sallow outer shells of lamplight

shiver fragile lines of light--

to the wall.

hardly palatable to the clam juice

residuals of late light, airbrushed

by a rain even more coy than a

fine mist.

as afterbirth-roots are fleshed out

by a chill, insisting on leaping

backward more than a few weeks.

Que sera, sera...

omissions of Alpha--

ala omega.

omissions of Omega--

ala alpha.

accede...to,

the sales pitch of a City--

whistling corners.

cut--as if bereft of wind.

funneling a Minotaur's

racket.

Tetra's grey zone seizure.

genius overpopulates

caves.

senile gusts forced to shampoo

elitist scalps, left frothy-thick.

with no beany.

the grand tour of a capstone--

tired of wearing a dunce cap.

consulting its baseline.

in print.

homeless insulation.

crows shed the most

finely tailored leather

coats in an infrequent

flap.

so their eyes may overturn.

when picking

meets

an unfurled

petal,

fingers unhand

themselves.

in such a way--

that a mutual

scent

remains with

every petal

come winter.

over winter.

Wassily Kandinsky

rested his spine against

a corner wall, tapping

his third eye, saying:

I do believe in spooks--

I do, I do, I do.

Oz the factor.

the rocking booths

of arcades.

rated: R, by pheromonal

happenstance.

inboxed: 17, at full capacity.

pacman & stale popcorn--

that gushes butter down

pipelined necks.

matchmaking with

Elio's pizza--dude!

an eighty-year-old strand

of hair.

dyed purple...too west for

its coast.

every jammed quarter's a

pit boss.

David Lynch banging his

57-Chevy fore-lock, against

glass that contains Wednesday's

bacon.

stealing out of the glass of

a corner store.

candy store--such betrayable

headspace, baggable sugar.

shoot...

Paganini left angels

with laryngitis, as he

ran his bow across their

throats.

till they voiced the devil

of him, hexed where he stood.

to be branded by the common

knowledge of admirers.

so what did Paganini do with

that hex?

he used the power of its persuasion

to part Europe's legs.

As his lips ripple, he's not on them.

How a ghost is denied intimation--

presuming to speak for him.

Now listens intently, understanding

that silence isn't pretending not to

speak.

That sort of painful loquacity.

Then there are words that speak to

silence--which silence may or may

not speak.

Silence is a word, a word is silence--

their speaking out of turn can **** the

ghost.

Paul Cezanne

confounded the

frontal windows

of fruits.

pairing juices.

in bruising cubes,

warmed over.

It's when birds gain currency--

advancing as something pale

or other.

The thin chasm of beaks hurt

to hear, their sounds

aren't as early as spring.

They're not there.

An hour or so after a witch

undressed in front of a mirror,

piled on the floor.

Bottom lip quivering with

unwholeness.

That I elbow standing for the

toilet & face front, totally

deaf to the story arc.

For bed to remake sheet-angels,

that will never get me.

The colossi of oblivion derive their

stature from what cannot be followed.

Twilight's pallored collapse gripped by a

leathery leaf, a pair of checkout keys on

a blear nightstand.

A mouth private about age gargles with

salt, then drags slippers away.

Lone headlights go off into a self-effacing

whoosh, an incomplete: bear in mind.

Then a heaviness is quietly told to be

seated, as if by a priest.

When some diabolical cleverness works

garlic cloves into a brain, as one grins

like a holiday lamb.

Evils that slur the speech of sleep, eight

hours of crime scene photos--fighting off

The Prince of Peace.

Where the colossi migrate as a state of

being, bring forth signs & break off into

smaller groups.

Until all that is left, can't be followed.

there's a tower for every watcher,

you're not the only one that sees--

i mean right from where you see.

forget behavior modification reduced

to paranoia-- you're observationally

angulated to a star.

you & a priest may stroll around a dim

screen in your minds, while the priest

guesses who you are.

just as a guard may be picking at his

cuticles while the necks of prisoners

needlessly tingle.

what is it that feels watched--from

genitalia to 665 secrets cutting a key for

the next & last?

the Panopticon creates a surveillance

pressure cooker--which's rudimentary

compared to the supernatural.

Pan's pipes lift, as Syrinx passes off

a river.

When the wild is put out again, canting

a vaporous red--a metallic hitch thrusts

wet wood.

Rupturing stones & married dust shun

shoots, taken in by a full revolution.

Their beat back glow mimes blooms,

a faint vision for a clear one--Pan's

hoary notes.

paper mache wounds

drive into their

porcelain doll.

fetches of deepening

red--making Rose.

profuse.

applications of hands--

shattering.

right before bed.

this passed friday that was Good--

as observations of darkness covered

a chosen body that fell upon the time as it is.

i heard the woman next door to me through

paper-thin walls listen to the solemn

chants of mass.

offering up voices of sacrifice, G*d in the sound

of agony.

i used to hear her husband cough violently from

smoking complications, and this passed friday

that was Good--i heard her sense of isolation

compounded.

i sensed how heavy hung her loneliness, observing

the darkness covering that chosen body.

the crackle of blackbirds...

between raindrops,

endowing snow.

the final quarter of a drawn

curtain.

parousia pickles

dragons.

their lithness can

thrive in that

storage.

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.

more business woman than


poet, the whole corpus of said


poetry shows an assessor.


more project than passion.


clandestinely checking  in to see


if coexistence with your supposed


unconditional one may be profitable.


the real poet stands by their words


nomatter what.

at nearby train stations purple lights

were installed on platforms--which

further mystifies locality.

astronomical figures are a given, but are

grossly underutilized.

wait for it...wait for what?

every sound is the echo of another sound,

no sound is forgotten--neither is silence.

canines & felines hear each other's

hearing.

this sip of coffee is a brew for every

grain--the aftertaste of individual

conjurings, whose compaction is like

pastless deja vu.

or these hands that wear a cold draft to

the wrist, the rise & fall of phantom

gloves.

left palm indented by a spiral notebook,

right hand holding a: ProHealth pen with

two spotty contact numbers & an

address.

gratis pen omitting impertinent

information, while writing of it--sort of

like a loosely based fractal.

do these walls overthink me as I think

over them, while playing egg hunt with

the five senses?

an imaginary friend finds all five,

each with cracks that appear as if

painted.

these are the nights,

as if pointed to--to stand

out from the richest

obscurations.

where every square inch

is covered with the wings

of moths, beating and shedding

the patterns that drew them.

by and to flame, their exit points.

apathy is a rightfully

peculiar equanimity--

growing indifferent

to overexposure.

filming period pieces

of weather.

too still for any life.

you'd better be too

dead to play the part

enough to be overlooked.

peace must consider you.

as a serpent sleeps ahead of the

departed.

limp under flashes of yellow.

stretched to meet the ground it will

cover throughout its incarnation--

without moving.

its blood icily curled up into drifting

*****, trickled over by warm effluxes.

a stone in its mouth, a rose in its stomach.

peeled away.