a droopy-eyed turtle

dove hangs from a

golden thread by its feet

like a  bat.

cooing to the draftiness

that knocks at the corners

of a room.

inflating the notes of its

tangential silences to cartoonish

size.

a redundant gradient helped to

bursting, by the freshest recruits

of an open crown.

A red rosegarden submerged by a
flash flood...a break in clouds.
The sun plays across the red
rosegarden, an aqua posterity...
as if luminescent blinds open a
window to a deeper beauty.
The preemptive strike of being
pools their red...swayed in a
drowned breeze--their lucid
signatures gladly sign them away.

you're a brilliant lover--below pinned down at the brink, above pinned up at
the brink.
circles to the contrary--more perfect than
circles, broken out of with an ache.
so susceptible to more reciprocation...
curled talons holding it.
you have no recollection how you got up there, the sky is synonymous with you--
not the other way around.
it's enclosed to the contrary.
your freedom retention pulled completely thru air--feathers band to your flesh, wings band to your will.
it never occurred to you as an active force--which's why it belongs to you.
you're already where you appear to be
going, one sees--but one cannot see you there.
it feels too **** good, only you can hold
it.
you're probably waiting till your eyes close to let it out.

As certain as red to rotten

tomatoes, these flicks from

The Flux...dream up, down,

and side of ways everfor.

Whose etheric budget's

round about: earth, that's

              but a...)

camera's Pandora's Box

of cameras.

Indivisible, invisible to visible

images...gaga sagas.

there's a hall of mirrors,

that shard configurations of:

Picasso's: '''Mademoiselle".

unstruck poses, pelted by

an apple seed--banging

against glass.

until reframed...unofficially.

a piece may be asymmetrical,

but if it fits--(which it does) it

achieves a greater symmetry.

having connected to what also

appeared disparate.

a puzzle can be begun anywhere,

but end with a specific piece by

force of unitative effect.

as displayed by the floor, or table

it's completed on--contained by a room.

by a world.

you see--that is why the mind

is terrified of the heart, because

it refuses abstraction.

flame...

pituitary almond,

smokeless lisp

of silence,

kept.

up and out of your

own, articulated

breath.

breathlessly gone--

melting canonizations.

gaunt pools of suns.

relit.

The lingering concern

of perfume's inner distance.

The clapper of a black rose--

a deepsea downpour.

A submission graceful

enough, as not to have been.

Is when her scent's allayed,

rends those.

toccata of wind driven

snowflakes--landing within

stained glass windows.

as in between.

allowing for the oblique

radiality of all stained glass...

that repatterns its

worship.

a serpent with a head where a tail should

be--& a head where a head should be.

strikes at G*d's will, at their own will.

as if paradise never knew what hit it,

its vicious turn of color.

color that gave it away--to be

captured & sold to a reptile

enthusiast for an attractive sum.

then two frozen rats went to a

terrarium's white light again.

lowered by their proud owner,

whose hands were prey of prey.

raptly puppeting an unconscious

symbolism, that saw them eat as a

family & die shortly after.

imagining it was the other's head,

that impingement on will--

(it was really rat poison).

now nothing but black sand's

sparkling cloak boiled down to

a questionably human skull, & a

large piece of driftwood with two

heads blocking both ends.

with a slothfulness that begins to stink.

whereupon he incisively

quoted: "Hypocrite lecteur,

-mon semblabe, -mon frere!"

Thy will be done, oddly enough.

yes--that unconditional love hubbub

made of the fallen face of your poetry.

its guarded theatrical departures, when

was mustered a deep, deep reading.

such timely bashfulness come to unspread.

such sacrifice at the behest of your artificer's

eminent domain.

your poetry itself has become repurposed property,

silly...

Earthier tones daub him/her...stuck upon their backs, arms overhanging a plinth.
On opposing ends, as the gnarled nubs of a broken olive branch--
forsworn to polarity, they extend a foot upon each other's fig leaf.
Mid the dead of adroit forestry, the more they think into silence a meandering blood reads them.
Naked not because they've forgotten clothes to two as one...just laying there to recall something--the bed's become a plinth, art implores make of, break of.
They just lay there, as if violently spit from the egg-shell
white of dashed ******, blank love letter.
Cigarettes rise...freeze for a bit, then rest at their sides--smoke cut up with endemic tension.
They could say something to get out of this...but they don't.

to say to oneself, i've seen that movie--

know it by heart secretly.

as if everything has been taken away from it, you turn away.

that which has somehow sworn art by the

book of your life, cast out the frame of a window.

that silver conclave of a screen breathing motion.

subjugated by the recapitulation of memory,

always the richer for impressions.

thanked with the shellshocked brutishness

of a beast, scouring for a spot to eat and

be eaten away alone.

overlays of attention--revisitations if you will,

or will not.

with nothing left to confess but wanting nothing

from possessable experience.

across the street they have

removed all the rims from the

fiberglass backboards to dissuade

basketball.

the court looks like a minimalist

exhibit, a perfectly ordered space

of rubber band tension.

across the street to the left, the church

doors are plastered with Covid 19 literature.

there's a makeshift crucifix of branches

fixed to the railing on the frontsteps, swaddled

in a purple robe, and spindly greenery.

there's an inebriated man beating the tree in front

of the church screaming: I'll ******* **** you!!!

he's beating the tree with such force a smokey dust

flies off the large granite stone, every pound laced

by hateful invective spreads with theatrical clarity.

not long after a woman knelt on the steps and prayed.

it was Sunday, today is Monday--almost precedent

setting at the mere mention.