when she dines in, she lets the moon do all the work
and feathers slither by, with so many charms decanted in the jasmine apocalypse
to swoon forever like an uncorked boy.
the marmalade is never dainty.
the air is mostly a cotton barge of intangible voyeurs
as intimate as a private thought.
her lace clings to the bead of sweat that twinks besotted
and time prevails upon Beauty with a lewd choir of Sleep.
as she dangles from an ecstasy
phalanges Etcetera.

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.

all of my Islands have honeycombs and harsh bark
where shrubbery blubbers in too much sun
and halfwit Karma blunders in a cup
of unquenchable designs.

Wharf ******
on the plank of the following prank.
heavy like Moses.
Ordained by self-harm
and actual Pirates.

breathing Majong Cactus
Where I Temporary
Go.

As I lurch from my Precambrian slumber
I do Birds where my windows peek from under.
I boldly go where the wind is a frame of reference-
and serve the Empty a full spectrum of dislocation.
I Unnerve the Actual with a dark Plum
singing something UnNatural.
Grief drains the Pool of every Sea
while Poseidon slights the Farce
Of our Perpetual Carbon Farms.
while slinking into varicose
Dreams.

Disarmed.


II

it never feels like Wednesday the way you want it too.

We had troublesome bones and almond eyes-
That thought violins would never go to War.
So Guitar.

We elapse
where our frailties hold Court…
So far better to rebel -
then to almost be less perfect
than Broken.

By Design.
Where it’s
Hell.

II


Burning Bridges where a Door is a Worm
In a Bowl full of Doors… you have only your Fate
And shamrocks gobsmacked in the matter
of your business with Always.
You do no harm
where the trains go
but keep your Station
where the Holes
Track.

You Aether where the World Sea
Is as Flat as a Wish…
But Never do you
Constantly
Remove.

Acorns fraternize in the leaf litter, sifting through tired tales of falling.
A yellow sun cranks knives into yellow sinews of nearly perfect grey
where twilight is smiling for no reason,
and we all sleep overlong,
as our tomorrows
lapse into gone.

The Politics of Amber
Is how Love is not the first thing
that you know.
It buries the lead in the forefront
Of a Trojan Horse.
The mane, majestic in the wind-
up your aspirations.
But always where a weeping oak
Had a reason…

To paralyze a
Life.

Or Two.

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.

our skin pushes the river till it splits the sky
molting with waves of skin, deep and fathomless.
i am nowhere, like a weather vane in a cauldron
of Nope.
The winds tickle when they actually Mill.
and a bread from said grain
is a Love I can’t
ferment.

not without your ghost butter
and endless full moons.

For
Love is a Beast
and there is no Oasis
for wanting
You.

As we Diverge... where

We At
Least.

Her cologne was hemp and Tuesday; lettuce-wrapped
in comet frost and not so merry-go-rounds.
She hid scars with wounds-
But never Noticed...
Charm- Kissed
by a tide of imponderables-
the size of her Ovaries.
Sleeping in a steamer trunk
to scope the limits
of Her Open
Mind...
As seen through the lens
of the first Blind
Eye.
And you Love Her.

II

You don’t have to sleep where you pass out.
You can study dreams where her feet have been.
Trek the spiral of her Cacophony to a Wailing
where her Heart should Be.
You can believe in anything
that Love allures…
Even-
And entangle your imperfection
with Her own.
But you have to wake up
to Dream properly.
Fold Space
where the crease
is a massive
Soul.
Merge with the
soft clots
in your fire,
and conspire to
move.

Breach the barricades
that thorn
your Roses,
or surrender
to
vanishing.
Know Love’s Garden
for what It
is.

Or Fetch a
Grove.

Owning the empirical argument
is like a mouthful of marbles
Telling marbles How Cubes-
Think.

Meanwhile...

All the West is The East with its back to you.
And no one can say how pointless
a compass can be
until they’re born.

And that’s how maps
may never spoil
The Lost.

And how Paradise
remains

“ Here, There Be... “


CANTO II


we are half a bird in a sling
shot through with dark wings
and guillotines as precious
as an unyielding spark.  

we are dust where the flesh is not.
and bone where the
songs go.


CANTO III


yea, though i walk through... (The Other Side-
remains elusive.)

too many Underworlds; and all the doors are stairs.

Like a mad god signing your Yearbook
with your Name.

But for Realsies.