are you
what i mean ?
are you not my constant mystery and blemish ?
are we not finished when the world turns and nothing loves nothing
so
Now
we fit in ?
now we  have a surface of anger management,
that stings a bit; but no damage.
just roust
of our beautiful lust
from the husk of
our
catastrophe.
are you
what i
mean ?

how unkind are we ? now that the meteors are in hand
and the grinding gears of the rain
have chiseled a new sun
from our rib cage ?
how do we proceed with our atoms ?
gritting our teeth against the migraines of sand
in our dark eyes... lumbering toward
some awful truth that spells love
in blood

on a splinter.

i was there. then i just wasn't there.

sinking into my living-room, i surveyed all disasters
strumming a flute like a winded pigeon
gargling muffle and a clot of choke
strangling the sun, where a moon happens
and the light changes the marrow of a constant
trading iota for the magnificent
in the language of the
minuscule...
sinking into my living-room, prying barnacles from sunbeams -
worshiping the nostrils of lost houses and  breaking vows
like a man cub in an hourglass
i marshal my hope in the end days.
i go where the dead birds sing in dead trees
and keep their feathers
for my back.

though unable to fly, i'm walking on err

intimately capsized,

like no other thing is about you
that's what i'm about
i'm 9 miles of heaven
and a long spark.
i mean what i mean,
i see farther by closing my eyes
and i seem speechless
but the words are domain
and what i said
is i love you

just now

The Misfortune of having you all to myself
has Irony’s respect. Only games without masters
call Love “ Sensei “. And every one of them
thought Irony was Abe Vigoda
sifting through the entrails of a Tuna Melt, at Morty Yang’s
looking for the cookie choking on a Bilingual Mobius strip
of impenetrable punchlines.
And always late to a funeral like The Good Gin.

we slept on a bed of fails
and our lives as footstools on soap boxes began
as only the best endings require
before waiving the usual fee, and diving into the role
of a last time nobody knew was The Last Time.
chewing up the screen between  intimate strangers
calling all the shots on the set by telepathy
like a betty davis that would never ever not help you
if it helps to sniff glue
or to hardly ever do
and then stop.
or not.

yeh, We Got THAT betty davis.

we found the most corrosive script
and mangled that baby with the camera obscura still rolling
And that guaranteed we had something to show the wolves at the door.
that would generate the buzz in the saw
that you Can’t UnSee.
and what follows?

anybody’s regret.

we slept in cots on the Lot, a lot.
but that was all in the papers that we rolled
to smoke the ***. in all the rags in Coolsville.
our collapsing star rising on page six
of a Charles Bukowski restraining order.
and as I recall, there was no catering -
for locations that devolved into gothic cathedrals
that slept with your expectations to get the part.
and we didn’t know that was a thing.

But hey,
you made it hurt
like you already
knew.

we flipped a coin to see who would yell “ Cut “ !

And then...

now it's all
you do.

the hush of snowfall resounds
and morning comes on a plinth of cream fire
over white shoals of winter's aspen
and a platoon of black oak, heavy laden
with pillows of opal dust,
the crisp air dangles from your breath
as you come upon a raven's ink plumage
resting atop the crystalline wave
frozen in swell; more akin to the sea
than to the earth bound diorama
more of a ripple than a discrete patch
of sugar at your feet.
holding a black wing
to a promise.

and a kiss is debris,

Addiction is a real thing
South of the last thing... a grim dope
in the hopeless soap fiend
of a washing; where a mind dreams
but a head, thinks -
where a heart
stopped.

and we live
Unseen.

Slicing avocado with a grain of rice
I add a pinch of salt to the flesh
And the pulp of an Urchin, thumbed -
From the Sea, with a frozen teardrop
shaped like a hook.
I mistook your Virginity for Indolence.
You smote my ardor, with apathy
and Grace.

Carving the pumpkin with a blade of grass
I save the seeds to roast over blarney stones.
As i blacken the plantains with shards
Of Ash Wednesday and night sugar _
You broaden your scope to match the vistas
Of my Accusation... You false my Hope
with a True Face.

As i groom my submission.

some of us fade.

sink into the peat moss of our tapestry -
and there ; surrender the bones of contention
to grieve no more the plight of stars
having succumbed
to the moon.

some of us dissolve.

like sugar in a spoon
over a candle. or a horde of promises.

some of us are gone

the way happiness and a room
are a hope and a
hell.

but some of us are you.

and you're not.

Loose pebbles grit the wheel.
i hear the grind spit
and the earth kneel. i march -
and grovel, as i bark
and hound -
the very fox what stole my stride
and left me feet below
the ground.

i come across as a blue vein in a lost arm.
or a red vein in a stump.
an orchid with black lungs. or a summer's day
that knows why you love me
but has no idea why
you left me.

i cling to the gone
like an enjoined hermit.
i fuss with the ridicule of you
and resign the feckless mirth
of our misadventures
to the blight
of our quaint
demise.

I am the Tin Man
but no longer a rough hewn hooligan.
i have become the smallest sun
above a vast atom.

So Thank you, Madame.

the eerie brick of the eye
smarts at the sun, blasting a bank of fog
and sour dross from the furnace
of insight, keeps the weather pale
as thin blood on a dreaming knife.
no greed is fair or sweet.
we may only crave what a soul may purchase.
and the hours wane and swell and nod
where we swing our hammers best
before we plot to build
cold houses.

none of us are the other
but we flock in ale and clouds, together.
we tuck our wings into our coats
and endure the clap of thunder
from some dark.... dark
clank.

and the honey from the salt
is a stone.

she lives where the cell phones die without remembering
the tone assigned to a cryptic stream of social Lilliputians
on a list of offenders, and befrienders; all caroling at random
for a stitch of thyme or to barter with banter and allusions.
she sleeps where her bed has fallen in love
with southern exposure; but openly flirts with an eastern sky
boiling over with morningstar and brindle night .
her thread count...
an imaginary number
between sleep and a full moon…
and her pillows have embroidered her silhouette
as she takes slumber to meet the parents of her proclivities
that have ever held sway over all of her charms.
how her forks and knives pay conjugal visits to spoons
To the clank elegance of her signature
explaining the vacancy she hordes without joy.
armed with only a loaded pun
in the barrel of her ***…. and a thousand safaris
beyond game. where a woman can breathe without pretending
the pink flamingos are Rodin on Ritalin
she can howl in her own language without poppies.
she lives in that house on the hill
that wasn’t there yesterday.
and the paper boys  
all want to
be men.

so oleander.

the night has made all the lights in town
crawl out of bed on fire
old trees float over snow
and now you can see
your breath
spiral
nothing happens.
then a train pulls in
from somewhere trains
come from
strangers spill
into yellow cabs
that glide out of sight
all gone.

windows burn
in the deep, -
deep peace
the silence finds
you... thinking
things
with your heart
that your mind
never speaks
and the words come
lovely enough
on wings
and you love your life
for the first
time
.
falling asleep

on the stoop, I glue my tuckus to a plank of mundane as the Chevys cruise in the turquoise Tannebaum
of Twilight, churning shadows into velvet. I surrender when the fog’s kiss, lifts the Veil and I ponder It.
I choose where my dyslexia is a coin and barter for less dementia. serving silent things in the tapestry
of untapped maladies, masquerading as polymer gods in a hedgerow of impossible odds.
I fumble for my keys like the rest of you darlings… but my hands are made of dented chrome and dendrites unmanned by sanity in favor of an alcove of dauntless Awe.
I’m barging into a rumination, as we speak.
taking the hill of a landscape as a Sharkfin-
gloating in Existential Soup.
My egga roll, something less discreet
than Yellow Journalism
in a Lava Lamp
as Lovers
do.

i love you and that is the yes weight
and the high noon trauma.
the unborn cathedral
of tiny smart people
and the near dark
nova.
the grove of our open wound sustains
and the very love of our bleached dream
.... a godless cream
in a crimson
church.

our idols, a dim mirth. and nothing as it seems.

But -

Oh how the awfulness trumps the blue
and the black behind it
shines ! what might we, the feeble guttersnipes do ?
but save a prayer to a dead god
and march to wane fields
behind it...

love-blinded ?

what are your terms ? the Devil may ask of you and you and you ...

but the true quest is a riddlement,
a prune on the throat of a mute Sun
singing the bleak queries
of an afterbirth, after thought
has abandoned
a hazard's guess.

Tomorrow is a crumb of soft words
and a walk of the plank.
The high stench of probable cause
and the noisy stench
of a chaste complaint.
a dreary ruby
groomed in the *****
of the earth
to be the first
fool.

and the last lust.

a complete waste of light
where the darkness falls
like an anvil chanting
a hammer's
song
but tone deaf
and sparks
sadly.

a narrow tusk of crosswind grazing my cheekbones
as i lean into the teeth of a comet... wincing and turbulent
but still a boy. tossing moonbeams to a catcher's mitt
and all the while bewildered at the sum delirium
of Life's yes.

embroiled in the kingdom of the smallest things...
i trundle from my Kismet like a drunken crow.
i skip the stones for breadcrumbs on a perpetual wave
of vanishing points.

And fall in love because, because... because.

you will outlive your usefulness.

you will find a toy that will **** you if you let it.

you will indulge in small games
and win nothing.

you will sink into the earth and be rid of the sky.

you will love someone and that will be unbearable.

you will lose your mind and that will save you.

you will curl around a blow-fish
and whisper in it's ear
the word " relax "

you will never know the reason
you had any wisdom.

you will suffer for your art.

in his soul
another one.

one that is not so lovely
and not so
his soul.

but one that is unkempt
and joyless as a happy
death.
his motorcade
draining the true yes
from a hard no.
his lungs
gleaming in the rasp
where the tundra
bleeds
but the snow is keen
to undo
the dead drift
of a bleak
bleak.

or a long wrong.
that sleeps.

we soldier on in the endless march of our quietude sprawling the width of our last fake smile.
staring at a focal point so pointless you hardly explode without vanishing.
but never write letters. you tumble into tomorrow's womb like an orphan of yourself.
terminally accidental on purpose
unfathomable.

I proffer my humble things
at the altar of your resplendent dreams.
I come feathered in the majesty
of your inner Serengeti
with my clubbed foot in Paradise
stamping the fires of inconceivable hells.

Oh Child of The Long Long Love
I bring you my husk and my plump truth.
You divide the wheat from the chafing sun
and break bread with my mortal tongue !
you are abroad from me, however _
but your memory up close, endures
like a happy bee sting
of random recalls.

I will never know another such as You.

And That is the fact of my precise Love.

Please, go on to your unbridled graces, adorned in splendor
as you are want to do  in dark continents... constantly.
And let me Love You as a friend
that grew a memory
from a life...

that met You.

every moonbeam is a laceration
of shadow. a slit in the skin of a
black heart, convulsing in your
mirage. an imaginary sonnet
killing bees and Time.
every moonbeam is a patron
of the Arts. a hard raven and a fist
of belligerent worms.

a coil of angry
jubilation

and a selfless disregard
for the Sun

where you left
it

lowly.

like a bruise with a muse
the shallows at my depths hum the arias.
they sing the body neglected
and the famine
of immortality.

the long stretch of compacted space
between the morality of a living stone
and the wavelength of a
heart-worm...
can only be measured by tears
in the rain.

the kind of gully-washer that makes ironic
both eyes as they weep...
but somehow makes your face
fill in the blank stare
into Oblivion

with a bald point end.

With aphids and cherubs barking up the wrong tree
A November with rain on its mind
clicks a heel in the underbrush, where all things creep
in the ether floss of our lost tendrils of Time
emergent in luminous twine
every stitch, a rivet in a concrete swamp.
tethering a plight.

II

Christmas lights lockjaw hamlets with crepe frost
glistening earthbound color wheels in the jagged blanket
of a crisp 3 AM. a covert Decembering as such a night
is want to do.

then the gray weeps
as window panes
tell you
Why?

The radio beats it's wings against the damp air of twilight
and the mauve maneuvers of the jagged stars, clutching the velveteen enigma of the heavens.... sprawling glorious and pin *****
above the glum slumber of our myriad eyes... go brightly.
a dazzling display of power that has no mind. The divine agenda
of the unknowable engines of grace.

From the porch, I spy the worlds
tumbling from their Ether to my Zodiac. I smoke a blunt tool
to hammer back the incessant noise of the mundane...
And a wave carries me to a rich oblivion
fecund with Life's sumptuous joy... and the very different perfume
of brain dead angels, spreading my ashes over -
unkempt lawns.

I retire to my room, where the canvasses tick unanointed
like white bombs and nothing can dissuade me from the truth of them.
Painting your face is like scratching a balloon.
It will burst. And I will weep.
And Time will not stop.
For the Lack of You.

But the brush will never leave my hand.

And that will have to do.

My Solitaire is irascible in aspect. Just over the Hill there; I used to carve my initial conditions into a blank stare, or a block of omission. But now my stratagems soar far beyond the pondering of Loneliness. Even Abandon cannot fathom Me.

     I tend to orchids that have earthquake hearts and care for the waning moons in my terrarium of phantoms and glass apples. i anoint the chasm with vespers of Isolation that sparkle like a madness in phosphorus ecstasy. My books are Discreet.
I am their Shogan.

never been. but i imagine, it coils counter-clockwise at the ankles
of your pedestal. it must surely breathe fire so soft
that dew lingers on the tongue of a star.
a star -
behind the green pearl of an emerald place,
dislodged from Time
and ever tethered
to no reason.

it must be other than. and farther from. and nowhere.

sublime.

no more Breakfast tumbling out of a Hornet's basket.
just soft thorns and gossamer wounds. only the ravens that kismet.
only the coffin cuff-links; and the splendid Pit.
only the margin for Errors beyond
your Religion...

and the woe of it.

You **** me
like you want
me.

II

we cannot sing the songs
in our blood. unless -
they Have blood
on them.
or a song, in
them.

III

tonight, i have gone nowhere
and my adventure bleeds out
like a stuck pig
in a slipstream... a unusual ghost fork
in a thin dream.
too vast to be a wisp
of my unguarded heart...
but too Human to be
a reflection of my wishful
thoughts.

It is deep like the knives
descend and sink, into the brevity
of our get along.
it trolls the wound of our endless
Unforgiving-
and dooms the sweet spark
of our forgiving
Yes.

Because it's all wrong.

My symbols are fluid now
Here , where my days ahead are less than
The many days I've left behind.
Chains are broken and knit into my wrists
As i reach for the stars bespoke my Zodiac
I summon a swarm of loose ends
That begin with Me
And cherish everlasting, the long braids of Summer;
now derelict in the shadow fallen-
Coiled into mortal frames
Resting on fishhooks
Above the pantry of my feast
Of Hours.

I long for the turn of the *****
And the hothouse Orchids of my dim horizon.
The carnal hope, throbbing in my skull
As i awaken the giants i have slain
For their off wit and plain speech.

I return to the calm in my cliffnotes
That capture the purity of my bewilderment
And the honest scope of my Heart.
I go wherever the charm is broken
And mend the Angels there
That have fallen.
I choose to Live. And serve the Dust
A Cup of Sea.

the break of day is usually the femur.
but the moon mends
where a shadow falls to it's knees
and begs forgiveness

go ahead. cry
if it makes
you happy... never spare
the tear that glares
into the heart
of Darkness
and yet glistens
on the cheek
of your
mask.
a crystalline catharsis
trailing the *****
of your bones
in the rictus
of a half-smile
and a wince.
choose to bleed a little
everyday... in rememberance
of a lost toy. or go home again
and hate that place
and come back
missing it.
never fail to weep
when the beauty of what it is
to be happy
is the gorgeous sorrow blossom
losing petals in a gale
of laughter.

and a moon.

the bees are eating the sun
but something clings to the shoe.
not the usual something,
but the black iron fruit.
seems the long way 'round the sunshine
is straight thru.
i chum the waters of my desiccation to bribe sharks
as i clench my teeth on the grit.
you... well you are somewhere
being awesome
as i shrink to fit.

we're safe now, my sweet. love has come dangling jewels that have no frogs. and our temples are makeshift and dandy, but our gods are ******' nuts ! it's like the same thing that made you is the same thing you deny. but we're safe now, my lamby lamb... and the harps float in the web of their tyrannies, as the clock strikes a dashing figure in the window of our placid riot. and none of us are cool.