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.

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.

the cactus stands alone. long shadows perch in the landscape.
brooding in the rust of twilight, as an autumn moon scorches indigo
lumbering over the horizon on all fours. now only five stars
in the sky ... but soon a riot of ghosts,

something looms in the loom. it has broad shoulders -
so giants may pass and kidney-stones lodge in the smoke.
there are too many lovers clipping eyes from their stalks.
and blindness is the new tongue
of a lost mouth to a cave
of Petroglyphs.

a remote species of man
eating dirt and vibrations.
a horde of monkeys with souls
damning sunshine
to a clouded
thought,

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.

these days are like fake days and cumbersome suns.
moons that have no poets to mock
and the thousand and one idiots
who believe something is real.
the plum from an apple tree is another verse
from a silent thing.... a true gift
from a blind Spring
that devastates the Peace of any youth
as broad as a thin
hope.

having been there is precisely where you're at.
you cannot advance save a reason to repeat it.
life is the cruel awesome of the mundane.
and the miraculous
is nothing but an
often facade

that you mean

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.

living in the smoke of my desire
always moving against a shadow
that has no name, but your mask.
i come about. as faithful on the sea
as a dead whale... i choose to linger
in the hemisphere
of your too important
atrophy.

and regret sail.

In the way the wind
loves a windmill and a daffodil.,,
I love you. i course through the beauty
of our disaster like
an oyster choking
on a
pearl.

you are the exact of my fuzzy.  a plume of gone.

we are the windows that have no weather beyond them.
just the tornadoes of idiots
in the hurricane of blight.
we have no boundary... save the absolute wretch
of our affection.

II


The hounds of change
have ice teeth and little Time.
they sulk in the marsh
of our private thoughts
and **** ****.
They go where no love
has hated better.
but love the jewel
of our awakening
like sleep were a
promise.

and a Lie.

a crust of bread resting in the rustic coma of the breakfast nook.
butter on a plate... chastening the sun with it's mule yellow-
and gravy on your toast because
breakfast.

the window beside -
framing elsewhere, condensing the whole milk
into a colorful speck.
as you wander off into the morning
before coffee... with a mouthful
of toast.

and a host of jewelry... made of sleepy.

Enter the Hell of the Fact,
and the Lie is Heaven.
But the Demon of your Love
rules.

II

in every case, the Sun is undone over Time.
but the night, assured as a loose tooth -
is a destiny.
but the Light endures regardless.
ever so wane in the flesh
as we wither without Answer....
and Question
without Knowing.

III

our prayers are paper cranes
lodged in the wind myth
of our tight spot.
a blind thing, that has no mother
but the moonlit crevasse
of our last
Hope.

though we hope
not.

a joy seeps in. but not the joy you wanted.
you had no vision save the stains on your eye
from seeing  so much otherness.
it feels good. precisely where you felt nothing.
and night is an afternoon... for no reason.

what love does to an ugly heart
is well known, but not as real as the wish.
it surpasses the aspirations of a lonesome
and breathes where thin air is syrup
and a kiss.

it is a constant
in the void like a void.
where no hate can stay
and no gold can be
a fool.

I broke the dark with my black mind...

it seemed the light had abandoned me
and all around, the world was Nil.
a more nothingness than anything
was ever Nothing to begin with...
and none of my yellow crayons
were not black.

it seemed the light had dispelled me
from the laughter that was once me
and gathered all my shadows
to the husk of my unsavory rust
and shackled the very moon
i clawed from my eyes
to better see the stars behind
to no avail.

it seemed tomorrow would surely come undone.
like a poor riddle for a stripe from a whip.

i broke the dark.... because the light had a black yes
and the gallows of my ascension
had no other purpose
save to hang stars
from a thread
in a hole...

A bridge in Vermont
is not a bridge too Vermont.
It's a postcard
with heart-red snow
and the white knuckles
of an orphaned babe...
twitching in a manger...
but singing.

All glory to the smoke
and the iron sun; too blunt.
It's a porcelain shard
of hard-dread luck
and a dark hustle to the bottom
of the sea... in waves -
wishing even stranger...
but undreaming.

yet amazed.

II

We are the brick and the butterfly.

You migrate
as i nest in a shambles.
As i launch -
into stuck.
You go from shore to shore
above me.
As I plunge into -
stealth at rest.

III

We are the thing that ponders -
the other thing that wanders off....
And we know the color
of our grief.

It is Ironically blue
and rueful.
But it smiles inside -
Like a dairy cow
with idiot teats.

We are unfit to miss the Other; Forever.
But our astrology is fickle as a lamb
at a crucifixion.
We have our gods, but cannot barter
for a Lesser One than Love.

So we're condemned to our devotion
like a locomotive heart
to a groove in
a chasm
at last.

And just enough.

War is never Peace,
This occurs to me
over frosted flakes
in my fleece.

My mochaccino-
Chocolate Mandarin
building a Wall
between Awake
and Sleep.

the brass tacks have hit the mat
encased in melting candle wax
from a candle on the floor
in the darkest room
in the house.

there might be a way to look at that
and not go mad
when you know what it means... you're -
Never prepared for That.



struck blind in the eye inside,
you could almost die
and you want too.
when a light goes out,
and you're plagued with doubt
and you don't do things...
because Why?
and Icebergs are known
to roam these waters
for real.

this is so
real.
this is so
real.

i'm not so in love now.
but love bargains for my emptiness.
it trips me up
and cries in the blue glum
whimpering for nothing more
than your sweet.
it kills the light and cadavers my living lungs.
it leaps into oblivion, more than it sinks
into pretty graves.

While purging a keg in the afterhours, pondering the smithy of my iron will to dour.
I clutch an unearthed doubloon with my eye-teeth beguiled by the span of ravenous.
Oaken coils of smoke barrel through the haze of indistinct cherubs
With their ***** war-paint and hooligan charms… wilting in tandem.
I join the delirious marmalade of a neighborhood denial
Adrift upon turbulent silences in loud places…. with my manufacture
Organic and tipsy-fizzle with a hoard of uncomfortable
glum.

Then a Cab.

Surgery Is A Penny

Surgery is a penny that you spend on a far shore
with your coconuts in a vice but your sunsets like molasses
and magma... your begonias, black and burly -
swollen with the kind of life -
that could fell an Elephant
in a dark room.

Like a pin in a cricket.

you have questions, but the hole in your pocket
is the answer... swallowing the currency of your Soul
with Clarity.
the forceps are walls festooned with Ivy
ever marching over your gaping wound.
and all the Curiosity that fanned the flames
of your ardor; pulls the plug
as the ghost in the machine
draws a breath
with  zero
point

For One.

On this day, the sun is wane-weary in the mist of an offshore fog-
come ashore and  gumming the works.
It’s a damp light all around
and the foundry of heaven has come to a halt
with one anvil ringing in steam
as Blue retires
from its perch
so the Grey
mayhap-
and the Dawn
drab.

but the hawk in my eye is immune.

with our elbows clutched
we grasp at the bleachers
of all our stars
and
worn by Time...
slip the knife
into the Palace of all Flesh
where the integers number themselves
among the Zeroes
of our God's Laugh-matics
as we practice the wind
in a spoon.

we are in Love.
but not in the
Moon.

we are more in the deep
than the candy....
and thrice removed.
more like a Circus Intent
folding in a roustabout's
plucky croon -
that hammers the long toil
of every day
into the locket
of our dream
undeployed.

II

i have seen the middle
and gone mad.

but near the end
i have seen
the rest.

and returned.
more than
that.

along the banks of the river; follically challenged scrubbery-
chokes on damp sand and sunshine… cattails etching semaphore
for dragonflies. bobbing in Spring’s spring… like a vibration
on a breeze with clean thoughts and urban widdershins.
the occasional gnat, plastered to a wind shear is often comedy-
as the passerby dissolves in the waltz of a temperament
masquerading as a global warning…

with cold cotton.

she thinks of me
not often.

why are you so lovely and not mine ?
this, i cannot say;  but you linger.
my love enjoys no one.
but you.

why are you ?

Her fennel failed, so it was off to market-
where local lemon squares cartwheel
with kettle corn
as free samples dissipate...
and the business-
of honing in on
a needful thing
becomes the
sepia tone
on a wharf of
gathering.

with the fog that threatened
the forecast, abated.
the air was gray-yellow
with a new sun cracking mist
as veterans
meander like elk in hoodies
between the fresh catch
of the day
and the venison heart
on ice.

under glass.

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.

how down
the below goes
no one
knows...
but i
assure you...
there is no
god
at bottom
and the zenith
is a tyranny
of empty.
a truer
you.

when
the birds
ate dynamite
to spite
they're beak;
they sang an evil
good, and knew it !
while the black
of their feathers -
wore white
so their black hearts
stood out.
black
nice.

mars,
mars was the God
of War on Red
so when we bled
no one would know
we were drowning
too.

and no one would know
how down the below
floats, nor have a name
for wondering

without a question

while surfacing in the liquid grove of our punji sticks
and pine sap fire
we lose our hearing… and whalesongs become a myth
as we emerge from the abyss -
as abysmal as a flotilla of spirals
and as deaf as a merciful nod.
but we see the Sun
for the first time.
and with our beginnings begun -
we be gone...

beyond.

Drinking my whiskey teeth in the spiral of an unknown maw
Jumbled in my cups, where the thorns parade on ice
And gallons of faraway evaporate like an up close Eden…
My lungs full of aire and radioactive lovesongs
bejewelled in twilight… sink into me like a long groan
of quiet… choking on a scream that paintbrush cannot fathom
nor my prayers recite.
The volume of my sphere, squaring off with my span of years.
Folding space into impractical toys; my rivets, clenched in redwood
And forgotten things, purged by sleepless Time
On a pyre of inflammable
Pitards.

the trouble i'm in
is no worse than
the worst thing.
but it hurts like
it ain't lettin' up
in your lifetime.
you sink to the bottom
just to breathe.
claw your way to the edge
of black steam.

you forget where you put the thing
you lost on purpose
and you can't recall remembering
everything about it.

in between the raindrops
and the ridicule... the wondrous suffering
and the ham-****** Sun.
a clump of rogue joy
suckling at the **** of blindness.

erupting from a void...

I found your
noise.

i found the feathers of a Stygian nest
nestled in the cool teeth
of a dragon's corpse.

i was disconnected from your umbrella,
as we strolled
like organist thumbs akimbo
over octaves of impenetrable silences
that lay as shells at our feet, unperturbed.
your free hand, bound to mine.
enslaved to the pendulum
of our quietous
tandem.

we note the long shadows swaying in the corona of emerging contrasts... we go arm in arm now...inhaling the fumes
of our unspoken truce. reveling in the sanctity of our bond
without losing a thread in our poncho
to a snag in the deluge.... or raindrop teeth.

we continue in our way.
conjoined in our congenial orbits.
disrobed from the
inside-out.
two columns of mute serenity...
stalled where the bridge
and the railing; conspire to frame the stream below
with the moment of our pregnant
pause.
as seen from ground zero in a cataract
of awe and epiphany.

the mist from stones dashing about like trout
draping our skin in flecks of Indra and glass spider eyes
laughing at all our jokes, before the punchline
finds your Abbot
to Costello.

we are drenched in a thousand specks of mirror.
with tide pools in our crows'feet... and all
the continuum of glory...

the unvarnished fathoms of our symbiosis
and the dignity of our invulnerable
Haj to the Mecca of our Peace.

II

i was disconnected from your umbrella
as you never believed in -
having one.

so i embrace precipitation
with all the ****** delight
of a pagan in the company
of His oracle.

your antlers
shedding skin
and divine.

my spirit
dwelling
in a
jar

full of fireflies.
for true.

where the road departs from your destination
you find The Wilderness Of Things…
we blunder into culdesacs and -
sacrosanct steeples; twisting balloons at the Fair
to resemble implosions in slow motion.
for a quid.

you’ll find books out there that keep dark secrets poorly
and adventures that baffle your brain pan.
and every twilight fissure in the world heart.
they rest on stoic end tables with noble dust
and green lanterns bowing to shadows.
You’ll find Others-
pilfering Silver
to buy golden calves
and cherry blossoms
for no reason.

for no reason
at all.

not so much the sun... but the moon today,
how it fetches the glint
from a fire of doom
but slips the lie to the truth
in truly black
rooms.

the barge of my waste
is time spent with you.
and no other
thing kills
as sweet.

in the valley of the hollow
i begin my lurch.
I tumble through the awe
without my skin, and it hurts.
i blunder through the stars
of our astronomy... no doubt.
but i would have you
as my nothing
to have

something.

too have nothing
about.

this morning is like a warm plate. a blanket of lucky charms
and dense space... smoked sausages on long cords of brevity.
a supreme miasma of little things and unforeseen plasma.
this morning is like ghosts and hours.
time on a clock at a rakish angle.
i don't wanna be there when my cats die.
i  just don't wanna hurt as much
as it will.

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.