simmering in the solitude of a raging silence…
where the moon is closer than you think
but you can’t be sure how many moons in a night sky
makes another world.
on the brink of an everlasting disarray
you can go for days without boys
that remove the sun from its perch
to impress a devoted
zodiac. wilting in a ravenous
Tea Cup.

i have enjoyed our talks
on the rim of The Rhine.
bathed in golden fleece to the tune
of passing ever by.
i have lept into a margin of Paradise
the width of a splinter in a cloven hoof.
i have known you from the beginning demise
of my hearts’ quiet.
i have supposed
unloving you
is not required.
i must always
and always must be
an entire
impractical
agog.

I love you
and that's
because

i assume the doom you crave is a silent relent on a peninsula
of disquieted content. a ginger so daffodil that a kite
is often mistaken as a coffin with no balloons.
i assume you’re not where the map knows
where a woman keeps her things.

the way you flirt with blank fingertips to grip the spire of some dystopian flame.
it makes you the goddess i condone… the worship at sea… toppled across horizons
beyond Poseidon in such a way as to yearn more
than every lonesome thing… unkempt in the blithering enigma of You.
with too many kernels of wicked thoughts
to be a good girl.

when you swaggered into view… i assumed you had rainbows
wrinkled in time like a dayglow yurt on the moon.
your ******* too strange to be dealt with by chest.
my hands wanton and disassembled in my yearning.
i had never caught a glimpse so heavy as your wondrous magnolian charms.
and thusly, all things withered when you stepped
out of light.

there is no summer in my skin but the bees and the lint
clinging to the flop sweat of my invisible dreaming. clinging to my notion
of anything Other than this.
i have clover in my teeth and James Joyce in my marrow like a cog
in fever… I keep leaving you where I found myself at a loss.
but i return with a poem always
to breadcrumb you out.

but here’s the thing….
my kind of disrepair is a healing cacophony that has the music
that kills the lover the most. Life is the whirligig of a purpose
Loving harder than a grave mistake.
And all time is a momentous conclusion
that continues.
without a Cause.

Just my kind of broke.

II

there is no summer in my skin… only January's tongue
kissing dark and cement.
a slim hemisphere of wide eclipse
on the thinkless edge of my enormous
insignificance.
i come from a horde of unhinged things
where rabbits run like blank stars on garters
the Creator gave to women
for to hear them
bargain… in a silhouette
of extinguished
hard loss.

Regardless.

My kind of broke is how i know this
for no reason… and my charms
clink in the soft spot of my terminal Forever.
Mocking the Everafter
of a wrong Sun

all night.

things ain’t real out here. just fake.
the amber gasp of a slow meme in a chamber
of your last laugh.
every day that records your release from a nightfall
is a jot in a book that a worm
was reading… to the dead.

your love has taught me things that have no god.
taught my circle how squares are corners
without everyone.
a lovely bit of chance in the dis-truly random.
a game on a plate at a banquet of
fruitless antics.

i walk on the moon as you walk on my face
like a Russian at rest on a self-interest
eating a dynasty of “what next? “
i keep nothing but a slavery
in my war chest….
but you

keep nothing
at all.

sometimes the burning is an ordinary thing.
a Fahrenheit so low that Hell looks up
to refute the Sky you want.
and the dead wings
you use.

there are doors that baffle keys
and there is a God.

My love made you the opposite
of exactly what love wants…

from me.

a wholesome sun broods in the wake of day
and the hum of too many jewels is the mad honey
on your lips… where parakeets shriek with delight
as common as an always.
i see the eclipse of my sorrow as stark a lightning dark.
i keep spelling my name with a “ Q “
because why not?
there are no humble kisses
but only one life...
to believe in
til you mean
it.

sane. what is sane, now that the impossible
is all I want? where can I go to be less in love?
where can i not be there but inhabit a true
ghost of my fond wish on the tip
of an absolute sadness?
the way i want to love is more than you know.
the fever in my bones is all weakness
focused on you.
I assume you have no commonplace
to be weird from as I do.
and the reason i worry for the ****** of our ascent
is how we dive into nothing
like we were meant for it.

i have a cat and she leaves me... to think -
about petting too many suns.
she has no clue how much i **** myself
to live with you.
and no sympathy
when I’m wrong.
only the fur of an oblique beast
and a dead camera.

with beautiful eyes.

so…

the way i want to love
is to get on with it.
to lean into the surge
and be lovely as flesh
wants it.
to bloom where
the vague things conjure
and the night things know
your name.

to love
where our secrets are always
nothing but the Truth
on display.

I never dance now.
I endure my story like a kite.
I float where the wind is old.
I succumb to the beauty
Of my inner swan…
And look for you.

I never laugh now.
I chortle in the dark
Like a loon, hitting -
a rock with my head.
more gone than usual things
but here all along
Longing for technique
in a soft joke.

coming apart in public.
as demure as tomorrow
with every day as marginal
as a wisp of Joy.

departed.

Loneliness is the shape of me.
The hour of my yawning lapse
and the entirety.
I collapse when I swell.
My wings are sky skin
flaking.

My open eyes… awake
sleeping.

My orbits are without Sun.
And my moons
without you.

undone.

the earth
took a dare called ‘ spinning ‘
and wound up in your catastrophes
strapped to my everlasting retreat
by the heel of my approach
from a constant ache in the brain -
as stalwart as a legion
of blind corpuscles in the arm
of an errant worm.

or there’s beauty and poetry
bleeps it.
a symphony of solitary
narcoleptic rainbows
barking at your scars
with gossamer private
thoughts.
either you wail at the wall
or you mummenschanz
where you want.

or where you’re
Not.

from the throat
long bees
that sing honey
with every sting.
like a ghost in
the chest...
where your heart
is a choir
all day,
and the nights
are Yes.

It's the 4th of something and i can’t recall
the measure of my ambition. i can only brew coffee
in this existential condition, and i defy you to do -
any otherwise.
my Oblique has discreet kingdoms.
and nothing more precious than what I’ve forgot
i have forgotten passwords
to a Bluff and a Kismet.
I still have toys
to almost live
with.

But please; excuse the mess. Make yourself at Home.
I have Derilect Agendas and seldom Time to implement
sincere foolishness.
To me, we are too sweet, and Time
has your mind just outside my door.
i would just Love to have You more….
so Please
don’t bother

to go.

klank skin boys do one thing right
they climb a hill to get there… but who are they?
i ask because i’m not an idiot
i know a coin of subtlety is a Poet’s *******.
but in this case…
a soliloquy with a sassy domain…
as oblique as a promise that a stone
will never betray
a tidal way
of turtles.

klank skin boys bedazzle their actual kundalini!
sharp as a tack in an acid bath of upsidedown Houdini’s.
they scrawl all the yawning oblivions at their disposal
on parchments as far as what your guessing and then some…
they have no word for how lonely i am or why i
i wrote this,

or why i wrote

" this "

it comes and goes on rosy paws and petals away on shadow thorns
that ***** the mattress of our sleep adorned in the raiment of mares
and the wings of sumptuous love, thundering in silent calamity
while the heart is left to burn in all the rain in the world -
and it’s lovely.

living up to it is bringing me down.
so much life grieving out loud
and all the glorious tundra of genius
wrecking my toes. I misstep…
to a point… I never fathomed.


II

I have long lungs and short breaths.
I come undone effortless.
I do what must be done
regardless…. and soldier on.
but to the sticking place,
i am gargantuan,
but a clumsy fool
with a fancy
Mind.

III

something in Me has died a lot.
i must Live more
to love as much
and when you can’t…
you rot.

you sleep where things have no love.
you weep where things have no eyes.
you are sincere
where a sun is a fist.
and you fight
for not so much.
but you Live
It.

IV

love is the wonderful thing that keeps you alive.
and Alive is the  terrible thing that keeps you
Dying.

a regime of stars pollinate the impossible
as i linger underneath the yawning medallion of Nightsky
and tarry in the lanes of luminous, gawking at the Quiet.
South of Afternoon.
i plunge into my garrulous despair like an Olympian.
leaving ripples in the peace with shallow valleys
and iridescent peaks.
my swayback is the ***** of a grassy knoll of iron will
sleeping on the job
wide awake.

you are walking in a stream of absolute strangers
woolgathering in cerebral catacombs with faraway eyes
as your shadow strides behind you
as you face the sun with a blank face…
Time dawdles instantaneously.
every moment compressed into a -
slow expanse of happenings
all around you at the center of nothing
as you stroll
cutting through the park
of your epiphanies.

deep in the crack
of a spasm,
i come upon Love with
no theory.
i am slow to recall…
but i surge ahead of my fear
and become beautifully
weak.
Loving
You.

Loving you
so hard
that diamonds gasp!
while
offering up the total
of my zero
adds
one -

that
matters
to me.

and i
Joy.

in my eastbound concrete shoes -
far south of my ascent
is just north of my dismay…
like a star chart... sworn to astrologies
averse to the common tongue
of our mute disarray.
meanwhile -
our enchantments tarnish
by the light of day.
the real dream
detached from harm
by evil moons -

and doubtless  only blooms
by candlelight
at the rare hour
between now and
then

but on the dot
in a trench,

Nothing is simple now… and nothing ever was.
But i recall the majesty of my naivete’
and linger in the triumphant fog of my illusions
as a young man of almost a Minute.
Be that, as it may.
i am not among the Mockingjays
nor the calendars of arbitrary
Days.
I am the eclipse of insincere Living.
i blot out the None.

with blueberries from an indigo
Genesis: i stain my sky with every unbelievable Promise -
my Calculus can muster. My Love in tow.
I gather at the edgeless mist
of my Identity and etch the core
of my consecrated cacophonies
into the bones of dead whales like Scrimshaw
for deep kids.

And that's It.

balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the over wild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious!
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain!
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of Sylvia Plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists!
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts

for gospels.

now that we agree that summer has
lapsed into a deep waning
that longer shadows corral golden pools of twilight;
as June bugs become ghosts
to dismay the Robins... explaining -
the cycle of impenetrable inertia
with an accent from
a turbulent void.
or some coastal atoll
of unanswered questions
babbling on about
the Love
Of You.

Without Question.

let's agree.

It is given to the Human Soul
to pine with elasticity.
For what is the future if not a -
Pygmalion stretch of a stoic Reality
congealed to a Pointless occupation
of Desire… in a rigid whirlpool
of Denial?

How is fire not so much an annihilation
as a rebirth by a conflagration
suckling an ice cube
made of perfect circles
squaring the deal
with your inner
djinn?

I Wish I Knew.

Rosa chose a Solitude that Knows You -
for the company you keep.
It had her profile and surreptitiously knew
the calamity of her sleep.
How the dreams unhinged the flue
from her chimney. but never sweep.
How everything connected to her departure
was now a Living Thing.
She was gathered at the foot of a Mountain
of Semi-precious
wings.

how have you been? we seldom pass the other by
but here I have you self contained
in the raiment of your randomness, something tweed.
I must say the feathers in your shadow are remarkable
and they remind me of my own...
though mine are on fire.
are you in haste to a Bacchanal of unparalleled dismay?
or do you always look like that these days?
I would love to have a chat on your island
if you are so inclined.
I would even dream of stealing your moon

we are all doing things
in a place
where things happen
every day…
should a clock
strike Now -
it would be slapstick
for Voltaire

we talk about it…
but we know better -
how the rain can be a place
where nothing
grows.

better than ourselves
we know this.
before Tomorrow
even knows-

It doesn't
care.

The East Wing of my I Ching
is newfangled
with fish scales and nag champa
and an Aries to wrangle.
My tea leafs sparkle
like dew on a cobweb
dawn corona.
And the licorice Night -
just a trance
for headlights to
dance too.

Fall had fallen and red leaves bled red-yellow against a moist dun brown
and all the world sank away from pure sunshine
to a depth of rainbow decay -
As a chill lay over my introspection
like a caul of wrong fire
for a human face.

But I was all there…  with many questions
and counter-waits.

Forever is only half as long
as a question mark.

without debate.

versification is like ‘ taking notes ‘ in a plasma state.
the crest of a wave galloping the radius of a pinhead
to the center of
a word.

poetry is a conjuring of rare scabulous fables
told from lawn chairs, behaloed by fireflies and Occam's Razor.
with a warm breeze untangling the vortex into wee gems
tumbling in turbulent telemetries
malingering in the ginseng sonatas, gobbling the Nada… And-
with two hands, heaving a Sun ton of Moonlight
from the dark side of the same moon.
with your moonrocks made of wood.
and your Wisdom teeth
for flint.