sapping the faith from dust, i was ever wise.
a chipped tooth in a broad smile of a worm
on a rainy day.
you had your petri dish of phantoms and a small stake
in talking ravens... i had your god in my basement.
sapping the viscous chill of your willows
amongst proof that no rabbit has a hole enough
to **** Alice.
just a frame of reference more dangerous
than a rainy day
for a puddle
of sun

and strange mints.

i was a little bit hazy on the details, but you can't find me anywhere.
i am the stranger.
we have Not been to hell and back and spent all our money.
we haven't the faintest idea " who you are "
but my identity is fluid
like a ******* on Betamax -
for no reason.

immortality is easy-peasy. you play dead.

you live now. and simply continue. you just get on with it.
zig-zag in plain sight. like a shimmer in an old daguerreotype.
if you must fade. always do it sideways.

don't sleep there.

there
are the jam rooks of simple.
there, slings a bovine and a lamp. a frozen yodel.
you
might might be the next angel
but you're not awake.

don't be quiet yet. you have more mouths than you can feed Oblivion.

and you hate me a little.

they say.

as I recall.

put me in a barrel
in the pouring rain
wipe that smile off your face
when you say my name.
keep your clouds to yourself
if you do that thang
with your gospel tonsils
on x-ray steam.
and prepare for the worst -
sort of pristine gloom.
but rebel in the dirt
of an ink blot moon.
your salmon skin
is so south of my veins
it's an arctic star
where the empty
remains.

Atticus Fife plundered his tomes and fondled his books with his milky eye. A shade of grey has crept into his blue, and The Help is more helpful as of late. He shuffles, having lost his gait, but never does he wander off... Atticus Fife glissandos over the parchments and leather-bound lungs. He inhales the Past; elated. His limp eyes galloping over the deserts of his un-simple mind, past the creekbeds of his revery, and the unspoken Hopes of his Frailty.

Atticus Fife, leads a very fine Life... Like a Destiny.

Or a lamb to the Doubt.

Happily.

we are night and day
the clever shadows in gingersnap rags
plotting  to brood in Bohemia
stamping kiwis
clicking our heels the way
twilight clinks in a glass of Bourbon
or typewriters chat chat chat
like iron tea leaves

perhaps

this is how the world ends. it begins.
At the root, lightning gathers moss
and the surge
deepens the horizon's applause.
we die for the cause; bewildered as we choose
to arise, or lift off -
the unearthed
to one
worse -
than the one
we're from.

a loose grain of rice
in the chamber of our starvation,
plump from the tears of our elation
that someday
will be the
Last Day...
and that will be,
an ironic
Occasion.

Because Night will follow.

morning slips your beauty in
where i kept my shabby foolishness
and drapes me in such delights, to dim
a nebula of loneliness...

you do not come from origins.
you arrive, loved before you know yourself
and your actions burble in the dark
willow branches... taking a **** on the Moon.
you laugh when i say that
but you know me now.
i keep the spiders from eclipse like a Pro.
i sweep rugs under the rug
and replace them
with all of
my -

“ I don’t know “

so Life is how we embrace
too soon, before that.
for no reason that English can French.
we adapt.

with all that Latin
in our laps
in a cauldron
of acid
laughs.

14 minutes ago
i used you to get  sleep
and the worry of our tundra
is more cry than a sorrow
is a nothing now.

you bleat and trill in the smoke of an endless night.

i saw you  yearn for the ' right now '
and never had so much You
as I do right now

like a sunburn in my " what the hell  ? "

moist eyes  fall upon the limp figurine
of a jewel encrusted snowman with a corncob knife.
i dream walk through the ether of our dislocated soul.
i comb the beach of our lost island
and build a raft from our bones
and a lock of your eyelashes,
flashing in the wink above -
your high cheeks
in the moon glamour of your perfect skin.
we smile untethering the harness
from our rogue star
we sally forth across the empty streets of Hell's burg. on the outskirts
of an astral cataract...
a laughing gloom with night's teeth tearing at the hem
of your lace robes and my nakedness.
with moist eyes drooling saltine gems
like dewdrops dripping from the lip of a cracked goblet of frozen fire.
our eyes that fall upon the void, weeping from the answer to a foolish prayer,
answered by a jealous god. our testament is dust and deep Love.
we have no other sky above, as is the custom of deep space...
we drift with our horses, across the nether bridge of our uncertainties....
and there
we part ways.
you go where the sun
has slain the moon.

i go where the moon's never been. and sleep in droves.

holding your hand like a grain of hope
and your heart like a golden
shadow
too heavy to lift
from the

unknown

it is december when the wheat sun is wane and the letters stop coming
in groups of three
and the windows creak in morse code and steam clings to every sigh.
it is december when the most of you is lingering -
just above the tinkling crisp
of shadow versus snow...

the origin of hope is everywhere and frozen.

I'm done killing flies
with honey today
and the sundial
in the garden
will know the moon.
i will chasten
the charlatan of midday
with the deep scarlet
of waning light.
I'm done killing flies
with honey today
but I've begun
a narrative of feathers
with a dove
with no
faith.

my forest is the key to a door of trees... an ambient reckless.

let us keep the forbidden as a friend
and estrange the wane moons of our desires.
to better come to terms
with our actual fires.

let us yearn less the lesser things... and be swoon
amidst the plethora of unsung joys.
let's join the incomparable affinities of our affections
and swarm the hollows of our
un-gone dreams... completely.
let us go there, and be tranquil...
for there is no other god
but the One before Me.
and i put you above it
because you
Love me .

i should hardly know the difference between
myself and perfection. but i do.
it is written in our skulls. in the cavity of our domes of conscience-
in a sprawling hand
like a Neanderthal had happened upon a new skill
that allowed him to carve into bone
the very meaning of insufficient.
in a sprawling hand.
i should hardly know just how to find truth
in this mirage. but i do.
it is written in our skulls. across the zenith of oblivion.
with references. followed by a word so vast
it would save a man
to speak
"if."

the flowers
are gullible lovelies
bruised  hinges in a flute
where the music fails
but Spring entangles the weavers
of Day.

Like the spider
of the Sun
is clinching to an avalanche
of some dark
pun...

Some English
on the ball
squares the
knot.

But the circle
jerks
and the dream
wants.

whatever it means
it means less...
but forever
it means

regardless.

your high tide silhouette
wreathed in oblong stars, grinding-
an ethereal horizon
churning specks of Everything
in a rotating portrait
of a center of
Gravity.

where Love is the rest of it.

nirvana has no heart.

you must dissolve
in all directions to arrive.
you must not be
too american.

and have a **** salad every now and then
it won't **** you.

tell you why your kite is dead. i'll tell you why you sing flat.
this is what i do gently even though the tide against me, is Sparta on crack.
you don't recall our fierce love, the oblivion mambo of our singular act !
are you sure you don't forget      too better remember how
you wish you felt about that ?

it would never be this if it weren't for it really really is,
and you have no idea. and That keeps you sane where the truly mad are guessing the number of tad poles in the belly of a supernova. mumbling in the dark.
you have No idea.

now that we have established that you know what i mean by you have ideas
that are of little consequence
to your inertia..... ( pregnant pause )

could i *** a smoke ?
a ' *** ' if you're from some kinda
London, England ?

could this be the Apocalypse ?

could This ?

How to live
is how not to live alone.
To conquer the troll
beneath the bridges you are burning
on the funeral pyre
of your abject hope. To float -
amid the midges and day-flies
of a meadow, most sane.
So, to live -
is to embark on a errand of light
and return home, with dragon's teeth
in your knickers
and a ball of string for a fallen star
to stitch the world with.
To suture the oblivions
where they gape
and applaud the angels
that sent you there
to heal yourself
with nothing more
than a tongue in your head
and a heart on your
sleeve.

and no map.

pray for blue lemons and you'll discover
the limits of your religion.
dance in a viper's den
and your wounds
will not remember the steps.
or the fool.

keep your steam
in an irish mouth missing teeth
or the nostrils of a grey wolf.
keep your steam
in the the pit of an eye
bloodshot with green glints of blue
or in the red vein
that spiders the white flesh
of a soul's room,
like a bolt of blood lightning
in a window.

three hours before i knew i loved you, i loved you.
i was devout moss on the lea of the stone, where the unicorns died of laughter
and the wild things slept. i was unreasonable. god knew i had no you -
now ' there you are ! '
a sprite of brisk cooling hell's beauty where the goth is real enough
you broke the spell of some other heart
and i was all ready there
when you were.

three hours before you knew you loved me, you was me.

i was looking for your house
and i found you in my thoughts
like a trick kite
tethered to my reverie
as assuredly
a tide the
moon.
i am
marooned in joy
beyond the sphere of sorrow
walking up your driveway
in the near dark
of an impulse
to drop
by.
i was looking for your house
and found the way
inevitable.
it was downhill from there
to the heart of the world
at your oaken door
with an open
heart.

i knocked.

it looks
like rain.
but it might
be you.

i'll have
you know
how that
feels

so kiss me
and that'll be
something

closer to the next  kiss

what's not to like ?

loving you is effortless
with training wheels.

laughing with your eyes
my blind love
can focus

on real life

when your headlights caress
the walls
i know
all about
this very moment
then
you come home  and the lights...
and something...
i.... forget
every time

your keys to the house make music


then as
always, you
startle me
even when i know
you're there

even when
you're there
so gently

there to lend me
your eyes
to laugh
with.

you're there
to fix me  

as always... your lips say

" ok. now... just turn around..."

then you
do the zipper
in the back
of my
skin.

how long has
that thing

been there ?

i am unknown.
however i bake
my cake
the quintessence of a fool
is His oven,
or Her
mcguffin...

so
let the heat
play Winter's Thoughts
and arrive
unspooled
before the likes
of me
and my complete
collapse.

I am redacted
from the narrative,
much like -
your reason to breathe -
lurks behind a
myst.

or a fog is a glimpse.

You

you
un-suture
the parabola
from the arch of
all Monte Cristo !
you shank the villain
as villainy is your twin.,,
we cohabit  
the one
and split the difference
the same.

from some " within ".


II

much
like thin filaments of music returning to a stream
to bow their heads in the Eucharist of a slit wrist  -
we are confluent in the chambers of our undertow
and serve such masters, a world can endure
but hardly love the triumph of the cube
over paisley cubes,

III


i almost say something all the time.

IV

all the Time,

Keep your keeping where i can see it.
i will let you know i've had enough charlatan
when my eyes break from trying you.
I retreat and advance.
but that is the pattern of unspoken people.
the web of your truth is the ladder
that ascends to the bottom
of all glorious
null.

but me.

I am the duke of dead blocks.
i live here, chaffing windmills and knots.
i slum the cheerful. go where the going
is more gone....
If nothing happens, I can't be here.
but if you do
i must love
you.

I plot my course
through -
like a whale with no song.
just a hunting party
dismissed for the weather
and the wrong
wrong.

sleep keeps the day at bay and something....
else.
it burns
to have eyes this dark -
too early...
but the moon
will suffice.

there's nothing more...
and nothing's
nice.

II

but not too nice.

III

it bleeds where the fingers grip
and the palm sutures
the have-Knot.

but i digress...

i undress the kit
of our entire garb
and shun the whittle
of our sharp bones
of contention
in favor
of a bright glum trumpet -
of our dumb
neglect.

IV

an endless kick
in the
yes.