I fold my shadow,
pack it purposely
for transition through  
districts that nightly invariably
abort me on
salty frigid sand mornings
that never smelled night
and night that
never ends.

to manage
the disease,
go to bed
early. (lesson from my father)

through my jazz
whiskey winter
days I drift the subways
in and out, marching.

living apart yet, a feature
of the artificial air and
engineered electric
underground glare.

puzzle
spun by
my current booklist.

Revolutionary road,
Fergusson’s Empire,
the book from Bennet
Bacterium to Bach,

a podcast recommended
word of mouth
leaked by rick
a history of rock
in 500 songs.

each episode a different station
on the BJ underground.

detached thought,  
we look
like we look
unhappy.

bespoke webs
keep us sane.
measured
from special cloth.

a spectacle delivered
from a discreet
esteemed address
each new season.

nothing is the old me
except my immortal coil.

Repentant thoughts
stall
in a dim lit
corridor of tongue.
hard plank
passage in yellow
early morning wash,

rancor sinks
there
untouched by me
or you.

A bright kite
***** limp
in tall trees
that was us.

waiting for the fever
that burns an amber
wire sizzling into
my periled glass heart.

I scroll humdrum
I hop onto sane
and dig through
unformed parking lots.

memory
drained

malfunction
multiverses
passed.

the light bursts
from a sack
the bottom
broken through,

this bent bhikkhu
screams silently
into the
non-attached
that becomes
brighter at every corner
of my fractal mandala
divergent source code
new galaxy on and
on and on.

In a distant universe
stork-like birds are startled
by the shore
that endlessly laps at
our efforts of serenity.

ephemerally here infinitely now
the empty everything
takes any form
we give.

Winter undoes
the brittle buttons of
her faded dress
in a pearlescent sun

steam hazes
the first lines
intoxicated duress.

dreamer dreams of
hobo’ing peaches.
awkward conversation:  

“trade a threadbare
satchel, down at heel boots
for running water
and contacts.”

Panopticon mornings
Panopticon nights.

I slip
like sand
from the bottom
of the two ones
and disappear,
expanding in
hollow spaces
below the glass table.

I drift.
the eight
was alive
swirling infinitely
strands charcoal
in the orange
expanse lit
behind my eyes

In reeds they find
a baby without heritage.
women make you
earn affection while
the boys sort through
all sorts to get
the one.

Echoes in underground parking
comforts
the late
thaw blind
angled sun.

I question.
Numbers rush me
one breath at a time,
a minute more of hiding.

ticked generations
gamely pencil me
into sun
carbonized flecks
of minute hours.

years,
peel perceptions,
light night
gloomy day
save me, if you can,

more time
to end my crab scuttle
in this sour mash sea.
ended like
the rest of them,
free.

Strung out nicotine
fingers test the water,
pointing
the desert.

counter melodies
rot
in graveyards of tone.

a face the shape of
a rock
beat water forth
with a stick.
a face that would
stutteringly part
a sea.

he dreamed the
burning bush
got wisdom from the mountain.
diminished chords
when the tablet
broke.

The sky is
a buzz
that takes me
into trees
and veld
that held me, burning,
a moss pit,
smothering love
sweet secret carpet rides
of prayer.

Mind forges
kilns
beyond good and evil
gorging
iron from
the clunky
wanderer
spinning
glum
around a gluttonous sun.

Savoured time
passes through
a perched peregrine.

it bends
till the beginning
till he knows the marrow
of his kind.

that crackles
whispering
on lines
clear of doubt about
forever.

shut eyes jolt
memories
catapulting out of
acacia thickets.

thundering 18-wheeler
bends time.
he stole her sweetly.

god of the skies
till he dies.