I am away
with me...
holidaying--
tightly-scripted
mid a defunct
play.
Incurred props
grow Daniel
Johnston-esque
wings.

a pigeon encasing

its chest.

extends a bassy

trill.

shimmying on the

lid of a dented ashcan.

pecking in & out with:

yellow/red/blue marbles.

(in no particular order).

classic Wonder bread.

There was a bunch of folks typecast for

a forthcoming wave of salvation.

Off a main road, crawling on their hands

& knees at the outskirts of a forest.

Spangled like descaled fish in snapping

shrubbery on an ungiven Sunday.

Relatable as asking for directions to

somewhere you have no intention of

going.

An excuse for interaction, to ascertain if

there was a need for it.

If the almighty will convince you to go

there through them, a testament to need.

An errant flock did, they all converged at

the outskirts of the forest--sanctimonious

horns honking on high.

As they stumbled to stumble upon one

another, weeding out the Ides of March--

handfuls!

One hundred of them, fled from their

subordinance to a Centurion, free as

toddlers on fire.

An unstoppable meta-whoosy forage.

When the NYPD availed themselves, a

higher up saith: 'What's this, the freakin'

catch & release program--let's go people!'

water moves despite

clarity--so it cuts

snowflakes that rise

and fall without dissolving

form.

singing bowls are Self-struck

before they leave every

dust mote to water.

Struck by a moment, without

etiquette or unit--a man bears

his own resemblance.

His forehead spots him.

To keep in touch.

This wasn't always the case.

Light can do without features.

This is becoming abundantly

clear.

Despite the man, even if

given to it.

Call it a great shift.

no human being should've been

made that painfully aware of your

transgressions.

i guess the truth loved him enough

not to spare one detail--of which

completely broke him.

now you think you can mend him.

it must stick out like a broken bone

penetrating skin.

i feel for the man, i'm no animal.

you should have saw him to more

faithful arms, and made good on your

word.

for this i have lost all trust and respect

for you.

at the very least, another life can be

eked out--by what goes unnoticed in

any given day.

a thing will always change with the

perceiver, even color is colored.

the sheer overawing & unquantifiable

detail is as matter-of-fact as imagination

itself.

begin & end anywhere you choose--

even though there's no beginning or

ending to the interactiveness.

purposeful hands setting

a table--lighting sealed by

the approval of Old Dutch

Masters.

the wrought passing of plates

before they're passed.

a homely kingdom, a devoured

morsel--the speck in a viewer's

eye.

aerated frame, darkened sphere

revolving.

the diamonds of dead end signs, need

somewhere to free up the terminus of

their streets too.

where astronomical scores of headlights

U-turn against a seven foot tall wax dummy.

betraying no discernable ****** features or

genitalia, just the sum total of bare--heighted

emaciation.

a tapered candle for a spine--melting identical

replicas of its body.

shrinking down to its feet...obeisances of rest.

there's no shramming spleen to rail

against, come the winter solstice.

hotbeds of vampires stretch out to

make snow angels.

light deprivation projects its own creature

features.

received with the most lone & enthusiastic

review.

the doubleback of dark pressed against windows--

not far to meet any emergence from sleep.

uncut prolongations, tar-skipping streets throwing

off characterizations of litter.

unnerving the foot traffic of extras

spreading cabin fever.

the directorial debut of the 21st.

an amateur photographer waits till a room fills
up with degrees of connection--as people move
relative to prattle's false starts.
just when the deep space of universal greeting
collapses into conversation, the room's undulant
field registers unnatural spikes in noise level--
like supercells on a radar.
as if language showing first signs of fluidity, met
with the straitjacketed primitivism of listeners--
itching to go from zoo-like soundings, to being
seduced by the traction of their own voice.
at this the bluffy segue of wineglasses are tilted off
a tray--their long necks & lippy vaunts sparkling
to an ear-piercing parse.
a lens glares out of obscurity, as if the blue
shorts the blue--to blink back right there.
recoiling hands spastically thrown around deformed
hubs--with an anesthesiologist' catalogue of faces.
our photographer's delectation came from seeing it as
the discordia of the fifth wall.

a beast growing

thorns from his bones,

depetaling a rose-mind.

picking up on the scent

of rot.

lets out a muffled cry,

hidden among the latest

twist of crooked trees.

There's no stock advice

for what tires fundamentally--

only the indiscriminate telling

of burden to itself.

How good a place to know

as any, to spread the creaks

of bone to an ear with a

heart so disposed.

They always hear, they always

understand...they're always

too full.

Darkness avoids absence to

keep from falling.

As the cold spots of roses turn

to purple irises, of distant royalty.

That curve the mirrors of trees,

which climb out of windows.

As grass lands between moon's,

cut by light drumming on a persian

rug.

One cat sees another first, as summer

pools a galaxy.

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.

a shore is pushed back--

into its raring cutoff.

its lungy dunes, flounder

on their relative sides.

castle walls keeled even.

fishtailed, as glassy calms--

sparkling with the tidal floods

they down.

--do ripples betray oceanic age?

no.

a flower girl that suddenly tears

out a beach umbrella--does.

she whirls it till a beatdown desert,

throws off its color scheme.

there, there are people--which notice:

sand-sea-sky...become divorcees of

Blue.

Life, you're a broad enough word to

address this mere question:

why have you dreamt me so?

A wide-eyed clod outdone by a wider

grin, won't you tell?

You who'll dream the bones of me,

let on...spill the beans to your baby

boy.

I'm in fine condition to smooth the

flap of that dog-eared day-dream.

There's nothing I could offer you, is

there, a butterfly perhaps?

Aren't you the least tickled by the sly

prods of these questions, desirous as

they are...I suspect they beget more

dreams of me, best to shut up now.

Don't exaggerate the price
paid to meet the pay off.
Ms. Magdalene oiled up a
pair of great feet only after
turning a blind eye too many,
to forced entries.
No sooner.
If you give pain a false address,
no one will visit.
They'll leave sentimentally
orphaned flowers at wrong doors.
You won't even answer your own
door knocking on itself, you hide.
As time chisels your sacrificial altar...
candles huddle closer and closer
for warmth, even as they burn.
Surrounded by answered prayers,
growing hungry for acknowledgement.

a pumpkin's seedless jigsaw

grin, flush with dead centers.

bearing the mind of a votive candle's

puddled wax, secretive globules.

posing as if for

retro mall photography--whose

backdrop's bruising mesh is

worked-in.

similar to a penitent scrubbing

away nightly stains--with nubs

where hands were.