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.

imagine hearing

your favorite song

among inharmonious

company.

as the vibes play themselves.

on repeat, but remain

loyal to their favorite song.

when there is One.

sometimes there's an existent

persuasion, that shadows individually

agree to blend in, As.

that is--they enter.

you know they've entered, having

conjured them, too well anon.

a merciful mark that appears &

disappears--hiding for your sake.

known by import, that which seeks

the gratification of seeing...but not

being seen.

the better of October

throws up its eyes to leave

its body of work, as its dank

and knobby fingers *****

at pelt-pocking raindrops.

glazing the orange skin of

pumpkins, that seem livid

with night-sweats.

flanked greys and eye-sore

whites resolve into a lay-limbo

inertial enough to be stumbled

upon.

the thick of thick,

thickens---the thin of

thin, thins.

as said, in all--as a tree.

as trees.

subject to inkblot cavities of nightly

bluffing.

encompassed by wind--

what the invisible relies on

as a sound which's more

than a single sound.

the coiter of this dim

flay outlives the animal.

brushed aside with a

meticulous stroke--bade

bright to the tail end of

an exodus.

hunted off lands that can

never show their faces again.

there with the precise moment

when meat goes bad in unspoiled

light.

my sister sent me a smarting

pic of livestream Greek Orthodoxy--

three hundred something were watching

the resurrection.

the masked altar boy to the left rapt in

ritual, leaning down to retrieve revelation.

the priest at the head whose turned back broadened

the unaswerable, sung thru unsmelled incense.

backed iconically by Byzantine saints saying their peace.

brandishing the goldest silences you

never did hear.

they had to exorcise it--that thing in the air, that thing in the water.
earth, then something other--that's how
it happened.
not the dance instruction of a tarantula to sweat out venom, but by the lived
eschatology of medievals.
worked off in mass dances (tarantism)--
till exhaustion/death.
as if they were the herd of swine that
evil spirits were cast into.
the Gadarene demoniac which Jesus
eighty sixed, caught sniffing around tombs, en route the left-hand path.
bells rung by flies, leeches bled out the: I, flames ran up the: I--heresy!
blood/yellow bile/black bile/phlegm--
the slop bucket fluids of: The Four Humours.
corresponding to the four dispositions, the four ages, the four elements--a feast
of fools attempting to psych-out wodnesse.
as medievals finger-pointed in their sleep, exacerbating toothless drool while
giving over a name.
smoky villages trampled with commotion, then nothing--closed doors taking on a
life of their own.
peace like a frozen juggler, beside a breathless flutist, you could trip over prayer only to look up at an inquisitor.

stolid panels

record the tantamount

whisps of a paintbrush.

the nervous punctuality...

of a cherry blossom

reascending the stasis of

its petals.

in the throat of early March.

Over eight billion doings factor into this

doing, Disconnection Awareness Month's

moment.

I am saint: Roughly.

A non-excercise, like following your

pointer finger to the tip of your nose--

cross-eyed by its invasive warmth.

My ruling planet Venus supervenes, I

suggest she find a ruling planet.

Right now I **** an angel with kindness,

as she flashes her radiant ***--we both

see an opening.

Who brought what out in whom?

At any point I am fixed, at no point is she

fixed--yet.

She comes by proxy to intercept me.

Her symmetry's between worlds, even

though I run my hand between her

*******.

She rides her distance on my closeness,

we end up where we end up.

the vainglorious changes

clarity on bedsheets,

after leaving them there.

celibate scales choosing a

fine stone, to remember

what comes of accusatory

skeins.

itching at any serpentine

shame, with the whole house

up.

nonentity's curvature won't

return from its hermetic seal.

moved to envelopement.

as someone turning a corner,

that you'll never see again.

its depth & volume wound all the

way (an unknown).

despite this side of its curvature

making it so (a known).

something among billions of six

senses coincide to keep it both

sealed & unsealed.

curvature canceled out--shelved.

In a substantially backed corner,

stranger than the safety of deep

thought--a spider throws off a dot.

In a house in part, sunlight lets on

in the same way.

As the sound of temperate beams

throw off a house.

there's a tree stump--

bagging water.

i mean, over accounting

for rings.

as rain comes down.

wrought bark.

behaving in roots...

thought of often.

it's wild, the film:

"Joker" seemed to

presage what Gotham

is starting to look like.

there are very many of

which too much freedom

is getting away from.

it is indeed getting very

crazy out there.

the sky was crookedly airlifted by BC & AD--as two strangers walked toward one
another on a sidewalk.
wanting to appear polite, they both delayed choosing a side in which to cross paths.
consequently--they both chose to do so mere feet away.
a blend of of irritation & awkwardness held them right before they veered aside.
recent memory is hardly history, so any unlearned lesson may not be doomed to repeat it.
their day will be comprised of more subtle & overt disparities as this.
surely there was a place from which they emerged & will return to--in which they encounter themselves in a similar fashion.
a place of fanatic familiarity, a place where things don't dare move--as not to
displease their master.
a place where a degree's dereliction would rack them subconsciously.
who knew homemaking could be a dark little art.
even if you subvert personal history & the world from which it hails--you've still done nothing.
the most controlled environment, which one has to work hard to interface with as a: "known"--doesn't sit tight.
its alchemy uses this life, this world--for starters.
whereas subject & object keep crossing paths as different subjects & objects.

a ******* dog

locked out of a mirror--

let out a threshold's

whoof.

Manson's warlock

gobbledygook played

backwards--viscera's

whoof!

a neighborhood's

vacancy intruded--

drifted by like

lubracative film over

eyes.

winter cerulean

searching for blue.

nightmares purport--a

****** furnace, or the face

lift of beauty sleep.

Wes Craven's optometry.

cast Freddy Krueger,

whose red/green sweater's

color schema, is said to be

the hardest to assimilate.

leathery exo-glove.

metallic nails...manicured

with taunting scratches.

Solidities love to give their spiel on

distance, as anthill multitudes are

dispersed by feet.

To the tune of whole houses jostling

around unissued shadows, armed with

soundless chimes.

Worked up to spit's private tiffs pelting

pavement, tracked onto the vacuum

tracks of living room carpets.

While a little boy getting called inside,

holds up a glass jar to a star.

Sighing hand-swipes of evening reads

drifting off into the context & tone of

certain conversations (the day's).

Space airing out its fringless purity,

clanks with clanking plates--runs with

running water.

Suddenly there's a judicious ring that

dissolves just as it's accepted.

a topsy turvy jig

repolished the patinaed

brass.

of a statue lent to liberty.

a humanoid eiffel tower--

with Atlantic hopefuls.

vomiting on her sandals--

here & there.

the fog tweaked its percentage of

visibility--as if to pull London across the

pond.

on my left periphery, headlights turned

black rails into a sudden downpour of

spaced glints.

elegance without inclemency.

further down, the upper floors of a lofty

apartment building wore the unreadable

glow of a mothership.

its discursive headway of private agendas

contra-fog.

then fog contra-smokescreen, carpe

noctem coordinates of drones following

suit.

as if high strangeness stooping to our

level--the field's too unfied for that.

For want of phylum, a beast strode out

into the coliseum of self-image.

Having slept without a countable care,

knowing peace is good meat.

Among the famous nows of non-doers,

religiously in alternate futures.

Swear that you remind them of someone,

or something they'd rather not be

reminded of.

Perhaps they've already been alive too

long, but not ahead of any timeline.

Which is always no one's concern, these

bodies that will have to go: number three

(beyond biology).

How many would opt for a slap on the

*** on their way out, to commerate their

way in?

That would be like a coroner pinning

open someone's eyes, & telling them it's

impolite to stare.

Simple truths are too much knowledge,

whereas all other sentient life dies

gracefully.

This beast under-lives & over-dies,

because simple truths are too much

knowledge.

Follow that thought wherever it goes,

with your neighbor's mind--then have a

conversation with a stray cat.

die of those deaths,

hunt them down--

scar their spheres.

canvas their haunts,

while they too sleep.

Flinstone Vitamins' **** gush of fruity

dust, had an upside-down

convalescing taste.

Very much like the pre-attendence of a

body learning to show up.

A plastic red binder with checks &

minuses.

Birth trauma fluorescent lights

reabsorbing impact against iron mesh

windows.

Jittering along patterns of early

education, somewhere to decipher the

hand let go of.

Which sometimes led to unsophisticated

cruelties on behalf of survival.

A windowless classroom can't properly

educate imagination, windows are

quiet recharges for the retainment of

information.

How the smell of cafeteria food felt far

more personal because it wasn't

homemade.

how every: classroom/gymnasium/

auditorium/cafeteria/playground could

sound like a sqwaked-apart conversation.

Its coronal call.

Prostrated by a whistle or blowhorn from

on high--just when we were trying to

******* tell one another that it's really

a Mystery School.

snow  throws down

a blanket.

overaccumulation.

supping stars on

an upside down

cone.

now when the silence of the

urban sprawl dialates, and its

shell becomes an exquisite ear.

the whiny cries of newborn

pigeons raise from the tops of

air conditions and terraces.

pint size helium balloons releasing

sound.

i caught a rare glimpse of one

of these choristers being fed beak to

beak by its mother.

its whittled white face and crown of

grey, contrasted by the steel storefront

sealed shut.

As if patiently positioned for a

photograph at every stage of life.

Right now.

The promise of stillness.

Directly facing the greatest

composure.

Indeed.

Today I was poured upon while

speaking to someone in the same

burrough--that said it wasn't raining.

There was so much rain in their voice,

that I didn't feel the rain.

I walked with a purpose that came from

the ground offering itself twice,

never one to rush initiation.

Having heard the official stories of where

people are in their lives, I did what a

main character does when he covers the

distance narrated to the present.

I walked home.

Sunday ******* popped into

his head.

He had to write about a:

Sunday ******* & didn't know why.

While rain showed streets photos of

itself--he thought about a

Sunday *******.

It was already dark out when it popped

into his head, which made it more

interesting.

Then it came like it was always there,

it was Father's Day.

Already bored by the subconscious irony,

he pouted at the Sunday *******.