a ten foot sasquatch in

Montana's wilderness

listens to Beethoven's: Fifth.

he once found it an open

dumpster in town.

it was a pair from the 80s--

tomato-red in color, those

cottony earmuff-size ones

they used to produce.

he's swaying back & forth,

throwing around his massive

meat-hooks, the way that great

composer would.

somehow I-I'm always under a

black bough that swells so wide

and thick, the night comes up

with it.

where branches fall into its chasmic

girth, waxen with sea changes that

put their skin to paper.

a touch too haunted not to be broken

through.

the hole in the sky the moon leaves...

even if she should stay just out of view.

she fills that hole with the deepest beds

of rest, beaming back at her.

it's when her song comes on real quiet...

the inexhaustive replay of her attentive

being captures something new.

the spillage

of whispers...

the fragranse

of

a dismembered

mote.

attending ecclesia.

begetting--dreamt.

sluiced  silhouettes

running for cover.

in the throat of a

psalter~

the mind voices

an intersecting ether of passage--

where vocal cords fluxed.

to conceal or reveal.

the variational

cut of the throat's stem manifolds

the flower.

mouths and manifolds the flower,

as the heart falls like a hatchling from

a nest.

its blue eyelids pinned shut, its wings

stuck to its sides.

to the heart of the intersection--mindless,

voiceless.

I.
genius in the absence
of color,colors--room for the
subconscious to stretch
its legs like a weary *****.

II.
greasy rats nibble through
a maze of waste, upping their
collective intelligence--emerging
from the thickest night, beady eyed.

III.
an anbandoned seven story building--
peels away at architectural thoughts
left to disuse, spoiling brilliant
silences while falling to the floor.

an unblinking

series of boxes

listen  to light...

midwifing dark,

as not to hear the

sound of its child

trying to play out

of them.

compassion is an

undivided word.

made out of a poet's

boxed paper.

it can only be called hell after the fact--

it's impossible to entertain otherwise.

so what the hell is hell to you then--that

takes too much energy.

art imitates nothing, you can't even

pay respects to yourself.

as inertia's demoralizing vigil goes from

you laying there--to watching yourself

lay there, when being that body is too

much.

back & forth--totally indifferent to that

back & forth ever again.

seasons are a knocked over lamp, a

collapsed shade--a meal tasted in parts.

after-weathers.

a bed & a hovering vitality,

superintelligently breaking down

Zoloft.

finding yourself in the shower & realizing

there are basic steps.

that light hurts--not as it would a

vampire, but one late to its call.

caked in something earthier than mud--

you could taste it & it's sickening.

light not the absence of, dark not the

absence of--just absence.

as if overnight you say: now I'm going to

take physical paralysis for a walk.

it was advanced age at eighteen years old.

it knows everything about you, you are

made to know how it feels.

it'd be ridiculous to envision the outward

appearance of oneself thinking, only to

be lost in a lack of resemblance.

when the writing of poetry occurs--

i'm occasionally a spectral robe on a hanger,

hooked on to air.

i get wet across state lines & whisper the fall,

of the same system that will reproduce

different raindrops overnight into

tomorrow.

we're highly conversant, but its point of

contention is overnight into tomorrow.

it'd be ridiculous to envision itself while

raining, as well as our divergent paths.

only to be lost in a lack of resemblance.

Where silence loses its sound to

light--light is never unseen.

Nothing is unseen.

Ever have the feeling you can't

get naked enough?

Even though you've never been

naked.

A white horse juts its jaw, as it receives

freedom's lash.

Whose distance is already satisfied.

G-force grins bear its large teeth at the

diplomacy of elements.

Below the frigid shade of bridges built

over deserts, eight kicks pace to the

torsoed toss of sand.

No more than a whole in want, spooked

by unbroken thunder shaplier than its

pounding hooves.

Its stomach distends with a flood of gas,

glugging to combustibility.

As it catches fire's metaphor, igniting

catch-me-if-you-can fingers all over it.

While night repudiates night, to where

passage is way behind, or way ahead  of

brilliances inconsistently ticking above.

In sound there is time, in time there is

distance--here there is no telling.

Just a white horse eating a purple carrot

out of a poet's hand.

To that which sees me for what I Am,

let me be known for what I Am.

Lest I take shade under another life.

There's no judgement worse than

contraction, I refuse to let death be a

forced expansion.

Let what cannot be hidden, be my

strength.

Rolling out of bed, will be rolling

out of bed.

It was never given me to yoke being

with covetousness.

That second doing wants to fall from me.

Desperately so.

In the call is what prepares for it--spreads

me out with it.

A prayer's rush is not knowing how it

goes.

I'm certainly not the only one.

We're going to walk out of here this time.

monstrous vivacities

see a Hippopotamus

in a staunch-white,

short skirt.

with the

papercut-rumples of

a ****** lamp cover.

doing the cha cha,

under a cocktail umbrella.

navy blue, with white polka dots.

on the lip of a shoreline, under

a blazing sun.

as with a vomitus

start from bed--

the melted voices of

the mind moonlighting

the wee hour of a body.

sectioned off from what

retired it--so countercurrents

of alarm may impress

something that has happened.

though not yet.

there's always another version to put

out--deny identity among the crowd

one generates.

--are you who you say you are?

is the constant question circulated by the

crowd--one to another, as a version of the

same one.

as one would say: peace be with you, in

church--to the ones nearest.

except this is a multiplicitous self-interegation--

which refuses identication, therefore peace.

boar by name, inscrutable.

bit off its mouth, with its mouth--

to get to an apple seated on its

drooling tongue.

enchambered by tusks...violent

snap jaw breaks thru eyepopping

****** paralysis.

somewhere between spit & silver platter...

game & fixings.

the boar was wrenched from the terminus

of sleep--to put back to sleep the festivity

of its flesh.

once made aware of it.

a poem is committed to memory, as it
scales Mt. Olympus.
gradually disjunctive, abstracting enough
to become lost in the mind of Zeus--a
jealous Zeus.
as its Muse wails for what the poem forgets,
whose balance lie in the height she's composed of.
Zeus knows of this, Zeus watches this.
reciting the poem that committed itself to memory,
in the ears of its Muse, while mock-dancing her.
as the poem is guided by Poet & Muse--to
remember forgetfulness, integral to what pulls it
upward without thought.
scaling an entirety as an entirety, the poem comes to.
Zeus turns a cheek to this, the poem in memory of
the Poet manifests him--at the height of Mt. Olympus.
a lightning bolt leaves Zeus' hand, as Poet& Muse undress.

eaten by her own stride, city blocks

half-lit as country lanes, her gloomy

covenant with diurnal & nocturnal

coup de grace.

a notch taller than short, stick-thin,

dragging around a hag's last birthday--

face bald as an egg.

tattered habit--cowl over her head...whose

black cloth drapes down as if producing

antiquated photographs of oblivion.

a strong wind gust rips back her cowl--

loosing petals from the cherry blossom

wreath she wears, as it rests crookedly.

windows niche--

their constance.

pinches of light,

lowering heads.

hyper reflections,

indisposed at the

moment.

though--

should you be

met by a ******,

whose windows niche.

with their constance...

expecting you.

you will be accounted for.

warmly.

a string of diamonds liquify

from the film of one less sky--

its absence emptying jewel boxes.

subsiding hushes that return

right before they permanently

fade--as the process automatically

resumes.

slant elegancies of gently ground

diamonds, trying on rain from window

to mirror.

Cut outs of printed numbers, surgical

finesses--scotch taped all over a wall.

The feeding schedule of the energy that

arranged them--their repetitive valuation

of motions.

A Dada poem about number theory,

Hugo Ball not by name.

A signifying wall of superficial blemishes,

dyed by the aura of its occupant, the

open-zero resilience of a wall.

A Turin-like flash treatment, that keeps

it from dilapidation.

A numbingly drafty room, a man in a

mink fur coat--smelling of frictional

accounts.

Listens to a storm in parts, between radio

stations--the relevant monster of the

twentieth century.

The Olay of a blowing curtain, thousands

of miles away--its pending atmosphere.

He looks a little like himself, a little like

the people that perceive him--& a lot like

the current atmosphere.

As he wipes the shiny germs of knife on

his fur coat--then slices into a tomato.

An infernal balance of membranous pulp,

a twin theory.

a harlequin bit by capers--

& black diamonds, crushed

within doings of powder.

plunges his face into a

Matissean blue fountain.

which's cut out at the rim--

as coral orange koi fish

scissor its spout.

where the harlequin comes

up for air--peeking thru his

digits.

the rocking booths

of arcades.

rated: R, by pheromonal

happenstance.

inboxed: 17, at full capacity.

pacman & stale popcorn--

that gushes butter down

pipelined necks.

matchmaking with

Elio's pizza--dude!

an eighty-year-old strand

of hair.

dyed purple...too west for

its coast.

every jammed quarter's a

pit boss.

David Lynch banging his

57-Chevy fore-lock, against

glass that contains Wednesday's

bacon.

stealing out of the glass of

a corner store.

candy store--such betrayable

headspace, baggable sugar.

shoot...

he knows it as something emotions

are herded into--like savage first contact.

that blurs to protect identity, blocky

skintones discombobulating

b movie shame.

highjacked without being plastered

everywhere.

or the naked motions that play catch-up

behind glass shower doors, as if wrestling

with a dagger.

not necessarily protecting identity--but

what comes after it.

much like initial snow that stalls right

above the ground--for an entire winter.

to be walked through with the fragile

care of floating styrofoam.

so gravity can anticipate itself & maybe

understand.