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.

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.

hypnagogic rope,

serpentine

alpha wave.

guardian of

visual metaphors.

sibylline interstices

of grey apples.

His brooding excellency stepped outside

with a ladle, just so he could declare:

'It's not ready yet!'

The finicky pottage of 718, that is.

One is tempted to take up Joe Gould's:

"The Oral History of Our Time".

It would be a lot like William Burroughs'

cut-up method, but in a colloquial sense.

Judging by the sheer volume of gossip, it

stands to reason that gossipers will

assuredly gossip about one another.

Probably to the same people they

gossiped about, I should like to think

that such plot-driven dialogue could

get lost in elevation.

Where does indeed collateral damage go?

You couldn't have known that I digress,

I digress.

I'd like to say that I'm brimming with

Amor fati.

I don't need a record to have grooves, to

appreciate the music.

This sound is as warm as it gets--meaning

closest to.

A splash of ***** on a curb, a bus stop

window clearly replaceable, four blades

of grass & a future spore.

A needle catches a groove, steaming

broth is forced to gather round.

the glass half empty

welcomes a ghost--

to walk its rim.

round and round

without end.

having stopped

drinking when

half full.

for fear of such

a haunting transparency.

the retaining half allows

for its existence.

rather than the cup quenched

of philosophy.

a mattress wrung

like a sponge--

dreamt concord

between symbolic

peoples.

coolly half past, a

roman numeral.

twisting the compass

needle of a humming

bird's beak.

trumpeting the wakeup

call of a flower.

these fire escape bars subdivide

space like a Barnett Newman painting.

stripes running down for a signal,

across these windows.

a thirty eight degree rain, with steely

grey whisks of snowy blind eyes.

shook off somewhere in this full frontal

depth perception, dripping the cagey

dynamics of backdrops.

a present tense of forseeable future

harkening back.

overexposed polaroids are
being dealt on the outs,
unhitched faces blowing blurbs.
filled with cathartic mumblings,
scrawled reminders to break
into the houses they gave the slip
to hours prior.
while
living alone to eliminate intrusion,
a mind's routine of
cutting the teeth of keys that won't
fit.
patting down the empty pockets of
limp thighs for spares.
is it not all as it has been left to--
the village idiot claiming the world's
***?
whose wayward business was made
to see where all the strangeness is
stashed.
following it around with a secret society
of eyes.
alas the induction, the inductee--
locked out.

a snow globe

in every cube

of graft paper.

bulbous tethers

of blanch

pandemonium.

are you prepared

to accept that spirituality

is something you

recognize especially?

more than yourself pitted

against the crowd to which

you contribute?

a crowd that's shunned as much

as embraced.

beyond recognition.

bow!

a gypsy has the
horses of her
caravan
sit like
schoolchildren.
while she suckles
on a rabbit foot...
unpacified.
then uses it to
scratch an itch.
taking pleasure in
giving the moon
her evilest eye.

the sound of grainy footage

popping like rice crispy treats--

as time says: ahh.

these open vaults that spare no

detail, change underlying with

permanence.

easily recognizable neighborhood

composites, cramming a wink

with volumes of standing impressions.

You strew signs that never met chance--

where they arose I was.

I have survived them, now they come

together before me.

You mark me all too well--but it is for me

to send word of my coming.

How it is favor comes with destruction, is

reserved for few.

Now that I have Apollo & Dionysius

wondering at their properties--the

wilderness secures this laurel wreath.

Amor fati, you left it where you knew I

would come upon it.

It was not an act of faith on your part,

what is thought to you that you should

act?

If I swear, it is to myself--that I can no

longer break what I am in you.

I felt when you knew I knew--it was all

up until then, that went away now.

Amor fati is all there is.

a body whose

blood coldly abstains,

drinks from the goblet

of centuries.

to wipe it from the

mouth of night as it

runs like drool from

a waking dream.

if only to recapture

a kiss.

to starve back its

slow burn.

overbleached flies

kickstart empty space--

recalling the aerodynamics

of UFOs.

thru the buffered streaks of a

living room window, creating

an oddly euphoric tension in

a neutral observer.

If the highest state is extinction, then that

means Gd is working toward extinction.

Even if the concept of Nirvana were only

human-centric, then why extinct human

beings--why not further our degree?

Yet for every extinction, there's a

creation, that would make Gd half dead.

Compared to infinitude that half

deadness never happened, if it weren't

for interconnectedness, omnipresence.

Gd's equally invested in apparent zeros.

Which raises absolute Cain when seen

organically--how can infinitude undergo

a growing process to begin with?

What exactly is it, that no longer serves?

Why would Gd introduce extinction to

any of creation, is it a merciful trend

toward undoing it?

What if that were Gd second guessing

it all--what if Gd is slowly undergoing a

dignified death?

Nirvana's: dead-dead.

G*d didn't die-die with Buddha.

oceans converge & breach a single

surface--roll toward me as a globular

bulge comes up to be fed.

the shiny sweat of a vicarious void

slurps as it snarls--chases its own face,

that refuses to wash off.

it is then i fall back on what i truly am--

with a look of acknowledgement.

there's such a buoyancy to what aligns

depth.

phrenological markups

around a seraphim's

shaved head.

found the contoured unevenness 

of gross neglect--in regard to

human case studies.

after exhaustive High-hand

groping.

subject to the penal code of a

gargantuan pipe *****--where a

single note could signify any number

of years--even before sentencing.

pick one of these

flowers wearing

rose-colored glasses

in red zones.

hold it under your

nose as you wade thru

the miasmic flood.

an exquisitely wrought

bowl.

brass blown to the upper

echelons of leafage,

curved so.

the snake charmed lazy of

wick-- can cake in the tightrope

of sandalwood wax.

begging traceries  of that

saintly podge.

as these reconnecting digits

softly grind away at those fragrant

intellectualizations.

after caressing the wick.

A pregnant woman smells a *** of

lavender, while running her fingers in

mince meat.

A gold crucifix's vintagey over-gleam, as

it pokes her cleavage line.

While cameras follow her sigh to a copse

outside the kitchen window--whose

distant image shrinks with signified

exhalation.

Now she's on a cable rerun no one is

watching.

Something fidgets at such odds--like that

can't be, & what's not happening will

come back with avengance.

A fictional character that memorized her

lines, & acted out of character.

As the scene called for her to act out of

character--but ended up being her true

self.

Non-acting in a scene written around her

maternity leave.

Filmed during the seventies, the set had

a lot of MASH-green, as if put together

from a present day thriftshop.

Believably lived-in, the dizzyingly

unplaceable scent-stain of home-cooked

meals, what people used to smell like.

A far more forgiving zeitgeist--whereas

even her true self seemed like subpar

acting.

This particular episode was at peak

viewership, what force drew all that

free time?

Perhaps the same force that plays its

rerun, at the same time it airs in a

parallel universe.

Coincidentally--her son is among those

not watching the rerun he bulged her

stomach in.

as sight lowers and lowers

its light, fathoming footfalls down--

cast and dangling.

the prey of a finely sliced

path, onsetting rigors of a hell.

leaves rustling like black moths in

the crosshairs of invisible fires.

frosted tree stumps with cauldron

bellies having and rehaving their full

of seasons.

the air smells like stars gone out, tormenting

personal astrologies--till unwritten.

it is there the forest tears at its growth to lose

selves already lost--proceeding always at the

end of the middle's beginning.

it is where Virgil is a step ahead of Dante, guide

in the flesh of the only orientation.

an oxford comma

clears the throat

of a subway staircase--

as a pigeon feather

would.

They saw to it no one asked where

They were.

Their absence may as well been a

handheld camera to the sky, shaking the

focus to indicate They were still there.

Tidily odd as peace's indifference, a

season ago.

They've made of it, does it show?

Now animals simplify spring fashion--

the smell of heat taken from its source.

The wild commands: DRIVE!

Come out--COME!

While reflections are saught as often as

unobserved appearances, like self-image

in coitus.

A skewed trance.

I occur to me--like a deep sea methane
bubble.
The one getting away with the perfect
crime, the one that pops into pictures
mid-cheese.
The one that believes the ability to
perceive sixty-four squares is proof of
mastery.
The one afforded views from where the
sun will no longer be.
The one that weather goes to for advice.
The one who demands the provenance of
a day's counterfeit painting.
The one who just left Kant's: "The Critique of Pure Reason" on the set of:
"Rebel Without a Cause".
The one who thinks internal organs are a
hellish realm, conspiratorial whispers.
The one who thinks ending this poem
would be a mercy-killing, yet the imaginative commitment to a deer's
suffering lifts before a gun's fired.
As it were, who I take myself to be--is
unexpectedly confronted.
It's this secret avatar whose
overly-accurate resemblance I no longer
fall for--I have a feel for my Face.
It's gaming diversion, of inner-reflections
hid behind--which I've now turned on the
secret avatar.

oriental porcelain--

of Van Gogh's: "Blue Irises".

run on fields, overthrowing

horizonal curvatures.

snow obeys weather,

even being fingerprinted

for quality assurance.

hail does not--firing down

baseballs in sweltering heat.

motion revisited a happening,

as it happened again--for the

first time.

the sun's scythe cut into view,

black came to black rest in the

space of its blade.

as the grainy wield of film had

Venus' head.

Planes of adjusting light stack thin--

too slow not to meet crookedly.

A broken window on an apple's cheek,

in line with a branch.

Not a sky in the sky--not even a

shadow's deflated ego, but a far

greater eater.

There's a world left out for just that--

which one exactly?

Would you know a horror movie from

the flashes on a vacant seat?

It's like death taking a pass.

Where letting go, goes.