Are you not what i always wanted ?
if so, i am thankless and crib death mysterious.
i am ****** and clarity
if you are not to be
what's mine.

you are confounding compounded. a rough in the smooth crime.
a jinx in my saving grace... and a loon.

if it be so, that we cannot connect
then let me set my sparrows to arrowheads
and fell the beasties of my wayward
skylarking -
so they may know a noble death in mid-flight
where the downward
and the Midnight are -
eyes, still chirping absurd love
at your dissonance
with cold
blessings.

but give me this.

keep my hands in your robbery.
intertwine my fingers to lay prints
on whatever you stole from god.
let me share the fall
and the fault
so that we may yet share
a single living
Sting.

elsewise,
the ruin and the peck
is only your wound
chirping
and my song is mute
as a victim
in a flock
of ill.

or a grain of hope
in a scarecrow's
eye.

cool outside and we glide through the crowd like leather smoke and charm.
arm in arm we stroll. with old souls, younger than ourselves. it's sublime -
as we change our perspective. we shadowbox with our past regrets
but we paddle upstream to our extremely good.
we are two, blushing in the embers
of almost perfect.

then we kissed.
that kiss tumbled from our lips
in languid waves of heat and ' yes '
it torched our comfort zone
and left sage and sandalwood
twixt the tender toes
of our not so snail's pace.
my hand on the side
of your new face.

facing we.

i cracked the code. god'll forgive me. ' you ' shut up ! do not cross
where the scarabs calf their adders
be more black than the last
vast strip of night
across miles and miles
of wide expanse
be more
advanced and
water tight.

somehow i slipped in
and languished. i evolved in the cracks of the moon -
and killed a sparrow of moments
in the dense room of Being There.
if i trouble the waters, it's news to God.
and the vipers in the sun
spit Mondays
like a bullet from
a gun.

i'm beside you
but my shadow cast -
has merged with yours
or it's high noon.
i'm like a breeze
in a hurricane.
a trumpet made
of bricks
and wishes,

i'm there.
but the stars are not my stars.
and my heart is not
the center of
the world.

my codpiece has mobbed the boundaries of good taste
and pickled the tail on the mule of my magnificent waste
and i've coughed up a dime of your tripe in my damage
so leave me the methadone  and please please please
manage.

here. hand This to your ludicrous drool.
pool the view from your ***
into the solid miasma
of your shameful
truth.

give back the cancerous hustle
of our demented clutch !
and much be the flowers
that curse
you

for lying, waaaaaaay to ******* much.

one single you of mine
ahead away far long offshore your eyes
to me appear, a cabaret of stars
my child
the infant space to fill
the hole and i
complete my seed
her tree
to life, bring one
single you of
mine.

Mark of Cain in my hemoglobin, i'm more open to repast on brains.
to dine on flesh enmeshed in baseball parks and homes restrained
by greed of the same. and the cry of the people takes great pains
to refine the message of a blank stare. a blemish, stark with catacombs
disarranged in harm honey. the ogre of pine. the amber pane
where we bleed. we name nameless, by the by,
to the finish.
but not
alone.

up your petticoat with my blind cleaver. my Occam razor to your stain.
a fine mess express in hateful art and boneless jade
we feed on the frame of our reference. skylarking harmonious curves dismayed
by their own mind. they confess it. at the statefair. replenished, they knish in falderal
disengaged from honesty. the poker blind. where the eye staid.
where we need. we need most ... tell ya why.....
to diminish
but not
atone.

and so it goes. i erode the continent. sneaky pete in the crease of all strange.
itchy feet. maimed in false lies of the ripple. made fake
to real love. unclaimed. a gangly part of broken promises made
we retreat at last. with our last mimes. we undress. with savoir faire. distinguished in our dashery
ill fated. calamity's bark. hard to define. where the mind misbehaved.
we're complete most where the hole resides...
to imprison
but not
hold.

The East is singing. Like a slug of happy Banshee
at a salacious angle across my decedent pillow, while my phalanges
***** for your waist like a sleepwalking magnet
to the sun-drenched ***** of an impossible Mermaid.
It's Josephine for Breakfast….and all is steam.
And I Amazed.

Leaving you in the desert exhausted my reserves
so it rained.

your joyous plague failed
singing casual exposure
in the key of
removed

like a tongue     in the deaf ear
that hears you

Cid ran rancid in the cobweb lisp
of your ankle bracelet
broken light, weaving cracks in the mundane
your small feet
crystalline

my everything unbound

and enslaved.

the heat
of your frigid beak
in the spark that froze you -
blasting the center mass
of a pearl of wisdom.

you shudder to think -
because stillness; distracts you.
you are samurai.

if the cherry blossom is a wandering stranger -
with a bounty. as well as your Emperor.

and the Crane, a loon.

I've swum these waters
and the waves know my butterfly- stroke
but not my cocoon.
i've stretched as far over -
a crashing wave,
as may a Starling, over a worm
in a lipid pool
of an unagitated eye.
where an apple
might .

and that is all.

and all is
like.

every canary has a star in its' mouth
that can stop a .50 caliber bullet. and little black eyes.
the south face of a north wind
has always been polite
before shattering your bones,

it is peculiar, but the very thing that makes you breathe
makes you need too.
the fix is in.

II

cruelty is the soft grit of pitch dark.

III

every canary has another word for suffocation.
it rhymes with kerosene and licks its' teeth.
it sleeps in the barn. Feasting on horses -
and dung.
it sounds like falling and glowing, but feels like
extinction. it obliterates the need for another word
for Hope.

Or something else as trivial... to abandon.

this dawn has no sun... it has an eye.
it is nothing but dreams and a risen Christ.
the long beyond behind me, is the avalanche... the tremors
in a golden misery. a blunder on glass stilts.
this dawn has to step outside -
to have a mirror. it has to bake the clay
that made a man.... into
an iron wisp.

it has to occur to God
to have your entropy be a deep kiss.
to obliterate the schedule of planned events
and substitute the void for the real fear.
is has to occur to Us
to have no reality other than this.
to celebrate the anvil of cartoon antics
and most refuse the void
with the mind clear.

' bout a train don't come.... been always here....
sinking into the ravines of your cabbages
and sulking in the mulch
of some soiling ambrosia.
a cure for Krackens  in your refractory-
stammering the diphthong  
of an adjacent
howl.

but not quite an amethyst
at rush hour  

but a diamond in
the hush.

a black diamond
within us.

the klaxon carols of your grief belie the golden pipes of your madness.
the cherubs embedded in your lost happiness
slip through cracks in your voice. James Joycean.
the fugue, your discord dims, seeps through the gauze
of your field dress. your wound holds the root note
oozing Rorschach ~ Rachmaninoff
jungian etudes allude
to a deep you at the bitter end
gnawing on sweet bones to marrow sip
from the holy grail and -
a humble pagan ***. i greet you at the airport, barefooted.
found you
talking to a cloud
in your blue sky *****. it was shaped
like an anvil cloud in your iris
watched as you forged
lightning bolts -
fit to hinge
heaven's
door.

we had the same flight at two different altitudes.

and i loved you more.

i threw the stone and it went however far
and my arm grew tired; puckered at the rotary cuff
like a cannon ball in a poached egg of oak sap...
i threw the stone and saw my breath thread
through the placid brilliance of immovable calm.
i watched how the aphids were gone
and kept a journal in braille and short-hand
in Kubla Khan's Garden.
i longed for the valleys i had never swept away
by descending from such heights
as i pondered the yonder god
of a misplaced
dream. so exhausted,
i stood in the damp muck
legs apart, straddling -
odd rocks and thin grass.
i wavered in the stillness
of ceased motion
and tarried in the Calliope
of throbbing in the Sun.
a fawn in the furnace
of a loving
lost.

in the old grass we found lead weights and paraffin
arranged upon smoke and earth... gilding the cannibal suns
with flesh-tones and bedsores. we forged ahead
of our Heads again
in disarray.the long Joke of Birth... tilting the rhombus.
we cumbersome.

your paradise is giving me hell... yet -
we bark at the same moon
and all's well. we strike the brass bells of our Wednesday
and keep havoc on a leash. drinking mint tea... pealing anguish
from a flask... stalking clarity with a cowbell -
spoiling ribbons of the sun
with night streaks of blind lemons
coiling in the blue sky of dread reckoning... a periscope
in the marsh, festooned with limp reeds and wild things...
my eyes clunk in the Mcguffin
and go the way of Eastern men with rope tricks
it clicks on the steam in my kettle
where harm has a hammock.
and a gentle breeze typhoons
in a fools mouth.

as the whirligigs of Autumn
preach Spring

in Amsterdam.

i'm left out.

it's like we don't love
as we do the very thing
and soft blows
are not so much
when you think
how low...
and the devil
in the details
is your
tailor.

we cannot spoon
where the fork in erode
is a wellspring

my hands are tied but free
to be as feeble as sunlight in chains
where the dark is aloft and mostly
the shunned are anointed
by the cut.

what lingers in the pit has had a viper for breakfast
and the whole
hole

for now.

if the brand new day is more elsewhen
than the right now...
find your joy
and jump for it
when the Earth is more small
than the gravity.
when the simple thing
is more gone
than an apparent dream
slumbering
where the caste is a husk
of no thinking.

drink fear and be done with it.
sour your oats
and bring the sea to your fathoms.
be one with the ghost
of your mad madness .

be glad at your march
into rude sadness.

be one with your never
as completely
as you dive

darkly. as
ever.

As Ever.

in the whisker mists of Avalon and the burnt toast
the golden spool of your precious and the lingering annihilation
of so dangerous an absolute.... the mad flute in a gale. an unassailable loon !
i suppose now         the autumn in our wires and the fox too foxy.
we will never gather serpents
in the sweet
bye and bye.
like two jewels on a wednesday
my usual nemesis has struck again and the harbinger of our nexus has just missed.
and the wine in the thimble has never known how quiet
you can get... just rumors .
the couch is worn where we sit. it dips where we recline
in the ludicrous.

before the world ends
begin.

that you may not love
is the haunting.

where your ghost is rain
your mind clouds.

and nothing is foreseen
like the past.

II

in the long watch of this blindness
we are surely rogue begonias
needling the impenetrable nethers
of our low coronas
we jest in the rage of our humors
gilding the uvula
of our golden throats
trilling in the infinite sublime
and gain no quarter
note.

unabridged, we straddle the span
of our chasm.

and there,
we seek to stand apart
from whatever wounds
we fathom.

You have a Wednesday stuck to your oversized, hand-me-down, turtle-neck sweater.
The one with a hole in the elbow of your right sleeve.
It was hand stitched by a real machine, but not in Ireland.
You have a Wednesday snagged. Perhaps a loose thread became entangled, midweek ?
And now you have Wednesday, everywhere you go....
I only mention, because I noticed...
And it totally goes with that Monday
In your eyes.

Is that your Existential Crisis; parked right outside ?
I hope you fed the meter.
I can see where you spent your spiritual currency.
From every angle, simplicity of design !
Just a chasm and no plot. Elegant lines -
That wind up vanishing from the ' Unspeakable Frame '
Beyond the Border of What You Dare Think...

I have one just like that !
But mine has a concrete hunch about the whole thing.
A suspicion engine
So nothingness can't seem to live without me. But -
I see you have that thing you just hope isn't the truth
And I used to have that -
But now I just have a Headache.

I'm crushing on your Ayn Rand funeral parties
And that outrageous, bobble-head Doubting Thomas on your dashed hope.
Let's sit at that table by the window
And stare at each other as long as the window has nothing in it.
That should give us aeons to get to know each other.
There's no Law that says " I'm sorry for being such a stupid Law "
So without pause, we should defy our Separateness.
I'll ask for a clean fork in the road
And we'll see what that get's me....
Ah-ha !
I finally got a laugh
That didn't come from inside my skull.
A laugh that had good taste in men, and no idea where it came from -
But remembers how the couch made the carpet work.
The Abyss goes with everything, but you left it in the closet...
You know -Why unpack ?
That laugh was naked.
It gave me those Goosebumps
That can beat up Other Goosebumps.

Would you like to have some chai ?

butterflies seize power. your chin is in-my meteor;   however downward my star flint. you maximize decent. Olay ! red cape fear. your toro, china shops-  around. you mount an upset, upset.
you break my things. you spiral.
Keats repeats
the maelstrom of
a new thing bale-some
and then some

a lark's comet...

wails some, how sweet. how sweet.

your gloom frost is hot. you're fun with a broken spine.
but you seem  [ in it. ]

you seem as neat as a breach.
a stop. signed...

"unfinished..."

On my knees
where the sparrows
nova... and the long, thin
whiskers of Time
thumb the fob
of our dissident
Luck.
The schoolgirl in your mind
knitting halos with amethyst
sins.
a poor cloud on the veranda
of our unhappy Manse,
and a quarter moon
to lie
too,

Polaris in the eastern sky, intertwined with the gallop of gargantuan and the heathenous whimsy of untired daily life...
the gross note of our chorus, rushed through the tube of time in long haste of a brief reply.
ten feet from each of the deadly sins, we ride. the callous pompadour of our fashionable hate
and the rake in the face gag, with all the right people
to betray you.

an asterisk in the tween of your teeth, with the casserole lights and the marvelous crushtones of your raving denial.
the most goon of your impunity, lewdly. the fresh ruin of your mind in the wrong place for the least why.
ten feet from each of the deadly sins, we ignite ! but yet the breadth of our complete meaning bewilders late
into the hour
of our
hour

by the minute.

we are not clean in the way that clouds pound lightning down on golf carts. we are circumspectral.
we soil by way of true love tossing cankers and spleen-balloons by strobe-light.
we have ginger eyes that scheme the tombs of our docile rictus
and the barbed lush of our offending reconcile.
we are not clean where the filth is excellent, but where the pollution is exquisitely the least meaning.
full of some Life in the Death.

my dearest, my darkest... yes we have no sphere without the cubicle and useless timepiece.
we have no light. save the dapple from a distant blur, upon the surface of a placid lake
of chill fire. a remote scope of reason on the fringe of a boundary
we had no faith in, but a religion to hate with.
we came from the sacred and bled
for the fake **** that drove us
Mazzy.

I'd Fade Into You.
and be some kind of real.
and you'd have to be.

a good thing is a Unicorn. but one that bleeds.
in the Harlem of our garden, a Cyclops plots
against our flock of sheep.
we are teetering on the brink of an awkward laughter
reverberating off of false Gods.
we are dithering the quince and the steam
from our dull kitchens, casting pots,
against the harangue  of bleached dreams -
and the nethers of our sworn clot

virtuous notions
and dim
thought.

i used to be like you. now i'm like me. and then some.
been some fun . with only
one sun and
one moon to run from
when the sky
is people
and all steeples
are non-flyers
we have priors
but know
porcelain and sea-foam.
been undone.
and  
dead of Night
prone.
of no use
and no fun. on one lung.
for two
demons.
thems that be numb be numb ones  and not none that feel some.
they feels none. and not one shuns but
some be done with one love. and then some...
then someone's
the next no one
and then
what ?

in the woods,  i was a boy of twelve summers
lanky and spry, my shadow faithful to my heel
as i trek. i suspect no doom. the world loomed
imperial.
in the woods, i was a boy who dwelled, tunnels -
deep in the sun.  my halo, entangled in my horns
my forearms red. i reject no truth.   i hurl moons
aerial.  
over white picket fences. i blend in with wild things
calmly.  i move through    the rough shrub and ivy.
[tall grass.]
lashing mid-thigh... bare skin, drum tight. cooling
where the wind kissed. my innocence inveigled
in the turbulent dusk.  bucks rut, then
lock horns; dueling
magnificent.

in the woods
i was a boy
who dared.

this dream has no other dream
it lingers in the fair Between
and seldom in the inkling think the slightest thing
less interesting
than an overture, an ode to Odin
or a stillborn child's

twitch.

in a box of halos  you will find petroglyphs in the hollow of bright yellow sugar-cube skulls  with red dots
you will spread the virus. or hire lemmings to do your bidding in your war
on angels with too many arms. on those little plastic shakers, with the little holes: filled with glitter.
your annex of Poland, last june, and your Easter revolution... i could go on. no less bitter.
but many harms have visited your dullard nova
you could spit in god's hand
and fix your cowlick with your reflection.

Burnt pills, The southern germ fasting northern lights and serene akimbo.
some jagged ripples and the placid godiva
our horse, back, but our blind worms !
the stumble of surety, limping through the coffins
of our glib sleep.

we unmirth the Ferris Wheel

but have no one.