o, for expansive accuracy
a veritable diorama of penetrating ken--
but what do we have, but transparency
of truth and time, minor joy
temporary as sin?--

so be it then and closer, friend--
what mirrors the coming silence
must be quietly said--

what to fear but the nothingness
which rises to belittle self--
what to hate but that satisfaction
false as the greater world dispelled--

birdsong is a fire shearing diamond--
all is instrument and shell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i am insane--
the leaves ping on/off
to careen and siren and scrape
as they retaliate
their loss of form, which says nothing
of the night that will end
itself a type of rain
and the pain in my temple, a cloud
of lightning
rooting, with but a single flower--
petals that lure with perfume
that stains--
my tongue is thorn--
my fruit is fang.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the essence that builds the anger which kills
resides within my heart tonight--
air and terror.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the multiple agonies
of consciousness (if
that's not too great
a stretch) are thus
relieved: by love
and by disease--

the disease? death
of course and love
of course light come
as hunger that subtly
feeds and feeds (to
leave as blissful ex-

halation)-- a chaos
dark and serene

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ten o'clock people with four o'clock thoughts
and twelve o'clock fears
            mutely pass the three a.m.
            scintillations of daggers and razors
            of dew and ice that adroitly
            strike the ravenous heart in pinions
            of light


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The house is green, a minor tower
edging a field of bluebell and clay
with wood at its northwest corner--
I dream myself a fair and quiet boy
at work and staring from dark windows
upon a Spring with scientific heart--
This much tentative light tempting
this much seed to flower toward fruit
hour upon hour upon thought upon hour--
Cursory summum bonum any summation
as wit is the shorthand of wisdom
and wisdom shrift most post de facto--
The green is that of cemetery fern--
Hawks spiral, masters of themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A woman groans, far back in her throat, nearly whimper
wrought with sexuality. She is warm, lonely, naked
and in pain meted out spasmodically. She is the species
incarnate, twisted upon her blankets, with an illness
beyond cure. Why mention it-- Lust and love; admiration
and pity? Yes, of course-- And as a wish for better.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

250,000 trillion stars
within 1 billion ly--
O, universal infinitude--
I am angel of myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

names of flame whisper
ash itself a syllable
of cold

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Use your imagination-- I've used mine, and've imagined you
without imagination. The mind lies-- you know it's true,
as sense itself evolves upon contrivance. My heart composes--
matrix as tabula rasa specific; will as genius; time: sun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the fields shoulder
heavens of cloud
with turning backs--

raccoon and rabbit
plain as darkness
scream of death--

good men hurry
as old hungers sum
the chill of love--

what fair contest
do you contest?
the soul as breath--

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sorrow-- each bead
a beggar's cup
of light-- withheld.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the thing
itself sings
itself as echo

the thing itself
sings itself
as it resonates

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am mindless as I cum--
a supernova, headlight-sized--
a moth rising, wings aflame--
the body blinded by white noise--
soul the arch of abdomen--
the tremolo of muscle--
eternity forever ocean--
a glaze of eyes forever sea--
I am mindful as I cool--
a peregrine, my hunter's shell--
night flowers, my perfume--
and here I rage in calm--
the churn of beauty--
is not truth, but love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We've talked of beauty before, you and I--
You sense it like one does a storm yet beyond treeline--
It's snow and ozone; woodsmoke and car exhaust--
More a filling of shadow than a diminishing of light--
Beauty, you say, is a tempest as eager as it is impetuous--
A wind that stirs in steady buffet--
Lightning that whips and does not strike--

Fine, my love; fine--
It is also a word beyond my ken, my mind yet rises to claim--
Here I am, a hawk disowned from the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Need help? Help yourself.
No assembly required. Work alone.
Love is a body politic. Vote continuously.
The greatest gift is its own receipt.
Knowledge is interest on loan.
Want more? Then do more, motherfucker--
whether supernova or blackhole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Always speak your mind; never say a thing.
Shoot first; ask questions when out of ammunition.
Red sky at night means you're near a sizable city.
Don't count your chickens before they hatch; count your eggs.
Those who fail history might be good at math.
If asked an unanswerable question, give and unquestionable reply.
When in doubt, ask for directions to Rome.
The road less traveled is often a dead end.
A stitch in time saves none.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

great houses burn with strange fires--
rooms flicker and fade; ceilings throb
hammered by sky; rusted nails ache
with a cold horrored inability to rise--

the air within drums the din of oceans--
dronings layered to a siren knell--
each sense is touch and every ignorance
abstraction poisonous by weight--

eat your dinner and die your death--
the plate is clean when no longer a plate--
the cup a river and the cup a rain--

your hair screams entangled in horizon--
your breath smolders with the moon--
the dead centers of eyes abyss with life--

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It should be duly noted
that the sun has yet to rise.
Show me Orion during the day.
Let it also be stated
the field behind this house has yellowed
but for the famished southeast corner
which is forever in shade.
Gift me the itch of antlers that I
might break the bark of young poplar.
As a direct aside
the last of the great moths has died.
Lord, grant me ease
in starvation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bedroom off the kitchen,
facing the library
and separated by a curtain--
To live as a monk is to become a monk
mellowing perhaps to vinegar--
What need of stairs have the aged?
Failure and light warms
these still rooms--
My dust an egg of name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two trees-- the smaller
with larger, sweet-tarter fruit--
rabbits fat on both.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You were born mindless. Dispute it if you'd like.
The post traumatic stress of being overtakes you still,
tho you've learned to cope, I'm sure--
A cigarette here; books like a soft drug there;
a raising of volume if and when the music suits--
Gathered assemblies of drownings you can breathe thru
that you may be reborn to the world in quietude
to better counter the machinery of disgust and hate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The chaos of cloud is too bright to look at without wincing.
Assume the sun is eight minutes away and as free as any automaton.
The grass is Easter plastic couching the serialised eggs of houses.
A woman curses without swearing. A silhouette ascends to nothing.
A few dragon-scale leaves hinge clockwise and then counter.
Gojira's blackness stretches in waking dream. I rasp. I writhe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don't forget to steal the Warhol fridge magnet of butterflies--
There may not be any Warhols
                               butterflies
                               magnets
                               refrigerators where you're going.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

waterhorses

immaculate interior housepaint of choice
neighborhood children aghast
aghast aghast at the second story nude
there are apples on the help yourself

the threads limned in gold that lift

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4 dry toasts, perfectly burned
2 green apples, too sweet
1 pot coffee, weak