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

I moved to Africa... and

now i have my ghost swahili
discretely... my skin, too white to be
a lion's grunt. But I serve no wildebeest
on two legs.

I love the broken yurts and the falls of Victoria.

I come from where we all come from.

And having arrived
I love best the world
from where I've
been.

in my caste, we live too long.
to the nub. we are legion and madrigal.
we troll in the narrows of your one good love
the first hurt that said " again " .
then just flew off.

word is, you have no white lie.
join the club. we are even at odds. the peak of one hill.
we know where the arrow's going, but
the first hurt that meant nothing
meant all.

Love this girl.
Not quiet a girl anymore, you know.... with the kids- and all...
but we're on the skids
now...
plowing through the canker ****
and shelling the outskirts
of something
genuine !
we re-thunk the old funk....
of our
old
wondrous !
We purge no demon
From Our
Earnest !
We
Only
Conjure
That which would
Burn Us

WE

Only
conjured
a god with No
Servants

One
That had
No Name for
The Circus.
Only One
For The Master
And The Slaves to Love
That deserve
It

Forever After.

the
faint odor of soup cans
and well water wafted through the pumice stone
of recycled air and a faint hum. you thumb through the turbulence of your heart's bone
as it fractures. you catch birds to mock turtles.
with no alice.
the sun adds this...  true moons and canopies
soft shouldered earth and dead moths. we're taught
but more lost. the sea chops
so the horizon is a great wave
on a seahorse.

cozy stars applaud. a wisp of pure force.

you're uncontained.
you might be immortal;
but how could you live
with that ?

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**.

i'm coming back from gone
and these people have the nerve to bequeath more phantoms
than the flesh of their soul
they skim the
waters
parched
and
feed jellyfish
worlds !

but no lights in the park after dark

no lights at all.

the heart,
and how it loves,
i cannot say.
but you forgive
me.
i cannot know the untamed thing
as much as feel
it's sting-
and I have no god to approach...
to reconcile the
irony.
only the pit
in me.
only the furnace of lost moons.
the ****
jewels
of nightfall,
and nothing
else.
i keep the squalor of our opulent hearts
in heavenly hovels !
i denote the flat note
in a fife's
throat -
and blow the trumpet
of silent
things.

so...

how
it loves,
is lost to
me.
but i burn more
constantly
than I forgive
it

empty.

full of
you.

Even in the apple blossom moss of your sleep
A plod across the marsh of it, is such a placid deep-
And a withering of agony
a thing to keep...
Than ever was the promise
Of  a hell beneath.

The quaint and gnarly burl of frost     affixed      to half the stars you marvel-
Crisp dark pleats
In absolute
Garments.

Tethered to your sleep
regardless.

Heart of heartless.

My window is open with no screen and there's a starling in the tree that lurks
On my side of the house, and it rains pearls from a clear blue sky. an untidy plethora of jubilation !
I drew the blinds. The window is Open with No screen; and there's a starling
in the frame of a masterwork, chirping calamitous joy to the farside of god's creation !
I drew the blinds. And a blind-spot drew me.

I drew the blinds. And a blind-spot drew me.

Burn me with your cold star
Singe my wings
if you would keep me
from your lonesome
turn me away
and i'll forgive you
every-time i return
to claim you for mine
and lovingly watch you burn
in Hell

just like you want me too
i'll see through you and say those things
that twist you hateful, and misshape
the way you live...

for nothing

but think it would **** you
to need someone

and then you'll get what you really want
when you let me
ravage you deeply
with your devils taking photographs
of perfect love
you wont be happy until your utter abandon
finds Hope

i'll never tell you how to think of your self as worthless
and i won't let you lie
saving you all that time to spend in truth
more alive with a fire
fed by the Truth
till if rages
scorching the stupid worlds you believed in
before me

before i listened to your sins
i passed you a note in class and the teacher caught me
and had me mad
to stand ahead of the class
and read aloud the note
and i did so
with my demons taking photographs
of one happy boy, happy to meet you
projecting to the back of the room

and out of blue

start to
sing !

it's never the net.
it's always

" the box "

we stop.
we throb lobbing red breast robins
inna box, over double rainbows.
we lost
what the nail
had no art to crucify -
and we lie -
on a tarmac of truth, our err planes depart dark waters
for black
skies !
and it's not
You Yet...
only half as
wide...

only that.

the soft Truth is powerless
like a Scarecrow
toiling in the Fields of Other
where Blackbirds are the Masters
wielding Shadow.
Oh great kiss
of submission !
subdue the vigor my wickedness !
swing the pendulum to a halt
in a Paradise
more sane.

in the chambers of my open wound
devour my condition
and relieve me
of so much love !

do this
And I'll be barking in the dark
hardly dog
but more the man i feel
the animal
assumes

but the manacles approve.

no caboose
just more train
and the miles between us
and yesterday. the diamond fetus.
the ecstatic clay
with the breath blown in
and a tangle of angels
looting the epiphanies
Amen.

you move the sun closer to me
and that has no disaster.
your All is the wet funk of my Yes.
the graven image of a total thing -
masquerading as ****** glint
of my " just asking " without the  burden
of my suspicion. only the wonderful
of my submission.
You.
You are the One
that Two
looks up
too.

you march into my femur. break my bones
where the soul is course and rancid.
where the Always has no Answer
but the Never has as a
Speech.

you move the Sun closer to Me.

you bring me joys that hate
and mutter the rumple
of lesser men
who have no Love.

you join the disjoint
and mock the cradle
of our discontent
with the spectacle
of our humble
What ?

you move.

you move the sallow fortunes of our weakest
too the strong weeping
of our dire " of course ".

the code. Morse, may be... but the dots
align in the ragged farse
of our profuse jungle.

we are these monkeys
lifting hammers
we cannot claim
but we have stars
that march
against
the verity
of our lies
to preach
the brevity
of our almost
in love.

with an up-close sun.

no one dies in a dead heat. they just arrive uncontested.
a slapped cheek,   if no one comes first
a slack thirst for comets and bedlam
and new germs.

you send radar to your wigwam and burn churches
you lose some.
trouble is
you love it when
the wyrm
turns.

you have your boisterous silence.
but the wheel;  is mute kindling
of our fire.
an ice dart in the sun's thigh.
the bones in your heart
for tiny giants to grind
for our bread.

and some kind of love that makes it hurt

The rain that fell the night before
had never seen
the sun.
The early birds were bathing
in the rainbows
of the dawn.
Morning came, regaled in blue -
and blazed a trump
of Spring.
It rallied over damp and dark -
berserk with songs

to sing.

The rain that fell the night before
had never seen
the like.
The laughing dew had never known
the magnitude
of sky.
Nor laughter
had it known at all.
" How long
have trees
been green ? "
the answer had to wait
for god
to know his dream
had dreams

The rain that fell the night before
had never wept
a grain.
Had never felt a feeling
that a cloud
could never
name.
The rain became
a mirror
that had never seen
a soul
but knew, somehow
it had one
to savor

the unknown.

Shouldn't I have
loved you
more ?
you seem less dreamy
and the night is fast
like a bird
heart.
But i've been numb.
Remote is a form
of music
but fragile.

it's not cheap
to be real
but slavery has a way of sexing the fool
and no one knows
how much
you hate
till you look
at You.

now that your lips move and your breath is heavy-wet with burnt orange sighs, your eyes too deep to see me
from so much love away... now that your arms merry-go-round my wasteland, swirling languorous in lust, unarmed... you are the embers of lost ice, gathered on the farside of dead-center, more alive than krill, clinging to baleen and waterfalls, in the toothless maw of leviathans.

You're mine, again -
And out
to Sea.