that rain in your skull
is the wish.
a tingle of snow blind clarity
an inch of
beach.

you loom wet
in fretful foam, epibenthic
I'm swinging
from the ledge of your
up close
so  far,
far
away

someday you’ll love me and that will be some day

and
that will be always
twirling in pure joy
delirious our
phantoms !

wringing a gram of wheat
from the loaf of our blood...
charming every halo's master
to skin a thief
of  reason
with a song
about
tight
lips

telling secrets to a lover
sinking ships
that have

no name

so it’s on, with the shallow breathing
in these pools
that curdle lightning
as it falls; emblazoned -
from an angry squall,
smack dab in the middle of our
War on Things.

so it’s on with the curse that Meaning
forgot,  in a tantrum
of unbeleaguered
Serenity,

a quiet sort of madcap in
a straw bonnet.
because Life is the Verb
that you’ve frozen by
Hand.

till it was priceless.

Stung by lurch and frequent impurities
slumming in my mind’s eye, like a tattletale
on a hot crime… thumbing through the entrails
of a fabulous tumult on the Meridian
Of Never.

I keep my Love in a Bag Of Moons.

Frozen rivers have a spine
But only the Sun has a river
To Inspire.

the rain has come from the land of rain
filling the air with sheets of torrent and the scent
of tomorrows immaculate breeze.
blackbirds crowd the canopies and caw fables -
in the deluge.
clouds boil overhead; diffuse and gun-barrel grey.
the hum of loose change and lightning hangs
from the roof of a squall. and all the stars
are marching in the dark.
like fruit loops in a Kline Bottle
painted black.

just enough

how are you this mad? from where comes your explicit wreck ?
are you undone ? if so, let me show the way to another trouble
to keep at your breast. let me reveal the vista
and the void.... to console your tremors in the meek nightness
of your unfortunate soul.
i love you.
and loving you is nothing more than nothingness.
but you dream of hate and cinders.
full tilt boogie with that shadow
but never mine
at last.

never mine at all.

game face with no game
tripping over elbows and
undone gobsmacked remotes
that tune into deep figures
sleek features masquerading
as all the fog in a room
full of you,

dormant doormats. done dilly in the privy
of your terminal performance.
your one enormous soliloquy
and all the sparrows
of your Mind.

Etcetera.

it is sweet where my kisses fall

and that is not the only sweet.

the slender of your naked charms

is wide enough to keep my feet

in thin air

where love is one of those birds

where love is one of those things

more beautiful than the last thing

that broke your heart.

that broke your heart.

and broke your heart.


it is sweet where my hand came to rest

and that is not the only sweet.

there's a place where everything is wet

good enough to eat

and come up for air

when we fall asleep

more beautiful than the last thing

that broke your heart.

that broke you heart.

and broke your heart.




deep is so shallow

compared to you

the sun is a shadow

so much darker than you

the ocean is half the size

of small

and like a single drop

of dew

my love is so much more than all


when you have it all

it's more than

that.

Valentine's Day is how the mifflewarts expunge your good happy.
It dwells in the innermost fleem.
It has no fortunate rodentia, but scampers oblong
into  a sideways dream.
Lip-bitten. Our kites collapse in come-aparts to go *****.
prone upon the earth of our dim Ding*
when the Clock was gargling
Always.

it’s early morn and the air is barrel-shaped
with burgeoning twilight wane
and the shuffle of chickadees in the snow;
while gathering wood for the fire -
I’m surrounded by porcelain shadows
crunching underfoot like packing peanuts
made by Trappist Monks.

genius is snapping at my dragons. feel free to ask them. they’ll barter hard tongues
and won't apologize for mad hatters. but this. This matters.
it ungathers. It unravels and the sunscape chafes on the void's tatters.
but it rathers you know me now,
than meet me at crossroads.
it's your call.

come
from your unexamined life
and be sitting with your eyes
like two mouths.
they will speak when spoken two;
when i give you all...
and you want me
too.

hello. my name is unsung. and That's the song.
don't get me wrong; but right your vessel -
and
this ocean will float your devils
with your nephelim. with your unbridled elan.
be sweet. keep your feet unplanted, but be enchanted by the road you're on.
find me in the thicket of unbearable seeing.
you will be me -
for the moment you release
' things '
and imprison Nothing.
of course
you'll need a cauldron
to rehearse your heresies
as often.

may i suggest
a new
guess ?

a question that suits you
better than " what the **** ? "

and has feathers ?

can we do that
and love each
other ?

she has that lightning
might be clinging to your shoes
and you high step back
to her frightening moods
as they swing from the chandeliers
in your hell
where the light was always false
but the girl
can't tell.

get A Life, and you get hurt
like All The Other
Toys.
get some sleep, and it's worst
than All The Other
Joys.
'Cause the Nightmares keep You -
nailed to Your Loss.
and what's gone is gone.
but you burn
and you
burn

till you're lost...

some of those thin moths are snowblind
enchanted by cheap tricks, trickling for magicians
past their prime.
four wings, naked lunch
moonbeams
long time.

the universe is unlatched
and just fine.

you come from nowhere
and go over there
all the time.

your eyes, some
remarkable placid
rancid with
naive.

plunked into an anagram
of our first kiss

disregardless
the Cerberus
you doubt
with.

Too familiar to be close.
Just dead enough inside
to be my ghost
and you haunt me.
But you don't live like a jellyfish
in my throat...  but your tendrils
have a purpose
and they glow in the dark
when i choke
when you taunt me.

it's the real thing baby
now that we're broke.
now that the ocean prays for rain
and the scorpion sings
while the scarecrow
smokes the red sparrows
and all the long day siege
like an anvil
crushing the lost things mostly
but you forget how to breathe
on a Wednesday
because your Tuesday
was all she wrote
then I lost me.

now I haunt Me.

Lost you in the confluence. In the maze wind.
In the heat of prattle and the garments of Self.
Struck a chord without Notes, and called it Politics
Like a rebel Banshee on a rogue tundra of beach
Thwarting the shenanigans of a polished God.
Lost you in the plethora of Seeming things.
More akin to motes of dust,
Than any Us as constant
As a breeze in Hell-
To cool the troubled brow
of a sinking
ship.

but there were ginger mittens, back in the day
and clumps of outsized joy that I recall
like a brisk kismet upon Avon
and unsour shores of shameless Love
bathing in sunlight; the spawn of wet jewels
in an abandoned well of too much Spring.
there was the constant snore
of our sleeping fear… and all the antlers
for a horse you dreamt
and none of the gods-
to oppose our swollen honey,
when storms
eat bees

As personal
as an optional
sting.

Love was a gift then.
But now…

It’s a poem.

girls are made of glass crickets and sunshine. they eat words that float.
they wear shoes that hate feet. girls talk.
girls are made of dark secrets and kudzu. they seep through your ghost.
they wear moods. they play deep.  
girls are soft.
girls are soft bombs with long nails, painted.
they buy clothes. they wear food on their hips. they impair speech.
girls know that's ironic. girls dance naked to pay for college.
some learn from it.  others tarnish.
girls are made of everything that's wrong with you.
they have eyes
that sing babies
to sleep

that can **** you.

in the night
the trees lose their bark
and gain a smooth
dark.
they twist in the breeze
and lean moonward
in the rain
sheet.
if the rain
rains
and the moon
looms.

in the night
what crawls,
crawls deepish
and sleepless.
it dreams
wishless...
and scurries in leaf pits
and scents the air-wick
with black
eyes -
inhaling the volume
of silence
without lids
to shut
with.

just an iris
the light
shuns
a bit.

and the moonlight forages
the constant moor
of lesser marshes.

the damp cringe of the late hour
stark with stars with no power
to overcome the poetry
of the lowest things
that aspire
to cold flame
or some heaven's breath
on a dying ember
with no
name.

just before dawn
glass drum skins
crack.
and the up above
is down below
sifting through the pollen
on the plump thighs
of sleeping bees
while singing
to itself

It's Self.

or

It's Dream.

In perfect circles we spoke. No virgins to Ellipse but faithful
to the radius of our doom, like a choir to a Chamber
of Remarkable Silence.
Like a backwards whisper
into a megaphone
lodged in the ear of a deaf god
that gets the gist
but never the urgency.
we slept with flames on the inside.
and bled through walls like a stain
aping Picasso without Wallpaper’s
consent

Emerging from the tundra of music
at the kernel of indefinite stars.
full blown glasswood
from a furnace
with all
eyes.

we sustain our love
by wounding wounds
until they see Us
for who We
are.

This love in
a jar.

As is. So far.

hello Edvard.  i have no umbrellas for your armaments .
only your conspiracy and the last *******, ink dark thinking.
bright charlatans engrossed in their glib de menthe.
no harm in it.
only your heresy is more beautiful than blinking. wink dark slinking -
into frightful. hooligan moons blast evening. again, we miss.
no heart in it.

The moral of the story
is never a suspect.
But always a
conviction.

Read tea leaves for the articles.
Scrapbook the
Fiction.

go ahead. keep your gospel. but be not faint
in the hallows;  inconstant. stretch the fathoms
of your fathoming to the outskirts of fell grace...
and stub your toe on a perfectly hideous
god.

keep your trinkets in narrow crustaceans,
but sleep - where your damnation is a coin
and a bed.
deepen your sorrow where the joy is spent
and the sky, a crisp skin on a desiccated
blue.
be thankful for the hell you keep
but ascend the zenith
of your every
harm
to find your
proof.

be droll as the wet fools cavort in the pit. but -
keep your feathers adorned
and your feasts mobile.
glow and be done with it
if you dare...

but keep your heart spoken
for the night.

spinning where the halt of your lurching heart is a musical
surging in the mundane litany of our personas
suffering the same madness that soothes the savage disconnection
of perpetual mortality…. sleeping at the center of wakeful
bedazzled by the prominence of cashew moons and the promise
of absolute doom…. but not without a word in edgewise.
in the margins of an unpublished book.

glowworms on holiday mock the cave on your back
and all the blind crickets
can see right
through you.

go ahead. cry
if it makes
you happy... never spare
the tear that glares
into the heart
of Darkness
and yet glistens
on the cheek
of your
mask.
a crystalline catharsis
trailing the *****
of your bones
in the rictus
of a half-smile
and a wince.
choose to bleed a little
everyday... in rememberance
of a lost toy. or go home again
and hate that place
and come back
missing it.
never fail to weep
when the beauty of what it is
to be happy
is the gorgeous sorrow blossom
losing petals in a gale
of laughter.

and a moon.

Life is a brush fire... dreaming.
A penumbra of the void.
Life is where God left His hammer.
A black pearl on black sand.
The one with the blue heart
and the mad men.
Life is thin air made flesh; the pinnacle of divinity-
with a blunt tip.

Days are optional. Nights are mandatory.

That's Life -
Deep down, where we live
in the Future every moment.
Life is a sad
piece.

Wince
at the sun for a nickel,
and that's almost what it feels like
To believe in your soul
but not your eyes.
Life is all
around
you.

A field of poppies
and prank calls.
A flood of Harmonies
alluding
to your
Truth.

That you have no idea
How to play your
instrument -
Is the funny
part.

That it All seems to work.... sheer genius

We are Alive,
and that
Is the pivotal intent
of the Prime
Mover.
The Lucid Grace that All Creation, Made.
A Reflex of an Infinitely Loving
Conundrum -

We are the Children
of a Living Mystery...
from clay,
say some.

But know this.

[ Life is a gift that keeps on Dying ]

and will do it for nothing....  

if you let it.


Life is a Dreaming Cause, A Sleeping Crusade;
Tossed out of Heaven's bed
Into The Cavernous Crib With The Milky Way Mobile
Spiraling in Entropy... Life looks up.
And Life looks down,
With your
eyes.

We are the null set, and the set of all possible sets.
We are the Premise that inspires Love to magnify.
That Lens between the Sun and the Ant
Is your Soul.

Life is not -
exactly.
And Death's a
lazy-Susan.
And Nothingness
is poetry
that bleeds a
moon to
ruin... as high
above -
stars are sliding
fortunes into
cookies
and everywhere
our banquet -

sprawls.

i cracked the code. god'll forgive me. ' you ' shut up ! do not cross
where the scarabs calf their adders
be more black than the last
vast strip of night
across miles and miles
of wide expanse
be more
advanced and
water tight.

plead your case. the silence that follows will deafen your prayers... it will eat your rain.
tread where smoke has layed eggs in a nest of flames.
use your thoughts nimbly, and thereby, climb the ladder madly

humbly gone by love, my love.
humbly gone
by love.


these are not the words in my mouth. they are god's frogs. a soft plague of cecil b. demille with ampibians and barbedwire. these are not the fickle neptunes in dischord. you are not the last unicorn. only the basilisk in my zodiac. my marvelous queen.

these are not the feathers of a proud crane. but a wrecking ball reassembling a dandelion with a leather whip and a chair. they tumble from my limbic intimacy with your private lies. i bring genuine venom to cure blindness; but i leave an antidote under my tongue should your kisses beg to be a fool.

i won't say what this is.

i have bruises where your name left a dent in my kevlar.

let whatever you do
be the blood in the rainbow
and swear that you'll never go back
to Chicago...
let the radiant darkness
inside you continue
till it rains light upon you
in waves like I do
i'll be ****** if I do -
not display my emotions
i'd be shipwrecked
in the *******
of a dead stare
at a life full of love
that was gone.

gone.

gone.

how do you cross the street
with tomorrow so completely
a near miss ?
are your skeletons as eloquent
as frost fire ?
and how do you account
for all the rain ?

seems a pity to lack so many hands as Shiva
in a downpour of your very own Sun.
when the clouds part with gathering
and gather yonder -
leaving you the view of your delirious star
and the valley of what
has never been
known.

goodnight and good luck.
may your hemispheres release you
from the globe, and your journey be wicked smart
through the jungles of unrelenting
deep.
may you find there what you lost by keeping
and abandon your crown of thorns, in favor
of a velvet noose
should the mysteries prove anguish,
is a virtue of mortality
or else the joke wouldn't work
to pay the bills.

got gone from nowhere  sewn shut in the hem of Her
anguish
only to languish in sweet lies... chosen from a dozen fools
to pillage a raging guess...
a solemn zealot, kissing the ring!
i've arrived at nowhere special
******* the tears from a black-hole;
killing Time with a rainbow noose
joining Wednesday with a Thursday
and sleeping through the whole
**** thing.

haunted, i am haunted by the sliver of your lovely
born in chains to fit my weakness, disavowed of any heartbeat  
to a different drum.
you are the sum of my addition . want me more
than you
can have
me -

then have at me.

lets jab at happiness. the wicked and the silence.
form new chains to slip our wrists; a few clouds of many dark things
that go hum.
you are the mumble. with diction.
haunting more
than you can haunt
me

and want me.

i'm not so in love now.
but love bargains for my emptiness.
it trips me up
and cries in the blue glum
whimpering for nothing more
than your sweet.
it kills the light and cadavers my living lungs.
it leaps into oblivion, more than it sinks
into pretty graves.

I have been green. I recall.
withall of my purpose burgeoning
in Blythe ponds of uncommon joy.
my yurts are open to closed snow
but nothing gathers at my feet
so much as the fumes of verdant dreams
polishing the banisters of our compass
with all the fervor of a slave-
to freedom… but having no moon
to conjure with
I have no sun
to barter.

I saw a little Peace of me
in the War. slept through Grad-School
like a mad Fool on an Honest Quest.
speaking to the cheap seats of our Honest
Orchids...
I’d rather the Moon Mints
of an average Average…
slum ****** sick
with a Beautiful Algorithm
that No One can hammy galump
when the fade spark
is Actual.

Life wages on like an hour at a Time at War
With Emptiness. A brood apart from -
the usual suspects.  It folds space with it's teeth.
And carries on in lush meadows of perpetual.
happy as a dog up a bone tree.

Love was completely bald and selling medicines
that often cauterized the weeping
but hardly the bleeding.
It barked in Avenues of more Precious
than your usual yearnings…
and gathered all the mice to knit
a sweater for an empty promise
shaped like a girl
with an Undone Polaris
In love with a Loving Drone
in the Queen’s Oblique
like The Last Rampion
in a Carnival
of a Lost
Harvest.

Sometimes, Love was a Baldwin piano
kneeling paraffin and Arthurian Brass
in a Lake Beyond Fire.
Love had the heat of a jewel
in a Vice Grip… and novel pandemonium
as wet as the sea
at the bottom of
The Sea.
There were no explanations
for the inexplicable
as capable as
the Impossible
for a
Start.

we were champions
in Harm’s Navel
And Disarmed.

And The Dark
had a Place
Not
a

Heart.

Harriet slept to colonize time and space
with her chrysanthemums and cardamon irises
tacked to a wall behind a lens in her eye
rapidly moving through a slumber quest
to pillage the invisible with her wisp of might
to glean the terrace of lost chambers of gnostic grog
in flagons of hubris, spuming at the spicet
of a dervish star in a barrel.

Then she makes breakfast.

Hate is not Theater. But we Know our lines.
Baleful mongers squandering Grace at the behest
Of an Ungrateful Fiction, with Irony’s Teeth
And Doll’s Eyes glaring at the Puppet Master’s strings
To stitch an Excuse to an Impulse
With ancestor hands, chafed by grim and bloodstain
Like windows with dead eyes, locked on a sunset
To best glean the contours
of a Sunrise

At the scene of our every crime.

We know History will not Lie, but our Bibles might…
So we amend our Treaties to serve
The demon at hand. The one that we know.
Slouching quazi-cognizant
In all Splendor, War-Minded and About It.
The Way we lose Our Way
Never Trivial.

The Way We Lose Our Minds

Classic.

As much as you Autumn, you can never orange a jaundiced epiphany.
you can only prune the prunes and filibuster rainbows to the spectrum of your grief.
within these margins find release at your perils relief.
******* to the sticking place, all the wandering reasons
to remain Unremained in a place Unbeen.

All the while, sleeping in the forge…
we cobble our stones into cairns
of unrivaled dyslexia. we Ambien in the thicket
and snap twigs.

craven are we -
in the manner of hollow wolves.
or hayrides in Antarctica.
we thought we could master
the average plague
with extraordinary sermons
to serve as serum and solace
but Certainty shackled to blind suns
see only the
Name.

when your breath is my breath i hardly notice
far too focused on the cadence of your camisole
heaving in synch with invisible me
thrumming with worlds of visible Life.
I surge in place. stunned and besotted.
shivering in a stillness so beloved
that an orbit stalls
for a kiss

As I hazard Joy.

All your doom in a box now
as happy ducks marmalade the pond
with cuteness beyond calculus -
swarming the elaborate morning dew
with an average gobsmack
in the meadow of
my off-handed\
star.

All that and a barrel
of plums.

plums full of morning
and heartache
with spoons