clay boutonniere

in a kiln.

plague doctors in

beaked masks--

retrieving the semblage

of a carnation.

with golden sporks

the size of spatulas.

split three & a half ways.

prattling beaks.

between the prow

lowering its head and

raising it--the absurdities

of individuality overtake

the deck.

indeed the boat must be

drunk.

absorbing dissolution while

floating on it.

a quartet

plays across a

horsehair.

(you can't even

see the bow coming).

despite the bloomage

of attendant instruments.

tainted bird nests

in shred-house ciphers.

sallow backlit terraces

of skied lines, wind up

wind.

jack n the box buildings--

melee incongruities.

abandoned workzones on

every other corner.

the sun squares off the tiles of northern

European roofing--with the bucking

prims of tucked shadows.

the shred-throat jellied gurgles of

starlings, rehashing into piercing tweets

throughout the whitening gold of dusk.

the central tutelage of a silence, outlined

by sounds of inbreaking traffic.

untrue north's

chronic darkness

sinks into the

soft spot of the

newborn savior's

skull.

at unevenfall The Usuper snaps

open a stripped black umbrella, anticipating

an ocean of rain.

downed hard, underneath his half-bit face, Bacon's

1946: "Painting".

layed down for the groundswells of buoy bells.

his heavy footed dance discombobulates

the chest of tides, thickened to molasses.

clawing inlets that flash the Stygian

wounds of his sands.

The wheat of Elysia is let go's sway--that

drops Aphrodite to her knees.

Where she watches sight spread around

her head, winnowing golden dancers.

No more that they may--they are, about

the girl that's never to go.

Yet goes, in search of the longer way that

brings her out.

Who is heard coming as silence to

silence, which turns over the horizon.

Aphrodite's heart feels as if it's doing a

headstand, with upside-down birds

emptying the contents of the world.

Where she lie, other than the world--

as the perceptor of real space.

She has a craving that expecting

mothers couldn't eureka-mouth together.

Perhaps her most significant

beautification, beginning to see what's

seen in her.

As Aphrodite says to herself: die a

moment, spring forward--after flowers.

I'm still needed, I must go back--how

many times have I done this?

the crackle of blackbirds...

between raindrops,

endowing snow.

the final quarter of a drawn

curtain.

the genesis of a:

Crandall Typewriter,

hits its ornamental lettering

in its cathedral.

retouches of frozen fingertips--

made to return to those irresistible

keys.

nook, silken tap--a decisive rake of

blent sound.

seepage of ink on crisp paper.

the seizuring digits of a grade school  

calculator, forgotten in a pouch put away

for storage.

as the half man/half butterfly morphosis of a Zen

master disturbs the meditation of his master's,

master.

being cut clear in half with his stick, through the

manicured flatness of sand granules retracing

their distinctive sounds.

while they adhere to its rigidity.

this outward ****** that visits

us--after cold buckles when its

interminable rites have been read.

this visitor--right from the heart,

going right for the heart...throws us

into that central fire.

April is concomitant with the abrupt

feel of flame, all dormancy goes up.

from the pens of beaks--

overblown to the flock

of a black bird.

come premature spring

shoots ******* on tufts

of wet snow.

sempiternal archways

reifying sound.

a whole body moving--

before it stops and looks

back beneath different

weather.

a banding host, purely

cut off from the

visitation of wind.

the snow we received seemed to put all

its effort into indenting an unfinished

paragraph.

something about depressed levity &

footprints.

which called for Chopin's: Nocturnes--

that flapped with yellow caution tape.

which sectioned off a massive burial

mound of Christmas trees, heaped

individualities brushed white in a

parking lot.

how memorably Chopin played to their

lying positions, clean cut stumps sticking

out from weighted litheness.

cut, dressed, posed & tossed--the

overstayed welcome of hysterical

merry making.

one could almost see every single pine

needle in the scent they parted with.

Chopin knew just how to reach them

with his sensitive phrasing, getting into

those frigid hollows awaiting pickup.

objects are the adjectives of ghosts--
always after common identification,
their cumulative presences.
an altogether unique eeriness,  
generating an intuition that stands for
what they outspan.
museums for ghosts--transfixion to the
extent of becoming that object, whose
power of attraction is equally mysterious.
so much so that the passed on, can pass on--
from unoccupiable time...light replacing a
period piece thought to be current.

Joker is confined at Arkham State Hospital--he's an amalgamation of: Nicholson, Ledger, Phoenix.
the essence of these portrayals will fluctuate as would a possession.
the following will be written with all three in mind (no specification)--the reader is free to infer which, there is no incorrect imagining in this case of psychosis.
greener to the pasture hair, cropped short & feathered on the right side--shoulder length scraggles, that stream oil from a receding hairline on the left.
**** pillow talk padded walls, an experimental recording studio--millenia of disassociative voices.
institutional-white disciple wear, beneath a straitjacket that can be tricked open.
he takes to contemplatively stalking the room's perimeter like John Nash's doppelganger outlining university grounds for sanity.
suddenly sawing himself into boxed halves, the pros & cons of junked minds.
then stands at attention as if absorbing the insults of a commanding officer.
he's unmuzzled, but his iconic makeup was polished off as an immaculate castration.
licking his lips like a perverted lizard, hot for his cold bloodbank--a cleaning product salesman's ear-engulfing grin.
a: Try Again mouth swallowing beanbags.
an overdeveloped feature, circled red over & over like a happy accident--boo!
a cosmetic surgeon's: Project X, a scorned *****'s unevenly applied lipstick spread around by a passionately hateful kiss.
now just a presentable choirboy with a hardon for the whole mass.
a choppy quack rolling into a chainsmoker's weepy guffaw, self-heckling giggles of bozo persistence.
a hung jury of tears snorting & spitting out antecedent laughter--reeled in by a forced seriousness that believes its deadliness.
as comfortable with one-way humor as a malfunctioning parachute, that dead silence that breeds bat symbols.
contrary to the funny wastelands of his surveillance footage, a notoriously unprivate life turning cameras on themselves.
three of a kind, says he without saying--each having explosive dance offs, while cutting into unrelated dances.
the lighting in his room is as changing slides, that look for patterns of behavior,
with a misleadingly stark evidential buildup.
a Joker--that Joker needs a smoke, that Joker stares up at the cameras, motioning to guards.
his eyes are dead set askant, with a backtracking deviance slyer than a meat hook without a carcass.
a drowsy pick-me-up, melting with baby's candy, a cocky knower of inner names.
whites like wet dreams of glory-holes.
a feminine ruefulness that signals overkill before the ****, eyes that victimize rehabilitation.
brass that will be unaccountably drawn to them like Poe's: "The Tale-tale Heart."
a gaurd un-maximizes security enough to slide a cigarette into the Joker's mouth, then removes it.
the Joker looks up & disentangles a plot of smoke--then smiles sheepishly at the gaurd.

holes dig an abysm--

an abysm digs a hole.

No!

a hole digs an abysm.

where

mounds of ground, seem

imposing as the abysm.

an aboveground abysm

made of holes.

then there was a glossy

pine box--

whose hidden face brings

down what refills.

the metaphysics of a morning

wound can not be dressed,

the pain is sharp because it is dull.

as if nose to nose with a flamboyant endpoint.

boldface, as with confidences surrounding

its gaping matter.

the not quite of it, the slanting deck of a ship--

with the horizon waving stupidly as

you slide backward.

sea legs, land legs--and the obsessive stickler

that sorts detail to come of a haphazard nature.

by one intrepid discoverer panoramically queasy--

disconsolate and setting.

stars crust as their facsimiles

bleed through,

twinkling halls of mirrors.

both blind and unblind to the

same reflection--stones warming

to serpents.

all the lights left on, backed by all

the lights left off...

apologies come in

advance of

movements.

narrows of traits,

waving off silencio~

underground concatenations...

distending draperies.

writhing mammons shrouded

with spittle.

horrified & horrifying unction.

phosphorescent bruises issuing

above ground.

an ambrosial garden

giving off remembrances...

the whole lot of seasons to

lifetimes.

scents that trip the turn of a

bloodstone to its inward sun.

the let-go of paradises Christed

to their consciousness, married

to otherness--then no other.

first the feeling of having been

there, then that feeling relieved

of having been anywhere.

the skeletal roil

of sped light,

is a solution to

be imbibed only

when eyelashes

meet like feathers...

and the body becomes

a rendezvous.

an exhaustive compilation of

audio skips, left on replay in an

empty room.

would emptiness scramble for

that room--after the recording ends?

as if reflexively concealing itself from an

entity that suddenly emerged.

a sibilance that broke with no break.

its own recording picking up where the

recording ended.

the way stagnant water resembles a fish

out of water.

is the omission of

highly pertinent detail

what eats away the: I, that

stands for silence?

that would be to move water

without creating ripples.