closing in on the spot....
i find my eyes
wandering
off.
they purloin a glimpse
of something beautiful...
then collapse.
Like two voids,
trading colors
for India
Ink.

famine chose me to lie to myself. curved my tongue from my truth
and sang new gospels through my fear
that only the moon could howl
or a dog could hear.

not even a nightingale
could sing
without a sacrifice.
i fear.

i bled through my ' No '.

and Nowhere yes
was so.

too many bees were busy. the backyard howling with black and yellow now... the sun high in the memory of Blue.
the heat of a day, baking the laughter and fright as we fled.
oh, how the screened doors quickened -
as we hastily retired to our exhaustive
debriefing, like a gaggle of goose.
for if we were geese -
where would be the breaking of
the rule ?

As night folk,  i am not right. too deep-end, and unquantified.
the high-low blip on the surface of an incomplete thought.
i love to wade in the tendrils of nightfall... and spark.
but i can't breathe all the time, because some **** is real.
and some **** is your life.

In the awkward air adjacent to the quivering sterility
lay the corpse of our Summer... twitch whizzing about the underworld
and all the glories afforded the stupid
and profane.

In the marshlands, where we grew our few dark orchards
and prattled on about the ' state of Things '
but without the Capital ' T '.

how we wrangled Hope into a jar of honeyed feathers
and broke bread, over north winds....  
cackling our sorrows like a hot mess
over stoic boulders
and quaint
sunsets.

and said yes.

some of us boil.

we are not like water hovering over a flame.
more like a flame at the bottom
of a frigid chasm.

unfathomable.

a crust of bread resting in the rustic coma of the breakfast nook.
butter on a plate... chastening the sun with it's mule yellow-
and gravy on your toast because
breakfast.

the window beside -
framing elsewhere, condensing the whole milk
into a colorful speck.
as you wander off into the morning
before coffee... with a mouthful
of toast.

and a host of jewelry... made of sleepy.

without a doubt
we sprout wings in the still calm
and catch the draft in a sleeping cyclone -
ascend and descend alone.
always in the Circus
of our Misadventures.
always in the corner
of our Sun.

how brilliant we would be if the light were out.

he's at the museum. stark pageantry bathing in halcyon.
he spies a frame and dismembers the calligraphy
of color wheels and myocardial infarction.
he smiles at Renoir.

he can not advance. too many white walls
with square holes. better to ponder them
than hurry off...to contemplate the space
and the unspeakable sum
of the arts.

your melodies betray you as a virtuous enigma.
i swoon to your baritone authenticity.
we are well met, and the sky has shunned the thunderclap
to display the sun, when you are near me.

the rain is bald headed and mangled.
you can almost tease a feather from an iron snowflake
but your mondays have all the time in the world
to be mondays.

you chipped a nail on a crucifixion.
but keep your balloons in your symphony.
i see you walking with a cane in heaven
just for fun.

heaving stones at the sun
all the while quarantined from the average atom
of happiness... more of a swollen thing
in the hemisphere of dark whimsies.
a child of an unjust god.
sleeping on the window sill
with the silver moon blanket
of moonbeams.

tender mercies have no mockery
and i gather you have soul enough
to endure.

the stinging nettle dreams of buttercups and fireflies.
and ice is not a metaphor, but conjures fire
at the core of our blithering infernos.

nothing is more life.