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.

Smitten with exclamation...
four sheets enliven to play the ghost of
wind.
As heady as the turning world...throwing
off name and place.

...Frankenstein...dear Frank--green with disparity, confusedly amongst parts that
were sum...O Frank--never a creature under no sun could sow dark's reaping so.
Yours is a terrible Art...meat thrown to a black and white world.
Towering clumsily...wobbling that meat before a black and white world...you're
already spoken for by the precedent of your freakdom.
Your wear is worse than the ******* child moon wearing the sun's clothing...
O Frank!
Your awkward beauty...is as winter's very struggle towards spring--only to die upon
your feet while thawing.
You were never cerebral enough to have a clandestine affair with nothingness in motion...
your body's your confession.
You were struck alive...not dead...ALIVE...ALIVE--thunderously so, called an: IT!
Runaway automata...the collective unconscious of humanity's hypnotized waddle--
O Frank...where is your Heaven...where is your Hell?
You can neither be showered by, nor Fall from grace.
The longest-drawn pity to never be taken...O...the duration of your life...YOUR LIFE!
..."ALIVE"..."ALIVE"...cried your euphoric namesake...God taken step of, to play God to thee--
as such...yours is a terrible Art.
One of living-death...O Frank!


Konstantinos Mark

no helium...a full-bodied, hundred foot

Frankenstein.

drunkenly leaning forward--with hands

that look as if they're set to strangle.

guest-appearing at: Macy's Day Parade.

ill-fitting black suit jacket, overblown

shoulder pads--spewing said hands at the wrist.

prominent fade marks at the back, that spread

down to highwater black pants.

meeting 19th century Dutch clogs.

two-ton screws spinning in his temples.

his stitches splitting apart, against plum-purple

confetti...

Franz Xaver Messerschmidt sculpted his face
sixty times--an arcanum of flesh's malleable
appeals to a skull.
his: "Character Heads" yanked out in front of
a mirror's propriety, a natural madman
exceeding a chimp's ****** expressions.
the inverse catatonia of a pickled alien--
where colors don't clash.
Franz believed he was hunted by the:
Spirit of Proportion--due to his mastery of
sculpture, its punishable likenesses.
whose features' puff-**** brands ether with
magick, the idolatrized signal of rebellion.
his sixty: "Character Heads" were meant to ward off
this equalizer of art--sort of like how Vlad the Impaler
stuck countless decapitated heads on pikes, outside
his castle walls, to unnerve enemies.

against dilapidated walls

a pnuema's frayed slither

undoes skin a blush dead.

moistening motions of

maggots gleaming darkly--

bathed by airless confines

overspilling between an

untamable essence.

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.

what's easiest to

draw free hand--

a circle, a square,

or a triangle?

independent of

their shape?

Lately, it's as if feathers
are freer than wings,
and flight is more than
airy height.
It feels more like the
perfect confidence of
life, asking death if it
would die for it.
Death asking life if it
would live for it.
Feathers seem to gather
for wings of that magnitude,
beating through the ground
as much as the sky.

A "Being John Malkovich"

spot check--

like dropping a star from a

highchair.

Black side up.

Stuck to a closeup

that flattens a scene way out

of reach.

with the mta

bit to the blue collar,

buses absent themselves.

so you watch time burn

holes in the schedule.

hold your breath till embers

beam out of ash, numbering

your route.

as you read a lean text thru

the shades of a low battery.

a reminder you forgot the

food your mother sent you.

trekking back because you

know you had to eat from her

hands.

food made with truly medicinal

thoughts--there's no social distancing

momma.

I front my dust, to taste the rosy

cud of lightning's fever dream.

As a vine strikes out against a wall,

the whole of wind is removed from

the mouth of silence.

While bodies of water gloss over

the passing of fish, who become

tense.

When flesh is left on bodies to

indicate taken seats, the same seats

light gives up.

To a garden gate drunk on its hinge--

that gathers a garden like: here today.

Where midnight makes up for lost time,

to meet you as someone known

completely.

Followed by savage denial of the fact.

ice casts itself as the dissuading thorn of

paved surfaces.

what water was doing--its last pompeian

motion.

absolutely bitter definition, that frames

attention around feet.

especially after dark, its scalpy deposits

overexpose dingy refractions.

the screeching halt of crystals & their

aura of preservation.

all of which seem to make what it covers

softer.

it's an immersive study that rewards

those given to exaggerated walking.

with that said--I was prompted to

abruptly look up into a random home's

living room.

greeted by a freshly painted aquarium,

whose colors undermined breath.

I must've felt the fish staring at me--

it was two hours of frozen communion,

to that.

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.

a shadow comes off her when she forgets

to lie in wait--as one when there is no

one.

submission as much as movement,

answerlessness in the praying--grace in

the lack of sign.

the tentative quality of the miraculous,

as if something to be settled on--what's

everpresent.

a pearl white necklace worked

backwards, soft round breaths on the

curve of her spine.

every pearl a grace period...Fur Elise.

through spry sticks assaying

trees--wolves are being disseminated.

fur locked in bone, held together

by the howl of the gut--incontinent

with roaming country.

showed blood in blind tastes--squaring

packs in ravenous circles.

wearing unmuzzled ring-marks

of blood.

Forehead spread, primly kissed--

the crushed gentleness of a sleeper

who's walked wakefulness to ol'

silences.

Made meek by mad sways of logic,

so much day to be had mid the weak

grip of the hour.

Always the more, always the less--for

having knelt to what's unspeakably spent,

sign upon sign sealed over.

Bound by the luster of preciousness, a soppy

flash in mesh.

Something therein cries: furnish the mark,

that I may kiss it.

Even glory bears degrees of welcome--

not every wake is left indefinitely.

Try as it may, the ocean cannot

disinherit waves that fail to further

its glory.

Ones own face is too many lives in,

not to appear guilt-ridden.

Mistaken identity is a guarantee--

historicity recycles attributes.

On the otherside of things, one has

enough personal relations to populate

the globe.

Which's why roosters can't unhear

dawns like rehashed blood in tepid

water.

Dostoevsky's nerves were a massive

plasma globe poked at by surplus genius.

a spidery fry in a garbled clump of

hypersensitivity--to unrealized

characters.

the crystalline dryness of St. Petersburg

snow taken from the top--unremittingly.

as a depressurized silence sounds a ******

miles long.

Fydor's thumping fireplace, blinkered by

tight flashes.

Icarian quill cocked & expressly warning

at the dangers of his deep sleep.

a bevy of notes strewn about, for the

benefit of a sympathetic reader--if he/she

should discover them.

notes that safeguard against a premature

burial, his uncontrollable: Taphophobia.

that he should be allowed three or four

days to sleep off death--before actual

interment.

led lights glaze

thru their city's fixity.

Ganesha's tree trunk

flexing a limb, rarified

birds leaking out of:

feather/color/paradiso.

a light going out with its

pinprick.

the fell hose of a gale,

Ganesha's trunk spraying

at Shiva.

strips of bark--overrunning

persistent droplets at

their side.

while set for a dry hanging.
'

Himalayan projection screen,

undulant sea tones brushed by

silken zephyrs.

devoted parameters of mind,

stroked wide open by jasmine.

a yogi's hands coming together

at the chest, at the forehead, over

the crown.

Ganga fore-tears in tumults of white,

precisely when she was given to flow.

Shakti pregnant with afterglow,

lifegiving--unbroken in labor.

There's even a place for
light to hide--
where the speed of its year
goes to stop seeing.
To sleep the silence of a
different kind of clarity.
The center of a record fixed
to a point of no return, as
was on eternal play.
Now playing the first as last
note, every song's ghost.
Perfect circles drained
through one another...
sentience chasing itself.
Highest high, lowest low--
experienced simultaneously,
then cut off at peak intensity.
A sound that sighs the passion
of extinction--a whole wholly
consumed.
To equal the nullification of
lesser and greater degrees.
The richest black ever unseen--
colored by what tried to get
out of G*d's sight.
Where angels fall, and stagger
off--having been strip-searched
by Truth...enough.