in my corner of smoke, the world is a thing on stilts
mesmerized by medallions of lost faith
at every pavilion's edge, where the ‘morrow is ever waning
like a plum in an orchard of leaving things.
a swarm of beautiful agonies, sown into the crease
of our everlasting desires.
in my corner of smoke, all things are visible
but Mondays drag tar across your tongue
like a molten snail.
we sing where it burns, nevertheless.
we have so many stars
we forgot
our balloons.

Barbarians At The Bill Gates

Kings in a Nutshell of Plots,
Machiavellian; made Lords Of Infinite Beige.
a Workspace now a  Dead-Space in The Heart of an Artist... Scaling, Mount Dew, at a snail's pace.
Behemoth Logarithms,
Jammed in a hot box. with cigarette soot blocking die-cut vents
The cousin with the soft-spot.
Hair, Nobly Re-Disheveled  by Hit and Miss ads, like
crow's feet dancing on insomniac spines, in and around, the Yawning Cathode D-Rez
Of all Villages, M. Night. Ramadan, forged, into Code Soldiers
With No Code to reverse Schrodinger's Black Cat, Back in The Bag...
The Genie, from a corner apartment in Manhattan, to a bedroom in a Bottle of Lightning.
Only Reactive Jazz
Cosmonauts, embedding feathers in " White Hats "
A Moral Avatar.

Hack Lads in The Boonies of Way Ahead of The Curve.
An Unsound lack of Judgment, echoing by Proxy, like Mr. Hyde;
Passing for a binary Schizophrenic. Swallowing Blackberries, Seeds of Anarchy and All.
Crowd-Sourcing the wisdom of Crowds of People
With cup-holders, the Elite call CD-Rom
Stand-by.
A Quest For Firewire. A billion portals,, huddled in chaos.
In the lens of  The Camera-Obscura, hidden in the USB Port
In the Fuzzy Logic of Our Narcissism.
SQL that Ends Well \ with a Backlash To Pi Charts
Of Privileged  Information,
Cooling, only in The Windows, Facing a Social Network
Resting, on a sill of Approval by Market Share and -
Ad *******

An eye of  a needle, peeling onions in a brave new world, weeping for the pure, post-ironic
Joy, Of Threading a Nano-Camel
Through The Eye of a Needles' Parable.  To Aesop the gravy of grave doubt
and reasonable suspicions off
Teutonic Plates

To an Atheist. The Heavyside Layer of Bricked Phones
and Dissonance,
May Find a Contract, 'Comes with Astroglide.
And a toaster.

Floppy Disc-Figurements of Our Right To Privacy.  
Resurfaced By The Naivete
Of a Target Audience, With a Heads-up Display,
A 4D Hologram  
Of Steve Jobs,  
Exported over dark fiber optics;  
Silicons of Prosaic non-Existence
Overclocking the Swatch
On  a wrist

Banning Calligraphy

Ward of the State
Of the Economy
With a Cult
Following


A Hologram of Steve Jobs
To sharpen the bleeding edge
with a moon rock from The OtherSide of Billions of Dollars.
The After-Accolades with the Spanish moss From Taiwan
Where Dragons Of  Technology
Shed limits, that metastasize rapid growth
Of Personal Stock by -
adding a Touch Screen Feature to an App For Clout.
To Out-Monopoly with a Walled-Garden
Designed by Stanley Kubrick's 2001 [ Available Space Odyssey  ]
A Terabyte
leaving Half a Worm
In your Apple.

A Difference Engine, differently Desired

Dumped
On a Corner in
Your Circle
Of Confirmed
Friends.


rocking XP like an OG on Food Stamps and The Fringe.

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

i am slipshod Monty
wonking the gossamer lust of ill fortunes
strewn to all winds
a lisp of  beacon
churning in the midriff of your titan virus

crumbs of ore
bejewel the wet femur
of our last corpse.
your merry Shelly
is morose
than less
god.

bending runes; you nip tink and **** from odd drums
summoning the haven of your wrong

repenting in the
pent up
down.

just 'cause.

sleep if you can, but good luck
tall tremors cavort with your short light.
you have no usual suspense.
only Night’s Hammer as a guide
to your unusual premise.
calm are the wings of your septic joy.
bent by fathoms of unadorable
asking.

we are not. and that impedes the luscious.

are you one of them ? combing the pantomime of obscure ? are you really that naive ?
do you have what i came here for ?
do you really ?
let's check.

how many temples have you burned to the ground
in the last 24 hours ?
Did you tip a sacred cow when i wasn't looking ?
are those my absolutes
flailing in a sea of ' Could Be ' ?
can i *** a cigarette ? yet ?

there are better sins to love in a crisis. better hurricanes to typhoon the blithering idiocy
of a storm's eye. a direct kink. a direct calm.
there are ways around the fickle shame of honesty;
while being yourself.
it's another room.

and no one is ' one of the boys '
till a woman says "Hello...

I must be going... "

and no one is ' one of the boys '
till a woman says  "Hello...

I must be going. "

and no one is ' one of the boys '
till a woman says "Hello...

I must be going ..."

a lot.

your George Klooney appeals to your filter.
you brunch with Tungsten and straight up toxic marriages.
the mob rules the Jupiter, so therefore and ever after
you mop Hell's kitchen while you slideshow
your thumb through the wreckage
of your tender aggressions in the marsh
where the hard sky lobs acid and false globs
of character... we blur the chi chi's and wiz bang
the last dirge
we incur the wrath of our blissful innocence
and sweeten the Lama
with our Lambda,  " all back of the bus, and ****  "
we betwixt the twain.

and that's the grease
in the varmint. the tuft of luscious.
you gob-smack the kiwi and chip away at the porcine thunder
of our pagan banquet.
the lungs you drum with; are even now
less equipped to sermon the mount
where your meek inherits
lengua tacos.

and your life means nothing, really....

a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****.
toe nails clipped from yeti  
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat

and a brick banana.

blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****.
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask

while hailing a black cab.

tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.

your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho

your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll

your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone

your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.

your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.

Nothing is simple now… and nothing ever was.
But i recall the majesty of my naivete’
and linger in the triumphant fog of my illusions
as a young man of almost a Minute.
Be that, as it may.
i am not among the Mockingjays
nor the calendars of arbitrary
Days.
I am the eclipse of insincere Living.
i blot out the None.

with blueberries from an indigo
Genesis: i stain my sky with every unbelievable Promise -
my Calculus can muster. My Love in tow.
I gather at the edgeless mist
of my Identity and etch the core
of my consecrated cacophonies
into the bones of dead whales like Scrimshaw
for deep kids.

And that's It.

your songs are like dead weight
and living weight. a heavy truancy
that is always late
but never on time for completely gone.
you're always here. belonging to me
and never there.
a curl in the straight line
that leads to soft stones
and marsh.

you test my honest bravery.
you have lungs enough for jubilation
but your theories wane
as I wander... and we suffer the airless bliss
of a toy in the hands of a maker.
we break our spines to build
false houses on mole hills.
and there we manage
the serpentine
to crush the very dreams
we haven't.

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

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.

There's a stone around my leg.

It was like the summer had no road that lead to a lesser sun.
we strolled through the birth of the world
murdering calm with our chat
and slept beneath pecan trees with lazy gnats
for clouds... summoning snow
for our deep reveries... while holding hands
like pirates that love better now
than then... but I'm remembering how we were.
thick in my head
like a slow beast
whose harp is enchanted
and whose days
are the minutes
i confused.