as rain brusquely clears a
window's record, and a screen
grays the glinting heads of
drops.
as the bacon-brittle bars of a
fire escape press against the
dully scratched green of
distant trees.
melancholy skims the ears,
sews shut their fetal-shaped
holes.

A lizard flicks against the ground,

like: you saw right, I rock this clime.

A flat breakout pose to freeze his

break dance--scales popping like a

Queens fruit stand.

Scimming the brickwall of a Garden

Complex, whose plants were chosen

by a Board's retirees with hospice blues.

Hail-chaff sun drinking ***** with

desert abandon, lopsided kiddie pools

bungling shallows.

As the laying of blacktop gets behind the

sun.

Late autumn afternoon 2012,

shadowbirds on white gold--Mayan

rascality in the air.

A Polish starlet wearing a Twenties

cloche hat, detonated an all nighter at

our door.

Her fur coat & dress also shared cocktails

with Fitzgerald, as she shook a bouquet

of roses at blind gossip columns.

Our door opened to makeup's fidelity to

rawness, alcohol's turbulent fumage

here & there about her person.

Was made to understand that her lover

was inside, that beyond me was her

very reason.

The silk linings of bat wings spilled out

this address, what was stated to the

contrary was only absorbed by unfocused

determination.

The American dross of Polish

bereavement spoke in fits, hexed fluency.

An nonnegotiable wait volunteered her,

her lover was bound to come out, as

authorities were bound not to be called.

From the second floor window, all things

shiny converged on her with gruff

frequencies & thickening uniforms.

Police stood beside her & set in, as she

got into schoolgirl trouble.

By the time medics took over she was

submerging her private island.

There she was, being strapped to a

pristine white stretcher--her cloche hat

tipping itself.

Her doomed outfit secured like *** roast,

save for the bouquet of roses that hung

out & clotted from her right hand.

As the stretcher popped up it was like

her soul was going to leave her body,

rose petals struggle-strewn across it.

the stillest object or atmosphere may

appear to lack motion--but never

presence.

paradoxically, there's motion in the

greatest stillness--because it possesses

presence.

empty space has the most presence, it

needn't establish a dimensional

relationship to be so.

presence is therefore not dependent on

observability, neither is it independent of

it--it's simply present.

the eyes of a painting may follow you

across a room, just as eyes in-between

you & a painting may follow you across

a room.

even illusion has presence, as seeing was

believing.

remember--the dead outnumber the

living.

there really is no privacy--only the ego

may care, egolessness doesn't blush, yes

you're being watched.

the way that you'll witness a body (yours)

oversleep life--without judgment.

the bridge between the seer & the seen is

presence, which's to say seeing from &

back from to--simultaneously.

thus I present a bouquet of roses to

empty space.

diecast leaves sheer off

their windblown sounds,

from the concreted spans

of their cycle.

as trees roughen their

sketches for night-callers

come unexpectedly earlier

by the day.

the seductive tips of their knives

flirting with menace, who turn

on a dime to the puncture wounds

of stars.

a globular aftermath for the moon

to split her shell in.

well at the rumpus rolled
round, an eight ball in
an empty pocket, sunk as
what sought what lit its
bald *** for tat.
stalled in a shade's fine shave.
eclipsed by that slipped curve
comely as what pushed shove,
hope found its private animal.
tried its belly in a perfectly
fit laugh...smiley as jelly in
jabby color.
a placenta's snappy reel to
reel: dicey, crazy, dreamy.

oriental porcelain--

of Van Gogh's: "Blue Irises".

run on fields, overthrowing

horizonal curvatures.

When water nicks its flow, I untie a

storm & head into town.

A historical overview of aimlessness

grinds against me, as two gaurd dogs

makeout.

Good on the gleam that fact-checks

feet, never saw a pair of shoes that

didn't want off.

Or a tacky perfume that smells of

wrinkly freckles, hard-to-come-by-air

unable to figure out how to insert its

chagrin.

Sometimes it helps to read aloud what

the body writes, disjointed humming

works too (a runover accordian).

A fast-approaching mass whose

disintegrative reentries start to float

peaceably.

Trying to guess the shoe size of space,

gets harder between the legs.

A market pitch of spring with no target

audience, I suppose.

Over eight billion doings factor into this

doing, Disconnection Awareness Month's

moment.

I am saint: Roughly.

A non-excercise, like following your

pointer finger to the tip of your nose--

cross-eyed by its invasive warmth.

My ruling planet Venus supervenes, I

suggest she find a ruling planet.

Right now I **** an angel with kindness,

as she flashes her radiant ***--we both

see an opening.

Who brought what out in whom?

At any point I am fixed, at no point is she

fixed--yet.

She comes by proxy to intercept me.

Her symmetry's between worlds, even

though I run my hand between her

*******.

She rides her distance on my closeness,

we end up where we end up.

an exacted footprint

on an ocean bed--

the warbling whole of

a personalized fitting.

an eXacted  footprint...

tufting a passing cloud.

melding the storehouse

of a black & purple diamond.

spurring a certain wakeful kind

of salination in nostrils.

The dead of winter walks into the

northern Atlantic, down a sandy

staircase.

So its greatest depth can finally swallow.

It's when a certain procession of waves

come in with nightfall, melding like a

loss of consciousness.

The shore's triangulated sickness witness

to two fluidities, whose synchrony

nightfall denies as it happens.

Just as certain sleepers along the

northern Atlantic have this sensation

creep over them.

pituitary phenom, muppet with unshelled

eggs for eyes.

whose dilation's the yoke of a molding cellar

wall, that has never been looked on.

a dry grey mane that wigs his skull like a

cobwebbed broom in overcast.

his slanting squat protracts & threatens to

dislodge his elongated bones.

each howling the winds of his caution--

caved in his overeager mouth.

a knuckled-up grip obscures the torso

of his son.

which by proportion notes the size of his

hands, akin to manhandling a loaf of bread.

though bread plays its part in parable, as so

its body bleeds.

Saturn devouring his Son, his head & right

arm depict the clean cut of a single bite, or

a meticulous succession.

the upper body is a thick outline of blood that

refuses to run--as the left arm of Saturn's Son seems

to gag him in protest.

his buttocks stream down his dangling legs--a

cosmic voodoo doll with its pins popped out.

Suddenly there's the desire to feel

everything I was about to say--but didn't.

All the unnoticed word-inhales, to the

waved off no-nothings.

Not given vent, just reexperiencing

all that courseless inexpression.

What was discernment's wisdom

guarding against to build toward?

One's confronted with heavy empirical

alterations--had the needle met fabric.

What sensation would that unvoiced

crest produce?

Precarious as sharks pacing storm bands

over warm waters--the unsaid developes.

With that, I direct it back to thirty years

ago today--what would that interaction

feel like?

Based on the assumption that nothing

cataclysmic occurred thirty years ago

today--though certainly not in relativistic

terms on both days.

It's astonishing how pertinent

information can omit dates while

pointing at them.

Even if I were to ditto the date with

different years, their currency may as

well be in The Ferryman's pocket.

He's not even laconic on such musings,

though he does take a shine to them.

I should like to **** AI to such musings.

So a lifetime of stifled articulation would

burden the climate of this day thirty

years ago--now.

Would I be alive, live where I live, call

who I call--write what I write?

Say...no say?

I didn't.

die of those deaths,

hunt them down--

scar their spheres.

canvas their haunts,

while they too sleep.