the wind wants at its will, as it's

scornfully whorled--undoing the

cricks of facades.

an attentive hearer can be stung by

the lashing beads of rain rounding

still points.

gusty sheets of seventy miles an hour--

timed out, wrung out with a twist.

astonishing confessions that hold back

at the precise moment of truth--as if to

say: bear with me, as i bear with you.

vice versa's feral

cat goes about.

using the wall-to-wall

layout of this neighborhood,

to her advantage.

dragging the voice of a

medieval hag in heat.

around.

she surpasses her own

startle.

by how she registers.

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.

out of the beak of

a ****, Peter denied

Christ.

crowing triality.

his beard whitened.

a messy paint job.

he kept frequenting an

open air

bizarre .

of sideways--reaching

down for something.

then looking straight up.

transfixed.

as news spread.

there's a crow's nest

poised at the rooftop of

the world.

silken black and unruffled--

flying fast asleep.

undetected and laid down

soft, gaping with perfumes

of ether.

the greatest push of feathers

seen by a natural crown

stitched together around a sky.

there's a crow's nest--left out

of it all.

the sound, the sounds

(singular-plural) coalescing

their surface runoff.

of melting snow, snows

(singular-plural)

as these sounds issue

from the accumulation

of multiple snows.

weigh on the mind's

crystal pack, which will

soon expose the ground

of a sky.

too little the singularity,

too much the plurality--

therefore neither.

Have you ever been
pulled over by the culture
police?
I know this culture cop
who loves pulling people
over for self-expression.
He'll wait till you break
into color, and cut you
off at your most emphatic.
He'll ****, burp, scoff--
master craft a discombobulating
smack to your mouth.
He thinks most expression pins
you down to obviousness.
So by definition a lack of expression,
or stifled expression, means
you're not being obvious.
Therefore tolerable, but being obvious, or not being obvious is still
being, trying--expressly.
Watchdog of his own passive-agression, his cagey brooding activated by voices in excitation
of uniqueness.
He's living hard between the lines,
unable to read so to speak, as sing!
My mouthy mute carbon copy
of repression, I'm so sorry--truly.

preternaturally longish grey hair,
acid-yellow buckteeth hanging from the
slathered lipstick of your thin upper lip.
(a wigged version of Billy Corgan).
fixed into a moronically concentrated pucker,
failing at the illusion of fullness.
while garnishing an apartment with the
paraphernalia of a free spirit too stale to beat
to death, a just-so of obsessively repeated
finishing touches.
the remanent rise of ******-***** coziness,
niche/nook/now--you, no...wind doesn't like you.
the very thought of your current routine is as
flotsam as the passion-**** you once dealt.

An apocalypse has

always been

the anticipation of one.

It's how we reveal ourselves.

There are people petty enough

to cut the cord of a lamp when

throwing it away, so someone

else can't use it.

Now imagine the same kind of

person seeing the world go on

without them.

threads of sound leave

goosebumps on the walls

of a retiring labyrinth.

whose guide opens his

mouth to scream into his

lover's.

supplanting echoes slowly

glisten like excited skins.

terrified harmonics shocked

to completion.

the cut up of a wet palm, in trust

of a wet palm.

destined for something.

Non erasable, maligned
"sin"...light ****** by
the darkened contours
of a face.
Providence spotlit on
sight...sun...daily bread
rising.

I'm convinced

the day that doesn't

live me, will be my last--

like: 'We just met & I feel

as if I've known you my

whole life.'

I'm not much of a talker

anyway.

the dark room genus

of a flower developes....

within planes of

vases.

whose stems unearth

a shattering too fine

for the boundaries of

a photo.

so a dark room may be

the genus of another

flower--all together.

a compendium of

extinction.

blooming.

twelve pointed hats

lower over the silver pan

of her High North reclusion.

set down.

she stir fries the vegetative

chants of a clockwork coven.

an aroma fills the forest...

the unachievable balance between

decay & delectability.

Tried by
color, a
color stayed
its coloration...
the second
wind of
infinity's prostration...
here...decidedly
empurpled.