If Wednesday had a boyfriend they would rendezvous on Monday.
They would eat fried rice and stroll in the rain. Without umbrellas.
Monday would be horrified. But Simply Horrified.
Tuesday spreads a rumor and I still can’t find my cellphone.

In a sea of screens,
there is only one blindness
to see with.
so cherry blossoms
are no longer meaningless -
On Wednesday or until
they Break-Up.

and Friday gets all that Rebound Action.

I had no right to call you stupid and conceited.
When clearly i had other options… and i mean it.
I’m so sincere, you might - just faint straight away…
And since my iphone has a camera
Too dumb to hate your face….

You make me hurl that type of expletive
Nobody know what the heck it is.
I can’t believe. But There it Is !
You’re a ******* like -
it’s an imperative !
A mean drunk
who thinks that’s
Hilarious.

The way you *****
That Chica like - “ Theeeere It Is “.
then  “ wet-back, go back to China, ***** !“
Like some ****** that don’t know
what time it Is !

So my Clock Ticks a Tock Till you Tick me off.
Can’t blame a brother when the Other’s a Punk.
Another Goose Steppin’ *******
That I deal wit for fun.

I’d crack a joke
But then i look at you
Already The Pun.
Like some idiot prodigy
Stuck on one minus
one.

i get carried away,
it's delightful how
the air
you breathe
was mine
once.

and that
trips me out.
i could give till it hurts
'cause that's not
a waste of my
time.

so i'm inclined
to relieve you of your sundress
i'm inclined
to relieve you of your sunset

always shine.

I'd like it if your orange were more blue.
If your red more green
and your eyes more less than moons
that break waves against me.
I glue glaciers to sun
to cool your Spring's mischief
and never am i happy to remove
from my stillness
between Us.

I am unjoyed
in the twine of our lost joy.
Made unkind in the rasp
of our sour glee.

I glue glaciers to the sun
to cool the misadventures
of our dire hope.
I noose the rope and sing
as you go beautiful
away

from me.

i was never meant to be tamed
and that gallops truth like a tsunami
i go where my stars are dying in front of me.
i carry your picture like a pale of water.
i go where the leaving is gone most of the day
but leaves a message.
i appear to be out of my skin in front of a mirror.
i haunt the corners of my eye
even now.

I go where the trees are sleeping in droves.
in the peace of somnambulant groves;
perched in frostbite and sugar, with all my teeth
and postage stamps gathered into a pile
of awkward. But I continue like a crop
of circular arguments.
i hang stars where a storm should be.
and can’t remember where i was
Wednesday.

I'm always this.

some of my
dreams
stick to
my skin.

i had someone.

but
not anymore.
i have the polyps
of a false heart.
and a ****.

the
school play
of Hamlet -
I Have.

the
only bird
that knows
where the Trees
are.

I know
this.

at last.

but i'm fresh
out of
birds

and that's
the new
math.

i get the hives when my mind Zens in on a brand Knew.
my Ottoman Empire is a footstool in a plush Rumor.
at rest in the best humor that genius can buy for a Yen
when the Yang is an awkward ruby.
i steal from the vaults of a common supernatural
with all the aplomb of a minnow in a mouth.
sleeping on the hillocks of a rust moon
acned with meteor kiss and fierce serenities
the width of Space between notes
in a deanument.

then poetry assumes i have something to say.
only then does it open to the introversion
of my extraverted inner Hermit.
I leap out of conch shells
on some kind of fire
that slakes a thirst.

i knit wings to eyes
and abandon every photon
to my Will.

then

I have metaphors I keep using
whenever I try to be Original-
and i meta-criticize the artifice
of my chosen pearls.
but seldom do I confess it.
the unseemly devices I am left too.
as my Id designs the Ego
of my Indomitable Heart
with the schematics
of my Lost Architect
unhumbled by my Illusions
having spun such webs
as to conquer a Fool
and his Guesses.

I eat stone wheat and the wet essence
of dry zephyrs on sea errands
to blanch dunes
to Beau Geste.
i consume the ridiculous hubris
of my epileptic Angels
and squander no opaque verse
to tadpole.


I Swim In A Yes That A No Dreamt Of

like a ferret
in a healing
scar.

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.

you are not poolside. you've wandered off; and left behind your passport.
i have someplace to be and nowhere to go -
we could hook up at the pier
and tell ghost stories
to ghosts we know.
i suspect you might be lurking in dark groves with dumb luck.
but i don't know how you mean
from this long view.
i just know
you.

or some-such.

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.

i was looking for your house
and i found you in my thoughts
like a trick kite
tethered to my reverie
as assuredly
a tide the
moon.
i am
marooned in joy
beyond the sphere of sorrow
walking up your driveway
in the near dark
of an impulse
to drop
by.
i was looking for your house
and found the way
inevitable.
it was downhill from there
to the heart of the world
at your oaken door
with an open
heart.

i knocked.

have we met ? seems so. you got them elastic rainbows i know you from
and that outskirts of pure idyll... you throttle the ominous pond of our requited aplomb.
we enjoy beetles.
this is how love chips away at the decade of obscure lesions. the reverse forward to a back-hand eclipse in a blithering idiot of genius. unkempt.
a bone rug.
the skim milk of human kindness, blinds the unicorn and the cabbage lichen
florescent in the mildew parchment of evening's attire.
i'll be here at the met, less attending but haunting the fiberglass whispers of your recent events.
the ones you left. left to their own devices. our every crisis is kind myth, crushing the throat of our adversary. as we pluck shamrocks in the way of our luckless fathers.
we alter the plausible cause with our audible launch
of not rockets.
where the air...
the air don't sing.
but you ain't been there
really

anyway.

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.

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.

you won't bleed because you're not about to burn. you saw  my lips curl straight talk
and mock the glockenspiel of my garrulous tongue. you stun my assets. my accent falters. but yes... you hear me yearn. you gnaw at my shin splints. we resist what ain't lost.
we grog the real liqueur of our tepid angst. get ****** up.
i'll craft a promise when i'm tongue-tied...
i'll say anything with my tongue;  yup.
i love you.
but our disasters are so beautiful, i could love that...

i just might hurt you with my mouth full...

Oh, you got jokes now? did I inspire you?
my inner cleft palate, too savage for your average villainy.
Oh, I get You...
Ghost town deputy -
slapping tickets on my flow.
but
I don’t know you though...
just so you
Know.

my wings sting hornets
cloistered in an endless performance
of how we love things.

troubadour magic
where the windmills are
semaphore

balking at the Fascist storm
of your prattle.
to make battle
with young stars
more golden than
your Solution.

more than your binary coffin spittle
in the wink of a furnace in the palm
of a shell game alchemist.

but with all
the jewels
you can’t
leave
with.

because I said so.

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

how terrible it must be
to have only two feet to walk with., my sweet.
how abhorrent, the torrent of gimp.
you are not kind, but kinda die more than our lasting -
and have ever been fasting in the break of our ventures...
suturing the succulent bog of my wound till blown glass is ****** dry... humorlessly.
you are with me... but
not with I
that stalks the reason.
you are with the one
whom's cup runneth over, and traipses thru the flint gleam
of our founding urge. the dirge forge of our burning inert !
' We' are where it hurts... and you might be clever
but you slug at love's light speed
to put the brakes to a freight
of infinite need.

I love the night...although its so silent my ears hurt
and there's nothing to be done about it. and i still get mail.
it's just empty and brittle. envelopes of undisclosed, declaring -
" I live Somewhere that mail Arrives..."
and I don't count on anyone
because everyone, is the Other night.

every one.

the night.

i love the way you mostly go from garden to shack
tapping at the jagged slats of my ragged door....
loosely latched to the frame of my hovel.
your knuckles
rapping
on the knot in the grain
and the lichen blotch
above the likeness
of a cumulus cloud...
etched into the feeble barricade
of my luminous
tomb.

i let you in, after you wake me....
with your quiet
rain.

You read my books
but My -
lips

move.

II

sunset denudes the strident stars
and stark they come, above the worldly disarray
of my ordinary disposable comforts.
and the tinsel twilight
of my terminal misconception
of how to proceed with
a miracle.

and i love the way you mostly ignore my dilemma
and how thine is the kingdom of little mercies
that gather to my deconstruction
to ***** pavilions of  the unimagined
in the dismal eye
of my hurricane...
For to watch you at your craft
is be astounded
by my Isolation, dissolving -
into a figment
of my crippling
self doubt.

i love the way you mostly correct the mistakes
that leave a mark...
how you show me how the moon
is a hole
in a pitch dark
clock....

how you serve this hermit
a banquet of intimacy -
that never recedes from
my bare cupboard
nor my hearth.
the way you squander your riches
upon my barren spoils.
the way you ruin my dispossession
by laying claim to the crest
of my tsunami -
of crushing
disappointment in
wishing wells -

( with ventriloquists you can lip read in the dark... )

by the light
of a constant
collapse.
the star you caught
off guard with your
south paw.

III

( And )

i love the way, that i love the way - you
mostly save me
from the withering din
of long hours,
from clawing at the ripple
in my false pond...
where i skipped a stone
into the great red spot
of my private Jupiter.
twiddling your thumbs -
as you casually rescue
my derelict barge
from the Scylla and Charybdis
of my discontinuous
clarity.

( and the moment you arrive. )

i love the way you mostly
and all the ways -  
you always

how all the ways
you love
me...

come so naturally
to you.

I love you but it’s stupid.

you with your bifocal narrow Mind
and me with my Un-neglected Imagination.

we are not a pair.

but we pair well with peach schnapps
and mistletoe.
well slay beautiful gods
with parasites
and adorn the fulcrum
of our arch
with a silent
epiphany
too dormant to be
sleep as we know it
and too tranquil
to be anything
than a false start
in an actual
Now.

I Love you and it’s tragic.

tragic like how a terrapin is not
a writing desk in a moist raven
spooling thunder where the lightning
forgets to thunder

About You.

Now imagine this.
You have all day to get somewhere
but you haven’t any goldfish…
And that makes you king of the world.
but you can’t lance the boil until
you abdicate the throne of Yarn
and bind a cat to your shadows’ pearl.
The black thing you carry in your pocket
is the eye of all Typhoons
in your lap.

Imagine opening your eyes-
and being surrounded by Thursday!
So much velvet tinkering with grey things
and gimlets… torchlit fantasies slurry forth
in an unending tide of appetites
disguised as appetites
in disguise.
Sunspots on paper plates
and taffeta medallions
all in love with blue cranes
and very little else
that you lack.

Imagine that.

i'm a scrap yard magnified.
some sort of throat you choke
but not now.
we are plenty weak but we
love it.
we come from a last place
that has no reason,
we go from the last last place
that had any reason to be real.
and some some folks
wanna live forever
but not you and I....
we
wanna die for good
and that's the "Whatever"
however we love Us
now.

I'm done killing flies
with honey today
and the sundial
in the garden
will know the moon.
i will chasten
the charlatan of midday
with the deep scarlet
of waning light.
I'm done killing flies
with honey today
but I've begun
a narrative of feathers
with a dove
with no
faith.

deep fried kool-aid in a purple Intrepid
the scepter of our Grief; falters
the Orion of our Agonies in the Least-ville of our Nova !
i'm about to outshine !
but before i can condemn my most recent assault
on God's little Plan.... I thought i might Jam the Signal
with a volley of Pretension
in the wane Valleys of the Seldom
and the Orange Jews.

i'm in my hard January and your Carnival, rivals my Fantastic...
you'd rather my dark be sunlit travesties, to Parade before the court of Desire
behind  a chain-linked rinse. these snowflakes
are  the ones with teeth.

not the ones you meant.

blue whales can hear us Dying, from Here.
And You still Think i love you

the haggard crags of our elliptical wards against a Pleasant Breakfast
the scuttled broth of  sour tyranny and Nonsense
you abscond with -

the virtue of our wizardry, aligned with Hostile Invalids
From Beyond !

have i said much ?

have i begun to plunder the tripwire epiphany
of the rogue star from the Unknown ?
I'm in my hard January and the Spring in Winter's failing
is a Crossing.

And a Dread

i'm driving a spike to the crucifixion
hurling locust. burning vistas
i'm driving the lightning that strikes on a mission of
some dark mercy
hell-bent to
hit ya

i'm the mark of Cain
on a razor's edge
i'm what Angel's
dread,

I'm No Exit

So forget it.

i stalk lambs
and rainbows
filling coffins
with all your
dreams

on an altar of freakish
gifts
to a baleful
reckoning

i'm no warning.

the tongue
of every bell,
at the feet
of Colossus

clipping rings.

implosions are for starfish and our mission is clear. we have nowhere to be from
and that's half the battle. we are seldom unbridled in the chastity of our carnal bluff...
and our cages are breathing. we are finally designing our most daring Inertia.
both mum on the details in the devil's flotsam. we jot some of the names of the nameless...
on the outside of Dixie cups. like mint julep promise to a tangerine honest.

again and again, we ache through the breeze of our soothing traumas. we court the verity of a sham.
we blast through the congregation of our adversary, snipping varmints from a stale camp
in the southernmost of our due south,; where they fear the bonfire until a vagrant maps
the flaming tongues to a long kiss.... and we crash upon the shore
of Never Asked.

but regret This.

where am I from ?
My parents cannot say.
my memories cannot resolve,
and my poems
cannot display.
i am rupture and wink.
like a butterfly and a wyrm.
but nothing so much
as beautiful
as an empty
return.

O' how the rabbit hole is cozy fuss
with little wriggly baby ducks
that lost the pond
but kept enough petunias
to ignite the
moon.

if anything
is thing enough
with everything a thing and such...
would any thing be there
for what ?

and why are you
reminded ?

we have our plots and flotsam
and plod joyless; rain smitten.
we join the heap of foil and protagonists
in the tale of our distemper.
we whimper in the dark of our hard furnace.
fumbling for trinkets of mirth
where no god has birth
even as a dented
trumpet
to a hairlip...

Or a Name that comes First.

and yet we sing. but -
the song is wrong righted. a blight
blighted and a long drum
mumbling benighted
in the silk light
of our simple
worms.

our apples ache. our knowledge, rots .
but our temples, at the core
seed the valley. we famish the mountain
but feed the foothills of our strange
and strum the harps of Oblivion
with our mean thumbs.

constant gardeners of hard loss and flight.
and the Night's Sun.

i walked all around the grounds
and found some angry worms and such.
i poked in the weeds and slept on a frozen log -
i chose to abandon a part of me
that was all for you.
but your **** candle lit darker things
of which i had plenty
truth.

just in case you didn't get me nuthin'
with Mercury in retrograde, and your lover
gone from the map.
it says " Here, there be Dragons "
and wither you go -
the pain will follow
like a burr
in a snowflake
on fire.

let me tell you
humiliation is a spice
in a dish served cold.
let me show you to my Parlor
of Yesterday's
fresh hells.

and tell our friends.
they'll all be there
denying.

I [ know ] what it’s like.
Indoors with an Outdoor Mind.
Fever blink sparrows in Calligraphy’s
Eponymous Wreck of droll Elan.
Outsized Inside,
As ripples in a quiver
may Be in Two Blazes
At Once.

While Love can be
Nowhere near You
When You
Want.

II

I have stopped singing in the usual way, now more concave and scattershot
With bare-bones clacking rough gibberish to the masses in discreet columns
of deployed madness… Cherub-Stung Pontiff of a Dirigible -
Swinging from an Aether Star
Hooked on hooks and crashing
Into something
Glorious!

I have too often the perks
of cerebral Detente
with my Impossible Oceans.
I Swim .... to soften the scales
of my deep fish
Kabuki

I Never Know
Cool Things.


Until I Burn.

i am lost and that is no wonder in the world.
we have our monsters
and the picture of our beautiful, is the sting . not the beast,
i need to sleep awhile... because the night is the night
and God weary.
i have no hands to grasp this completely
but i have you
to make terrible, my every concoction
of how it truly Is.

but here it comes.

i do not linger where you want.
i ***** and trump in the loam
of our distinguished withering
and amass a lump of false joy
for our trouble.

could you love me in my narrow caul ?

would you allow for the winters of our rubies
and still be sweet ?

can we sever
the ties that blind
and regard the sun
a friend ?
when so much
is the devil's orphan
and so little
the day's
moon ?

can we wait ?

Or are you such as I -
and can no longer be
Yes
when the short answer
is a Novel ?

that hasn't slept....

to sleep i may, but not the dark vessel
of mine eyes, over stormy seas of placenta and albatross
tossed from the palm of  a rough hewn, Five-Headed Crane
raking five beaks across a canvass of my wounded fires -
and my brazen black honey, trembling on the lip
of mis-fortunate birth...,
in the cataract of
a fine hat
on a fat
rebel.

my public spaces engineered
to come from the inside

the wastelands are beautiful

as you gawk
at the red
sun

a bead of red plasma,
flowing from an
open vein

in a mind shaft.

with a bad back
and no front.

but a lasting gasp....

even when i lived in barrels i was stung by pre-Euclidean geometries

aping right angles, askew of a laminar flow of Time.
even when i stutter like butter on a lightning bolt
my collisions resolve dormancy
wherever i evict a conspicuous
ascetic tenet.

i twist The End where The Beginning buds;
and watch for spontaneous eruptions-

for Origins, mapped to a powder keg
with a damp fuse.

[ it’s steam engines now… ]

AND
the moon’s belly
is a bright eclipse
clamor-locked in the beastly
barrage of our tuneless
arias…
coping with despotic realities
with aplomb; birthing sunshine
from a myth mirror
emblazoned where harm refracts
exact moments-
tumbling magnetic…

as your eyes
Yahtzee the Forbidden
like a rogue.

with
blunt force
Rama.
as Fore-
​​​​​​​told.

II

infinity pools are finite if you swim like a rock.
or fall asleep when a lullabies’ on fire.


just so you Know.

where the road departs from your destination
you find The Wilderness Of Things…
we blunder into culdesacs and -
sacrosanct steeples; twisting balloons at the Fair
to resemble implosions in slow motion.
for a quid.

you’ll find books out there that keep dark secrets poorly
and adventures that baffle your brain pan.
and every twilight fissure in the world heart.
they rest on stoic end tables with noble dust
and green lanterns bowing to shadows.
You’ll find Others-
pilfering Silver
to buy golden calves
and cherry blossoms
for no reason.

for no reason
at all.

i pull up a chair to myself and stare at myself....
i eat the Rhine of a melon of rivers... reflecting and dissolving
into my constituent arts.
i fumble and regain.
then the bubbles burst like pixies
on a stone salt cake. but I dream again. and the pipes of twilight
flock to my eardrums, gutting the writhing dark -
and singing the Potomac
of a sun -

I Thought.