It’s 3am plus,
and if you listen to the mice,
you may decipher their bedtime tales
and learn a great deal about Owls
and why they hide their
names in bones
to have something
to “WHOO”.

Then you might fall asleep.

your warm lungs are 7413 words
crammed into free thimbles of loose change, as inevitable as loving you
for no reason. you keep the summer squash in winter's balloon;
where the ice speaks.
fire is our way
of life -
dying to mend fences
with barbed
wire.
no matter how soon.
it gets prior.

all that.

and nothing more would be too much.
but no worse.
an hour of outlandish joy
with all the
perks.

7413 words.
and none among them
worth
the whole  
thing

for certain.

i think.

It was 4am and snow
had fallen silently for hours
leaving a thick blanket of marshmallow skin
draped over  all, and silence reigned
like a wise emperor whose subjects slept
without fear of Timpani.
Trees were over- burdened by drift
and bent like old men,
they stood
where their seedlings had taken root
centuries  before villages
crept
up from the valley
to squat among them,
bringing chimneys and children,
women and  men,
and all their
dreams.
It was late
and stillness shimmered
in moon-glow and cedar musk.
frozen stars,
all around
mounds of them
as gentle winds
plowed through the natural  world
sweeping smoke from rooftops.
As
Giant owls; Their wings
cupping the elemental
patrolled pillows  strewn about
the star chamber
of all Gods...
  Up where an omnipotent Love
dreams on and on about giant owls
and how from here, the  owls were gods,
patroling the nursery
of new gods.
Owls were floating in warmth,  that had been
crushed into something
it  had never suspected,
they were Owls
that kept the riff raff
outside
the perfect moment
for gods to catch some  sleep...
they make it so
As Owls
too small too comprehend,
the vast Love
that loved them...
even so
a majesty was theirs
if not a mind that could have known - and not
unravel from the effort
of such Understanding
They were
  savagely  beautiful
in all their oblivious fulfillment
of the creator's plan;
they were
Lords
  wearing crowns
without burden...



At 4am, the mice below the frozen stars that fell overnight were in there dens  with uneasy sleep tickling their whiskers. Those mice out of sight of The Plan's Predator, unseen in the dirt  pouch under rich soil and snow, The lucky ones continued to be blessed. The gods were sleeping... and they all  loved mice... So at 4am, the mice below the frozen stars that fell overnight; they received all access to another  day on earth... they enjoyed the consequence of Love's action, for owl eyes were denied cute things to look at but  saw everything else. And beaks ... Well....
They would go wanting.
At 4am, all Mice who prayed for windows never got windows at all.
And the first snowflake to ever have a Red dream
was later made a prophet.

my lungs are not my lungs....
they belong to the wrong air of our winter's jest.
at best, we peruse the hush of our dormant lust
and gather twigs for our empty nest. you might suggest, but i demand
an answer to our star fall. to stall the heavens long
to briefly glimpse the shorthand of god's script
to a play that has no favorite in the scheme... only
the ravings of an infinite dream
about snow.

Surrender Dorothy,

And
make
your Socrates
from a lost
sock...or a
monkey-

with two
loose buttons
for eyes
and two loose eyes
for nothin'.

and with
a chipped tooth
in the broad smile of a worm...
as your glorious
prize !

threading a hook
in the grey impossible
like a dull
thump

inside

Inside*.

II

Let us cling to the market place of shallow ideas.
there, we can march to the county fair
and display our swollen feet
to the clergy of the
Impossible.

III

Let's glow like ants in a cave... that glow.
For the Cave is dark and full of errors
that correct our course napkins
to the crease of our mouths
as we swallow
the limit.

IV

Do be the one that saves me from
the myriad angels that love me
none.
Be the wanton Mercy at my bed, come -
from a dire hope to a better
One.

V

Be the last thing I see as a threat to my anguish
and the first thing I believe in
to claim
It.

Leaving the windows open
and the miles the same
as black waters curl
between our southern toes.
The long way to you
is engorged with short speech
and our blathering tongues
well versed in ******
memes.

We are not without design.
but we assume the worst, regardless...
farm our beetles to the sticking place
and etch firebrands in orchids
lording over under-frost
and deplorable
sins.

we grieve as we ****** shame
from the wick of burning candles...
at both Ends.
our every scandal, more luscious
than desolation would have
Us both.
we choke on the plumes
of our disconnect
and close our
Throats.

And leave again
Love's Ghost.

At Depth
Only Love can breathe
Itself
and make more
Love

Any word that
says it all

Made you...

Made You
Out of Echoes
when the Universe
had no walls
and no
idea who
was always tossing stars
over the Fence
and never asking
for them
back

but that
was when the Universe
was young
And believing in Fences
was nuts

You were -
made from Echoes
that Understood the Mind
Of The First
Thing

from echoes
happy to discover
where all the stars
had landed.

Stars thought
Gone.

Stars, the neighbor's only child -
Tossed
From an Unimaginable
Lawn.

over our Precocious
Nothingness.

into my
Heart*.

The air was old in the long house by the beach.
You could tell by the way the ocean spray had diminished
replaced by long-dead fireplace breath and the scent
of skin gasping for rain.
There was always dust on the cobwebs now.
Books strewn about like leather-bound pistachio shells
and a rumple of pillows beneath a lump of blanket -
teeming with troubled sleep…. all frumped by the window
with the moons dead eye. and the sound of wave after wave --
Bonsai.

The Fox Saw The Grapes
And Thought…
“ If Grapes Were Rabbits -
   I wouldn’t be talking
to myself “

the snow is only time clinging to your boot
trudging through the havens of your grave mute lips
plump in the weather 'round these parts
where the hearts bloom like troubled bees, and naive art.
while on farms, a dozen lambs
can't spell " slaughter "
with a " Baaa ".

but we have only so much snow.
red or white.
glistening on either side of the narrow mush
weaving through woods that remain nameless
but keep their twilight blushed.
we rush through the trivial adornments of the everyday
like heathens huffing ether,
but keep our scarecrows petrified of blackbirds
having heard the caw of wise raptors
in the fields of all flesh
and unnatural
disasters.

but a friend...

a friend
is a ghost running down
with you.

running... where your rivers have blood enough
to ***** the sun -
but never a
motive.

a ghost with the mind of a moon.

it wanders the shadow fields
of your distress
with your hand in a kissed
mirage.

and
you blunder together
so what comfort comes from sharing
doom or bliss -
comes without harm or hell.
a ghost running down,
comes up to you
and you both emerge
from low.

and Love never doubts
you do.

A
suite of banks and
coffee shops
nudge the boundaries of
tattoo parlors
and the arduous task of a
full stop -
A fool's errand on a
dog's collar.
or the epiphanies of a has-been
at full Not .

A
better vacuum
than love without words
but a lesser emptiness
than love

and a word.

On your laurels rest
The waning harpies of Oblivion
The rude flock
Preening Sorrow from ash.
And Bone Lips click
Their vicious riddles
Into the Deaf Charybdis
Of your God.

Born Again
Out of the Wasteland
Your every phantom
Marks time
And only the fickle joy of surrender
Defeats the tedium of breathing...

Where you Are....(Strange feasts Unfurl)

Upon dead tongues
that speak of It
Never as kind.

You remember Honey
As if in a dream.

All desolation, Glory-
Yawning from
Birth.

keep this.
it's yours. you might enjoy the rambling brook with both toes.
we can't sleep now. this is how jailbreak is ****; Salomon's Mines, all yours.
say what you will. i got you. relax and configure
the dark nook of my profile...
come at me at an angle, and i'll arrive untethered; coping with real ****
stitching heirlooms to re-breathers... pinning neon
to your gold tooth.

all dribble. no bib.
just an avalanche of weightlessness, jamming signals. a sumptuous void,
undulating in indefinitely... keeping me sane and losing my things.
in ivory towers of strange radio
this is eclipse....

gone nova.

all of a sudden the sails were empty-limp in the tepid sea of ever yawning soliloquies.
lurched into stillness by an angry god snoring through the movie. your eyes bark at the moon
on an atoll of unbearable enigmas, but ever startled by the calliope of your Heart’s Desire’
at the very peak of your weakness. It thooms! like an iron lung in the dark
alone with an impossible star. Like a daisy in a marathon.
or a clock for a spoon full
of “ why?”.