a butterfly was asking for pennies on a bookshelf
as dusty as a mummy.  i was absentmindedly
threading tea leaves
with sharp snowflakes and
milkweed silk.  freehand…
with a Needle made
of Eyes.

Drums are drums. beats me…. but they over-pray for rain. nuff said.
they sing in the choir of my invisible. but not so much
where i contain my rhythm where my loving heart is beating music to death.
Drums keep coming like Always.
why do I conquer sleep with poetry? how does it end?
it never does what you want
but You want IT to do.
you want it to slather the skin of the future
to get past the gathering of lonesome
and no other thing can rimshot
your quiet.

I abort the assumption that my life is a narrow frame
and the idea of a frame.
I collude with my better Angels
and drink with the devils that remain nameless.
these days i embark on crude soil
and wishful think the rest of my redemption
like a gyroscope in a soap bubble
toying with the notion
of True North.

I exude the Arabella of my Comedy.
and never am I in Love with the viscous deluge
of my impending calamity. I eat the root of the rain.
but I upheave.
I challenge the voice in the noise. singing backward
from a hollow.
there are more things in my revery
than my sorrow.

sleep is a slow thief with sticky embers.
drooling languid fire where the wick
is most likely limbic nerve.
i prevent myself from a Hell with my name
because your name fits
and that’s my
world.

In the moment everything is still
like a humming hornet in a begonia of irascible
misfortune, made glorious summer.
all the worlds engaged in fluorescent play.
the opal of all agonies
displaced by all the ghouls
of rabid faith.
our epiphanies are random
but we define the sojourn of-
our solitary Togetherness.
as our every kingdom is an abandoned kiss
where the stars; all falling-
are falling for you.
and all the worlds, some sort-
of hemisphere
of destinations
on all
sides.

Canto I


The Dream is The Dreamer. I Intuit by strife and yards of Sleep.
I know the very secrets that I keep… and keep them coming, from underneath.
I swerve where the world is flat and the stars, less cheap.
All are Suns to plunder for the Heavens that are jealous of the Hells we seek.
Without our barbs, we are wires that electrons elect to flee.
So the light we gather is nothing more than the lies we speak.
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow… is only half as deep.
I tread where the Angels have false hopes
and conquer everything.


Canto II


Somewhere in my Soul is the last gasp I’ve been keeping
for the curtain fall of a dull day, perched on a steeple wilting.
My Church, Flesh, and Blood like any book you’re reading.
I assemble my disassembly with all the fire in my teeth careening.
Top bad for the Lost Ones. The way they trouble the void with wishing.
I summon the marvelous crux of a Fiction I am sincerely believing.
And make it so.


So beautiful… I’m still Alive.

Sleep has been a sluggish pixie and the moon a constant Patheon
Of Twilight Sirens. I am lulled into molasses eyes and am never sane.
Only a  ghost in my sheleton. A malingering cocoon
in the shape of a perpetual Snow White Crane.
I garden the grove of Midnights inner thy
and valiantly persist. I lay siege where I lay down my arms to suffer peace - as merely a mirage of luminous Tchotchkes and stolen kisses from Abyssal Lips.

Under wrong stars, I roam the Halls of UnTime. I go on my way where looming is sprinting into stagnations embrace
with all the vigor of Hermes. Floating in the hall is like surfing a dark gods wave. An undulating fog
of prodigious oblique.  in haste.
I am a Time Machine that writes poetry
and may never finish my Tea.
Earl Grey.

With the Soul of a
Frozen Agog.

If Wednesday had a boyfriend they would rendezvous on Monday.
They would eat fried rice and stroll in the rain. Without umbrellas.
Monday would be horrified. But Simply Horrified.
Tuesday spreads a rumor and I still can’t find my cellphone.

In a sea of screens,
there is only one blindness
to see with.
so cherry blossoms
are no longer meaningless -
On Wednesday or until
they Break-Up.

and Friday gets all that Rebound Action.

you can keep going indefinitely…
but you will stop.
any whiff of scandal is romantic.
and every liberty, slavery
to unclean thought.
your clubbed foot is your
half-sister… but your genius
is married to mania.
all boy with too many parabolas
to be a man of any
treacle heart.
your Annabella wants money
and you can’t live
without it.
but you can’t live
enough.

and Doubt
doubts
It,

i completely believe that i believe
in something.
but i go to great lengths
to be Nothing.
i step outside
where our intimate things
have private thoughts.
i eavesdrop on silence
to know what you’re thinking.

so rub my shoulders
before you destroy me.

let me linger in your aspect.
like a moth allergic to pain.
[ but can’t get enough ]

Let me down like
You mean It.

Let me go like
You hate me..

Be more ghost
Than an always ‘ Maybe ‘.

Let me down where
It counts for Nothing

with all the “ Goodbyes “
In the palm
of your
hand,

over my mouth.

while paving over the archipelagos of my daily dread
i send a voice from my quiet desperation
to the summit of a Cliffhanger  
by proxy.
i phone-in my last nerve.
i know perfectly well that tomorrow will come
with all the profound garments
befitting a Fool.
I will love like I knew I always would.
but something will go wrong…
because Reasons.

And something will go right...
because it’s Crazy.

II


Nowadays i keep to sleeping on the floor of a private hell -
the envy of every cave I’d lost my way in.
I endure the radio of your ravenous flaws and curtail -
the ferocity of your mild amusements…
by gathering a soul glut of gargantuan misery.
savoring the private desolation
of my sincerity. with a feather in my sap.
all the while
against the spectacle of our solemn hootenannies.
harboring hangnails in barrels of confiscated rain….
For Nowadays my purpose is a ruin
mending a landscape
with all my
Vanishing.

and a song at the end of a rope.