The ground runs sideways,

like the legwork of a tide carried

away by flowers.

Peopled stems that say it's all a

blur--gain ten pounds of

moonlight when they clarify.

Wearing the look of a spoiled

surprise party.

The fog was a cheek to cheek slow dance--

in step with the promise that no one

knows anyone.

It derived intimacy through lifting from

what it was never in place to reveal--

but like plight.

Having been as close as it'll ever be, there

is nothing that doesn't hold back as it

strives for the opposite.

Who's lingering on what it drew in?

So close that it's gone.

Warmth ran off a blue blade,

exposed from a suncoat.

Out for choiclesss tenderness.

As it broke to define a piece of itself,

to drop by degrees--to become cold

again.

A touch of rain for another reason.

Simply grey, with no in between--

withdrawn again.

Sudden as blooms--there again,

keeping their half of the blade.

Untraceable.

Franz Xaver Messerschmidt sculpted his face
sixty times--an arcanum of flesh's malleable
appeals to a skull.
his: "Character Heads" yanked out in front of
a mirror's propriety, a natural madman
exceeding a chimp's ****** expressions.
the inverse catatonia of a pickled alien--
where colors don't clash.
Franz believed he was hunted by the:
Spirit of Proportion--due to his mastery of
sculpture, its punishable likenesses.
whose features' puff-**** brands ether with
magick, the idolatrized signal of rebellion.
his sixty: "Character Heads" were meant to ward off
this equalizer of art--sort of like how Vlad the Impaler
stuck countless decapitated heads on pikes, outside
his castle walls, to unnerve enemies.

the omni-plumage of the

earth's curvature, is sculpted by

a constant unturning.

which sunbeams pass through--

to stall in perforated mountains.

as if taking tissue samples of gods.

at the very least, another life can be

eked out--by what goes unnoticed in

any given day.

a thing will always change with the

perceiver, even color is colored.

the sheer overawing & unquantifiable

detail is as matter-of-fact as imagination

itself.

begin & end anywhere you choose--

even though there's no beginning or

ending to the interactiveness.

there's something about

a cardinal, flitting across

saturated woodchips after

a downpour.

as if throwing back air in a

looksy of: fly.

whose tree cover tantalizes

a resonance that treats the peace

between wetness & color.

the awful fatigue of leashed wrath--

the devourment of all other emotion.

one of the most frustrating & loneliest

primacies.

a lion's infrasound shaking the housemates

of organs & bones.

a reiterating plain, onward straight to onward--

a massive drain at its center.

stymied blood let out, down it--a red waterfall

transfusing the earth's gut.

there's a crow i keep around,

that will never forget my face.

it watches all forms of life play dead,

nothing gets passed it--so it can not

play dead.

nor can it play alive, it doesn't exist in

any sense--yet it will never forget my face,

because it will never have to remember it.

i say crow, as i say pet--where associative images

come to mind, yours or mine?

you have words for almost everything--even me,

you call me: nothing, ness as of...there isn't

even space.

There's a planet that's been method

acting in my head, passionate as a

coloring child.

Drifting like a sign you can't dispell with

the logic you were looking for it.

It seeks to embody the gross

underestimation of space at large,

without grand aspirations.

As if to ask: is a planet larger than the

mind--the planet says: don't answer that,

I'm inexorable.

As the planet balances on a tenuous

black square--for my sake, on an axial

tilt lending itself to delivery.

January made any movement feel extraneous, as if something nudged to
haunting irresponse.
Sing Sing Prison was beyond all that, but
never more there--yet not even its
manifestation would have it.
The Mahicannituk (Hudson River)
followed the land two ways--to conceive
more than water.
Ruth Snyder saw that as Sing Sing walled
alive--smothered her prefume, crouched
over lights & coughed out iron.
Queens was a place, this was not--food ate her, water drank her.
A place to make out surroundings that
don't want to be seen, that are put forth
just for deprivation.
"Ruthless Ruth" appealed to her thin frame, dropped it like a hankerchief on
the cold floor.
Almost convincing herself that one's true
nature is unpunishable--as she stood up
again.
"Old Sparky" (name for the electric chair) was seated across from an indefinite coming--its unapproachable presence growing into its features.
Ruth was roaring with the twenties as her lover tried to go thru her--while her
husband wagged his tail somewhere.
So Ruth enlightened his sexless naivety,
with a couple of cold puddles outside of a
long lay.
Her lover (Judd Gray) smacking back his suspenders in answer to a Who Done It.
Their body-exploring-finallys & whispering hot sophications--saw a door
kick open to the rest of the world.
A lot came on in, Ruth needed luxuriating, to writhe on high-end furniture.
See again: "Old Sparky", now it's all about
"Old Sparky"--it was never not about
"Old Sparky".
Led by the hand to a modern-day witch burning, of course there was an audience--they arrived in cathartically shaped veils.
A latched heap, held by safety--holding their peace.
Figuring into the law, & willing to watch
a subcutaneous thunderstorm.
Especially Tom Howard of the New York Daily News, who had a camera strapped to his ankle--expressly told it was for:
Private Eyes Only.
His Life's Work was strapped to his ankle--as The Mahicannituk's current flowed.
He lifted up his trouser cuff & squeezed
the shutter buld, then ungripped it.
The room met the designated height of the switch as it was flipped, its current
flowed.
Ruth conceived something more than electricity, as she made hairpin turns--
blowing toward unsuccessful ejection.
She cocked her head calmly as she watched herself beat leathered husks,
her scalp smoking like twigs.
The witch they came for surged upward, & was restrained as if she were reacting to Latin commands.
If she had the **** for a last meal, a menu put to taste congealed & what thirst there was ran dry.
Tom got his picture, & Ruth was blurrily
venting mid-fry on the front page of The Daily News.
Which read: "DEAD!", the first public picture of its kind.

it was done through you on April Fool's Day 1876--Offenbach, Germany.
even so, irony is for the pairers of unlikelies, wowed by what poetic mystique they can milk.
you were carefully stacking fresh copies of the first part of your magnum opus:
"The Philosophy of Redemption"--on the floor of your apartment.
the weather must've been hiding evidence of winter, with sloven chills hasting its spine.
a raw cusp of bipolarities, like an unwelcome lovesickness.
you were winter for thirty-four years, its
last will & testament.
it was ****** upon you with your mother's ****--no one could see where that would go but you.
as far as death can go as a religion, it got into you as the only purifier.
there was Phillip, death & its world.
it was more than the transitory triteness of a: "living-death", you were its absolutist.
you gave nothing time to transition to that inevitability, death was--inherent & imminently supreme.
constance with no need of reminder, this
rootless seed durated until your philosophy was realized.
strange was the way that had you, finding it appalling for heads to rear at the way you were--you published under a pseudonym.
outside was a pregnant music box, atypical sounds made by soundlessness.
your four walls unfortified, they stood after the fact while before it.
you stepped on to the stacked stair of your philosophy--to the word.
as you were given to a noose whose knot
tightened with more confliction than you.

purgatory is going to be sick on its path,

unable to hold down being used.

they all end up there, where?

purgatory doesn't even know.

it's the heaviness of their visualizations,

the present's crushing half-light.

so purgatory is a banished overseer, that

has no substance save for their

visualizations.

black & white images struggling in

swampish murk--with brilliantly vivid

gasps.

people, places or things one thinks

they've committed to memory suffer

this--I myself get high off that spookiness.

spy purgatory stray from its path like a

doomed Romantic.

I visualize our back brick wall facing the

garden at night--with the certitude no one

is observing it.

the crept summonings that strain to see

as above ground, so below.

does the impish rush I get--lay into its

brick, alter its stalemated energy?

I know so.

there's a hall of mirrors,

that shard configurations of:

Picasso's: '''Mademoiselle".

unstruck poses, pelted by

an apple seed--banging

against glass.

until reframed...unofficially.

scrooge's candy cane takes

another adaptational lick.

whose twining red has gone

thru the thinnest sugary white.

supporting the weight of three

unseen visitations, where he's

the reigning host of a fourth

dimensional mime.

his right hand waving down a

glunch, then waving up a smile.

eleven air dry white sheets

furl against another eleven

air dry white sheets.

Handheld invariance of wind.

so the wide of their field can go

without clotheslines.

whatever unfurls...sends through

weightless stone-bearers.

their palms making their way through

those white sheets.

Sunday can be as desperate as Napoleon
escaping from the island of Elba, on a
ship called: "Inconstant".
Factor in cold rain on the back of a winter coat, which can feel injurious.
As you backhandedly swipe to assess
seepage--a punitive glaze on your
hand, as if touch acts confused to ride out
reaction.
It's when your hand becomes the total
amount of precip your region received.
All of a sudden it's Sunday again--& I
observed the demographic plunge certain
major fast food chains take in sharing a
location.
No partition, just a judiciously open space
between two legendary counters.
That godawful defibrillator lighting stuck
to the ceiling.
Two distinctive sumtotal aromas that
run thru memories as firsts--somehow
refuse to coalesce, creating an aromatic
fissure.
This undoubtedly stimulates indecision
in customers, which sees a percentage
opting for both.
With the proviso that such diplomacy will
probably ruin the experience.
Or regretting the chain they purchased,
vice versa.
It's not like a food court, which's like a
stadium rock concert--where sound as
scent can get away from you.
It's an up close & personal concert.
That said, something about seeing a few
people eating alone on a Sunday had
such an anticlimactic sadness to it.
They appeared prolonged, adaptively rooted to what's designed to get them out.
They weren't going to leave until the
mindscape of a tray was worked out.

those

solitary poles in the axial

spin of their snow globe.

haloed convenants clustering

anonymous eyes, broadcasting

a running channel of real time

dream.

stranger than a passerby, stranger

still the lonely viewer of the screen.

exposure and nonexposure to

an interplay of elements beyond

weather, yet being driven by the force

behind it all.

were it that a passerby would stop

and look up at a snowcam, with the

feeling of being looked at by a stranger.

to the astonishment of a lonely viewer,

an intimate spell of white suspends

the snowflakes.

an untranslatable moment, with no

lapse but the seeming release of snowflakes

thereafter...

and an unbroken spell.

a comet goldfish

left to the orange

imagination of its own

measurement.

turning water into

wind--lithely segwaying

around a mountainess

jade Buddha.

stuffed with laughter.

spoon feed me digestible

moosh...baby me.

all i ask is that you look

into my eyes like your

life depended on it.

then we can have something

for once.

where your foregone movement

might make me hold your hand.

strong enough to be beat to death

by memory.

Mahakali

waves her ten

arms wildly over

consciousness to

restore it.

brandishing the

weaponry of mudras.

realizing in fits why

he who she attempts to

restore sleeps so soundly.

streetlights stood like counterintuitive
candle snuffers, or surgeons passing
out with their headlights on.
as with that which cannot be named, the
broader sense of any word: wind.
linearly gone, its goneness blew in tandem--as if direction's not to be believed.
with no sound, if it weren't thru things as
they were--yet sound became of wind.
there is no clarifier of these obfuscations,
i myself was held as responsible as the
night.
black hood on, with all the solitariness of
of a walk wandering into something far
more in its element by extension.
coldly slumped over, leaves ripped away
from, then to--(disambiguation)?
not quite.

if purple was

an anatomical exposition--

a blade would meet

its two sides.

so a Rose could retain

its blood.

it gratefully has.

a jittering small white feather

set to the tip of a branch.

seen through the derelict watch

of unclean windows.

the tractionless, extra light scratches

of a waterbug on the wooden floor.

the monstrous ingression of traffic

heard in a truck's gasp-growl.

as holiday lights are relegated to festivus,

or the process of elimination--the eyeing

discomforts of the last to go.

there's evening air traffic--which implies

congestion, accurate in the sense that a

plane brings the sky with it.

a double negative, straightening out how

it should sound--from how it sounds.

the outdistance of a thing that shouldn't

be there, that's nothing but there.

the spiking rondure of a printless blurb

from reel to reel, as spot-on

abandonments of sky.

sky--the unabandoned.

where does that leave the hearer?

upon hearing the magnificence of

counterintuition upon hearing.

a mind (non-possessive) offered

a body (possessive) the unco

outgrowth of the following.

writing left to right about a heart

hung like the skinned head of an

unseen animal.

its long bath slowly drained--

staring down at sawdust like gold

shavings.

it is both true & untrue to say a

heart will not rot in a chest.

a ravening intensity wants an

ongoing plane after peak experience.

there's a lopsidedness that slinks off

what evenly secures bliss.

this faithful deformity starts to show

up earlier & earlier--before arriving.

thru the inevitable dread of what it

will throw off.