Dust to dust...makes tangible the blondish
breakdown of sun.
The choreography of neutered marauding...
ever amicable to rondure of skull.
The seeping pull of an ever foreign wind...
dust to dust.

times like this, the plenary moon
  tonight wearing many faces,

the white-washed truant at bay
    white-hulled still, the brim of the sky
to a full, on such a bright night leaving a trace
   of say, prongs of fire on the kiln

the skin the soft breeze molests with a chill
flung from pinecone – the blackened spires of the
very heart of flame and the mullioned wood that understands
  what the heat of placeness mints underneath
  our skin – what silence remains a translation when the smoldering
  remains are bitten repeatedly, aureoled in the moment of vital meaning.

we hear its threat, retained in clock-whirs
like a primordial word or the fluting of  light’s bendable
   rondure harnessing a truth we let in.

I fail behind the walled-up lip of laughter
because the weight of passing
is heavy on my back – like a bough dragged
  by rainwater, or sound elected to drown:
the smell of poinsettia assaults,
lifting its slaughter against Kiltepan and Ambuklao,
  past mountains lulled to sleep: the moon sleuthing
  like a well-oiled machine.  what do you hear?

  we are aware of its full absence,
like that of our undulation after a fall,
  or the wild sibilance of breath trying  to  utter something,
  going back home with a song in between teeth,
    without words.

So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven it self for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O, let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then, believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven’s air.
    Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
    I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

In midday I watched the children play
on the west side of town
outside my classroom window.
I thought how bright the paper is inside
with blues and limes and how proud
the colors stand within the skin to be
a pioneer for the small and tender.

With the last of the spiders wiped
with pencil textiles I could hear
these tiny howls, a gathering of five boys
throwing around a football remaining invisible
behind thumb greased glass.
Surely children’s beady-eyes bright in hopes
for resulted gutting knees and grass filled mouths
is a life lesson of it’s own.
But, outside is a war and I am watching
against a patchy globe rondure the blur
of a boy beaten down around the ball;
the white lace shinning off
a sunlit fire pit of loss.

It was like watching nerves of growth
as an oceans current; the ripples
carrying them along onto an islands sand.
The red shirted boy holding onto himself,
clenching for breathe while the others like flies
when surrounding the pig; hovering over meat
raw and stiff.

Your stomach is so
            Soft and just with
The perfect, miniscule layer of fat,
So warm but tender.
Your lips have
The epitomic rondure
Of a woman’s kiss.
Your legs
are smoother than silk,
and I lay my lips,
up and down the paths
that form them.
And I follow up
To the succulent rear
And I pour my hand onto,
To pull cloth away.
My fingers paint
Every thread of hair
That stems across
Your sweaty face,
To clear your eyes,
So I can see the
Absolutely idyllic libido
Pulse through you.
Your hands hold
Firmly onto my back,
Scratching lightly across,
But bring such bliss.
Your breaths fall
Faster and faster
Out of your lips,
Into my shoulder,
Where you kiss
Away every inch you can.
Let me pull away,
But I will coalesce again,
Just to see you,
Entire you, eternal you,
And watch your flesh
Shiver and shake
In my love and
In my passionate quake.
And I place my hand
Down onto the crevice
That folds into your
Eagerly-waiting *****,
Feeling the short hair,
Covered in wet lust,
Pressing lightly enough
That I induce further joy,
As I feel me come in
And retreat out.
I bend over you,
Pull my arm behind you,
Lift you up into me,
With our lips colliding,
Your chest, with each breath,
Connecting with mine,
And you poise on top,
And take control,
But I’m too caught up
In your legs
Your arms
Your hair
Your stomach
Your chest
Your pleased moan,
Your grasping hands,
Your lascivious hips,
Your teeth biting your lip,
Your closed eyelids,
And the way you feel
When you shake so violent,
And I twist so vehement,
That, for a moment,
I’m  almost scared
That we might die,
But I saw this light
Go off in my head,
As you grabbed my hand
And my side,
And ****** harder
And harder,
Until you finally did this
Sort-of-scream,
Sort-of-moan noise,
And I did, too,
And all I remember afterwards
Was the smell of your hair
And the smile you gave me.

there are worlds underneath words
swathed inward, swirling from
rondure of moon.

of all that i have loved,
you are the only one living

here within the lining of my skin,
or thinning dermis of turpentined walls,
same as the ponds have their
   curved silences, i have nothing -
a river bled of its source, living in wet verses.

what the turning of days might
bequeath you, as cunning as the mayday
of evening with its susurrus, is what
brims over diminutively, a glint of star.

i believe in the empire your love
spurned from all that is ruined,
drained of their excess. how i have loved
to trail you, across the crisscrossed roads
and receive such fullness no purer than mine:

all your sweetness that is for me,
the implacable honeysuckle and the dew
of mild beginning, i believe them
   all
breaking loose around me, perduring
   still, lorn and born only of visions
all yellow and filling up trees so as the assault
   of light spreading maps through the  sky,
      looking for its home.

Open your eye, rest and rise
Above, within the rondure
You are alive
Breathe in
Breathe out
Put your ear to the ground
It's alive
Hear them
The whispers of the world
They are moving
The message
The truth
The conscientious view
Zeros and ones
It is you
And you are it
As am I
Us are we
Stray from regret
Sidestep worry
Revel in today in all its brilliance
Create with passion
Right intention
Watch it grow and see it spread
Do we exist?
Holographic images
Eleven dimensions
Relative and subjective
       -Tommy Johnson

Wildly clanging bells, soundless--

housed worship withdrawing

senses...your button black pupils

struck dead.

Alarmingly alive, wearing *******

vengeance in pure.

Both Christ and high priest tearing

open your skin, to shed a

blasphemous tour.

Exemplar energy transference,

popped cellophane wrap round

mileages of barbwire.

Eavesdropper, peace-fingered

tongue thru fangs...plunged in

red rondure, swell fruit.

Salival juice, moonlit seafoam --

hard jazz tripping your wire.

Asked to Come again--questioningly

striking, you always come again

on the flip side, straight up.

That notched spine: O sole mio.

Bite till darkness takes cover

in me.

The moon is too high for earthly alto
Below her silver parenthesis  
The pause of a half-note North Star
North and north,
What direction is up?
There is so much beyond our crude compass crosses
We are fond of our straight lines
When the world is round, round
Round as clasped hands, a red mouth
Overflowing with sound that runs down the chin like blood
Round as a helix cupped by fingers, by lips, by teeth,
Round as a dancers hips, circling their core as slow and sweet as the turn of Earth in gravity’s arms
Harm is angles,
The blade of a broken plough
A razor deconstructed
Lines drawn in sand by silver spurs.
When we have carved the trenches
When we have shoved the soft, stardust beings of us
Into corners, into cells,
When concrete replaces clay under our feet
And we have forgotten the feel of mud between our toes.
What have we
after this?
When we have forgotten
The rounding beat
Of our own heart.

the moon rolls around the

blood of her  children...

with the gleam & clawed beak

of a white owl's sudden

appearance.

far too ominous for even her

own rondure--she dispels

cackles of ambience.

a lesbian **** of Hecate-s licking

each other's menstrual blood.

wasting nothing on her forest

ground--always right there where

death faints.

never  paling before her own ritual--

she watches away with an eyeless

socket (the ASMR sounds of a snail).

the illusory gatekeeper of a colorless

black.

warming herself with the sense of

what is shed beneath her.

Hands       places I haven’t known
   in her room taking-light all I have known

groping for some place I haven’t known
     from her   belly once with the life I have    known

of   value, I cross an   ocean I have not known
  to know  my girth   within  her rondure eye   I have known

to live   with   is   a cross I carry to a  hill I  haven’t  known
     seeking    correspondence   from   rocks that I have   known

to be   much  wiser,    in account of what  I have not known
    yet to   be wholly   complete as in ready  for fragmenting   I have known

as   means    to    live   in  summaries I have not known
   to    be  a tracer   of evidence, as if a  search    party    I   have   known

to    be   your  hands  in  all the   places in my  body I have not known
  to    be   sequestered by   the face you   carry all these years that   I   have   known.

This old dog out of dogdom,
   in all of bones scattered elsewhere remaining
   to be unseen, hidden in old glory and flushed lives

In all their shapes and sizes they have
   their bow-legs and their collarbones dangerously
   recoiling in and out as if to ****** fully bare
   for me to see -- invisible hands for invisible reapings they go ******* clad else there was wind
    in all rooms winnowing to make good use of
    my time and unhinge the doors to toss them out
    of their senses and into mine
    letting them wear me thin like paint to turpentine,
    in this house that refuses to let go
    of fragrances underneath this cold rondure

I have forgotten how it was to love
    and clad myself fat with flattened foolishness
     not having loved enough to remember their
      weights crushing my bones so dearly feigned
      my eyes and skins love-crumbled and
      positioned to surpass their flow amidst breaths
      held like ******* or my collected body going
      into another's and completely vanishing
      in a thick scent of fluids so virulent and mundane,
       putting a smile on my face and an anchor
      to my wrongness as if to drag along ineluctable
      and loveless down the stream of many names
       i will confess to my first-born son

   so we can fill parks and stare at them once more,
     laughing at how they have broken us.

I once bore witness to no soggy corner, a seedy cinema, or a vile discotheque
  when out in the open, the somnolent air on face smashing the distance
  often times misappropriated as meaning, or desire – that we hold no choice
  to circumstance and acquiesce: I have become consequently obsequious
as in April’s proper warmth swallows the coldness of metal and mostly words;

it was when nights are spent without maps – roads and their meanings,
    separated by lines – washed with the squalid metropolitan living,
down from the urban thresh to the empyrean glower of a slow moon beginning
  to ignite in someone else’s but mine only and nobody else

aches and persistent meanings, a hand reopening
   a long-forgotten dusk –  painted anew with a chance never off-tangent
   but always at the cynosure of things

   this glass with rondure of your face, the valve of shower
   your hands or simply the droning sound of driving homeward
  
      that I cannot escape, a voice leaning in, saying something
    in the calm wind.

Men seeketh things from this rondure,

Yet I am not of this place,

I seeketh one from Canaan!!!!