Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.

Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.

In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.

Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.

Silvery glaucous

leaves sail away from the trees --


Little crescent moons.

Everything we see is
it’s pristine essence
casting the same light
from the womb of darkness.

Gripped by the dolor of a glaucous sky,
love's longing reminds us
that nothing is ever truly lost
to anything less
than the visual acuity of a heart.

Unseen signs never give up
their quest for being seen.
With a slight tilt of the head,
the light of the heart changes...
and so does everything,
everything.

the stars do not align
like they do every now and then
not as we drove through glaucous willows
not as the stelliferous night twinkled with promise through the sky roof
not as my cupidity for you
not as we danced in each other's arms paradisally
not as the lanugo on our bare limbs blazed a golden white as we watched the sun rise
the stars did not align for us.

we loved like antipodes - if antipodes did not love.

"A blue and gold mistake",
Wrote Emily from inside her room,
A self-inflicted tomb,
About a path she could not take,
Into the month of June.

Let others stroll beneath its cerulean sky
And thank the sward, on which they lie,
A lunging into voluptuous play,
Yet blinded to the rushing by
Of sultry month and jovial day.

Did the poet’s being kept apart
From worldly joys well-made,
Or from crystal pools and glaucous glades,
From brilliant sun that fashions shade,
Embitter her admiring heart
To look askance at anything that fades?

Did she not care that
One month, though doomed to end,
Was also made to reappear
After the long march of winter’s year
As the sun came round again,
To loose us from our unlocked pens?

“And only the azure painted sky to shake the rain from its sound,” so the plain falls, opening its mouth through a bed of headstones dotted with the hollowed trunks of magnolias and cedar at afternoon and that cameo of calamansi velour interwoven with the softest glaucous velvet. Inside that whirlpool of sacrosanct textiles a blur, that shocking shrill of coolness catches the skin- this hole-covered schmata oozing cesious acronychal threads pull tight across the hooves, branches, and stream. Only the thin repelling flume of winter’s height eschews this ianthine material over the sinews and map-lined bones. A corpse shortening its gaze, eyes stone-free, empty of nictitation. Nothing stings more than autumn’s filemot sins scraping sideways down a tiled balcony, and the dove’s beg like circus rats, shaped by the finite breaths of decade’s old poetry edging its moods like a bold inflammatory conflagration of the  de-evolution. While the fulvous trammeled dirt abounds.

Welcome to your first session
Of couples’ therapy.
Before we begin conversation,
I would like to share something with you.
New research has found that, in therapy,
A client’s motivation is the most important factor.
Here is one article about it. I have copies for you.
I devised an exercise to increase your motivation.
This is, motivation about what you want to have
…again, as a couple…what you used to have.
Though there are two of you, I will say "her"
in order to keep things flowing
and for other reasons we can discuss.
Please make your selves comfortable.
Relax your muscles, starting with your toes
And working your way up.
(Yes I know it’s funny…but it works)
Focus on your breathing—in and out.
Not big breaths, but calm, even, shallow breaths,
That create stillness. Drive away intruding thoughts
And focus on the present, on being relaxed.
Are you calm? Are you in the moment? Good!
Now…I want you to imagine an ordinary day.
Picture yourself coming home from work, or
Some other place. See the road as you drive.
You don’t judge it but merely notice it.
Look at the buildings and trees as you drive past them.
Is everything the same as always? Good.

It’s an ordinary day. A day in your life.
The sun is in the sky, the grass is green
And all is as it should be. You feel content.
Keep breathing. Relax if you have tensed up.
Now picture yourself arriving home.
What do you do? Where do you enter your house?
What do you say or do inside?
Now, imagine that there is no one answering your “Hello”.
What do you feel? Remember how you feel when
Your wife or husband said, “Hello” or “Hi” back to you,
Even if it was casual or not very loving.
You are home now and it seems there is no one there.
What do you feel? Are you worried? Angry? Suspicious?
What do you do next? Hang up your coat, put down your bags.
Maybe you have groceries and you go to the kitchen.
Take a deep breath and relax. It’s just like any other day,
You think.

Now imagine entering the kitchen  finding her there
Motionless on the floor. Do you find this bizarre?
What do you feel when you see her?
Think…
Imagine that you run to her, heart in your feet,
Maybe your head spinning and adrenaline
Is keeping you conscious.
Imagine reaching down,
Calling her name, shaking her
But she doesn’t move. What do you feel?
Her skin is gray, her lips blue.
You don’t even feel for a pulse because
You know…she is gone. It seems that
Time stretches out like a long road
With a fatal car wreck on it.
Now comes the sick whirling inside,
The lightheaded improbability,
Do you deny what you see, what you know:
She is gone, but you fight against it.
Would you call for help? Perhaps you
Reach out to family, to a daughter or son,
As if they will know more than you
About what to do.
What do you tell them?
They arrive and enter that same world
Of stunned, disbelieving chaos.

When paramedics and maybe police arrive,
They are businesslike, quick: they’ve seen this before.
They are of little help to you
Except to examine “the body”.
Are their questions ones you can’t answer
Without indescribable pain?
Or do you not hear them at all?
Take a moment to imagine what you feel.

And as they take the body away.
You may watch the woman you love
Being zipped up into a bag,
Of perhaps someone had the sense
To put you in a soft chair like a baby,
To guard you from that sight
And speak softly, knowing
That your mind is barely there..
As you sit there, perhaps sipping alcohol,
Or maybe taking a sedative.
Things happen around you.
Are you a paralyzed fish in
A glaucous aquarium?
Or do you rave against the unreality
Of this thing?
Think…

Perhaps more relatives or neighbors arrive and hover.
You watch them cry and maybe
You think they have the right to grieve
More than you, for this was their mother
Or daughter and in the chaos,
Your love for her is ignored by all
Except you.
What are you feeling now?
Do you watch the show
Vaguely, remembering
Instead the things you wanted to tell her
But never said,
The places you said you would go
But never went,
Or worse, the hurts you inflicted
But never healed?
Imagine what this would be like.
You might cry yourself to sleep this night,
Or lie there, still numb, saying over and over,
“This isn’t happening.”

Now imagine the funeral;
Are you dressed in black
And do you do what your family does
On these days?
Did you see her again and say good-bye?
Or did you have the casket closed,
So as not to look at her like that?
Perhaps she was cremated
And when you arrive
At the cemetery, there is just
A small, stone box, a pretty one,
Like the one she had for her jewelry.
And it all floods back:
A scene of her, sitting at a mirror,
Putting earrings on and combing her hair.
Think…

How does it feel to know that
You will never see her again
In this life?
You know what is next—
The solemn procession
The loved ones weeping
Or standing stone still
And little ones, confused.
The words are read out by
Someone—a religious leader
Or just a funeral director.
Does it matter? Do you listen?
Sometimes the funeral is hardest,
Or for some, the easiest part;
It is scripted and you can walk through
The rituals, the reading of expected prayers.

You are silent on the ride home,
Feeling strange in the comfort
Of a limousine—so foreign yet sterile.
You watch the others’ vacant faces to see
What they feel, hoping for a clue
About what to say.
But nothing comes. Not even after
You are home, looking at the unaccustomed crowd.
Why are they here, chatting, eating, getting drunk
When you just want to be alone?
People say things but you hear vague words
From another language that you've forgot.
Some people even laugh or giggle;
Do you want to slap them?
Or are you grateful for the distraction?

Finally, as the morning wears down into
A cold afternoon, the black-dressed figures
Start to disappear. Some just touch you,
While others wrap you in their arms
And you don’t know why.
Some family members mills around,
Fussing over details big and small.
Some are things that she used to do
And you ignored them. Now
You wish you had watched her
Put food away, or fold things—perhaps
You would even offer to help.
You would do anything now…
And you would give anything
To see her move, smile, even to herself.
You would smile at her and say, “I love you!”
for no reason.
Think…

Now listen to your own voice
Saying that you need her.
But that is all done.
Perhaps you spend a night
With someone in the house,
Who stays to watch you.
After all, you have put on a show
So they won’t worry too much.
And on the second day,
Nothing seems real.
You are not the type who talks
About anything deep.
Yet maybe you feel sick
And would talk if you could.
Do you keep thinking she will
Suddenly walk in?
This is very common.

Hours groan past, elongated.
Sometimes, throughout the day
There are shocks to your system,
Electric shocks of reality.
You see her body again,
Or the coffin, the stillness of death
That is incomprehensible.
Sunset comes like an anodyne,
You think...
Night will blanket the loss.
But when your loved one or your neighbor
Leaves at last.
You are not glad to be alone,
As you used to be, sometimes,
When the expectations
Of marriage annoyed you.
When to be alone was a relief.

And now that feeling is alien.
You want nothing more
Than to spend the evening with her,
Sitting together on the couch,
Watching a favorite show
Or talking of interesting things.
Yet even those ideas are painful now.
She is not here and never will be again.
Slowly, reality seeps in, like rain
Into the soil around a tree
Or the dirt on her grave…
You sink into the seat, melting
Under the weight of grief.
The house seems to echo with her
Voice and you keep thinking
She calls to you as she used.
And you hear yourself
Snap at her, annoyed,
As you so often were.
Why was that? You don’t know now.
You were selfish, distant…
So many times, but why?

Think…
If she were alive now,
What would you say or do,
To show her you love her?
There is a ticking clock somewhere
And you can’t remember its place.
The house echoes again,
Not with her voice,
But with the long, empty sound
Of despair.

Vitiate the hull of mutton
Taste the stringy woman lungs
Suffocating in coiling scaly black tar demon ***** smoke
The voluptuous carpentry is anxiously hyperventilating
Your throat is baby xylophone
You teeth are fuzzy rabbits
Their fur is thick and itchy upon your tongue

The slide of octopus silk is massaging the nerves to pointy slumber
Deep in the cauldron the baleen gates are straw and rapidly parting
For some reason they won’t swim up
You taste salt’s bite
Emerge from the sea before you drown
You silly fool

Pilgrims are waging the mass death
Great lynches mandated by God
Wailing with stinking dying young
Having a picnic at the gallows

Whiskey shivers alive
Boiling and screaming in tongues
Strobing from inhuman pain to morphine stupor’s loving numb

Your ****** is a pastor
Your child is the angel that keeps you from returning home to rosy Eden

Eve
Your families’ legs are sewn in a knot
They are frantically dancing the reel of the beheaded roach
Untie their rainbow thighs
To pay penance for your grave disobedience

Apologize to your hardworking father
He’s doing the best he can
Forgive your ungrateful daughter
Adam
Cain
David

Washroom
Pam is crying
Towels are crying
Soap is laughing
I’m laughing  
You’re Pam

You are mouse and you are crumb
Yellow red striped glaucous cat
The fawn’s neck pulsing thick with squirming lump of rat

Realize
This is all occurring
In the wan lakes of your lady eyes
Seventy six have you
Love
****
Breed

The paper walls are breathing in melodic unison with
Thee

You are the Christian
Frantic running from the lion’s jaws
You are bored and waiting for the Greek tragedy
You are Hindu
Attempting to dodge Britain’s guns
You mercilessly ram the bayonet into his muddy wrinkly face

You see the assassin firing
See the bullets pierce
Yet all you feel is your index finger hooking the smooth trigger
And the rough handle of the handgun

The black eared checkered cat
Hissing with xiphoid lizard teeth
Not pretty enough to support your drug religion

Hungers for smiling child
Hungers for drowning fear
Glazed on tattered wings of shredded feathers  
The hot slaughtered meat

Escape the toilet’s screaming
It needs
Exact
Change
The sink bedpan is overflowing with bleeding
Singing
Roses

Air is acid breakfast scented cereal *****

This film is bad it’s bad
It’s Nixon
Lenin
Jackie
Gein

EEEEEEEEEEE
A high pitched eerie screeching
Pitch shifted hymns echoing in Westminster

Your sister the spinster of my festering whisker!

Sacrifice your schedule to the great lord Day Plan
Burn the calendar
Burn the crying trees and their hair accessories

Tiny arms are sprouting from your fingers with their own tiny hands
Tiny arms from their fingers are growling with gushing stumps

A body within a body’s body
You are the human macrophage
Be a cannibal when you grow up

You realize your son isn’t yours
He’s the ******* of your rival pack
Become Cronos with radiant mane and the hairs of the velvet sun

Across the wood frame mirror
You see me smear
The graffiti crooked and huge black words
God is great
Get the pants

on the bleak abyss of glaucous rock
unending in its terrible splendor
lay the two that hoped the longest.
hands clasped,
their breaths rasped,
and one light faded more rapidly
than the other.
one lone final flickering candle let out a sob,
succumb like the mob
had before, serendipitously.
fractured, shattered
the sun rose
baked the remains of lovers,
and grew the purest of white desert daisies
to commemorate
that the tyrants had fallen at last.

The wimpled scrolls recede....
The Authors of the braille sands
leave Northern marrow in their wording,
as sharp as Marram grasses bent
in keening subjugation....

Illuminated Sanskrit kelp,
infused with lust of fallen auras,
scrims the ****-green gartered breaks
now shaken from the glaucous mane,

while fleets of stippled cumuli,
( rain-chartered galleons of the West)
in line astern, prepare for war
beyond the deepened brim.

We,- the town-worn Pages- flutter,
drawn to trace the moiling hem,
to pour away into the water....

Salt-preened minions of the wind.

Set the scene
I'm drunk again
Off our satisfaction
Lifted off from a land
Where I tell all
You love me like you know
I heal your love of lonely
And you accept my embrace
Like you know you need it
But babe, so do I
And your lips, soft and tender
Make my heart stretch
Wanting to kiss you stupid
Make your face feel
Like it will never be lonely
As I pierce your glaucous bubble
You come to life
Crystal and reflective
But visible all the same

this vessel
houses gold;
without bearings in the flatland,
untarnished and eager.

it was born in small hands
jabbing at polypropylene beauties
spinning on a mobile
above dampened eyes,
uniform and bright.

the spinning never ceased;
ligaments lengthened
and seashells,
once musicians,
became resonant cavities.

haggard winds
stirred glaucous and ash into storm;
the sky became a clouded palette
of every shade between
stone and lightning.

what a fortune it was
to be carried away and found
again and again
in the endless above.

she looked at
the azure sky
and mantis grasses.
mountains so gray,
and glaucous lakes
so long
colors so vibrant
like colored
by a crayon.

Two glaucous lights
pierced the dense mist.
A breath of wind,
muffed a voice sing,
pushed violently
the naked branches of bistres
that caged out the moon
and alabaster rags
revealed in a pair.

The air shifted,
cutting icy at my face,
so did all branches,
the rags at me pointed
and I could distinguish:
"Hold him!"

My feet disobeyed
the ticker pumping
in angst to move away.
Down at my ankles
I saw dirt hands graspin'.
I looked up again
to stun at the approach
of this gleam of a ghost
towering over me
like a hologram
of a past unsealed.
"Hold him!"

Her voice brought tears
to my trembling knees.
Sweetened by a longing
that regret imprisons.
"Hold him!"

I heard of the tale
of a mist in February,
he had gotten out for wood
after a love ruffle
over the frost of the moon
and never was heard off
until this day.

She had lost her might
searching the next nights
until her body gave
still dressed in the gown
she back wore then.

Seems she searches today!

Her lanterns recognized
my understanding gaze.
With a sigh of relief
she crossed through me
leaving a taste
of daturas and moss.

In shivers I woke
and felt your warmth,
so I grabbed it tight,
cautious not
your dream to rob,
laced myself at its side
"I held you!"
while you are mine
to find.

An emotional wreckage
She brushes her beautiful hair over her ear
Frantic talking ensues in movement of careless hands and lips
All the world is a stage
And world merely a din and a prayer to your quips
Walking in the night of starry ammunition
She is the green light of Auroras
She is my life without contrition
Engrained with intellect she does not please
At least she is not distant darkness
That ensnares purple hearts in entirety
And dwells on love's flaws
She appreciates the imperfections
Therefore she is royal beauty by law
Like the numinous clouds
So far from sad skies with herons
If I fainted from the height of love
She'd enshroud me in her passion with poetic precision
It is in good fashion not precociousness
Volute waters swirl like bokeh
Offering a sacred picture of voluptuousness
Where she semaphores to her inveigled face
An emotional river of gold
She is one who needs to be dredged for industrial progress
Without question or answer such is her worth
It is a shared with the paupers scuttling nearby
Abstracted eyes study mademoiselles
With glühwein and drunk glaucous cocktails
In panem et circenses
Where we share bread we need romance
Such is her glad fairness of my mistress