early morning
calliope
of feathered hymns

stained glass
sunrise on a
sleepy meadow

windowsill aster
beneath a ladybug's
dance

spring zephyr
tuned to

the woodshed sparrow's
chirrup

to trouble you with the miniscule trite and frisk your pockets for lint is to be not a one of mine. to clink through the fetid grub of dull seizures of myopic introspection to surface upon the surface with a fist full of tears and mockery, i am not the one. to find you at your post; a rarefied glint of true steel and reed... swinging from the rafters of no heaven imagined; rejoicing in the brisk sting of too much life, i must find you. a fellow acrobat. happy must i be to close the open circle of our revolution. to orbit closer to the voidling that matters more than smoke. my friend.

cool flames
on the flower darken the bloom
where the impending hallelujahs
are merely a whoop in the
doom.
we castigate the vigor of evils
as they prosper  from our flight,
and misread the graffito
on the holy wall
of Night.

choose
your phantoms like you -
choose your friends... but never love
a wonderment. be calm in all
the doings there
that hang your head
in constant
farce.

be kind
to all the angels
in your gallery of
rusted prayers.
and dabble just a bit
in much deeper
things
than Poetry.

II

This
is the form you take
from a ghost,
a complete fiend
half empty, on the cusp
of a raw deal. a blue blight
that has it's engines
revving the clutch
of every plight.

a
new eden
for the hell we're in
to accomplish
less than
spite.

to keep it all suspended
in the miracle
Life.