wise men hack through tea leaves. pitch their sermons underhanded.
then wander off. they walk divided. as one. seeking;
they merge into a path, more ocean than open road.
a Stillness, of no roman craft, but deeply engineered;
there
they gather to
disperse pamphlets,
more
steam creased and yea thick
than Answers.
they flock to a star made of Not Orchids, with brittle bones.
they sew bubbles to the souls of their feat
of Reason.
they peter pander
to the crocodiles, ticking in The River.
and salt their crumbs of wisdom
with their
tears.

where our daisies nightly… and our minds politely -
just might be
the rightly garments of
our inner varmints.
or Something has just
Might Be.
but something precisely -
has dawn in a vice. armaments shiny.
and all of our beautiful
dying -

dying ignightly.

parentheses.

so Love is outside
We.

odd. i see two chairs.

one room and one room
  
keeping the herd
while the nether
keeps the
paired.

a brute union of tough love and apathy
and middle-class *******
chafing on the sun drenched schema
of our dispossession.
like clever lads with epilepsy
only
the lights change
when
the frequency of
your questions
overclock the
enchilada.

the whole thing. baked in alaska.

striking a match
with a land
slide.

but absolutely, "no slide rules ".

every thing
to scale.

so the truth expands as you extend humility.

like an olive branch
in your boulevard
of baroque
naps.

life, is how sleep gets up in the morning. to yawn at the dream.

and
never quite
seem to remember
to tell

but recalls

he fishes in the pond along the broad abroad
reeling in the glistening skin of fight and splish !
a twitch of atheist, in a rainbow foxhole
pleading to invisible  wire
he prayed would
hit.
when Life imitates Art
the Irony

is Photoshop.

the driven snow is driven bleak
and swirls of ghastly gorgeous
swoon in the nubile gossamers  
of undulating mist.
she is completely mad.
thought she saw a cat
perched in a quails beak...
singing cordial grimms
in a hologram
of dead love.

what are those petals in the iris
of infinity ? are they her soft hands, or papyrus ?
a sheet of hot winters, crinkling in the twilight
smelling of whale song and apple sauce,
her hair in a braid

of ravens.

why do we stumble through the rude Klute of our drama ?
what's the frequency, Kiefer ?
do you want to go bonkers in Yonkers by way of Midwest,
and an all false promise ?
are we dead
comets ?

that leather skin beehive humming in the Hamptons
is just like the ziggarat ghettos of Compton
a fob on a boil on the face of your hidden face
and  a stab at your entrails from the inside; commonplace -
Romans demure to your architect
you'll have your symmetries before breakfast...
let no one forget.

gorgeous ****** suns, gallant in emptiness
a horde of unfettered lovelies, spawning petulant ***** to other *****
a lull of ponderous, a bead of serene, swimming in hot pink mist
and peppercorn wavy gravy.
i slay these dragons to form new words
that Oodle your frenzy
and keep you
for mine .

i keep the squalor of our opulent hearts
in heavenly hovels, and i mushroom harps
in the damp lurch of our fever dream
monastic,

i combine the river with the sea
and swamp the ether of our delicate masquerade.
we don the ribbons of a hag
and scoff the ludicrous
of Sunday.

sifting through aeons of green plums
we stagger in the hollow reeds of the wrong sun
under sorcery and utter love
ginseng in the choir of
our up above

we weave decay

we soon knit with icepicks, our idiot summer.
swinging from the chandeliers of our hovels
boiling rain
in ruby pots

delving into soft focus you can cut with a blade of gasp

we mortgage the unspeakable. we fit small bowls into big ones and speak on misdeeds
that rhyme with chrysanthemum without the letter ' M '.
from an upside-down star

weaving cauldrons of unguarded hope
jiggling in the gelatinous yammering
of a misguided baby god's night terrors  

and you still gotta go to work in the morning.

and for sleep. what's that ?

this is not your typical cathedral
hurling damnation and touching you
this is the gristle of igneous rock
grinding your wings to an absolute stop

bad things have shadows that would rather fall
than never leap in the first place

this is hard to understand but i forgive you for keeping me alive....

this bright spot
that follows rabbits into new holes
churning the placid Samadhi
to favor the whirlwind
of a stillness

you are one of those things-    
all impossible

between dreams.

handing me volcanoes
and ice screams

i'll just die if i live through this, i'll be one of those blithering kisses
affixed to scarecrows of dead laws !
i'll  have the moon enslaved to vigils of contempt
to fibrillate  the zombies in my Disneyland

but you will have to  confiscate my happiness to spite your grace

drowning in your absolute **** me.... i'm less alive !
I dive into the waste of our Time misspent on my older youth
to squander the audacity of my bad faith in you.
how long ? Long by two and then some. held for no ransom
my handsome gifts, fetid in the breach of an angel's unsound siege
[ a little late in the day to be  ] but your love kills boys on the cusp
of manly things with a soft heart -
and twice ******. ***** fiend, no more !
more of a joke in the clog of your humid rust agenda
in this war.
my friends call you " ***** "
but you have ever been -
called  " you ".
what creation has installed
into your core, to most corrupt, distinctly more !
a bath of false in a sea
of course chores
for your Herculean
false adore.
i Love less all
the more !

now
prowling your disconnect, we fret, but you slay best
my dragons at the door.
you strive ! more alive when
this beautiful is more defiled
and your culprit ******, lapsed
in fret and guile.
you amass the serene
into pits of unsworn fealty.
you pledge the wretch
of your false
to the Truth of my Cause
and Defect.
Yes! Yes!
Yes!

and I find you wanting.

And found  
no one.

we cannot sleep when the other is our dream made flesh
as we argue the point of our pointless.
when
all but the altar
believes...
what god says
" yes " ?
and who  needs
a wasteland
when dead cherries sing
our oasis

but winter Springs ?

after the cigarettes and dry wit; the gin beams
a proton of ominous raptures.
the serene hells swelter. the pelt of a gnat for winter.
and you get
no
warning. You'd
think we think we have
the Isis in the
Bast,
but she slips
the fresh net
like a ravishing
dream.

or the one
you forget.

when i am king
you will be strange
and my better angels will laugh
at me, but i will behead
the little piggies.
too gorgeous
to be besmirched
i will unearth your drama
and disown you.

i'll throw flying carpets
at mundane rugs
and shrug an Atlus
at Promethean
worlds
where
i have disfigured
the swan and the mallard
but not the lake.
taking care
to give you nothing
but the very best nothing
my Karma
can mock
and a dime for
your trouble

and be
gone.

for a price.

we're almost nowhere. just one more block...
the town clock a white dot with prayer hands and a mute halo
we inveigle the fireflies in our mantis
our mantras throw tantrums in tandem
we polish lanterns and leave chrysanthemums
for Amish sirens.  your wine a thick miasma of phantasms
a Cabernet of rich spasms in the delicate worm
your apple turns.

off again and another alabaster more pale than actual...
the fat uvula pendulum in the dark tower
where the bats nap in ammonia, fuming with green dreams
that turn black the clock, behind the white solemn.
a virtual girl.

an un-promise promised

one hand over your heart
indivisible

halfway.

the crude graffito bites
and my mind's eye ;
to bonsai the Venus trap -
becomes the fly
on the gall... where cinder blocks
crop my stroll with an odd
wall.
and i stare at the industrial
pittance of delinquent scrawl
punk spittal blistering
the bland strip mall.
i ponder the grit
and the feral **** of the blue nymph
with no bra. her two left hands
harassing her cannon *****.
a can of spray
where paint had been
now at my feet
faint and spent. just seen
as i stepped back...
i verify it's emptiness
by the tenor
of it's
clack.

i walk away
savoring the irony
of just
that.

deep in the clean loamy. in the dark froth of top soil and odd moss - deep
in the tendrils of microscopic cosmologies; fecund and rampant with life -
the long reed holding the wind's note in it's throat
in the failing light, beneath the canopies...
you're gasping. you gasp
at the habit of
love's heart  
and the little things, teeming
in the underneath.
where gnashing teeth are dead leaves.
and yellow is origami
in the dappling
of the sun.

and the peace.

it was not today, when it happened.
strawberries drenched in snow... the variable longitude of our hapless maps
and the whole thing strapped to an invalid,
the regional Apocalypse
of our near kiss. The gun in the hand.
The cool spark of Bibles
and the wrath
of all pygmies.

it was not today, when it happened.
but the choir sang
and worlds between worlds
twirled in the underneath.
and a blanket of Sunshine darkened our pedigree.
but you ate peaches
to dream another
peach

and came from Nowhere...

after me.

your atheist heart at a revival tent. tentative.
van gogh gone. minivan extant. you move to idiot music and the outskirts
of once is enough. many, many times...
you bleed through your harp. you join the diaspora and flee belonging
in favour of a dry between. repetitive.
wheezing orchestral. your long strides clank. you farce and moan...
but Nothing is believable

Till Nothing Happens.

hello Edvard.  i have no umbrellas for your armaments .
only your conspiracy and the last *******, ink dark thinking.
bright charlatans engrossed in their glib de menthe.
no harm in it.
only your heresy is more beautiful than blinking. wink dark slinking -
into frightful. hooligan moons blast evening. again, we miss.
no heart in it.

Rod Serling In The Blue Finch Foie Gras
went peacefully when the proper Authorities arrived
to escort Him from the Pate' to the Patio
but was overheard trading barbs with a flat foot
florid with Aqua Velva; both eyes -
without Harps, Utterly.

the mange of our fuzzy logic is squandered on the imbecile.
and genius is the gene splice of twelve comedies.
a rogue moon in a hooligan.
it jumps the fence and can't jump back. lacking the tool
that undoes the beauty of the obvious.
that quaintly dismisses the Oh ! My ! God !
we cringe in the ether of our ignorance, spooning the villain.  
the Mind is the Common Sense Killer....
it dives and triumphs in the acetone conundrum
of our proximity to dissipation.
the bold features of our doldrums
are the perfect ugly perfection
of our flaws.
our love is the rigid agenda of a massacre.
we the people, are the juvenile, sprained wrist of a boggart !
a Fae dreary.
we have our business in the withers of dead horses.
we are well versed
in the tundra tongue of our flat humor.
we assume the rumors are true.
and the tyranny that freed you
is the misery you
love with
and your beautiful
doom
kissing
a
mirror...

a Thing.

Old ghosts teem amid the fireflies and dim time

stumbles through the variegated dusk, with

glowing plums, how they burden in the dark

those limbs in twisted slumber, threading the

canopy of shadows that embrace the sharp

features of failing day, the oblivious regions of

the end of games that every fate has known

since birth, since breath drew the tongue-

a meaningful word

from meaningless

air.

The little bones of clouds
I used to keep; Lethargic Dynamos of odd begotten piccolos...
dainty mint of pish and tosh
a dandy lark
ellipse and farce, surpassing strange.
Are you then, a ' withering fiction ' ?
an addle carp of Cain's insurrection !
Or a less offensive Icarus
who hails from Sweden?
You, who sold me the bones of little clouds
and kept fair all frost and longing...

Hither go, encased in Larceny
a prince of deep wish
and ill-favored, disjoint Harmonies
Soiling Time... Adrift-
Our mad Geppetto
in waning light

But not quite
as redeemed.
For Hell's Bells have brushed
the tips of my wings
and I'm off -

and aloft

And away.

My thoughts are like gamma rays addicted to *******

Fiending for absolute Truth
Or a new use for Head Space

They come in a swarm that *****-slaps any bats in my belfry

And rational thoughts flash mob
My cherished illusions
Daily.

I'm on the front line
Of a Psychic War with the Brain-Dead !
My Kung-fu is Confused
By Hatred as an Argument -

Racist Beliefs as a platform to start with...
Asinine articles of faith
As arcane Armaments
Immune to subtlety ...Q.E.D. ~
or any proof of concept !

They've kept the Rubicon
Uncrossed by the Curious

Held stock in kerosene
To burn books too luminous
for
Fearful Men, Unaccustomed to Promethean Gifts

And the Unquenchable Flame of Paradigm Shifts

Mortified by any Noble Pursuit

That diminished the Lie

To magnify the Truth.

clean in the filth where the spectre yelps and bleeds
my wrists; bound to betray my hand -
i gather gods, too weak to be
unloved completely -
without vanishing
into blue
what?

spotless in the hell of my blot
in the chambers of my open wound...
i glue glaciers to the sun's heel
and mark time
with shadows -
i cast into other moons  
for lack of a reason
to do otherwise.

in a world
so otherworldly

to love me less
than snails
in clarified
butter

is to play god.

but

you have to be
God's Fool
or the Devil's
yes-man

saying no.

you remark and i flinch in the breeze fantastic.
i blast past it, and return; not unscathed
but ungathered
in the Harvest of our
Misadventures.

I'm an indentured surgeon
cleaving the cancer
from the polyp
of our necessary
illusion.

in this Ocean
I'm not waving...
only drowning
in the wishful.

i barricade tsunamis
to tide-pool
the fathoms of our
fumes.

My lingering fire has failed to consider the ruin.
It has raged an Hour past all Hope... As Providence evaporates -
Long before the Landscape is visible to Angels descending.
My annihilation is complete and yet -
I cannot be Undone !
I Persist in Flames, my Vacuum is Defied !
And what Sorrow comes to understand
Can only be described as The Soul. However vanquished -
I am not Consumed...
Merely swallowed whole.
Impervious to the Luxury of Death.
Though my Inferno has no Talisman.

Instead
A Terrible Will is at Work -
Renaming Constellations
To Suit my Astronomy

Is All.

The ancestral diet of Stars, being Other Stars
has left no scars, save open black and yawning vast.
No retrograde Oblivion... only galactic swirls
and elastic Space between worlds. that never last.

and Eternity.

my modernity nips and pleats my yellow teeth
after long whitening by paste and bristle. i chew the gristle
of the dead sow
and club the weaning pups of Cerberus
with an eyelash and a long blink.
i tread the narrows, flatly -
and conquer the quizzical  conundrums
by simply asking.  
My Rocket Science... laughing
at your grecian urn
to paint the herrings red.

i'm out of my depth.

but yes means 'yes' and we ' no' it.

if Nothing else.

Truth.

To know it
Unadorned in the Raiment
Of My Theory

Completely Naked, and as useless
As pointing in a Congress of Crows

The mortality of Wisdom
Is equal to the span of our Assumptions -
Making a year of devotion, the length of time
you wandered in circles
convinced of
Something; Reality could not Fathom

Nor any wisdom prove

The Truth is how Reality assumes a shape
Before the Things to come
Assume otherwise.

So our Lies have been tampered with...

before our eyes.

up late with cream. flecks of chocolate are burning at the heart of the sun
the one in my chest. a new moon in the zodiac of wet kisses.

you live in a house.

i live in an old thing, young enough to love you.
a shard of glint. a true tick, head buried in your angels

we're working it out.

a dead trumpet, resting on the desiccated lips of a fallen angel, a desolate scorch of hemispheres
blasted and puerile...
primal dross from the furnace of all agonies and heaps of time, hoarding hours in pain to multiply the bias to ill fates as a happiness, her madness has never known
[ on the inside ]

a dread comet, branding the optic nerve of a blank stare
into oblivion
in a closed loop of integrals of self hatred
outlasting the venom of god's scorn, by an order of magnitude
her blight, dwarfing the locust swarm of dead suns
bleeding black ink in journals that document her heart's delirium, in crude states -of silent rage at a billion decibels
[ on the white page ]

a barn door, torn from the hinges of a tempest and marble goats, chiseled from a monolith of dark thoughts
to be sacrificed on the altar of pitch dark
there are sigils that burn in the dense fog, and everywhere a banshee of rogue hope and a siren of fine dreams....
and here there be oceans
[ and no map ]

legions of invisible hornets living in every atom of two red lips

lips that would kiss and be kissed
but seldom disembark from tar pits and windswept tragedies
and fell words that plunder her true thoughts for anything
toxic enough to **** the conversation with a lost god...
bilious fountains of lost joy
sterilize a pregnant pause. and yes
aborts the spirit

[ from no throne ]

NONE OF THIS EVER HAPPENED BUT IT DID

your nightmares had their petrol and fondled the dead pools of your eyes.
they troubled the next world you just got use too
but then; you had that thing with your eyes.
you bit the moon in some kind of
bite the moon why ? not frenzy.
you kept your cell clean
but bartered for mice
that harbored a cat's
hate,

you sleep with jewish nuns from the planet Stop.
you shared dreams with neanderthals of ponderous love.
you had Novocaine to talk too.
the brilliant sleep of Houdini and Passion.
you had your demons sweep the floor of your cave
and you ain't been seen
since you got
that way.

gone are the things you had before the having was all ready false.
you might slip into a giant's maw and cling to the uvula of " now what ? "
i remember your scars like broken promises in a prom dress.
you had your soul varnished by madness and black cotton...
soft tufts of rough judgement and lightning
and bad blood. a conglomerate of was.
you're impossible if you might be you.
i dream you
a wrinkle
in a Paradise

for all the right Reasons

for you.

on a good day
the ice is cutting your feet
but it looks like you're -
walking a seabed of roses
and red bells
shivering in silver molasses
and your far away eyes
seek oblivion and
mercy...
but you can't think
of anything
to dream.

on a bad day, you can't smoke scotch
so you drink it. you burn matchsticks
and croon lunacy with thick lips wishing
and rude plumes of an ash life.
you can hardly bark, but your bite's slipping
and the fruit is straw and dung
but the sugar,  black
in the white
flesh.