I sleep until Morpheus laughs milk through his nose
and abruptly laugh at us Both. yesterday’s whole-grain toast
on a doily, derelict and butter-cuffed-
where a bite was sincere and absent-minded.
Much like a peasant’s frenzy,
with manners from Empty tables.
Only good enough to gauge
the width of a Total
Farce.

Or sum the Sublime
with a Catalogue
of Lost
Arts.

I awake when the dream begins
.
And you wanna hear me talk about snow right now.

And I bother.

“ The blanket is a kind of white noise that only the eye can see -
   as a Blue Thing.

It’s fading… and nothing comes close to not beholding.
We are all In for the finch and the hare
and the crepe of crisp.

pinned to a theme of our leisurely stroll-
through damp crystals
as awestruck as
Winter at
Spring.

On the cusp of our twilight, serene seraphs slumber
born of golden spite and joysome psalms, woven from unspoken skin
to stitch ice to every paw of Dawn clawing at the hem of Night.

     And where Winter falls, I stay awake to chart comets and chimneys
Like any awkward Silence
thought I might.

Anchored to the tip of a vicious pin
too whalesong to cog
careful to strictly wither
with a liberal eye
at the foot of a moon
smelling salts and assaults
upon absolute time
like a
cage-breaker
mending
cages

with smart
hands to the task
at hand -
but dumbluck
for parchment
and large blocks of flotsam
charging into dawn
with an ornate spear
for the heart
of a mundane
dark.
lest your heart
be your
gallows

( tin star
and
hole ).

a tantrum of idle thoughts about you throughout the haze of day
resembles itself like a wave of unrelenting devotion surpassing lanes-
parallel to memory’s road that veers far left of our fondest wish
however we drive our sanity to the nearest bar to forget our hope.
it is love spilling into sleepy spoons
with tsunami dreams of perpetual
You.

the chirp in the middle of a hurricane’s blue eye
is a velvet epiphany, swollen with burgeoning
beyond the kin of small life. it’s like a lonesome love-
as broad as a narrow sea.. dreaming of actual love
and sleeping through the apocalypse
with alacrity

and aplomb.

i can see your house from here.
like a handwritten letter in my hand.
i can smell your love in the void.
i thank you for the towers of ablution
bathing in the swoon
of our absolute.

You Recall me to a storm
that had an Eye
for such things.

every day.
by the by.

and my somewhere is you for the dream of it.
and love is how something
gets done.

Some songs are meant to be little things that expand.
they assume the girth of the world with all the longing
of a symphony

Like a gilded dirge.

Sometimes the heaven
in your hell
is the last
bird.

You live where it hurts
So healing means something
to blindspot in your
perfect oblivion.
It’s how you cope
with an open wound
that loves the moment
you met the one.

Some songs are meant to be all about the girl
and how sunshine adapts to her night.

and some songs are
meant to be
gone.

when your sun is too high, all that matters is how your moon is waning
and some of the far things become up close when you venture from your anesthesia
and succumb to the wayward lithium of your bright mind on a dark sea
slumming with stars so astonished that the dark is gasping for shadows
but your treasure trove is a moveable feast of ferocious puns
dipped in the quill of Time and marginally antiseptic.
you click with the void but the cure
is an actual oblivion
full of You.

and you love like a crazy thing when living out loud.

i cannot occupy mars but have sown my feathers to a star
made of happy glass and sorrows beyond my kin
and i have ventured to the rim outermost
to pinch barnacles from dragons.
and nothing has been the same
since the dawning of all my worlds
tumbling into space
between Words.

Politely pining for Plums.
That's a Social dynamic; integral to your Kafkaesque Self Awareness
and it must be appeased. But i assure you; you needn't bother waiting to be entertained in any event... and the seeking of a thrill is no mocking of a bird.
It has flown without you
and all genuine delays are at the feet your imaginary Life.

You might recall the imperfect stillness of your haste. How it halted.
How it gained an inch in hell by waving hands
at a Taxi, stalled at the wreck of all your unspoken Banshees
Balking at Time’s sinister rebellions against the flesh of your everlasting Mortality.
You succumb to too many Truths and meteors.
Ambling in the fog of All Things
Adjacent to -
“ Why ? “
.

i’m on my hill, and a swarm of long Tuesdays
perturb my actual Monday night
pooling at my disconnected feet on the grounds of anonymity  
where I trim the verge with cattle eyes, gawking at Time
with my ruminant mouth slack, and my spires arcing bolts
from the crown of a troubled Sky.
my pumpkins are not the same. they have lost their dreams
to a labyrinth of vines… tumbling over dead leaves and applesauce sunshine-
but only in the margins of our conspicuous stupidity.
inflamed by a cold sun.

i’m on my hill, as Leviathans repel from low clouds
to barter teeth at my table
for a long song about a boy full of fables
and a Sea in his Palm
full of worlds.