It’s a perfectly dreamy day to disappear
The streets are quiet, and the sky’s cloudy
No one’s around, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty
There’s light in the air, just enough of it
Concrete ground scrapes the bareness of feets
A mirror pool reflects an image of self
At least what appears to be a self
Different but still very familiar
Backlit by the grey clouds
Pierced by this slender monolith
Broken by these glassy ripples
Dark silhouettes dance on black canvases
The dry wind mimics them but stumbles through hair
Who said anything about being outside?
The ceiling filters light through a window
Dim metallic light which hugs the body
Into a feeling of half-closed eyelids and irreality
There are human-sized holes in the walls next to the black paintings
leading into dark deep caverns
Where the air runs like stale sandpaper against the gums of my teeth
And the animal scampering echos off invisible walls
The blackness slurs its static noise
A cold command forces obedience
Look back at the holes.
Look at how they change every time eyes blink
Look through the shadows which curtains the door
Look and tell them what you see
L—

I was in a cozy café
The window a shield
From rain and wind
Then, something strange

A woman in a suit
Drenched, dancing
With a laughter
Louder than lightning

I watch, coffee forgotten
She notices, and waves
Before I realise,
I have stood before her

Raindrops, crystalline
On her long hair
The weighted wet suit
Hinders her agility not

She grabbed my hands
The cold howling winds
Suddenly turned melodic
Lightning now mere lighting

Her smile, her eyes
Mesmerizing, hypnotic
I suddenly remembered
How fun used to feel

Yet, I cannot recall
This soaked siren in suit
Nor do I understand
Why the street is sinking

Upon her sudden kiss
I awake to the storm
Outside my train window
Was that, a surreal omen?

Do these lovely grounds permit me
Of my present presence, like thistle
Be unwanted and undaunted

Taken greatly in arbored orchard
May my refuge grow demure
Taken often by lapping banks
May my breath grow slow and slight

By those tentacline roots
Those heightened and lengthy articles
May that shade and slanted sallow
Blanket lightly my discomfort

Ne’er is there such wondrous sedation
Then this lilting life, by waterside
And no bile ink nor vitriol
May ever dissipate this lovely truth

Today's sunlight is covered by cheerfulness
From now on,
The earth is purified
Today
The flowers have promised not to fall off
Universe is drifting into the unblemished delight of youth and childhood
The squirrels are getting excited
Everybody is cherishing the colour of festival right now
The fear of tigers has been vanished from the minds of deer
The sunny sky is smiling with joy
The atmosphere is serene and secure
Heaven has come to this planet
The sins have evaporated.

after an oil spill mowed the lawn
for eleven an hour,
tiny migrants crowded the greenhouse gate.
the bug ****** moonwater muddied
the steps of the tenderhearted
community (of seed undertakers),
and made its way by means of caked rubber
into the cytophotocycle,
where the moonwater volatilized.
liquid volery.
vivid luck.
awoken like post-dream nap perspirants -
oneiroceiving precipitate;
the greenhouse grew murals in condensation,
the accidents si quieros.
a misty opacity attrited
like deskinning a spider,
with a definitude of exo scaling tons;
memories shed,
shies misled.

        ⌂ the greenhouse stands where a glacier once
        slipped, clumsy as steadfast could be.
        foreign fruit fits inside it.
        it knows not what it grows.

        🌢 the moonwater was salt-lipped for a while.
        where it passed through, it was soiled.



you’d be surprised how many things hit glass.
the moonwater didn’t realize what volume
seizes space
until it heard its kind on the outside. from the inside.
Venus has a reassuring kiss when a drone is dampened.
there were three rows for puddling;
one for naps,
one for not naps,
and one for knotted gnats laying hot eggs
in lustrated bloom.
flume frustrated.
somewhere far up the chain, a worn-out manager
ordered inventory off-brand,
and enchanted a horticultural hobbyist.
the devil is ennui and god is curiosity.

        ⌂ there could be a greenhouse next door, but
        it would be an accident, a leaky shed
        with errant sprouts.
        as it would seem to my lustrous heart.
        lagging and callous.

       🌢 the moon was uninterrupted that night.
        mighty sky drifters never passed between them.
        like a parent with patience or a friend with faith.
        like a husk that stole your pose.



the maceration was mutual with leaky infusions
of purpose and imagination
materializing into groundskeepers
that tamed the pressure of an ever encroaching periphery.
one time the moonwater nearly fumed its way dry
after a political candidate entered the greenhouse
with scissors promising bonsai.
but pesticides pass by.
and pictures of fabric mean less than bird song
or beetle guides.
for the frame never mattered to the moonwater.
no more than a furnace in winter,
than a flower in summer.

        ⌂ when it comes time for the greenhouse to deracinate,
        to throw her vines like limbs over garden walls
        and access roads, eye to eye with cumulus
        monoliths; her moonwater sweat will slip
        through the glass glue and slide down to
        her fingers . . . to feel what she feels

        🌢 i love pooling here
        🌢 i love steaming and raining here
        🌢 i will love being the halo in your refraction

handfuls of hair,
toungues,
teeth.
the curving air;
alive
in rooms
with hanging doors.
we feast.

our rolling eyes,
shaking lips,
hips.
tremble
under fingertips,
taste the heat
and melt.

we press.
wasting no time
for breath.
it happens.
it happens.
it happens!

Stationary.

    On a wave   cascading
     through time
and space and,
     love..

Eyes Shut Wide
     A grasp as hands
     part..
Inhales as    lips
    press.

There was a sort of whizzer boy,
The tinker blinker clinker boy,
With gears and knobs and springs abound,
A head full of thoughts and gears that go round.

He liked to paint and make and build,
For every craft, yes, he was skilled.
“Working hard but with time to play?
Why, that’s my favorite kind of today!”

But what made him different, you see...
He was always quite metallic-y,
And when it was his time for bed,
He charged his battery, and turned off his head.