my teeth rake the radio like a sieve at the heart of midday
straining the kelp beds of the horizon for crystalline krill
dulling the pain of our daily dread with a happiness
made of cyclones and Lincoln Logs.
i usurp my last breath. my tundra is sincere.
i go nowhere in a single bound.
and it's like the world
won’t let me
in.

seeping into the verdant green of our posthumous lawn
with our wide eyes clipped and the noonday sun...
folding sparrows into cloth and breaking bread for no reason.
stumped on the miracle, but ludicrous and undone.

it takes everything you ever wanted
to get what you got.
it doesn't take more than you know
only the spin of your want.
we sleep in the hills, where the valley squall
is crushed... but our love is just enough
to be in it.

it was not today, when it happened.
strawberries drenched in snow... the variable longitude of our hapless maps
and the whole thing strapped to an invalid,
the regional Apocalypse
of our near kiss. The gun in the hand.
The cool spark of Bibles
and the wrath
of all pygmies.

it was not today, when it happened.
but the choir sang
and worlds between worlds
twirled in the underneath.
and a blanket of Sunshine darkened our pedigree.
but you ate peaches
to dream another
peach

and came from Nowhere...

after me.

it would never be this if it weren't for it really really is,
and you have no idea. and That keeps you sane where the truly mad are guessing the number of tad poles in the belly of a supernova. mumbling in the dark.
you have No idea.

now that we have established that you know what i mean by you have ideas
that are of little consequence
to your inertia..... ( pregnant pause )

could i *** a smoke ?
a ' *** ' if you're from some kinda
London, England ?

could this be the Apocalypse ?

could This ?

i used to love...
but now i grouse about it
i stammer in the wake of my oblivion and suffer bliss no more.
i'm grounded. you are far  too keen a villain.
you are dead last in haste
to revenge my unkempt village.
i hate your name
but praise it.
at least
i use
to.

now watch my heart unclaim it.

as i descend into the mad sun
i visit blue brothels and calm green seas.
i rip cables out of butterflies
to suture my wounds.
i change my course,
to my Fate.

As Must 
we all.

II

i've learned a great many things
about dead ends... they always start
where you live.
they bend the moon to your aspect.
the red death to a - 
false hope.
with a real
hope.

and as much despair.

III

gather where ye may, the very laurels 
of your heart. But, be neither spendthrift with your anguish -
nor copiously disarmed.
have your adventures where a god - 
can pardon you...
For having less faith
than an abandoned
thought of You.

go only to return.
and burn your memoirs in the attic
to **** the dream.

leave no fingerprints in the vacuum.
wash your hands of the spiral -
and feel what
It Means.

wake up every day. On Deck.
yawn at dawn.
ain’t said **** -
Still, put a fool in Check.
lick my lips where
the Morning Moon
left lipstick.
I wink,
Then It’s On -
to the Next-Extraterrestrial.
I pack Light
when a Knife Fight
is one of the
Variables.
Can’t be Seen
At the Scene.
But “ Not Be Heard? “
Unbearable!

Whatever Wit
you’re with
is stitched to the roof
of your spit.
Wish varmints
tipping hats
at a Bar mitzvah
tripping over
Ambercrombie
till a Finch slapped
and a beak hit’cha.
can’t fit my flow
in your creek
then let your
******.

i wanna get into
living loudly.
into saying something-
for once-
at the very least
twice.
i wanna get into
killing boredom
with a blind rage
and X-Ray
eyes
and  a heart
at the heart
of an open
mind.

i was a little bit hazy on the details, but you can't find me anywhere.
i am the stranger.
we have Not been to hell and back and spent all our money.
we haven't the faintest idea " who you are "
but my identity is fluid
like a ******* on Betamax -
for no reason.

i was black in your face today, and the world kept to itself.
spinning and rigidly doomed, rigidly doomed -
without the slightest epiphany. just a gorgeous glut
of stupendous stupidity.

i was black in your face today, and white things happened all over the world... and nothing changed. I bit my nails and stared at the sun like a Boy. I have no kingdom save the revery of my blood
and my much often love of empty spaces.

i was disconnected from your umbrella,
as we strolled
like organist thumbs akimbo
over octaves of impenetrable silences
that lay as shells at our feet, unperturbed.
your free hand, bound to mine.
enslaved to the pendulum
of our quietous
tandem.

we note the long shadows swaying in the corona of emerging contrasts... we go arm in arm now...inhaling the fumes
of our unspoken truce. reveling in the sanctity of our bond
without losing a thread in our poncho
to a snag in the deluge.... or raindrop teeth.

we continue in our way.
conjoined in our congenial orbits.
disrobed from the
inside-out.
two columns of mute serenity...
stalled where the bridge
and the railing; conspire to frame the stream below
with the moment of our pregnant
pause.
as seen from ground zero in a cataract
of awe and epiphany.

the mist from stones dashing about like trout
draping our skin in flecks of Indra and glass spider eyes
laughing at all our jokes, before the punchline
finds your Abbot
to Costello.

we are drenched in a thousand specks of mirror.
with tide pools in our crows'feet... and all
the continuum of glory...

the unvarnished fathoms of our symbiosis
and the dignity of our invulnerable
Haj to the Mecca of our Peace.

II

i was disconnected from your umbrella
as you never believed in -
having one.

so i embrace precipitation
with all the ****** delight
of a pagan in the company
of His oracle.

your antlers
shedding skin
and divine.

my spirit
dwelling
in a
jar

full of fireflies.
for true.

twilight assembles in the plush velvet ponds of shadow fall and moonlight.
the stars above measle the hemisphere as the world twirls in the dark like a raving Sufi.
we are tethered to a wandering. as the grass of every meadow to a barefoot rascal
taking the long way home
because broccoli.

in the dark honey, the knees of bees and afterthoughts coagulate in burnt gold and warm blood.
the air is made of dander and random. the dog barks a virus you check for fleas. and the north star -
is violent. in the blemish of symmetry, the ruling class of ravens, flock to your discord,
they adorn your wretched gorgeous. they engorge the zenith
of your curse.
javelin happy, the stab behind the eye that sees too deep is delight's dagger !
the imminent ruse of a persistent Truth and an eternal Lie.
the  Macbeth in your chicken soup.

and the Soup.

the way you have your way
i might as well choke on Atlantis
and yield to the twilight pitchfork
of your tongue. an amaranth.
whose nectar
is some
doom.

glue my misery
to the slippery
*****
of lost meaning....
all the while
meaning to do so -
a
farsight
more so
than knot
cope.
but
somehow, jellyfish blinder
than up close...
and
not quite
seeing
what matters
most.

just the sting.

lost the remote. now the adventure begins.
when Bookstores were actual, you could go there
and find what browsing smells like, by-hand,
but pacing back and forthright on **** affords -
the grand vistas
of sustained contemplation.
candles lit for no reason
just pretty.
laptop humming like a soft boiling box
of overexposure.
and there’s the bourbon
on a resolute desk
like a summoning
of moonshine
with a caramel
sun.

all that, and
no pun.

All the ill homes ditching the hearth of a quiet in favor of a dust up at sundown.
chemicals in the frost,  digging into limp houses and chunneling the bedrock of an underneath as barren as the up above. As only a fairy tale can scar a blemish.

Optical violets
conspire to blossom in your benighted tomb
should you live there, with all the irony at your disposal
to lay siege to your impregnable-
Mice.
They know all about the clock
but nothing of the gears…
too busy easy eating charms from a ghost hand
in a parlor of lost boys. too busy slipping into cauldrons
of bespoke misadventures and
terminal revivals.

You bloat the river
where a crick would do.
Your fathoms blast the narrows
of your endless beseech. You implore that the world
should come apart more gently.
That it should sleep when the evening is callous
but long in the truth.

then dreams permit pearls that permit holes in theories.
And all the comely dawn
is vanquished by noon.


II

For nothing is as always
as another thing forgotten
when you meant too.

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.

smothering the coals, i laugh.

so sleepy now… but with all engines running into turmoil
too busy to be redeemed. more longshanks than swine.
with too cumbersome a soul
to be Actually with...
as long as the angle of my descent
is the square of my somber Fall.
Joy lay saner, where the crazy began
because hoofprints
were brisk shallow
for all the sauntering
to an abysmal
collapse...

soooo sleepy now… the Bedroom’s the outskirts
of a private Diaspora. with Charlamanges cookies
and a dearth of impoverished -
harmonics. sleeping through the worst  
Conspiracies… So Songs still sound
Like Nothing, -
with just a pinch of Thought
where the Salt
should Be
Unanimous

And Lost.

As ever would
Be.

Judith Broom had a knick-knack drawer like everybody else. She absentmindedly tossed her keys there too, amid the random screws to lost things, and spent tubes of glue. Love letters got snagged in there, along with stale coupons and inexplicable dust. It was dust like glass and horsehair. Judith Broom rummaged with her bare hands to the very back of her knick-knack drawer, groping for a shape she remembered. She conjured a sphere that fit the palm of her hand, and the Talisman hummed like a newborn sun in her undergarments. She took nothing for granted.

And nothing could harm it.

you punch above your weight
but you dangle like tinsel from the lash of an evergreen eye.
you're smart enough to rough it
in the brambles of your entropy. but your saving grace, a lie -
it permeates an absolute that never bargains
as you scale the wall of coordinates to a distant shore
where a far cry counts for something; but the irony
is lethal.

you're jumping the broomstick with a ghost
and that will haunt you; when you lose the ring.
and that will be the day that the rain wept for thee
but strangely enough, not for what
you think.

with the battle joined and my intimacy jaded and clack froth
i merge my pavilions with my valleys, gliding on a ragged stallion
with a wreath in it’s withers… a’gallop in the arbitrary dawn
of my hellscape. relentless as Hope.

like juniper and venison, we intertwine in the hillocks of our faraway eyes
like two marbles adjusting to the stride of an elephant
hoisting the world into all charm and calamity
without a care in the World

On Its Back.

Suppose you have your wings
and all wholesome things
palaverous
As undone gravities
Heavy your suspension
Your downward dog, magnanimous…
As all things; UnThing in Twos-
Where arks at bay,
Nest in wet fumaroles-
Of deep Undoing.


Just
A lemon drop
From an average height
Of your Life
With yellow ravens
Random and Implausible
In inaudible Cause.
Black wings forgotten-
Because Atmosphere
Be nowhere near
The Breath
You Lost…

Just to inhale
Where you-

Thought.

like a rope in a spoon... nothing is sane.
i just have the scent of you and our unbearable togetherness
to fall apart too... i have nothing else.

so just in case i hate you; let's be friends.

you stainless steel
stain-maker.
a hate-lump of drums, wicked.
stick it too your browbeat
widget
of precise niggling...
ink links -
to kerosene. and scribe farce
for the disabled.
but wrap it up in
' what's up ? ' .
but
get unstuck
on
other people.

sheepskin
your grey wolf. and -
leap shins and fair maidens.
skip **** that's too
mythic.
reel-in your best
wishes.
for weak wishes
ditch *******

So wish strong;

and
all day long,
you should rob
lightning
and come
wit
it !

be
exactly
the right wrong thing
to catch
fire

most likely.

[ so dig it ]


hide your feather in your cap
where your head
might be.
and your macbeth
has a
happenstance
for a sequel

and a meaning.

be in-betweening
and lost
chapters.

[ be these
things ]

but bring the
laughter.

last about a day
and i got somethin'
fo' ya

still immaculate.


just lean back
a bit.

and that'll be the bit
you're
after.

Laugh or cry, there will be Nothing.
A great act of Entropy. And long Smoke.
All the rooks in a bin of Academic
Impossibility and The Joke.

Squirm as we Must, the cornflake
of our Aperture… to find the milk
Of our Sight… where winking
is a Milk Cow in a Forest
of Dry Leaves, and Parked
Scars…

Keeping my options
closed.
And all
Mars.

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.

Keep your keeping where i can see it.
i will let you know i've had enough charlatan
when my eyes break from trying you.
I retreat and advance.
but that is the pattern of unspoken people.
the web of your truth is the ladder
that ascends to the bottom
of all glorious
null.

but me.

I am the duke of dead blocks.
i live here, chaffing windmills and knots.
i slum the cheerful. go where the going
is more gone....
If nothing happens, I can't be here.
but if you do
i must love
you.

I plot my course
through -
like a whale with no song.
just a hunting party
dismissed for the weather
and the wrong
wrong.

Keep your sparrows under glass
and parody flight with your hairless balloons
tethered to a Blarney Stone.

Look where your eyes have stopped seeing
and believe none of it, for fear
of believing anything at all.
But only if you're willing
To never change.

And Mute is your-
favorite button
to never go
missing.

keep your steam
in an irish mouth missing teeth
or the nostrils of a grey wolf.
keep your steam
in the the pit of an eye
bloodshot with green glints of blue
or in the red vein
that spiders the white flesh
of a soul's room,
like a bolt of blood lightning
in a window.

in the valley of our anon
you're not the only... but that's not your  " what ? "
you venture forth of course
with less mad meter but plenty.
you gem your brevity
with terse goiters. you force no order of magnitude
to enforce your oblique corners.... your poetry
has it's druthers.
but alas -
we humans lack the knack to be twice true.
we acknowledge our  acknowledgement
and stake claims we claim
we name true
and I've met you
in the cyber what
of our collective
****. the happy  naked !
we rumpus in the gizzard
of a lost gator.
wrecking the Ruxpin
of our Teddy Rosey
welts.

Poets Know Who Hurt Happy and Joy The Next.

we are well met, yes.

The Keys of the Keeper
Ain't never found
A lock to a Door
Too bashful.
But they sway from a chain
In Aspic.
Jewelry as Stoic
As " Why are you asking?"
When a dozen Illusions
Have all the Answers.

And how Golden you Are
is not so very Alone.

I suppose.

But everything is
where you are the Most..
And some things are tears
That Laugh.

**** your wings when they walk.
when they ***** and sting when she talks.
when the sky
is a stone.... just skip it ‘cross
your pond.
and only linger
when she’s
gone….

Gone.

Gone.

In the Village you get the tang of dead pennies and vinyl
spinning on your Bourbon tongue
and everything’s ***** Roscoe with the jump kids
on Broad Street and the Blacks
polishing rimshots off of stars they can’t see.
Hubcaps vanish like wallets at a crosswalk-
and the rain smells like iron
binging Detroit with fume Kabuki
as falafels alight upon the caverns of asphalt
like a flock of agnostic Finch
migrating to the Temple
of your Migraine.

She’s gone now and nothing can stop you
from becoming a ghost, unless your letters
were never written on purpose
and your absence was the
Plan.

The Jungle is a
stainless steel fog
of Blown Cover
in a war on the
Senseless.

You can’t catch
a Breath
without Catching
Hell
in the Bargain
with a Devil
You Know-

Will Leave.

knitting with scissors you run with.
will get you there. but you can't buy a house. i'm sorry.
you might, miiiiight get the Edwardian Tudor for a mansion in false claim
but you keep your gaze, your weary gaze ....and slumber not so sweet, my sweet.
knitting with false gods will get you everything
but  Not the Other Thing
that gnaws at the substance of your gut
where the heart resides like a lion
addicted to Aesop Fables -
and dry humors that decimate with bounty
flooding the bleak with our windmills !
you and i are regardless.

knitting with shopping carts and dead batteries. washing ashore.
lick your lips at the foam
of our hysterical event. pitch a ******* tent.
and eat more stars than you came in with.

sew the hole
with a hole and
answer the phone sometimes,
****.

i ain't got all day but you might take your time
like an aspirin.

when you stay, i assume that god has a plan
and she knows your name.
when you leave, i resume my urchin joy-
delirious with yearning on boil.
i applaud the next day
as you descend to me
unadorned
to disavow my lonely
with your passionate
Heresies to thwart the gospels
of my Doubt.

the way you always do
when you
sublime.

Down by the lake where the air had lost its breath mints and cattails wobbled like golden hobos, you could see a little house across the chop; squatting on the far shore, flanked by tall evergreens and nameless trails receding on ghost feet with tiny little shells for boots.
     Down by the lake you could see a light in the window with the Chinese maple fascinator off to one side in an offshore breeze. And rampant ivy, raiding the pantry of a thatch roof overhang for sun crumbs and pelican pies. You can just make out the door that seems to stand between worlds, slightly ajar.  And a chimney as stoic as a bone with a granite crown.

You’ll be back next year.

my naked bees are stinging knees and never dream more kind
the honey, black... they lack the knack of natural acts. they pine.
they surly fume. they bark at doom and dangle chintz and fiend,
they serve a nerve as raw as words that pinch a finch’s wings.

my wherewithal, with all your spots, are not my dots; but sod.
by all accounts, it counts for naught...but sounds a lot like god.
the absent one. the ubermensch. the lint i sent you, cracked !
a dagger’s mind. a hellish hive of worse than curse. a laugh !

la mort, petit. du jour, for sure the purest night to bleak... the white !
the eye:; it seeks to sink at least a league beneath the widening gyre !
fie !  and thunder pun my plums
of glumful dungeons, one by none.
and glory wrack my sycophants.

and ransom damage done and done

Dawn in my coffee cup floweth over
in the wee hours
of my mysterious exchange.
the way i post up after midnight
with a busy midday mind,
and an apple cart-
of frenzied chrysanthemums.
i chum the waters
for last waves-
in a brush fire of
every wave

And
Like That-
I am somewhat
sane.

with all
the filigree of
a ghost

with rain bones

and too many
beautiful
names
for

" I don't Know "

Hating it makes me breathe thistles and good luck charms
in broad daylight...
the supple damnation of frank discretion
sweltering in the fevered jeer
of introspection

after dark.

I loath the thing that brought you here but haven't the faintest idea...

laughing at my paranoia, you can drink pianos
and sever the cut        

from the knife

howling for constellations
between
the market
of the
blind
and the
free
light

you can count on something, haunting your nothing

and the clouds
leave you rain
enough

to cry.