in my corner of smoke, the world is a thing on stilts
mesmerized by medallions of lost faith
at every pavilion's edge, where the ‘morrow is ever waning
like a plum in an orchard of leaving things.
a swarm of beautiful agonies, sown into the crease
of our everlasting desires.
in my corner of smoke, all things are visible
but Mondays drag tar across your tongue
like a molten snail.
we sing where it burns, nevertheless.
we have so many stars
we forgot
our balloons.

toadstool scrimshaw
high ankled inlaws
harlequin anthems
and awkward Templars
acid battalions
of basic
disbelief.

on a sea of inconstant
allure.

for all of my bazookas, i can never find the sky.
i sleep on a bed of acronyms. Because. Everyone. Does.
so many afternoons spill into thimbles of love.
and i have all of my eyes
to reply.

sweet are the thorns of my sugar
and only god knows
why.

sleep is a ******. it recoils when the moon and the night conspire.
it shuns slumber like a timebomb on a porch.
sleep ticks like a phantom with Tourettes...

we are not familiar.

in the wee hours, I am disconnected
from trivia. attached to the hull of a great force
surging through the aqueous chasms
of my insomnia.
like a butterfly the size of a classical harp
clapping in the dark
Almighty,

I don’t
often surrender
but when I do, I win.
I give up and go
all in.
I take the risk -
out for a
stroll.
I linger where
I fall
in

The world is a rogue wave in an otherwise tranquil cacophony.
Like porridge in a squeaky door hinge too sleepy to be orange.
The jawbone of an *** at rest on a window sill. next to a Pi.
The world, a smoldering flume of genius, unbridled, by and by.
a continuous ravine of asymmetrical adoration.
as we inhabit the foreign,
native to Fate.

We sing the body eclectic in a percolating rue of an infinite gumbo.
Like Venice, with Florence in its teeth. our pompadours-
shameless for sport.
The heart of a battle trout in a river of Trojan lures are We!
dangling from a current as swift as any eventuality.
An upstream vagabond of illustrious toil in the wee hours. Common
as weevils in a Gin. sweetening the palate of an unctuous ablution.

sleeping through the good parts
our eyes on spikes
in the dark.

i keep losing things.
i keep finding out
things are gone.
i'm a perfect hole
in a pocket.
whatever that means
and double it.

in this case, an ermine fool
has too many hats, but alas -
too few heads.

the Jacomo laughs
out of turn.
and jokes lay spinning in amber -
ever devoted to the premise
of an Absolute Laughter…
As sonorous
As Entropy.

or a silent disaster

cloaked in the
strange robes
of a naked.
question.

I keep leaving
the thousands of miles
between us
for the outskirts of
close to you.
I sleep where the strange stars hum
awoke.

in a teacup
of the last
day… I hold
your hand
forever.


we never sleep
through the Life
we’re dying
for.


always aswoon.

and un-clever.

out of harm’s way, i have never been; for all ways are harmonized. I appear in the guise of an everlasting Denouement. but all the while seething with trumpets
of triumphant self-loathing and mood swings hitched
to a non-Euclidean fulcrum in the white noise
of a vibrating fog where your heart should be...
with all the corridors
of an infinite
hesitation.

with an Ampersand.