It's too bad you left me stranded.
Kept your heart to Yourself
when you landed.
Swept away, -
I came right back
for you....
I did all the things
that did nothing
for you....
Apparently -
Love is a needful chorus.
A song in a drum
with a melody -
foreign...
like every Tree you can't See
For the Forest...
or
the spotless Love
you blame for
It....

too many bees were busy. the backyard howling with black and yellow now... the sun high in the memory of Blue.
the heat of a day, baking the laughter and fright as we fled.
oh, how the screened doors quickened -
as we hastily retired to our exhaustive
debriefing, like a gaggle of goose.
for if we were geese -
where would be the breaking of
the rule ?

Counterclockwise asphalt necktie
Broomstick moonshine... one busted tail-light.
Hard luck crust -
on a crumb of starlight.
Cross-stitch moonbeams and nothing
but midlife.
Ain't nothing to
mood swing.-
With nothing to feel like.
Get born. Get dead.
Fix **** -
tail-light.

your melodies betray you as a virtuous enigma.
i swoon to your baritone authenticity.
we are well met, and the sky has shunned the thunderclap
to display the sun, when you are near me.

What would you do, if your clouds were reading my mind as i was reading your mind ?
Can you spell heartache with velvet steam and the letter between the L and The Afternoon of All Space and Time ?
nodding off and dreaming this very moment-
reading ahead of you, and gasping
that i knew ! ?
Would you have me dance with the damsel known as " goodbye soon " ? or would you rather walk with me to the labyrinth -
of stars, that milk their glow from your *******.
How magnificent is this ? this swirling escalation of Beauty
oozing from a porous mind, as we embrace each, the other...
At Om on The Range.

Varicose Honey Farm in infrared 'elan
a siren's charm exuviates the rim
Of Karma
Where the Rift is harmless, If Harmless -
Is belladonna~
Omni-Colic-Rictus
gets an expert Witness
With a Degree in Soft Spin
And your Lips.

Someone in my skin gets out of bed to spawn

an iron lung, to extricate the wind
of Mantras -
Where the Risk is constant, If by Constant
you mean " Oxicodin "....
Drizzled over pixels of a Thought in Progress ~
Half Forgotten.

My Net collects the alabaster Parasols
A Dandelion lost To a Dog's breath


I put them back.
I put them back.
I put them back.

To humors It May Concern,
i bid you Comedy, at Best.
how the Life-Line, Is the Joke...
like A Lost Chord
is a Best Guess.

but I fluoresce.

So allow me to digress -
into a fetal emission.

a child of light
with old scratch itching
to strike a
Muse.

As I say
yes.

now that our rainbows fit on the head of a pin
a sorrow has lodged in our moon with blue lips
desolate in the feast of stars in orbit of a broken heart
and a glass thorn.
now that our lives have oceans of boredom and loathing...
and glorious Parthenons of Unbearable Weakness.
now that we shoulder the burden of obscene freedom,
casting our nets in redacted tomes
of ancient wisdom
where we dare to live aloud
and yearn for Silence.

now that we meet ourselves, dangling from a premise
are we more likely to becalm the waters
of our separate mirrors
or stoke the flames of oblivion
with soft lips to a stone
in a cloud?

not very much my pet yet...
but all eyes on the kingdom... we are well met.
no doubt a shout out for the fates at hand
palming the Tarot in our favor.... and yes i savor this
delightedly,

and pledge me, forever.

In the copse where the green is noble and remote
and my wineskin sings whatever tune
my besotted soul applauds…
As I gather no moss, no stranger to rough canopies.
as there; i serve agendas beyond
my craven absolution
to arrive be-darkened and be-knighted
in the very crescent of my
incorrigible descent
erupting from a tomb of my own making
with a sprig of mistletoe
in a goblet of Sangria
star-struck by
moonshine...

been giving rainbows jumpstarts in grey areas
ever since point blank range became the metric
of a total *****.

And yeah, that **** hurt.

But you can go now and be the perpetual **** mist
on a black fob in a wishing Hell.
And I hope
you do.

but i must account for my many wounds
by giving fewer ***** about you
and Jupiter will always be the bully
your Mercury sleeps with…
unless the hole in your actual argument
is also the enemy of the Point.
but you sand
witch…

i clock blind rubies by their dozens,
spinning up red ogres and margarine-
in a sheer toast to our fallen comrades
that had other souls to bargain with
but only our fondest hopes
to herald… even as our slumlord daffodils
deign to embark upon new meadows
where cave ravens steep sunshine mead
in preposterous bogotas.

the faucet of every lake dreamt is a drain,

I feel your breath on my face
and your hair in my eyes.
then i'm all the way back -
when there were
no lies.
i get stuck
where the knife
in my back strikes the nail
in my palm. And
never ask you
where the hammer
came from.

F. Murray Abraham on Rye.
Sardines in Sardinia
with Stone Soup -
And Unrequited Stuff.
Like an Aperitif.

As Foolhardy as Love.

As Deep
as a Batch
Of In-Between.
with all
the Awkward
Silences.

II

We float where we float.
Our dazzling Oblivions
like a riot of tinsel
in the heat
of all Desire.

Like a Blind Kite

On an Island
that will eat a Dolphin
because “ Why Not? “

All Things being equal…
Why stop?

It’s Tokyo.

As all the pollywogs woggle in the ***** galore
Resplendent in all dawn, as the rising star
Of an off-world dominion. delivers sparrows to sunshine
Hoisting wisteria to the throne of the senses…
Wafting in semaphore, so periwinkle
There are no eyes that may behold
the totality of its gossamer expanse.
the sheer sprawl of a most holy congregation-
of dizzy miracles, draped in ivy and morning dew
deliciously rampant with unbridled blithering
bathing in the rays of a faceless yellow
teeming with butterflies
cocooning no more.

All this in an
open door.

you don't have to
believe it
but it has to
be true

it has nothing else going for it.
save the black hole
you came in with
and my very
best wishes.

but i digress.

you don't have to
believe it,
but it has
to be
true.

and that is how i say
what love
means.

let sleep be sleep...  but never one sleep, the other.
trade on your windmills and millstones..
or sink.

upon awakening recall. or don't.

Live in one...

or sleep.

but Think.

Harriet slept to colonize time and space
with her chrysanthemums and cardamon irises
tacked to a wall behind a lens in her eye
rapidly moving through a slumber quest
to pillage the invisible with her wisp of might
to glean the terrace of lost chambers of gnostic grog
in flagons of hubris, spuming at the spicet
of a dervish star in a barrel.

Then she makes breakfast.

the guitar is at rest, perched against the barren wall
that stands between the outside world and the fathoms
of a Living Room. A couch festooned with pillows
and pet dander.... as the Sun's last rays cleave
the dun brown
of cabin fever,
echoing off
The walls

without a sound.

Though it’s little more than a few things-
scattered about
Life continues to bewilder our tambourines.

Winters are longer than whiskers in milk
And Summer has you always in Love.

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.

in my lost eye, the whole of the world is a gone thing.
a long away orchard of unspeakable goblins
and soft suns.

it would not be so terrible to love forever someone.
but it would be inevitable
and every task under Heaven would falter
should the rainbow catch a glimpse
of the obvious.

yeah, i had a headache and a Honda.
i ate the leather off a dead genie in a parking lot.
i was high, though.

wouldn't usually do that.

yeah, i crept through the sunroof of a thousand imaginary love bugs.
and when i was gone, i was gone forever... like any given moment.

but gravity has no jurisdiction.
and now you
know this.

the days of the merry tale have retired, spellbound -
by the mediocrity of our tedious dreams.
we are now engorged with the truth.
and oblivious. we astound the yawning void
with our audacity to refrain
from giving a ****.

but the Mondays have rain so soft
it could melt an atom.

and those are the days we turn into Us.
and i forget what's wrong.

consigned to the mirth of flame
and a thousand shoes; we waltz into grinding beauty
delirious and unsaved. we yearn for all graves
that open from the inside... that we may embark upon
untold follies and haul our stones to our stars
to smelt a new god that refuses to answer.
but the question is a worm
in His Truth.

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.

Mr. Ingle made a Grand Entrance seem fay and indecisive and marginally *******. His noble bearing hauled a profile of privilege that could sink a showboat. He was the only man whose Innate Vanity was a certified genius. To see him saunter distractedly along the pier to inspect his fleet is to wonder how a languid stroll and a kick in the nuts were now one and the same. You marvel at his flowing cape and covet his unseemly wealth, but his stride has found you lacking, and in your covetous heart you know yourself to be Unworthy, and better men than you have envied Master Ingle, but every one of them paid handsomely to do so.
     His gray eyes sparkled. Proof of how good it was to have no idea how to give a **** for free. The belt that cinched his tailored breech had a buckle that made men of stature and means feel like all they do is pick their noses all the time, no matter who's around. It was a belt, only one such as Mr. Ingle was worthy to cinch above his waist. His silk shirt thought the belt an oafish clod and told it so, but no one else would dare!
Not without attaining immunity from the boots and even then, you’re talking to a boot!
     Mr. Ingle made a grand entrance; and the local gentry politely hated the ******* and returned to whatever pastry they were elegantly dismembering with all the teeth they were born with money enough to buy and have installed, as Ingle's eye fell upon Herchel Finn, whom he loved best for reasons he was paying someone a king's ransom to discover, and he was pleased

it's not like i ain't
been South
before.
more like i can't see
the stars
anymore.
More like a thing
i used to love
has locked
the One
door.
and left me
Out -
with all my
heart
pounding
amore.

or less
.
adrift on a sea of foam
near the rocks, flecked with bones
and private diaries...
with tiny keys
to huge locks
and the wreckage
of wayward souls
dashed against the lichen
and the lint from black fleece...
bobbing in the riptide
of a sand dune.

swallowed whole by the question
at the heart of my demise
and the sorrow
in a sunbeam
when it looks me
in the eye.

and weeps.

This kind of dead, lives.
It lives with the humiliation
you insist upon.
But now, you have to deal with me.
You have to acknowledge
that I Loved You.
And this will not be easy.
For you fantasized that I
Had been utterly defeated -
Or was low born as other men,
Too caught up in my groin, perhaps...
But weak, nevertheless.
Or that my shallows had no depth.
You were convinced -
That servitude was a symptom
Of my puppet disease.
But now...
I leave you at the mark upon my Soul.
The very envy of Cain.
Because I can die for something.
But yet remain.

You can only **** me once.

But I can leave you
deeper..,

I was Black yesterday. Blackity, Black, Black, Black…
On my way to work, with my ***** hair stenciled to my Crown.
I was Breathing like Air was a Birthright
And my shoes slapped the concrete
Like a *****.

Because the Rainbow isn’t Suicide Anymore
I tread where my eagles congregate in perpetual sky-
Above the Ghetto of my familiar rivals...
Soaring in the Raiment
Of a Particular Sun that never casts a Shadow
Where my Brown Eyes kneel.
I see the Light… and unleashed, I strut like a phantom-
Your equal in all things…

However suspect,
When bombs go off
at point blank
range

Invisible to Cabbies.

when you stay, i assume that god has a plan
and she knows your name.
when you leave, i resume my urchin joy-
delirious with yearning on boil.
i applaud the next day
as you descend to me
unadorned
to disavow my lonely
with your passionate
Heresies to thwart the gospels
of my Doubt.

the way you always do
when you
sublime.

where we come from is not a world. but an unsundered grace.
a sort of beatitude swelling from the solid light of the blithering truth
and the twitch of a ribbon in a ravens beak
as it dives into the yellow sun
in your palm

life is a holy suspicion that something is real...
and the resignation to know nothingness
as the dream that got away
with having you around.

to love.

As magellanic clouds collapse into a spoon
i wander off... my satchel strapped to my salubrious stride.
my eyes unmanned. now binary soul nova
resting on my cheekbones... boring holes in the landscapes
to catch a glimpse of the carousel underneath.
spinning on it's side.

perpetual.

While bathing in the last rays of a bright idea -
receding; in accord with epiphanies of mellifluous delight.
my lifespan, now an Always without a comma -
blessed by new bones... thin as reeds to take flight and escape.
where other worlds gleam in the Labyrinth -
night deprived.

unfathomable.

[ can't wait ]

Oh, how carefully you chrysanthemum
and parlay with whalesong and surgically remove.
you think of summer as a day, and swing from chandeliers
too brazen for prime-time, and too often brilliant.
you caterwaul at the gods like a pinch of rain
in voluminous hush.
i've seen you halt
while spinning
and thought you
remarkable.

and now.

i feel
the
same.

underneath the moon's fingernails
you will find all the evidence you need
to pin the crime of passion, that is the world -
at the doorstep of the Purity
that wrought the flesh
and all Sol's avenues above us in the blue !
above the very tiny crowns
in the snow.

My flagon of Ganymede, a frothy pontoon
Of ephemerals, flanking the dry-docked galleon
Of my youth. At once, prodigious and minute.
Like a fob on a club. Run aground and marooned.
Like a bald spot on stilts.
The Sea has resigned. And all Sirens departed…
Save a nameless nymph etching her song
Into the marrow of a length of bone -
Shaped like an orphaned
Hammer.

A scrimshaw calliope of petroglyphs
As garrulous as a Cauliflower
On a bed of velvet
As black
As an unborn
Sun.

where am I from ?
My parents cannot say.
my memories cannot resolve,
and my poems
cannot display.
i am rupture and wink.
like a butterfly and a wyrm.
but nothing so much
as beautiful
as an empty
return.

I love the night...although its so silent my ears hurt
and there's nothing to be done about it. and i still get mail.
it's just empty and brittle. envelopes of undisclosed, declaring -
" I live Somewhere that mail Arrives..."
and I don't count on anyone
because everyone, is the Other night.

every one.

the night.

in the barn, where the wicker baskets gag on dust askew -
shimmering in disarray as the slanted rays of the sun
slip through the fissures of our ancient frame...
there are new gods now. and they caper through the wires
of our every day... we are consumed by consumption
and have no weariness to stay the rapids of our Idiocy.
we brook no fumes. but bind to the arrhythmia
of our plastic satori.
we conjure no love that is not dead to the world.
it's just dead to the world.

with a barn.

As night folk,  i am not right. too deep-end, and unquantified.
the high-low blip on the surface of an incomplete thought.
i love to wade in the tendrils of nightfall... and spark.
but i can't breathe all the time, because some **** is real.
and some **** is your life.

the mole in the iceberg
dreamt of spring. and chain smoked.
he thought about other moles
then got distracted by the furniture.
it came to pass that the mole caught a glimpse
of another world. then shrugged it off

like what?

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.

i built parentheses out of chicken-wire
and homespun. and groped my way into Hell's Fiction -
brandishing a brand new self- deception
and a quart of crude oil for my feet of clay.
My mission was too unEarth the heavens in my employ
and surrender to blue skies, despite all Woe's Emissions.
to preach a Gospel to a stone.... and forgive my ever wavering
faith in my position.

and i only managed to Love someone.

and That was
my Heart's
decision.

the merit of our blasted kingdoms must lie in our pink mirage.
the hazy spectacle of our hope, like a living steam....
there it must rest, at the root of some tumultuous foam.
anchored to the fog like the shimmer of a lake
to a rear-view mirror.