saw you in a memory and forgot myself.
that was a beautiful day.
the tomorrow of that moment
was a pearl.... and 24 hours away.
Love is what you cannot do alone.
there must be another
and a dream
and a
hope.

dead yes in a hammock of well dressed
like some kinda lime star on a cufflink
sinking its dreams into a morsel of “ What’s Left? ‘
and “ Hell Yes! “ … I’ve got the wound
that kills best.
I can’t seem to be real…
i actually have to not Be There.
i actually have to fold everything into a square
that has a circle for a dream
without Witnesses.

our chariots are spineless waves, crashing at the nexus
of tumultuous calm. your light is like a breeze with lips.
I inhale your every atom to my heart’s content.
unabridged. as i span the valley of your wet sun
with all urgency undepleted, and my vigor preternatural
for a shy boy in heaven.

we sing to each other and thistles weep.

I resolve and devote. you spiral and charm
we depart from gravity
to plunge
before thinking.
unkempt hooligans, hurling valentines
at a perfect dark.

we dream of each other and reality bends.

to kiss your feet.

like a god.

It’s 4 AM and your skin is soft birch and your pillow indented.
You fume with stillness where your sleep is deep
And almost nothing is as pure as your inner
panorama of noise
Surging uncorked in millennia, as broad as Time’s banquet
Knocking the arrow of sweet slumber
To describe the arc of a falling star
into an open mind.

When you awake, she’s gone. At first you ponder, incredulous.
Then the Season descends it’s tendrils of departure
to ****** your precarious peace from its perch
like rolling thunder over a gasp.
your bed of fails, expansive in the dim pinch
of not enough morning.
just before the sun has mocked your reveries
into the nook of your crevasse
of miseries.

as her ghost kisses
your cheek.

i’m on my hill, and a swarm of long Tuesdays
perturb my actual Monday night
pooling at my disconnected feet on the grounds of anonymity  
where I trim the verge with cattle eyes, gawking at Time
with my ruminant mouth slack, and my spires arcing bolts
from the crown of a troubled Sky.
my pumpkins are not the same. they have lost their dreams
to a labyrinth of vines… tumbling over dead leaves and applesauce sunshine-
but only in the margins of our conspicuous stupidity.
inflamed by a cold sun.

i’m on my hill, as Leviathans repel from low clouds
to barter teeth at my table
for a long song about a boy full of fables
and a Sea in his Palm
full of worlds.

The moral of the story
is never a suspect.
But always a
conviction.

Read tea leaves for the articles.
Scrapbook the
Fiction.

my teeth rake the radio like a sieve at the heart of midday
straining the kelp beds of the horizon for crystalline krill
dulling the pain of our daily dread with a happiness
made of cyclones and Lincoln Logs.
i usurp my last breath. my tundra is sincere.
i go nowhere in a single bound.
and it's like the world
won’t let me
in.

I abort the assumption that my life is a narrow frame
and the idea of a frame.
I collude with my better Angels
and drink with the devils that remain nameless.
these days i embark on crude soil
and wishful think the rest of my redemption
like a gyroscope in a soap bubble
toying with the notion
of True North.

I exude the Arabella of my Comedy.
and never am I in Love with the viscous deluge
of my impending calamity. I eat the root of the rain.
but I upheave.
I challenge the voice in the noise. singing backward
from a hollow.
there are more things in my revery
than my sorrow.

sleep is a slow thief with sticky embers.
drooling languid fire where the wick
is most likely limbic nerve.
i prevent myself from a Hell with my name
because your name fits
and that’s my
world.

on my skin lay the words that can't be tamed
and all manner of beasts snarl in golden rickshaws
ferried up the mountain pass to my pyramid
floating on a cloud of lightning, woven by hand
in the heart of Darkness, beneath the canopy
of an old Oak...root bound in the soul of the void
but flourishing, my head wound feeds the branches
when i sleep underneath them, it seeps into earth
that has no form... and i have an insomniac's dream
in the middle of my awakening, by the sound
of your footsteps....
as you make your approach from the East
and bring with you the scrolls of lost tongues
and the the rye tales of the crow in winter...
with your eyes marked
by having solved the Mirror's riddle, in the dark.
and your sallow cheeks, flush with empathy and famine.
your course hair, descending like elven craft...
resting on your shoulders, as if draped over a banister
of an endless spiral...
I see you before the light strikes
my optic nerve.
Long before the sun
was born...

I crawl from the space -
that contains my shadow
and greet you at the foot of the stairs
where your tresses
caress moonbeams
and i smile
so deeply - even -
the stars in your palm, stall -
their ponderous orbits
to behold.

And I hear
what you have to say
about love and the virtue
of flesh enmeshed
with a Spirit
to untangle
Eternity,
and your voice is soothing
As i listen to the Truth on your lips
till you pause.
then i tell  You  " It is good to see you, as always...
and would you do me the honor
of sharing my blanket made of glacier skin
and stardust feathers stitched into the dewdrops
i harvest gently, Before dawn...
off the glistening shells
of iridescent beetles
and blue grass. with my eyelashes.
here beneath the Oak ?
It would please
Me.

and our head wounds feed the tree as we dream.
on the roots, we slumber into worlds without end
and i fire my maid for sweeping
the terrarium.

This town has asthmatic headlights and bottle caps like tiny crowns for giant ants, snatching moonlight from the concrete, hoarding halos in blind alleys; where the homeless groan and dither in shadows like blackstrap molasses. The sign on the backdoor reads “ Exit “ like it was ******* Shakespeare, but across the street where the lamp is having second thoughts… a red brick unicorn is grazing on bottle caps with moonlight icing and a Yellow Cab idles in the Irony of Yellow.

     Parked cars are engaged in their telepathic games. The trench coats are keeping secrets and house keys huddled in a clump of disarray… in every palm. Neon shoestrings in windows, spell words with glass agendas, twinkling conspiracies that trade on your emptiness like a promise on the lips of a snail. You can hear the world spinning a yarn to knit a sweater thick enough to ward off the chill of an existential crisis.
Heard Carl’s Kid, Marty has a habit of catching butterflies and sewing butterflies to them. Carl says “ The Boy's gettin’ purty good.

Love is the day your doom is on pause and all gods pray
with tiny hands that nothing harms your everything, and an answer-
swiftly bugaboos the blunder of your courtship
on a righteous sea
where bountiful waves of redemption and wet kisses
cling to the mist in her eyes
like blue snow

Your Humanity
an Unmangled candelabra of astonishing affection
drenched in slow hands that caress the very fabric
of your Universe
with an uproar as glorious as calm in a storm
where a squall should be.

As you ascend into the arms of an open Heart.
Where Two should Be.

I'd much rather wish you well than wish you luck.
love turns up dead but for some of Us... it's just Us.

II

Try as I might, the azaleas are doomed.
I slip through pumice and overripe plums
to only always, very nearly -
as I somewhat almost always....
however seldom
or merely.

III

Love is how you get from here to there
without killing a god.

in the Imperium of Last Things
i Love no less.
i enjoy no more than all things
and Love best.

when the constancy of our denouement extends the brevity of our insight
then by trade, our revelations remain on pause.
hint-riddles parlay
between actual dilemmas.. foggy as breakfast
on Venus.

simple as that.

a slow notch in a providence.
a bespoke omen, trumping
a tarot deck-
with a block party hookup
made of glad gardens
of actual touch-
where the emptiness
has no skin,
per say-

but everything
your heart desires
flays a shadow
with a wet
kiss

and **** the heathens.

ripples
in flat ponds-
are gathering ladybugs
as countermeasures
befitting-
such espionage,
at the forefront of
every facade.

a feckless
supplicant with a
tootsie roll
begging an owl
to count
a licka’ sense
as the center
of Love’s
madness.

to “...bury me with my courage!” I quote a spoon.

the way we sweep the stars into the black hole of our worry.
the way we seldom noble; how we choose to blunder terrific
and squander a horde of Time.
how we march Love
into Dust.

what we know
is not

what Is.

i had words with a silent thing.
i won the argument, needless to say.
but fewer trumpets were in my bag of air
too asleep to be awake
with the things of you
strewn about the palace
of my misery

I suppose a jewel is vacant
spoiled by the sun and no longer a friend.
the way the things of you
pinch the law of my skin
like a twist in a maze of love
grumpy with northern lights
percolating forever
because love
can.

. .

If Wednesday had a boyfriend they would rendezvous on Monday.
They would eat fried rice and stroll in the rain. Without umbrellas.
Monday would be horrified. But Simply Horrified.
Tuesday spreads a rumor and I still can’t find my cellphone.

In a sea of screens,
there is only one blindness
to see with.
so cherry blossoms
are no longer meaningless -
On Wednesday or until
they Break-Up.

and Friday gets all that Rebound Action.

i sleep when i can
and i don’t have to
answer to
You.
all the waves in my pond
are at Sea…. never to return
unless you shut up
and listen
to me.

the very opposite of You.


II

my story goes like THIS….

you can’t have a wave that is all crest and no trough….
but you can be an idiot.
you can begin as an elder sun and return to your room
where you keep moonrocks for no reason
and never be happy.
Or you can taste your soul
eating itself alive
for all reasons.

III


Or Not.

Glumping in the runkle of a midge twitch
with a slinky and a serrated rainbow jackknife-
tucked into a barley-cork for daylight
at a full stop...

at Night.

some sort of contraption;
the actual
beating heart of the moon
noteworthy for gazing
at the Fugazi
of our
work

without a star to pin
to a moon’s compass
however Noon.

Trading on our whimsical affairs, we spice the McGuffin
with a pinch of twee smirk and malicious vermouth.
we gin the rigor of our spiral descent with a debauchery
to span the bloat of our delusions
combing the banks of our foggy creek beds
for applesauce
and farthings.
leaping into the shriek
of our lull.

undaunted by the stars
at the edge
of the
worst.

as we pillage
unrefined
and

unrehearsed.

under the spell of too many gods... a stone will bleed.
and countless feathers abandon the whole of the Sky
to barter for trinkets underground.
as every living doll cannot die... your prayers.
and all the world, sacred -
to a fault.

my love for you is like an everlasting gasp.
my every breath haunted by a memory.
and now i'm used to that.

when we do not kiss everyday
it's like we never met.
more like we died
to live this way
unkissing.

It's because you don't love me
That i get the chills.

You're one of those girls
That a woman
would ****.

But not like Time.
That's another thing -
Still.

And you've got my name.
While I got you
nothing.

II

And Nothing means more
Than a love that meant
Nothing.

And Nothing at all
Is why not ?

Or Something.

look at them bones all scrunched up like thorn pudding.
focus on the squid ink murk of your pine fresh linen
and uncork the vintage of your red vineyards
snarling 'round dead posts... on a gently sloping hillside.
thumping miracles.

join me at the temple of the spine, and i will petition
the long lost soul of your life's reason. I will take core samples
of your wet kiss, and slowly ***** the stars into place
that will keep your smile lit, and your thighs unfalse.
i will bark to Love's God and channel the requiem
of your grief.

you will only suffer the sting of bliss, and pirouette
on the tip of a snowflake's tongue.

If only my every poem jot-
were a happy spot
on a black tie.
But my parties sparkle
with black skies
default.

In the best light.
of my heart’s
Vault.

A Mood Swing Barony
plush with unobstructed
de-construction.
As i plunder hives
for soft miracles
dazzling a Stoic
With a Circus
of bright
dogs
to hound my
gloom, out of mind
and my Love
from the thicket
of a dark
thought.

On an Incline.

Loving you all day is exhausting and hilarious,
the way you swerve into rapture when i kiss you
and return suspended in joy when our eyes lock
beneath the seeing of Ourselves Naked,
your laughing eyes are not a quandary. but better yet
an answer to a prayer
i forgot.

But
how we bake bread with snow
is our secret.

and
Love is
not.

let's exchange mercy, and be done with these tiresome discords...
to better suss the remedy to our distemper, and quell the shrieking
mule of our workaday demise.
let's be more than friends
let us summon the quilt of all our charms
to feather our bed of nails... and together, lurch into breezy
aplomb. let's become one.

the kind of one that nothingness looks up too.

i completely believe that i believe
in something.
but i go to great lengths
to be Nothing.
i step outside
where our intimate things
have private thoughts.
i eavesdrop on silence
to know what you’re thinking.

so rub my shoulders
before you destroy me.

let me linger in your aspect.
like a moth allergic to pain.
[ but can’t get enough ]

Let me down like
You mean It.

Let me go like
You hate me..

Be more ghost
Than an always ‘ Maybe ‘.

Let me down where
It counts for Nothing

with all the “ Goodbyes “
In the palm
of your
hand,

over my mouth.

i was never meant to be tamed
and that gallops truth like a tsunami
i go where my stars are dying in front of me.
i carry your picture like a pale of water.
i go where the leaving is gone most of the day
but leaves a message.
i appear to be out of my skin in front of a mirror.
i haunt the corners of my eye
even now.

spinning where the halt of your lurching heart is a musical
surging in the mundane litany of our personas
suffering the same madness that soothes the savage disconnection
of perpetual mortality…. sleeping at the center of wakeful
bedazzled by the prominence of cashew moons and the promise
of absolute doom…. but not without a word in edgewise.
in the margins of an unpublished book.

glowworms on holiday mock the cave on your back
and all the blind crickets
can see right
through you.

No slumlords in the orchard, only the good Lord’s bounty
heaped upon troubles and shimmering defaults.
where life has loaned you-
a lemonous sun, as ashes belie the anthracite
smoldering in clandestine doubts and rarified hope.
This world is teeming with life without irony. Teeming with you-
like a vestigial immortal, entranced by a wasp
in an apple tree.

that wind at your back
with my eyes and my name
is me breathing.

those clouds overhead
with hands full of rain
is my song.

that tree by the porch
where you swing -
holds a torch
and my
meaning.

evergreen in your season.


II

those butterflies
that can’t tell
the flowers
about you….

are telling them all
just the same.

they know all about
how my love
surrounds
you.

and now they’re
doing the
same.

your feet smell like gumdrops and moss.

i was born when the nothingness had grown weary of my absence called upon to blunder through mortality's purpose
swollen like a pufferfish in a pond of mercury
so gorgeous everything’s okay.
after that, i was born again but not from love’s Freudian vendetta with eternity.
but from an organic siege of my previous incarnation,
born from a wound in the guitar buried in the garden.
i never leave anywhere the same as not being there actually.
i absolutely almost there
at all..

all of my Islands have honeycombs and harsh bark
where shrubbery blubbers in too much sun
and halfwit Karma blunders in a cup
of unquenchable designs.

Wharf ******
on the plank of the following prank.
heavy like Moses.
Ordained by self-harm
and actual Pirates.

breathing Majong Cactus
Where I Temporary
Go.

it's when the very Night itself feels illegal
and yet you trespass every hour of your truancy ...
free to roam the prison of your freedom
as if born to inertia without wings.
without therapy.

And now the moon has fallen softly
from the lips of the velveteen void, to arrest
in the dimple of darkness, disarmed and radiant
as plasma and white cheese
on a black eye.

just above a frozen toadstool, hovering in the crisp of winter night
bejeweled in all the splendor of snowflake and starlight -
a wee lass with glass wings and a tiara of mischievous stalagmites
aglow in the Glamour of Her introspection's vanity
She shimmers 'neath the Moon
and disregards
your gazing.

in majesty.

a lump of coal on the tongue, like a rogue dark star on the tip of an unlit epiphany.
love has its Fools and all the carousels. but nothing can rehearse a reprisal… if the dream
has neither fear of it or notion… all the implausible directions are just ‘round the way…
pole vaulting over stone slogans in the trenches
where wars are Love.
quite naturally.

sometimes you have to breathe
without meaning
too.

it’s all
a part of the plan
how marbles sharpen
their bandoliers of refraction.
In Thrall of an
Angry Sleep.
and a novocaine Ponzi
Scheme,

to mean Nothing
to.

Halting in the frenetic thalamus of a Monday
I recoil into my finery and fluff my mittens
just to be sure.

Outside
the wind is a yowling glamour
of crystalline shuriken.
searing into naked pink
at a typhoons pace
but with all the stalwart
nostalgia-
of a White
Christmas
you Slept
through.

I open the Door
and the air is Spring
on Laughing Gas
Like a Windmill in Don Quixote's
Fan Fiction

and all’s Well that Ends.

Hate is not Theater. But we Know our lines.
Baleful mongers squandering Grace at the behest
Of an Ungrateful Fiction, with Irony’s Teeth
And Doll’s Eyes glaring at the Puppet Master’s strings
To stitch an Excuse to an Impulse
With ancestor hands, chafed by grim and bloodstain
Like windows with dead eyes, locked on a sunset
To best glean the contours
of a Sunrise

At the scene of our every crime.

We know History will not Lie, but our Bibles might…
So we amend our Treaties to serve
The demon at hand. The one that we know.
Slouching quazi-cognizant
In all Splendor, War-Minded and About It.
The Way we lose Our Way
Never Trivial.

The Way We Lose Our Minds

Classic.

Suppose you have your wings
and all wholesome things
palaverous
As undone gravities
Heavy your suspension
Your downward dog, magnanimous…
As all things; UnThing in Twos-
Where arks at bay,
Nest in wet fumaroles-
Of deep Undoing.


Just
A lemon drop
From an average height
Of your Life
With yellow ravens
Random and Implausible
In inaudible Cause.
Black wings forgotten-
Because Atmosphere
Be nowhere near
The Breath
You Lost…

Just to inhale
Where you-

Thought.

Basking in the dolphin sun, frothy pearls of laughter abide.
Children at play... and blue thunder sky blotting out the void.
All around, a great swarm of beatitude, unhinged from the workaday.
A grand tumult of sugar, cast upon the waters of Now.

We eat with our hands.... all dreams.

And have all dreams, somehow.

with all your doom you murk the underdark
of your insipid calamity
caroling the bells of a unique chapel
in the bleak felspar afternoon sun
chiseled from a monolith
of brooding star foam
and jaundiced
tangerines.


with all your dust
you anoint the desolation
of your contemptible
menagerie of free range
left handed oysters
with teeth
and all the sunken eyes
of a drunken leviathan
howling in a marsh
of aggravated
slumber

where the tune
of a misfit
is perfect.

all the time.