too far afield...

winter whose borderless

transfigurements hold

stiff successions of land.

rapidly aloft and kept in sight--

every streaking nook in light and

out of mind.

budding and sprouting with what

will come again.

You're not

strong enough

to wipe a Stoic's

face off.

so you can see

yourself.

stolid panels

record the tantamount

whisps of a paintbrush.

the nervous punctuality...

of a cherry blossom

reascending the stasis of

its petals.

in the throat of early March.

Know that it's
stop-n-go...
all the way Up.
God's epistemologically dead...
ontologically  alive--
or is it the other way around?
Philosophy in Greek means
to be a friend of wisdom...well...
friends backstab.


Konstantinos Mark

clothes start to feel like skin
on skin--the exclusivity of bodiless
wings, sickly sweet refreshers.
air's first cold stare at fire, the scent
of its rough *** carrying a harvest.
a charred basket left at an open field.
scared crows anatomizing he who
goes there--same as a stranger in a
fallout with light.
always last seen, & unrecognizable.
where trees follow him--with inward
resolve.

foggy wavelets of Bernini's

marble cloth, drape over an LED

street light's pyramidion.

whose diffuse base softens its

street level aftermath.

foreshortened--

charcoal stick tree limbs, drafted

to their particular & conclusive

outreaches.

protruding through artificial light--

as if by the overworked frictious

of fingertips.

a: cry-me-a-master Steinway was raised

up by a streetlight.

sharply concentrated as a protractor's

return starting point.

whose pressed encompassment shows

through, hours after lights out.

hotly bright on the Steinway's black hood

like a cow's patch.

as its shutaway keys rammed defiantly--

with reverberant bangs that bang

themselves.

aftermath's overintellectualization.

then someone that knew someone, that

knew Charlie Chaplin--skipped him into

frame.

where he stood his cane on the sidewalk

& pelted the Steinway with mothballs, for

good luck.

there it was, flatly suspended from the

streetlight--a musical ear's eclipse.

pantomimed sounds.

Struck at form you reign--
days orchestrated a destiny...
the image-less precognition
of light and dark.
A self-generated whole, an
energetic rogue...of what
shall have dominion.
All will remain passable,
imbibe what's to be expected
of momentum--the obscuring
verisimilitude has made the
mind's acquaintance.
Twilight Zones are as strangers
to the mind, filtered out with
unblinking exactitude--to regard
them is to engage the borderline
whence they came.
Days come whence they came--
yet, we must not think so.
Struck at form you reign--
over destiny...only when its
shadow be withdrawn to its
selfsame form.

it turns out the other point of our

triangle is worthy of more respect

than you.

don't dare misconstrue this reckoning

as a flattering plea.

walls rumble as they close in, don't worry--

nothingness will survive.

the uniqueness of your scent, rapidly

signaturing fear--with nails bitten off like

sunflower seeds.

as your latest stuffed animal summons the

courage to come to life--just so it can run away

from you.

flawlessly repeating what it was taught.

a comet goldfish

left to the orange

imagination of its own

measurement.

turning water into

wind--lithely segwaying

around a mountainess

jade Buddha.

stuffed with laughter.

a gypsy has the
horses of her
caravan
sit like
schoolchildren.
while she suckles
on a rabbit foot...
unpacified.
then uses it to
scratch an itch.
taking pleasure in
giving the moon
her evilest eye.

We take up such an insignificant amount

of space, we almost don't exist.

Always in some out of the way place--

out of the way because lives are

particular enough never to meet.

Even if they do, we are ****** rumors

sporadically confirmed.

Kept by alone time.

The earth is only as large as particular

lives, no more significant than that.

What is the Atlantic Ocean to you right

now, or your neighbor for that matter?

You can't find little old me, I can't find

little old you--Yet.

I submit that if one that insignificant can

delineate existence, than a person on the

earth--is not about a person on the earth.

As we feel our way thru the unreal, we

notice the symbols we deal in can't

cover their meaning.

The way a day's events come

back to you the way they Really occurred,

not the way they had.

Most believe it the other way around.

It's more faithful to its illusion after the

fact, which were "events" in infinite

space, like the summersaults of deer in

headlights--already struck.

Western frontiers

bite early, arisen

colors on the Northeast.

(film development).

a landscape drawn out

flawlessly.

as the Atlantic chants thru

the summit meeting of trees--

baring antlers.

whistling a clap after they're

blown thru.

Sunday ******* popped into

his head.

He had to write about a:

Sunday ******* & didn't know why.

While rain showed streets photos of

itself--he thought about a

Sunday *******.

It was already dark out when it popped

into his head, which made it more

interesting.

Then it came like it was always there,

it was Father's Day.

Already bored by the subconscious irony,

he pouted at the Sunday *******.

an elderly man in Prague threw out
his Sunday paper, in the same trashcan
he always does--for a sense of order.
a northern mockingbird still lies dead
on the steps leading to our basement
door.
the epilogue of two November nights
tried to convince the third not to show
up an hour early.
the I Am caught a red leaf while in full
stride, then let it go a few steps later.
pumpkins with carved faces are
disappearing--while uncarved pumpkins
may see another month.
the Atlantic now wears Long Island like
a sleep mask--as a Great White draws
elusive parallels under cold waves.
a broken plate was found to
symbolize the connective tissue of
character development, in a bargain-bin
novel.

super 8 film

of entwined

offerings left

running.

pre-opened...

though at rest.

more overarching

than what films

their inevitable

opening.

a tawny meat grinder pours

a lion away--serengeti stains.

a geographic mismatch thoroughly

named.

making the current burn of a sun

accountable--of forgettable reds.

the girth of abomination--made right

by incontinent law.

a fellowship of claws--subdividing

weight.

only to realize what it takes to weigh

anything.

granular stink--superlative scratches

fed to rifts of pixilation.

lost footage between padded paws--

periodically indifferent to flies.

as the skeletons of fish

blow like leaves in

a fish tank, with superlative

strokes of color.

you can see them becoming

like water.