A knot tightened to where it cannot be

unknotted--will grow too slack to secure

a shoe.

Don't cut the shoelace, the shoe has

character now--what was an initial act

of laziness will yield more effort.

Use it to walkoff smooth exits, all the way

to subsequent entrances.

Except, turn around before entering--&

walk all the way back to unsmooth

entrances.  

It's imperative that you state: I was here.

Otherwise only dead grandmothers can

undo such knots.

shadows sway in

column form--as

a welled up bird blows

its voice.

her shoulders roll...

with that voice, broad.

sojourn--knot to knot,

tied.

strongly.

bedeviled ratios succumbing

to the nausea of a grasp.

there comes an

awareness, so unto

and heavied...it alights.

slouching down on

a cross, so stark against

its white sky.

remaining at the foot

of  that hallowing

ground.

always hit by the first

drop.

morbid curiosity is a luxury--the art of
the Middle Ages lifts the ground to meet
its vertigo, as huntsmen signal toward
the observer.
the gamey odorousness of fear downwind.
nerve endings drafted their maps, unable
to find a way out.
dread gathered wood & chopped it untiringly.
reacquainted shame scrambled for leafage again--under a greater Fall.
a potion goblet for every kind.
a unicorn on a green velvet hill, became
visible in the current of a squirrel's tail.
there was never not magick.
though digression can be as quiet as an
exiting servant.
depictions of persons hardened as they softened, a very peculiar ethereality.
the look of snow as soon as it stops.
a bud held tight in one's palm, just as
it's about to bloom.
it is this, from crown to soles--what a
mottled column of light to move in.
from nobility to peasantry, something
burst in on clay--they couldn't be natural even when they felt they were.
animals do not take a headcount in a
burning stable, they even forget to say grace.

cold *** stews dumped from

tenanted clouds, on spasming tar.

dank breath breathes all over

glitchy raindrops--why i wear

cement shoes to ween off of

puddles.

as a black cat's wet fur effuses

the crunch of fish bones.

its Louis Wain aura hits me with

the engrossment of movies lost

in movies.

the ground suffers vertigo--its
differential of wake to silence.
Christ walking thru twelve minds,
whose perception of him do not vary--
xing out a stain glass fish with a diamond.
then unto variances...exposed capillaries
uprooted by hosted light, like wiggly
ocean plants on white stones.
following a needle's twain, to the pupil's
ecliptic.
a Gravitron's light years blaring Classical
Age mockeries.

Van Gogh ensconced

to a yellow journal.

whose reportage

curls the toes of stars...

something like airliners

coupled with the streaks

of speeding boats.

carving sediments.

a pigeon encasing

its chest.

extends a bassy

trill.

shimmying on the

lid of a dented ashcan.

pecking in & out with:

yellow/red/blue marbles.

(in no particular order).

classic Wonder bread.

It's when birds gain currency--

advancing as something pale

or other.

The thin chasm of beaks hurt

to hear, their sounds

aren't as early as spring.

They're not there.

An hour or so after a witch

undressed in front of a mirror,

piled on the floor.

Bottom lip quivering with

unwholeness.

That I elbow standing for the

toilet & face front, totally

deaf to the story arc.

For bed to remake sheet-angels,

that will never get me.

it moves--having thrown open

its crusty eyes, unable to see passed

itself.

fat enough to live off itself--another

helping of world, it moves.

by itself, for itself--presence first,

as shamelessness wanders.

a sty within,  relocating to a sty within.

not knowing what's not to be named

of its beasthood, to preserve the absence

of its beasthood.

a glorious revulsion, that as soon eat the

star of the wisemen--once its stomach feels

uncomfortable.

come the whole rest...

when broken waves crawl

their seismic shiver, veiling

the mouth of her shore.

then unveiling her mouth

as horizontal creases fade, and

retract her ocean.

come the half rest...

time and again between her

veil and ocean--sounding water

on sand, sand underwater.

the refined line of what's fully

given and taken.

come the quarter rest...

quicksilver life-reviews of light

on water, silent sound's grainy skip.

the offkey cries of galls.

an inexhaustibly long queue of

devils, decked out with their spin on

evil.

mugging their motherless faces--

all holding a  bouquet of black velvet

flowers.

some noshing on them, some thwapping

the devil in front of them over the head.

filing one by one into a small yinmn blue

room.

to take headshots for sacred auditions.

Artaud consults a witch doctor, as

chicken wire winks around a martian

sand dune.

a screen experiences morning sickness

during the moon's live feed.

who's busy drumming in-between her

knuckles--as she squeezes through tunnel

vision.

just to see Pythia rolling on the ground to

put herself out, in preparation for an

offering to Helios.

a sallow pouch of poultry skin with an

egg in it.

to exchange her all-seeing blindness with

Helios'--as his: "Nerve Meter" twitches.

light rinses her hair on a taxidermic
dove, sat like wooden wavicles on a
shadow planet.
persued by a scented black candle that
smells of unfillable holes.
as a woman prospects a circumference,
tells herself she came for the music--
not the food.
an angel born of mistaken identity,
walks through the blueprint of a garden--
& is told: 'you didn't touch a thing.'
as with the involution of ears, spirals
whistle like rope thru snake skin.
an evil repellent of sorts, or a courtesy
to superstition.

the cold is never present, to say it's

a complete absence implies it has been

present.

though the obvious must be stated--it's

cold out there.

which sounds like the telepathy of

corpses.

even so--I put out some leftover

cornbread from Thanksgiving for the

birds, was meaning to ever since.

they must eat my sister's thoughts, now

that it's the eve of Christmas Eve.

what's more, the back of my fridge can

preserve a brighter white.

a part of me believes winter birds are

"out there" at night, do as cold does.

couple that with preholiday inner

monologues & we might have something.

the tongue's stethoscopic clacks
in ears, tug at the throat &
against teeth.
not a word.
a rusty lighter's pried scratch--
too thick to spark.
no wind, coincidentally.
still--there is consciousness.
the flight patterns of micro details
touchdown on different but
functional timezones, all in a patch
of pavement.
cars pass & the body remains
unbroken.
the ratio of tinted windows seen
thru, is in simpatico with the end
of a day.
though the edge of the world
plummates along--i hang back &
stroke a jade lion's tail.

a brook lends the

smoke of:

Patchouli.

a sparrow soaks

like a piece of

bread.

irresponsive to

water.

there's a lycanthrope

with broken silver cords

attached to it.

leaping over a dropped jaw--

that has eaten out of draggy

dream sequences.

wearing the moon's doppelganger,

as noise canceling headphones.

to hear a packed howl, whose

lead is followed.

flame...

pituitary almond,

smokeless lisp

of silence,

kept.

up and out of your

own, articulated

breath.

breathlessly gone--

melting canonizations.

gaunt pools of suns.

relit.

They're blue in the face, vitally

impeded by the implications of a

a misstep.

Requesting cleanup in aisle two.

Gladden them with it, draw it out--

torture the itch good.

Give it to them, release them from

wicked thrall, crowd a crowd to

distribute feelies.

Remind them how good otherness

looks at its worst.

Your public needs you to come apart

like there's nothing to see.

It'll prove useful someday.

an optician runs a light over

a butterfly, enmeshed with

mulch.

a shaft of light emitted from

forest ground, that the sun

knows nothing of.

no more prescient.

than a birdcage flung unto

a wire over an intersection.

its dome rushing its base, its base

rushing its dome.

a lattice of bars that are struck as

they strike.

hung against the contrastive

sky of Giorgione's: The Tempest.

a broken column tilts at a forty five

degree angle--bulging earth at its

base.

its top resembles a snapped femur,

whose opposable reflection streams

along a murky sky.

unaccountably driven to its lone feature,

starkly confessant among a hill's dry grass.

an Orphic marker bowing to the downriver

strum of a lyre, that carries...

all beholders see beauty now--

in an eyeball.

the gods were entertaining, there it was

like a mint after an imperial feast.

with more presence than a whole body.

it can blink once for yes, & twice for no--

if only to break up omniscience.

it is swaddled in mulbery silk, that

creases complexity smoothened to

simplicity & back again, as in a wakeful

sleep.

a gift placed in a self-luminous white box,

more benevolently pensive than milk.

whose fourfold hatch will unbox, to see

what was seen in it.

could you love an eyeball?

Dostoevsky's nerves were a massive

plasma globe poked at by surplus genius.

a spidery fry in a garbled clump of

hypersensitivity--to unrealized

characters.

the crystalline dryness of St. Petersburg

snow taken from the top--unremittingly.

as a depressurized silence sounds a ******

miles long.

Fydor's thumping fireplace, blinkered by

tight flashes.

Icarian quill cocked & expressly warning

at the dangers of his deep sleep.

a bevy of notes strewn about, for the

benefit of a sympathetic reader--if he/she

should discover them.

notes that safeguard against a premature

burial, his uncontrollable: Taphophobia.

that he should be allowed three or four

days to sleep off death--before actual

interment.

it turns out the other point of our

triangle is worthy of more respect

than you.

don't dare misconstrue this reckoning

as a flattering plea.

walls rumble as they close in, don't worry--

nothingness will survive.

the uniqueness of your scent, rapidly

signaturing fear--with nails bitten off like

sunflower seeds.

as your latest stuffed animal summons the

courage to come to life--just so it can run away

from you.

flawlessly repeating what it was taught.

at nearby train stations purple lights

were installed on platforms--which

further mystifies locality.

astronomical figures are a given, but are

grossly underutilized.

wait for it...wait for what?

every sound is the echo of another sound,

no sound is forgotten--neither is silence.

canines & felines hear each other's

hearing.

this sip of coffee is a brew for every

grain--the aftertaste of individual

conjurings, whose compaction is like

pastless deja vu.

or these hands that wear a cold draft to

the wrist, the rise & fall of phantom

gloves.

left palm indented by a spiral notebook,

right hand holding a: ProHealth pen with

two spotty contact numbers & an

address.

gratis pen omitting impertinent

information, while writing of it--sort of

like a loosely based fractal.

do these walls overthink me as I think

over them, while playing egg hunt with

the five senses?

an imaginary friend finds all five,

each with cracks that appear as if

painted.

as gray is intermission's

supposedly...

pegged with rotted fruits,

& fresher vegetables.

by stagehands that spray

paint lightbulbs of memory.

with enough pressurizations

to loosen them.

so they will eventually

disperse the: Tao.

wide water broke in white tones--a baby

is somewhere in there.

kicking around down there, twinkling up

there.

surrounded by animals telling him they

were once human.

his father is good with his hands, but

never touched his mother the way other

fathers touch other mothers.

wisdom in white tones, a few men were

moved in place--to find what was already

found in him.

he could smell the body odor of

centurions far differently than his

parents & the animals that surrounded

him, their scent made him convulsively

weep.

then out of those white tones emerged a

breast, also bursting with milk.

followed by the prolonged musculature

of a porcelain like serpent.

with fibrous cracks scraping to its mouth

as it bit onto a ******.

a ******* invisibility--except for the

blood running from its eyes, with every

gulp of milk.

as if to mock his mother, with maternal

evil.