an exploding tv dinner--in a microwave,
on a **** tube.
then the Tetra-like gridlock of a channel's
spectrum, the air's breathing spell.
Robert Johnson turned over as a raw lick
at the crossroads--his voice & guitar digging
a hole in vinyl.
the bluesiest devil exhorting: 'you're almost there
Robby--I'll tell you when to stop.'
a crackling breakthrough lifts an emphatic warp.
meaty hands holding balloons & cotton candy,
having a good day above ground--as other
meaty hands check their raffle tickets for the
winning number at the fair.
which's a special house visit from Pogo the Clown,
who'll have a staring contest with anyone present,
then leave.
the following was filmed in front of a live studio
audience: hived crosshatchings, rashy doubles
(2/1-1/2)--the rippling harp of daydreaming sitcom
characters, keys in each cloud they want to throw in
a bowl.
Robert Crumb's existential countdown from zero, his
neurotic flashback-flashforward Americana,
what-to-do-nowness.
out-drawing suicide, perhaps play tenor banjo in
the South of France...

a glass blown urn,

pit to the stomach

of fire.

convexed with bounding

residuals.

gush thus water, gush thus fire,

gush thus air, gush thus earth,

gush thus ether!!!!?

meta-realities of ostensible I-s

deigning to unbecome, seen aright

in part.

elemental satiety--nonplussed aums,

lightless dins held to nothing visible.

Botero's ballooning

figurations parade

into Giacometti's studio.

greeted by emaciations

that seem cast in disheveled

breadlines.

paper mache wounds

drive into their

porcelain doll.

fetches of deepening

red--making Rose.

profuse.

applications of hands--

shattering.

right before bed.

an antiquarian bookdealer,

upwardly sleeves--Cheshire Cat's

feral litter.

as the front door bell tinkles,

(comparative to an upside down,

apple: Blow Pop).

its soundwaves release the litter,

from the elbow patches of the

proprietor's suit jacket.

its corduroy, thoroughly marked

with their epithets.

as they treat occasional pages as

glue traps--from which they must

release mice from.

please understand--bibliophile by

definition.

where the polite browsing of book

spines--become the agilism of

overattentive readership.

there have been

many horror

shows beat to

death by the silver

of screens.

with no audience.

St. John of The Cross sets off motion detector

lights in the unconscious--which it cannot

unsee.

a state of being whose night still walks, turns

the turned, inside out.

the feeling of having been before, is where

you are, feet lost to the difference.

as if there's no self to fulfill prophesy, Christ

is also a night owl.

enough physicality was overlooked,

for what resided beneath--where's

what resides beneath?

yet there's this walking around--in

the naivety of out there.

which occurs undeservedly, the

step count of a coward.

the ten block radius that was mockingly

cited, was just the preliminary of loving

that residence.

an extremely contented focus.

now that radius will not grow, because

hatred has been foisted.

toccata of wind driven

snowflakes--landing within

stained glass windows.

as in between.

allowing for the oblique

radiality of all stained glass...

that repatterns its

worship.

twenty four caprices of lording fire--
a violin grabbing the horsehair of a bow.
brutal angulations, the muteness of
hollowed out release--keen to its own ear.
then multiplying fingers plucking at strings, as
if deviously imposing a riddle.
the karma sutra of incubi & succubi.
the idle thoughts of their prince, supping at
a decomposed apple--its tiny anuses sliding
out seeds.
while he looks up in ejaculatory boredom--
unable to live it way down.

he sat at the shadiest booth

in the diner.

sunglasses tinted to the

thirteenth power,

think Christ with his besties.

he slid some random ****

across the table to no one

visible, and grinned like

a *******.

it was death sanctioning

death to put a hit on death.

as an overly eager waiter

walked over.

ever-present.

a boogeyman coated in moths assigns

each a person.

then boils deep blue milk--to digest

nightlights.

as he poses for sin at three a.m, in a

mansion of closets.

the life force of mustiness screaming

trespass, outed by storage's: no more

room!

our boogeyman makes himself belong.

muffles claws in shoeboxs--an

open mouthed simpleton's birthnights.

drip-dropping drool, the way a faucet

taunts a drain.

romping about as a ball of clothes, a

vintage-scented orbit highlighted by

his solar plexus.

the thrill of being discovered!

as he fantasizes of donating his brain to

science--the opened halves of his

bedtime story.

a wunder flute snapped

like a twig--a hole's universal

holes of air.

frenetic enough for music to

chase out sound, around  a

journeyer carried on the far

side of grazing herds.

poppy-wreathed, sending

himself away to receive what

stays.

as angels that fear to tread

follow behind.

black noise gentles out calls to weakness--

the exposed bellies of private animals, in

discolored night.

profuse as a Garden of Gethsemane--eaten

away by a hard alphabet.

they are the thing that needs to be said.

spines like blowing reeds going through the

motions of unofficial prayer, subdividing

stations of living quarters.

observation...

cats perform vibrational

resuscitation.

when they defecate.

their over excitement,

relieved of consuming

matter.  

trailblazing faster than

the acuity of their lenses.

they seem to penitently

reintroduce, their carnivorism

to the wild.

medieval paintings feel scrutinized by a
torturer--an upside down cross that lowers
into an oubliette.
the: "forgotten"--where a prisoner is thrown,
from a trap door that opens to a bottle-shape
pit.
with only enough room to stand, according to
what bones the fall selectively broke--as if
retorts to what end.
sewage often working its way in, putrid fumes
riding the back of chills & out with *****.
the hysterical prickles of whiskers, shooting
a toothiness unfit for a mouth--head above water.
slicked back fur pulling along a skin tail--rats
marking a precise claustrophobia.
excellent for nervous eating in a screaming darkness.
where regions of the prisoner do not report back,
as wind between mountains of night seeing itself off.
feces & ***** raining down from jesting guards--
lowering his head to briefly acknowledge the
corpse he's standing on.
while trap door phosphenes begin to open for the:
"forgotten".

a harpy.

silvered & gilded--

feathered & tarred

in an illuminated manuscript.

yay to the irony of feather

weighing down feather,

uglier than awkward.

forced out of a gewy shower

of pitch black.

as said harpy begs flight to fancy

her, from the humiliation of

chance-posterity.

where she's granted with a sloppy

flop onto the page's margin.

Poe sits like meat locker Tummo,

in a flake's firepit--giving off snow's incense.

with his vest unbuttoned, wearing a t shirt

of Antarctica's: True South flag.

his elegantly racked face thinking of the seven

archangels, how all their names end with an: l.

necessitating the tongue to reach the mouth's roof.

his: "Philosophy of Composition" ceases dissecting:

"The Raven"--evermore (True North) is the same as

nevermore (True South).

preternaturally longish grey hair,
acid-yellow buckteeth hanging from the
slathered lipstick of your thin upper lip.
(a wigged version of Billy Corgan).
fixed into a moronically concentrated pucker,
failing at the illusion of fullness.
while garnishing an apartment with the
paraphernalia of a free spirit too stale to beat
to death, a just-so of obsessively repeated
finishing touches.
the remanent rise of ******-***** coziness,
niche/nook/now--you, no...wind doesn't like you.
the very thought of your current routine is as
flotsam as the passion-**** you once dealt.

night boxes fit in to

one another, too big and too

small to come of anything.

yet contain sleep.

this blood kept warm to hover

over.

this mouth breaking open when

stuffed with silence--to call out

some urgent matter.

that echoes in the Minoan labyrinths

of waking ears.

It's like holding

on to a poem you

couldn't memorize,

while your phone's

battery went dead.

finding a pen in an

odd pocket of your

school bag.

to write your palm

into being, at the back

of a half-quarantined

bus.

to forget about the poem

by force of poems that rubbed

it out.

holding on to things.

one can't be sure how much
transfigurement occurs during sleep.
how often a straight line fudges a crooked
line, so: a/b/c can sequentially light up.
three yesterdays ago today--a legless
Daddy-long-legs was pulled across the
floorboards of my head.
in response to the banging vacuum of
wakefulness.
as a bedroom window isolates what will
be uniformities of rain--shower (cut!),
shower (cut!), shower (cut!)...with a finale
of steadiness?

it's all very prepubescent--they'll drag out

a box of toys by its crinkled lip from a hiding

place, & begin to rummage.

as if the box's stomach were growling, the greedy

dig underway.

toys of interest haphazardly make the carpet's cut.

then the remaining box of toys is kicked back into

its Precambrian closet, as with a tentative tantrum.

toy worlds in all phases of creation intersect, collide &

are destroyed--with a handful of survivors combining

shellshocked wisdom.

then even they go their separate ways in Adam & Eve like

scenarios...the prepubescent's *** feels bloodlessly sore.

gets up, retarding calisthenics--leaving behind a mess of

cause & effect.

not dissimilar from the novelty-parasites you may encounter

in relationships.

birds are talking

away through drawn

blinds.

they can see their

words way before

they hear them.

songs go a long way.

might I say I have

heard something I've

never heard before.

might I say.

if their words were

anymore candid,

their whole history

of flight would cease

to exist.

a black stallion trades

runs with a zebra.

neck to neck outcoming

growth.

along verisimilitudes

of seas that whet an

Ocean's appetite under

their hooves.

Kali's head is encaged

by a skull with the

rotting matter of

takeaway of brains.

as Shiva combs the

flies out of her hair.

a penultimate labor,

to pain with her.

a background of

Matissean reds--

(foremost an apple

of many swelling

wantonly).

among other fruits:

tables, chairs, couches,

rugs.

luxuriant bloodletting.

nuptial birds of paradises

lost, encaged.

framed by a submerged

foreground.