there is no summer in my skin but the bees and the lint
clinging to the flop sweat of my invisible dreaming. clinging to my notion
of anything Other than this.
i have clover in my teeth and James Joyce in my marrow like a cog
in fever… I keep leaving you where I found myself at a loss.
but i return with a poem always
to breadcrumb you out.

but here’s the thing….
my kind of disrepair is a healing cacophony that has the music
that kills the lover the most. Life is the whirligig of a purpose
Loving harder than a grave mistake.
And all time is a momentous conclusion
that continues.
without a Cause.

Just my kind of broke.

II

there is no summer in my skin… only January's tongue
kissing dark and cement.
a slim hemisphere of wide eclipse
on the thinkless edge of my enormous
insignificance.
i come from a horde of unhinged things
where rabbits run like blank stars on garters
the Creator gave to women
for to hear them
bargain… in a silhouette
of extinguished
hard loss.

Regardless.

My kind of broke is how i know this
for no reason… and my charms
clink in the soft spot of my terminal Forever.
Mocking the Everafter
of a wrong Sun

all night.

we have
clocks that don't tick.
but everything's
a clock.

we keep breathing because it’s simple.
our cherry pits are cherry pits.
full stop.
not banquets of blossoms on duck fat amethyst.
we have the gravity
of all the missing.
you have the eyes of a golden cut.
i have the heart of an eye
on a Guillotine.

just a **** where a God should be.

slumber is Chinese. and I am ghetto, Wittgenstein.
my eight legs sprawling into walrus paradigms.

we love the fish
but hate the WalMart.
so in a sea of punk living, we are invested
in something more than Art.
but much less than Unreal
Life.

II

you pay for everything you Love.
you have as much Cancer as Virgo….
You have no idea Why
You have no
You.

in your crystal purse of tech
your anthems
cabal.

III

As alone you always do.
something dark
is All.

from the throat
long bees
that sing honey
with every sting.
like a ghost in
the chest...
where your heart
is a choir
all day,
and the nights
are Yes.

Love is in the shape of a law that allows for pain and perpetual twitterpation.
In the torus of a whipsmart affinity. Love unfurls like a petulant fog
beneath a clear sky of Nightfall’s empathy.
hoarding stars in fathomless boys without girls-
all the while, Filling a Void.
you can’t complain when The Universe
holds your tongue.

And You haven’t Rehearsed.

I don’t
often surrender
but when I do, I win.
I give up and go
all in.
I take the risk -
out for a
stroll.
I linger where
I fall
in

as fools do, i do in a maze of undoing.
I roam the cataract -
a ghost, woven into spinning smoke
and double stitched where the hymns are bleak
with a wry giddy disaster for a smirk
with the most lost eyes.

and then I [  ]

we talk about it…
but we know better -
how the rain can be a place
where nothing
grows.

better than ourselves
we know this.
before Tomorrow
even knows-

It doesn't
care.

the earth
took a dare called ‘ spinning ‘
and wound up in your catastrophes
strapped to my everlasting retreat
by the heel of my approach
from a constant ache in the brain -
as stalwart as a legion
of blind corpuscles in the arm
of an errant worm.

or there’s beauty and poetry
bleeps it.
a symphony of solitary
narcoleptic rainbows
barking at your scars
with gossamer private
thoughts.
either you wail at the wall
or you mummenschanz
where you want.

or where you’re
Not.

Fall had fallen and red leaves bled red-yellow against a moist dun brown
and all the world sank away from pure sunshine
to a depth of rainbow decay -
As a chill lay over my introspection
like a caul of wrong fire
for a human face.

But I was all there…  with many questions
and counter-waits.

Forever is only half as long
as a question mark.

without debate.

what is the future talking about? i can’t understand.
it’s like reading lips in a blindfold made of all
the wishes a genie would laugh at.
it’s like singing into a deaf noise
that only hears you when you
eat your feelings without Siracha
and call upon a thousand urges
to Undie.

what is the future talking about? I can’t tell.
I’m too busy marketing my ****** self to my **** Self.
I sleep with my eyes closed
but I open my petunias
with days upon days
of Allure.

maybe you have too many lights in your fingers
and too much dirt under your nails
so now miraculously you can play guitar
without chords you know…
and songs without hearts
you chose.
not all poems have a choice
but every verse has
a noise.

maybe you have too many atoms
and that’s what’s wrong with you
trying to be Nothing-

maybe that explains the pearls in your head
and the long braids in your
ending.

woven into every step i take is another one… snagged on a pause.
but i egress… regardless. so stubborn with my solipsis
i gain an inch for every mile i disbelieve in.
and my limestone plumage softens the sky
of a hard god.

your periwinkle is all the blue corn on yellow-green stilts
simmering in the solitude of a raging silence…
where the moon is closer than you think
but you can’t be sure how many moons in a night sky
makes another world.
on the brink of an everlasting disarray
you can go for days without boys
that remove the sun from its perch
to impress a devoted
zodiac. wilting in a ravenous
Tea Cup.

i have enjoyed our talks
on the rim of The Rhine.
bathed in golden fleece to the tune
of passing ever by.
i have lept into a margin of Paradise
the width of a splinter in a cloven hoof.
i have known you from the beginning demise
of my hearts’ quiet.
i have supposed
unloving you
is not required.
i must always
and always must be
an entire
impractical
agog.

I love you
and that's
because

have you ever been “ path blind“?
i suspect you have/are and we meet
where the moon is Mars.
and that's ok by you -
as long as we talk about the Limbo
in my teeth and not the nothing -
in your fear.

but I’ve come this far
to tell you a story

if you don’t
mind…

[  i have a Mind for You. ]

with words that finish when you do.

II


it was no November as much as an under- June with a callous cap of snow
for a sun, and all the peanut brittle in the Universe.
November, then, was a remarkable Moth that knew
an incandescent flame from a Terrible Beginning…
and our youth -
is the  difference continuing
to fear the light,

euro trash savvy.
and outta
sight.

it was no November on the map of things, it simply wasn’t polite.
the leaves abandoned their posts and drifted down below the feet of angels -
once pale green, but now in anguished orange, as floral as a living thing...
but dead. and on the ground. at an angle.

can hardly move
outta the rain…
even under a blue
sky.
even with you,
i’m gone

and Time is where
everything Happened wrong
just right.,,,

a flawless agony.

so the lock that
murdered the key
to my heart is
My Heart.

like a law of
gravity.

balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the over wild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious!
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain!
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of Sylvia Plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists!
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts

for gospels.

gone and more gone my going
in too much snow without rubies.
my breath is a pike
in a stream…
churning in frigid whorls
of unbelievable
Beatitude.
crisp air dangling from a yellow star
with all the blue in the world
perpetual.

gone and more gone my going astray
into the wilds of my Destiny…
slumbering ‘neath the void like a dragon’s egg
in a hammock of all
Calm.

in the hour of my dislocated Id
purging the snowblind hedgerows
of my blighted mind.
where the minute of my larks are loons.
plump silver spoons in a pool of moons
sleeping in a manger.
in the Tempus, my time has more swiftly
become invalid
in a maze of white noise algebra
deriving the sum of madness
by dividing by an infinite
collapse.

then and there i see The Map
of my extinguished constellations
in favor of holes where
there used to be -
painless days. The world shone there
with too many Orchards for too many Wines.
no casks of vinegar
have gone missing.
as they lay under rubble
and stiff winds. where I could find them.
i see the gossamer clouds of a mind
at the mercy of a somber pondering…
and islands of remote cacophony
in every sea of damage -
nameless.

and Hope.

where the islands are gone.
for they had sprouted
wings.

and moved to a pond.

in this case, an ermine fool
has too many hats, but alas -
too few heads.

the Jacomo laughs
out of turn.
and jokes lay spinning in amber -
ever devoted to the premise
of an Absolute Laughter…
As sonorous
As Entropy.

or a silent disaster

cloaked in the
strange robes
of a naked.
question.