Do you have a coat named Cassandra?
Are we the dead swordfish cripples?
Are we postponing the end of reality?
Is one man perched on a cloud
of skunkweed aromas and spiral lights?
Are you trying to sharpen your pencil
with fingernails submerged
in lethargic gardens?
God is decrepit.
Can’t even stand up straight
or walk inside the lines.
Kick out the sky like a drum
A strange blind man with yellow teeth
evolves through a pearl necklace
in a cloud of birds and helium
as soft as a paper serpent,
as simplistic as the underlying echo
of raindrops beside an
apocalyptic train tunnel.
Go ahead,
try and be a woman.
Flamingo!
Or was it Flemenco?
Everyone’s looking for a Mormon groin
To pat on the toilet.
Everyone wants lap-teasers;
bursts of energy
contained in porcelain urns.
You realize anything you write down that rhymes
is mystified, temporarily,
the real nothing curving back into the landscape.
You look fine,
figuring out the label.
Before the swollen eyes burn,
***** wanders and remodels.
It reminds her of the cavern that remained
in the side of her head
and the stain its warm good-byes left
on the open half
of the flower sun
on the Indian tapestry.
I want to share
the broken cores of the walls
with the rippled blue label
on the ******* clad bottle.
They will meet,
marry
and view death as friends
watching each other deteriorate
into puddles meant to be wheatfields.
No vines, no veins
they pace only to summon the light.
This speech is spellbound
and holds no boundaries to our power.
Don’t follow my path
to indignant extinction.
Breath likes resurrection
Death likes restitution.
It was the stare I remember
and he was the one who lost
the lickable paper
I vaguely
(and foolishly)
recall with pride
for playing anything less than psychotic
I am the psychotic
I’m the last of the crass;
a head I can brush her hair with.
The crash of a familiar tongue
distances itself from the ivory face of a December midnight,
standing in shadows of crimson silence.
We see no need to thank, but do it anyway,
by necessity.
It’s a fear that wakes you in the night.
You turn on the light
and there’s nothing there.
Where is the lifestyle I want?
Flying
flying
flying
flown, as a vision through the light,
a vision beyond that vision I saw
Death and the echo of raindrops
remain boxed together in a stool sample.
