pull them weeds from yonder brick, be quick... bedazzle me with corduroy and ambergris
be thick as thieves; be all things faithful to the shadow, and in your passing scrye
the odd ghost. decry your abominations as the fodder of false hope clothed in the style of the regent
of Amiss. on the Isle of a Man.
clip the nettle from my tongue where i'm most stung by misdeeds. amplify my misery with a joyful
peroxide, the living thing in your  chest of winters. your remarkable damnation in full blossom.
more awesome than fog diamonds in wet eyes grazing on refractions of something unknown
and that's how you see it.
a gargantuan
sliver
of
now

love is how this is.
the kind of visceral missive from a heat-seeking missile
to a wet spot temple. a rogue thumb
on the throttlesome pink of an eager peak
in the drowning boat. where the Man, whistles...

there are No Thistles

but Yes ****.

only a poet knows what a genie wants
and that's to be expected. Melville sent a whale to do a man's job.
a poet is all desires haunting quills with soft focus
poets are known to fabricate the actual
on nights with no moon.

unhopeless.

when the kettle shrieks, for soothing green tea -
and the autumnal hum of the orange-yellow leaves of a sycamore
skedaddle in rust sparks across brown lawns with pink flamingos
lobbing their profiles through the Iris of blank stares...
like a field of poppies screaming anthems to ******
down a drain pipe...

when the kettle snipes at the supremacy of an eventual Silence -
that comes after the snow has hushed the rabies of our hustling tribes.
when it barks in the glint before attention span is wide enough to grasp it... when it's lodged in your throat
way back, behind the winds of your vexation... There !
breathing-in the Last Thing to ever make sense
and squandering the calm before a storm
for the lightning strike of a fresh ****
of an old
Lie.

be the very first to listen to your tea.

while you were hawking your unawares
i was peddling snow to Eskimos.
they where ' into-it '.
i was intimate with the monkey's paw.
and you

you
lit glory through a hole
in your argument.
you cut it to ribbons
for your hair.
and danced with everyone
by your
Self.

by your self.

we have our tongues wrapped
around things
we cannot
speak.
we have but to open a door.
but that's lost
all meaning.

you keep your secrets.
but keep them very loudly...
you're always choking on
whatever it is
you really think about
me.

There is trivia

but our terrible symmetry
could no more abandon
beauty
as the universe
could abandon infinity.
the creator
of this moment
has no motive ulterior
to the cause.

The destiny of stars is no bad destiny.

There is trivia.
Then there's
you.

With our lips we keep our lips sharp
pursed whetting stones to push the air
over the bleeding edge  
of feigned civility.
        
caught up in whiplash   we act in tandem
jamming signals from signs
that read " don't tread '

carping 'bout the vitriol of honest venom
our black adders    subtract     to replenish

frothing at the mouth of the Ganges
To be at last

diminished.

winter has crept from it's cathedral with it's blue loom of white sod
against black crows and over-coats. we awaken in our separate pause
and modify our crumpets with thin icing,
drizzled over moon faced scones -
as golden as your marmoset of port wine
and wrinkled wheels of cheese...
at a moment's notice.
you float through the open window where crescendo the crisp winds and the bacon fats
rendering in the musk of firewood, oaking the nose of the decanted day
the early hearth of heaven, now powder blushed and rustle thrum
with skylarks larking in the luminous icebox
of barely sunrise.
your eyes sparkle and my antlers score the aspen bark
on a lost acre of our thickening plot.

we love a lot.

our tongues will regret yet, the very things we really mean.
before breakfast. rough tongues of the young, too thick to stick a pin
in sorrows with subtext, are not our tongues. we are not, not gone.
we are less than really here; right now. you live out of clouds
around the bend. if you intend to sleep as deep as that, then keep
the keys to the chariot, but lose this address.
i know butterflies that hate you.
these are butterflies
you have never met...
and yet
a fret of miles gain an inch in hell. our tongues tell best, of very ordinary means
by which we end, less. we drone. our own pun; a neat trick we keep.
with love, borrowed. a mock debt; a storm-front of rain-checks
feather our deranged nest. akin to soft sins;
if not wrong, not quite right yet. small crimes.
we will do no time well spent,
any favours.
our clocks are dark.
why mark day one ? and do tell, how so ?
as you know, our sunset
is infinite.
i know stars that hate the night. these stars are deep, so by 'night', meant, 'the night
of our eyes' that by design, no star has ever been -
that did not flee for fear of it.
our night is unkind.
love tortured it. love built stars, painted black. never lit.
decoys, hell-bent in heaven's grip to ******* a flock
of lost angels, locked
in free-fall. our night the basement floor
of all descent.
what stars call ' the bottom of the bottomless'.
we call 'a great place to paint stars black'
fin.

since when, do we not live, and not live to regret ?
our sharp minds are unkempt, but the truth did this.
our lies were tailored, so **** fit. smokescreen jacket, 100% smoke.
double stitched.
that camouflage camisole  ? pure silk.
somewhere, a web of deceit
is telling a fly
about a hot librarian
with black wings.

with your face.

good with scissors.

she wove a façade with her heart in her left hand, behind her back. this heart wept.
these lies found god. when their faith increased their number...
god was family.

i knew    that would make you laugh.

i didn't know laughter could ask for asylum.

this will be dealt with. our games are serious spirals.

our vendettas our enigmas.
our humor; inscrutable.
our telepathy
is disarmed

but never harmless.

when people like us shoot from the lip ? it's a massacre. hollow points, custom made -
black powder ? an unnatural understanding of love. and dry wit, unhinged...
our bullets ?  Bullies Of the Highest Caliber and fluent in 5 languages; doubtless,
The Envy of Contempt !

when people like us shoot from the lip ? with our tongues, armed to the teeth ?
our teeth; a full set of white knives. with our vanity...
bleaching carnivorous
stalactites by day.
stalagmites by night ?

do worlds burn ?
does Sigmund Freud ?
I do not know.

I am certain only, of the following -

" when two persimmons make a pair... lethal persimmons."
" when two pears make one false move... persimmons are like '**** pears !'"
" when persimmons are paramours... and we too, make a pair...?"

Rosemary's, baby persimmons ?

i can tell you there is no such thing as 'collateral damage' at our level of expertise
and nothing bleeds without a permit.
to attain said permit, a wound, from the future -
must send a genuine moment of weakness to the past. after analysis...we verify.
from here, our methods diverge.
but our dis-ordinance
is acquired.

when our gauntlets demand satisfaction, our custom is to trade barbs.
at this, we excel. we trade without deficit.
our accounts are immune to frenzy.
our balance:  pathology.... then

it's 'tongues at twenty paces'
and someone
gets hurt.

by rote we joust... by now, your flank is.... exposed.
so, my dread rose... my blanch thorn... know -

Twenty paces will always be nineteen paces from a kiss.
but it will never be
'only nineteen'.


if you laugh - this has always been true.
if you don't - this has never been a lie**.

are you one of those people who love things
and Oh My God you're pregnant
with a pause ?

i am your poet drinking skin
dreaming how you wrote nothing
so that i may

blue gems scowl in your footnotes  " To Self "
i pin miracles to your pout....
a fetish for a simpleton

in your complex.

The scent of you on my hand and lips
lingers in my dream and limps
through my every day,
I am consumed as I resume my dull way
through the heart of an indifferent
novocaine.

it was like mars had lips to speak of us....
last we met wetly and the Earth moved
from the hole I'd chosen to die in.
we were both of Us
tying to come about
from a dim luck... as we ******
at each other's rust
where our steel was frost and numb
but our towers gleamed young
and less ridiculous
than a close shave
in a black room

too beautiful
to refuse a sun
too small to be a star
and yet too huge
to be
removed.

II

It was a Wednesday
when our Tuesday asked
for Tomorrow
back.

We lacked the skill to atone
for our fumbling
but conjured our errant will.
you had smoke in your dark brown eyes
and I had both eyes
on your wanton thighs...
we clamored toward Utopia
clutching no heavenly thing
save our fire
in Ice.

III

Lately,you seem one with the gone swans.
and I know how they forage thru unforgivable
songs...

but the scent of you lingers on my fingertips
Like a long dawn.

A sunset, upset...
where the light keeps
every dark
gone,

and all the rest
inept

this plane will dive.
we are less alive with no stroke. with no bleed in the cerebellum.
you could laugh through the apocalypse and not tell 'em. you could leave but stay put
in vellum.
in airtight jive. we are less alive with no joke.
with no need in the antebellum
of the one good war
i loved you
with.

Love enough to wrinkle Time
your eyes    in the morning -

gaslight raptures
animate the angels
and nothing condemns
a single peace
to one note

the wavering is legion

as the stars

with more
Hope.

my origami,
a thin line of sunshine and a private war.
the nucleus of an extinct thought, gathering believers
on the outskirts of nearby.

the wrong thing...
a more dead husk than a fresh ****
or a new joke.

[ my long night. the covetous murk of a bright lie. ]

my only calling,
the mute jawbone of an expert hermit.
determined to offend ought
but the sermon

as the enclave denies. the right thing.
a more rapturous con
than a new deal
or old smoke.

a song's blight. luxurious cirque...

denial
and out
lights.

riddle me this and you might repent your sphinx.
or rethink your possible.
you might sink ships to repeat poesidan's wavelength
when your frequency's finished. you may horde minutes
for hours.
your towers aspire
and the roof of the earth implodes.
the blue is real.
but the black behind; the black behind the blue is swollen with stars,
and a dream.
that means
you.

don't be coy.

be god's companion. ramble
through the wonderful and be glad at it.
get comfortable.
you have the advantage. slant your voodoo askew
of the mundane lamps
and ashes
of our daily
spite.

make love and bandit.

adore the floating hum
of your every peace. for
the engines of yes are absurd.
they are the last word
when the first has
said you.

it's the new forever; glaring from the underbrush of our dire hope.

be the wind.
be at least the wind.
and i will teach you
how to read lips
for a blind
ghost

with your
heart.

and no runes.

and no
snow.

The night had brought with it the hush of a thousand  homes, nestled in the raw

slumber of soft shadows -

moon cast,  in white mist and deep groves of impenetrable asymmetries...

a plume of thoughtful blobs in the shape of trees and dozy chimneys,

crowding the dark knolls

of some beautiful  assembly -

An unbearable Elysium, foam-joy and regal

stammering

the eye of our stillness ...

A luminous rush of glories and old plots of dead heavens

shimmering in the dialect

of mute jewels.



The Deep Night, plush and removed; swollen with the dizzy laws that govern such astonishing things -

An unmasked pavilion, stripped of horrors, laying naked in the ether

bejeweled in the common genius of the supreme will...

the extraordinary -

blasting the mundane from it's faint heart into ingots of exuberant ore ~



O'Sacred things that devour flame

to disgorge supernova           As tapestry.....

A garden of stars most hostile

to the ignorance of our darker thoughts -

The deep night gathered in the hollow of rainbows restrained by the clouds

Of a desperate mirror

One that reflects; to love better the Sun ~

but hasn't the Silver to shine.

Unwinding comes upon you.
Out here, your ******* mute the flatness as they rise ungathered....
Breathing for the first time
Silence.
You can't imagine South Africa
You vaguely recall your white brothers
herding your black brothers
into Desperate quarters.
Building separate but disheveled lives
According to the color of their Skin-
Beating your black sisters down
and out of their bodies
To become statistics, to become stains...
To become a dream
you are having in the desert.
Dissolving comes upon you.
Out here, your eyes feed
they fall over the the vast undisturbed evidence
Of God's womanhood, rejuvenating your actuality...

Populating yourself with your Self.

For the first time.
Silence.

And you can't imagine America.
Who can? With it's sweet liberty
And pill grim's pride
Eclipsing every mountainside with billboards
Bright and Wide-
Pointing the way to the next city
you can't find a job in, because you're too old, or too gay
Or too real...
Too bad.
That flag has fifty stars. No Light.
You partially grasp a diluted vision
of having a vision,
replete with Ideals, Shadow Governments and Human Rights but...
Slowly, all that's fading now, to become poetry
To become headlines, to become a dream-
You are having in the desert.
And out here, there are Indians
holding onto something Intangible-
Like deep purple and stray dogs.
Babies being born and weaned on Truth.
And you For the last time

Silence.

True North plummets into my Southpaw
and I swing and miss the gum locked teeth of my Grendel
I waste a day, heaving toward my monster
to gain a moment.
The numb rest...
plucking strategies from a tablet
of fisticuffs and Dragons
of my own resort...
soaring over Hells
as I succumb to the likes
Of You.

Born where the Echoes Stop...
I start a new song
where deaf birds
recite my longing
always.

and as blind
I have the
View

love is the withered regalia of a once plump.

where passion blinks, heat drinks
and stars fall, plastered.
jaundiced in the haunted grove
of our weary retreat
from the *******.

love is the drum, coming. the numb, one thing -
that might matter.
but we have our patterns and the lights flicker
where the loose tatters
knit their treason in the dumb blood
of our heart's disaster.

but love wants
what the heart
is after.

cue the laughter.

these days
i look upon the weary throng and sink my teeth into the pith of dreary
but sup luscious the wrung jewel with my wet lips decanted in the mid night.
i clutch the vocal point in a deep silence and patch the quilt of our unusual tapestry
cinching the knot in our not known, knowing the difference is the same light.
i suspect the heresy of my devotion longs for pink sheets of syndrome and theory
but my church has no steeple. it merely goads hydrocephalic angels to play bingo
in the right light.
i kiss peaches where they hurt. i drive a hard bargain to drink; and I keep my worms
in apples that bob for your eyes.

but not for nothing.

the camphor of your exhale, is me -
easy breathing the tear gas.

i bark like a dog.

i chase habits with discipline; chumming the waters of known sharks
that pray on other oceans and hunt other seals...
like prey.

i'm so elaborate, my symbols call ' time out '
just to catch a glimpse of my
always.

i tangle me.

a morphine drip of metronomes
yawning splendidly... a tide of pools.
an uncommon dress -
in a code, derived from the stomach -
of the throat...the next, next;  and the kept boat
capsized.

no joke.

Ha.

the evening sky
returned the last star
to it's assigned cartesian
inclination
and the night calm of barn owls
sank talons of silence
into modern
noise

the
flame
in the pit
is having
the last
dream

of mesquite  

it's
reading today's newspaper
from last week.
relaxed reeds catching spiders
and baseballs
all this

all this is dreaming

yellow
bruise hemp
swaying  
over sand
dunes

backdrop for my wine glass.

deadline
tomorrow
oblivious

i could see god getting the job done. wearing house shoes.

he's bumping into things
but catching anything that falls
  always always
been good at that
however weary
absolute Love

bottle of wine, breathing
won't tell a soul
by telegraph
when a light buzz
perfectly
encrypts a moment of clarity
and every little thing
about right now
is true

wild sage landing helicopters with glass blades

black smearing blue, jackson *******
with van gogh's soul,

brush
in the palm
of my
eye

This is not the skin
of teeth
or din of bells, frozen in account
the knick-knack tick of keen beetles
clinging to the husk of
unborn eyes

and
this can't be
the dread of dread
or night's opposable moon-
so clever in the labyrinth
Our random angels
swoon.

This
is not the frequency, or -
another hell, without
a mouth
or trip hatch, thick with gaping maw
yawning in the fiendish
sky

and this cannot be
the dread of dread
or night's recant of
afternoon-
so ever in the mist of dreams
Our handsome devils
croon.

this is not the preach and preen
of modern life or modesty
and's not the last word of it's kind
to crack the seedling of
the mind

and this
can ill afford a name
that can be writ
or made to
seem

and
never has it said Itself
and seldom
been a
thing*.

how
delicious and petite
beneath the flannel of our planet bed.
at least another world as sweet
as candy-apple
morning head.

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.

in my dream, we have no eyes for blind mice
and that's nice, if you ain't got three, and a grand clock
but we lived in the pendulum of an arc in a long box
laid to rest in a deep room of rich soil, and dumb rocks.
the dream bent, where i stepped aside from my suspicions
that you had eyes in your pockets. while i had only holes...
and paper cranes.
i keep the moss on my fingertips, when i dig into the sky -
to find your face.
and that's nice, if you ain't been grounded; stuck in a fugly glut
of gravity's finest hits. pinned to the wings of a butterfly, pinned-
to an anvil... strapped to a georgia peach.
you always have the shark fin soup, as i graze the pit.
as the pit gazed into me. you sip a bit, n'swell your cheeks.
we are nothing like our waking lives
while sleeping so truthfully.

somehow we're on the beach. where it never started. but deja vu
as if remembering the beach. and forget how we have not the eyes
for blind mice save the eyes in your pocket
while i have all the holes
that you need.

and paper cranes.

II

the bleeding has stopped, where a spear kissed an artery too violently
and shook loose my red roving rivers of rebellious reveries. stopped - and now it's a knot's petty game. it extends my life just to mock complete
Happiness. but i peep the same. i know the moon is the only sister that has my back.
where i have slept
beneath her...
dreaming on earth
dreaming on earth

dreaming, alas*....

come fall,
this will all be overgrown.
a wild plot of earth and flushed skin
by then... this will be not like it was
a bramble of hemispheres, moist
in direct light, glistening entangled
in free reign. a ***** display of alien
thought. a monster of perfect joy
an overcome acre of hostile sea
seething annihilation with tendrils
of unfettered need; you'll see
from here
a new kingdom of red leaves
and undulating corridors, throbbing
utopian, come fall, a Saturnalia
on all fronts. a battalion of fireflies
lending a pale glow to a rampage
of silk knots and earthquakes
a teeming fractal of unchecked
ambition. the fission of new stars
but a small spark, come fall...
and come fall, you'll be mine.