Over a hell-shack of trees,

that seclude an April

winter.

A tickle of dogwood like

a dry Japanese cough--

leaves the dimensionalized

hanging.

Bardo Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do.

A fontanelle, a division bracket connected

to other division brackets--castle

battlements.

A stimulating doodle that fills a Mead

Marble Notebook, whose cover keeps the

signal lost.

A banana in a trumpet, lensless

sunglasses in a darkroom.

Dot lightness, dot being--behind the ears.

Lo & lo beheld heads in the way of a

movie now playing in theaters

everywhere.

Where the irksomely awkward exit from

theaters, is witness to an audience's

who's who believing they're characters

from the movie.

Everyone avoiding eye contact, like some

postcoital comedown--secreting greater

star quality.

Imagine if they entered the theater that

way--our comings & goings have such

pole reversals, role reversals.

Hitchcock's bellybutton has a staring

problem, the guardian of this gate doesn't

approve of such rumination.

astroturf--

paving a surreptitious

city.

blowing backups of

spotlight.

without incident.

candy poppies shooting

up.

melting into helmets

that peer down.

i wonder at the flower cut

at the stem, whose unresponsive

sheath of bloom's pulled inward.

how longing dies of patience.

her head dipped in sunlight with

imperceptible touches of fade--

magnified green stub in limp water.

my melting fingertip upon her curling

petals, raising her chin for a moment

there.

we exchange all we sourly miss, windows

away--with what shines through.

from time to time

i look in on the will--

she lie on her side.

back turned, pressing

and decompressing--

displaying the respirations

of sleep.

simulating peace.

though in sync, astir with

my every motion.

facing the wall, i know she's

awake--trying to be strong

on my behalf.

circling streamlets, blinkered black

horses--hooves struggling out of clay

casts of muck.

crescent scythes screened silver thru

the characters of trees.

strange as the sounded line of a lark's dozenth

betrayal.

dawning.

I eat for three, I must be showing--they take care to plump me up with elite takes on food-a.
*******, dust, ****, *****, glass, staples, *****--you know.
a pizzazz that heaps years on to their vidas,
finally cutting the key to the teeth of their monsters.
I see those glued to the veil, struggle like flies to avoid what I singlehandedly spawned.
A hatred that runs so deep it almost comes out as love, the potentency of its vacuum is unmatched.
I know how many thorns are on the crown, fashionably so--like any good dramatis personae, I try it on.
the wrists & feet are a bother of fixity, I'm still spreading my gospel--no Paul, just three of a kind.
I have been dutifully informed that I am a danger to myself & others, that I will most likely spend the rest of my natural life in confinement...
"for the criminally insane" is too long-winded, I prefer: behind bars.
I may be a danger to myself in here, I've endangered many out there, & there are some for whom danger is over.
These are but minor logistics, I offer them such a prismatic sacrifice, a darling rarity to be carried out like a festive procession.
I Am: The Who's Who, whose seasons will never be canceled--I Air.
I Am a slow cult suicide--I run the risk of rays, I encircle before they encircle.
I will  encircle them once more, as all good things come in threes my friends.
You must know that I've abstracted them in blackout blood all over these padded walls, like Francis Bacon's studio.
his murderers' kit of paintbrushes clotted & snapped, forgotten in turpentine.
I would rather they do it to themselves, think of one buying rope for the purpose of straightening up a tree--only to **** up its posture with their weight.
hanging there with burdensome repetition, ******* by proxy.
they've all gone limp with oppression, they know not what they do.
I must whittle down three possible outcomes: Nicholson's Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will commit professional suicide by sampling the flesh of his underlings like hors d' ouevres.
Ledger's Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will separate a blade from its handle, into Three of a Kind--
will commit ******.
Phoenix' Joker says: the head, head-shrinker will commit suicide.
well...from Gotham to urban areas all over the world, iconography of: "Three of a Kind" is handed out & sold.

try playing air guitar on the

breaking wheel--you're certainly not

rock n roll sweetheart.

spat out by silence & apathy alike, you

hide under a bed--with a wanna be girl's

voice, reprimanding nightmares to play

fair.

hold your ears & grit your teeth--harken

back to the number of fruit flies you've

rescued from speedy oblivion.

it'll all go away just for you, again--no it

won't.

the sidereal undoes the bandage around its

eyeless sockets, looks under your bed--cross

at seeing you clearer than ever.

there's a

thimble that

pulls spiders

thru.

they lose all

their legs--

but don't scream.

only reconfigure.

a: cry-me-a-master Steinway was raised

up by a streetlight.

sharply concentrated as a protractor's

return starting point.

whose pressed encompassment shows

through, hours after lights out.

hotly bright on the Steinway's black hood

like a cow's patch.

as its shutaway keys rammed defiantly--

with reverberant bangs that bang

themselves.

aftermath's overintellectualization.

then someone that knew someone, that

knew Charlie Chaplin--skipped him into

frame.

where he stood his cane on the sidewalk

& pelted the Steinway with mothballs, for

good luck.

there it was, flatly suspended from the

streetlight--a musical ear's eclipse.

pantomimed sounds.

the lake set thick

winter's irrevocable bone,

the moon's floodlit interment

frozen feet deep.

from whose bottom she

figure skates.

her blades carving maneuvers that

illustrate the unabating turnings,

of an upside down world made upright.

watery blue mirrors paling before her--

her hair let fall, bound in bunches, directs

the violence of her elegant abstractions.

this intelligence

that no mind's dervish

can dizzy into enclosure.

only knows the circle that

crosses into another, more

growing out of than not.

one can drift away to this,

lose oneself to unbent lines

made manifest, circles in pure.

while walking the line.

manipulatable ground's

most likely paved over.

country me.

thus far & farther.

let alone was demanded--

by standstills of elevation.

presiding over wishing wells

of trees making valley.

shadowlands, composite

sketches: America.

Queens NY is expecting a

significant snowstorm.

expecting~

forelight not for want of thee,

foredark not for want of thee--

essenced Word of breaking lips

loath to void.

as what clings to spacey walls.

outflanked vine throwing off

dimensional shadows.

head come head, prophesied forefront.

disseminations of empurpled grapes.

gourd of psyche, countoured with

drying juices--the letting of outlasted

accentuations.

Caravaggio dying on the run, restating art.

these are the nights,

as if pointed to--to stand

out from the richest

obscurations.

where every square inch

is covered with the wings

of moths, beating and shedding

the patterns that drew them.

by and to flame, their exit points.

stalled light--

a pallid break not to make

day.

forever this--bedridden grey

staring out from the world.

clay roused from cinders--twitching

before disjointed  movements.

similar to 19th century electric

shocks administered to deceased

frogs.

a realm of colorblind variances to

wakefulness--densify the fog of these

peoples.

whose trailing opiates of sleep rapidly

play their eyes beneath lids--smudge marks

on a colorless palette.

chi brought food & form was martialed--

feet struck, feet said: asphalt, feet said:

seawater.

as such a walk harnessed its entirety

before it began.

while feathers left birds on this or that

note, to touch pressure points of air.

whole symphonic collapses of earth thru

the blind conveyance of an obstacle

course.

the flexibility of weirdness is not a

parking sign peeping out of an

unstoppable tree trunk.

it's how that megaphone of pain acts as

a leyline.

reverse momentum knocking underfoot--

built-in everywhere.

loosed catapulsions on the verge of eyes--

these.

see just short of a walk's conclusion, the

side of a bush blow open.

exposing a few branches--one more

deafening than the other.

Robert Lowell,

in: Pulitzer's Toy Store--

twice the recipient.

of cyclopean bifocals--

funny glasses,

if ever there were.

matched with eyes that

were framed.

uncannily non make believe.

Moby **** leaving the oily

crease marks of his forehead--

thereon.

mania's omphalos--drags around its
umbilical cord, like a gas pump.
while belting out the first emanation.
a circle's radius clamps shut, as a
wilderness picks at its navel.
black iron gates come down on clouds,
a blizzard accumulates a spiritual reality
far more physical.
even if you're barred entrance, there's no
such thing as waiting.
just a stuporous death by holiday--like
standing across a room expanding with
space.
to a foggy window wiped clear, revealing
past lives vivid as the partitioned
properties of neighbors.
a minotaur hopping fences--suddenly
pressed against the window.
as if covered by distance, not covering it.
straight from a snowy frieze, its circuits
of agon.

handheld as if infirm...

& helped away--

the period of an endstory

keeps dotting itself.

whilst grinning profusely.

a pronounced profile without pensivity--

turned sideways, like that.

an installed idiot, an endless green

stretch, beyond curious but not curious.

imagine no further than the following:

his mind consists solely of a thought

that will not come to it.

only the lingering impression of having

to recall itself--seven Sundays in a week.

what would it be to look for the light on,

without knowing it?

it would feel like you're always about to

die, without knowing what death is.

what if such a one was charged enough

with impending death, to suddenly recall

more than the mind.

facing forward now, like that--as would

one about to recreate a week.

there's a *****...

on either

pointer finger.

the weight of

worlds

are

pre chosen.

splaying exactions.

on a single tile.

needles keep

piercing between the

crosshatchings of

Ganesha's grey suit.

blocked energy

constellating.

people drawing chalky

flowers all over him, while

drawing from him.

it's okay, he adores monsoons.

albification comes

over ether.

when strangers

walk by--

holding their peace

like failed seekers.

a man stands stern as 86,400 condolences
in front of a Grandfather Clock.
he resembles Lloyd the Barber from:
"The Shining"--except for mustachio &
monocle, a leather whip in his right hand.
dressed up to the nines for his
sadomasochistic relationship with Kairos.
the pent-up tension of its purposeful
waste, excited him to no end with its
insightful extravagances.
the heightened state of foregoing all
possibility, rides the penultimate crack of
a whip.
oceanically wrought drops of milk &
honey--pelvic ache in-between no two
points.
the adrenaline dump of worlding an
infinitely broken silence--over & over &
over.
surviving deferments of dust in an edenic matchbox, quavering to hear--holy make the round of holies.
until sweat shines his shoes & the whip's
floored by undulance.
as his fire belly newt: Gozer, singles out from a camouflaged environ to be fed.

this frazzled loom

come from the eleventh hour--

greenly kinetic and terribly

sibylline.

aches with vision shakey as a

petal of terminal color.

as ominous fragrances are

increasingly seated upon

the air.

spreading their temporary birthright.

as gospel.

hypnagogic rope,

serpentine

alpha wave.

guardian of

visual metaphors.

sibylline interstices

of grey apples.