ain't much like

a bass drop in a

mosh pit.

while you claim

to never have attended

a concert.

every seabed was

a seashore,

silver garlands flaring

gills at clouds so

contortive tails could

interbalance.

the tide of wet spines.

pisces momentums.

for the most figurative

swim.

black curtain over

the city skyline,

apothic explosions

of transformers.

flickering subway cars--

snap portraits.

Picasso's: Blue Period

ellipsis.

the topmost part of a fire--

can resemble the torquing spittle

of sparking leaves.

singeing a wind to move, just as it

lay its head down on the same forest

depression.

whose braceleted stones ground the

pool of a De-cember rain dance.

so stones can sharpen the knives of

earlier closures of light.

more reflective than the origination

of anything lost & found.

think tree canopies as overdeveloped

as the skies that they trade photographic

memory with.

Diane Arbus

purposely mismatched

inside out eyes.

finding no fault.

staring out of rooms.

breathing in mold

deep enough to peel

the paint off their walls.

unwilling to condemn

a solitary thing.

as april's breath blows

on her lover's cheek--3d

printed webs wear the

faces of impossibly long

symmetries.

wherefrom lint ball spiders crumble

and tuck in the eight of their legs,

reflecting the eight apples of their eyes--

sliding up or down on that

unbaited breath.

wet moon-paint drying on

walls that feel against one another

to find their way into emptying

out rooms--whose ceilings are glassy

veils pieced apart corner to corner.

dangling spiders like discarded trinkets.

cut from the womb of webs sworn to

secrecy--never to betray the whereabouts

of night.

with the same lips that soundlessly mouth

how they fell for her.

the earth's twin died at birth.
her twin visits her only when she too
wants to die.
her twin changes geography as if wearing
an equatorial mood ring.
all features forever present, but nameless.
once she stopped, condensing a single
revolution into the sandy pit of a circus
enclosure.
the color of depthless purple, in the middle of
a desert.
enter Noah's henchman--the one who taught
animals to perform tricks.
he wore a top hat & had a seven foot tall
crystalline body.
the ringmaster's pit was filled with serpents,
colorized & patterned as if out of a pineal gland.
he went thru them, snapping them straight into
flaming swords--head to tail.
working them down his throat.
until a wind stood up, swirling against his ring
as if it were surrounded by glass.
when that protective forcefield let off--the
ringmaster vanished into blown continuations
of sand.

snow is the choral arrangement

of soil--the breadbasket of

harmonium.

dispersed as pistils in every

grain of soil.

the profile of a woman in labor--

leaving her face on both sides of

a hospital pillow.

a twig's weighted sixfold bob,

a cardinal's seventh alighting.

dusting a spire of snow.

wasps scratch at windows with

long poisonous splinters, blanked

backward by a clear barrier.

not often detracted.

sideswiped by illustrated

howls blown as gradients of

emptiness.

spitting sparse raindrops, &

wearing the fragrantly cocktailed

rub of a garment out of doors.

vivid to the sense of smell, as if

brought indoors.

a raven is stitched as

with the leatherbound

trackwork of a baseball.

its beak is like a mangled

dagger, resembling uncut

fingernails for a lifetime.

its eyes are enlarged tapioca

*****, bursting milky residue.

it perches on tree roots--as

it suckles on soil & attempts

to rip its wings from underworld

mending.

this particular rain rode out

all obviousness to its absence--

then fell as what is left of a life.

making it impossible for any

stock to be taken--because of

its perfect consideration.

as if a reinforced hug to aversion.

one was reminded that there is an

outside with no reprieve, & that

one can be in two places at once.

when you're made to sit with It,

you don't know how you got there.

a noseless breather, skeletally pug--

(pura oblivio)

smells the cooler end of air like rubbing

alcohol.

as a moldered dog would thru a dingy

screen, watching a raven that dances

in a series of flops.

the mock-break of wings in a caw of

exilement, as the secret passageways of

leaves fly open.

Mephistopheles sticks out his throaty

tongue--to sample the lineaments of

an artist's brushstrokes.

his overactive salivatory glands leak

down from the finishing touch--an

artist prematurely committed.

standing in the way of what the artist

knew would become a whole other

painting--with the possibility of a

non premature finish.

the conjuration progresses--art provenance.

hanging in a place of honor, someone's

home--a matter of acquisitional record.

the very spot of their chosen wall, feng shui.

with no visiting hours imposed, the obsessive

collector is slobbered on by the barter of that

brushstroke.

so the painting is lent to a museum--where its

viewers find themselves in front of other paintings.

though viewing the same one.

by sheer force of attraction, they all end up

in front of that painting again.

as if the museum emptied out in a single

viewpoint.

brushstroke.

ruling planets cut thru

the screen of midday's midnight--

juggernauts with blowing foghorns.

super-schizoid percolations of color...

the earth herself posing as a spinning

sitter, whose turns are fed to the

paralytic lucidities of turns that will be.

yet there's no turning to be had, when she

hatches.

the screen suddenly seals--midnight's

midday...& thru the screen's holes

serpentine wavicles enter the potentia

of billions of breathers.

she has a dance-off

with a shadow, while

sitting this one out.

intermittent death

gains on its gasp--

the way the mind

you thought you had

loses itself.

a grasshopper trying

to slice out of grass.

Que sera, sera...

omissions of Alpha--

ala omega.

omissions of Omega--

ala alpha.

accede...to,

the sales pitch of a City--

whistling corners.

cut--as if bereft of wind.

funneling a Minotaur's

racket.

Tetra's grey zone seizure.

genius overpopulates

caves.

senile gusts forced to shampoo

elitist scalps, left frothy-thick.

with no beany.

the grand tour of a capstone--

tired of wearing a dunce cap.

consulting its baseline.

in print.

homeless insulation.

the sound, the sounds

(singular-plural) coalescing

their surface runoff.

of melting snow, snows

(singular-plural)

as these sounds issue

from the accumulation

of multiple snows.

weigh on the mind's

crystal pack, which will

soon expose the ground

of a sky.

too little the singularity,

too much the plurality--

therefore neither.

Bodhisatva's know

best.

G*d fordid they should

breathe the breath

of the detail that precludes

them one wrung shy

of ascendancy.

they'll make loyal disciples

of their delusions.

outtakes of distant sidewalks, noir

streetlights editing suggestion.

suggesting what exactly?

the average value of a snow event to a

snowflake & the forced symmetries of

a populous.

where it all evens out, as long as they

make it through.

nearer than perfection, someone wears

a purple & gold Venetian Jester Mask.

carefully observing the tracks of bicycle

tires--that resemble spines.