Daybreak
The Sonics of Shakespeare
I Burned My Oil Before Midnight
tracks undeniable in tents
we caved our way
to unloaded prehistoric
promises I made
handfuls of romantic
golden lies lectured
in hypnotic magic messages
of breakfasts served
give me now and talk
about tomorrow tomorrow
put away those breadcrumbs
and labyrinth strings
laired up in neanderthal trappings
a fay wray playmate
that right now I want
and later may not
I have Antlers
I have antlers
That grow from the pain
That I harbor, and the fear
I labor to repeat.
Emotions calcify
On limestone pastiche
That is a stalagmite birthright,
And growing brain-freeze.
Then the fighting—
I realize why I have antlers.
I have evolved to defend
To the end of this race.
I have scars
And bare flesh from wars
That are attacks
From other racks much bigger—
Bigger means bitter,
And my wounds soothe them
Like music and the savage beast—
A release and horn sharpening.
Then the predator—
I flee with the others hunted.
I am the wild that they wild for,
And my kind desert me.
I am tracked
By trophy hunters
Looking for the glory that I hold,
And the gold that they covet.
They choose to take my hooves
As proof that they are wise
And great, that no one will find
Among their kind a better specimen.
Travelers
the elements
so smooth
so thoughtful
lullaby sea
air
and land
without
schedules
or reactions
bigger than
rocketing around
the sun
kept from
space sickness
by transom
grandness is
universal
grandness is
universe
it’s all night we really
travel
when the sky blinks
Yes it is Ynez
The bleach of wicked tears
stings the lips of lovers
one to the other.
Hearts bob anchored, alone
markers for departing ships.
One a new life
and one a new name.
Slipped past and under
the falling curtain of the day
Comet Carpooling
Constance
basked expiration in comforting luminous flux
morituri te salutant
Bland Man
(this goes without saying)
Mendelssohn flashback
preamble dimmer switch
wafting windrow
strings
hours woods
roll up the swather
this is the end of Genesis
where petals
chariot vested
Greek Gods in chlorophyll
descending paths in history to eclipse
wonders of the whips
in time
abandoned great walls, feats of stone
looming towers
languages
disconnected
discovered lost desired
reconnected
inherited
transitory gold between green and brown
bronze Amish fashion
fascinating
heavy
blue stitch velour
Coco couture
on bleached wicked tears
stung lips of lovers
one to the other,
symbiotic recycled
chaff chafed sway
as a name slipped past (and under)
the falling curtain of the day
* * * * *
analyzed, devised strictly
hubris and haughty, the head
has left the body
too desperate to see
the coming freeze
an end to balmy lotions and cheated days
she sleeps cool
to the touch
in xanthophylls
(waiting for a kiss)
atoning for nothing
head lights
power seats and steroid grocery stores
today, they’ll be in paradise
* * * * *
one shiny dry tear
pregnant
sickly green
wormy with holes
box seat anthocyan drama
(selfish) planet train
wreck
tragedy is man’s doing
(and undoing)
what would an earthquake be?
a scythe is named among Virgos to go even
unto death
that which makes the swing
knows the moon
presiding a flame
on redoubts where men doubtless writhe
glorious ribbons, patches,
pins
genuflect death
calling ghostly families
and swallowing for home
transfixed view of heaven
lit up astro-smiles
in a trail of tiles and solid fuel
semi-private room
divider set sheers
and lots drawn
late between shifts
past visiting hours
tanning bed
timer luminous flux
* * * * *
there are too many trees on TV
and working honey bees to break the spell
of cataracts
and a lover’s smell
a wedding dress by Nike
swans and ice cream cones
standing
brain-frozen and sticky-handed
in the grimy air that is embarrassment
and Lohengren
glow sticks bounce in the night
woven by ecstatic breath
dilated majorette
black lit techno band
spun spectral planchette language
permanent protection tan
flax scent strong Wicca
orange chill Sleepy Hollow dinner parties
and the chase of the gilded nye
* * * * *
the purged orchard falls
vines stare
vacant
the roots withdraw the battlefield
saw across the wall
in cyber malls
where the last child played under street lights
is dead to the .wav
of SimCity
Instant Messenger eulogy—
ersatzman sez:
😦
and then u and then they
and then he goes
and then they and then he
and then she and then im
and then she and then he
and then i go and then she
goes and they all
and he goes and u go and im all
was sed wat sed i sed
wat sed i herd wat sed
u herd wat sed
he sed she sed they sed
i sed wat they sed :-)lol
we will be talking of this meme
this evolution in carotene air polluted fashion blather
narrow skies
(carrier) pigeons, did Carthage fly?
gravid season pain Apgar shaman waits
for the coroner of civilization
to procreate
grist for the mill
low rated
telethons in mythologies
nearshore carapaces
boarding selective societies
exacting a garish charge to see the stars
and the moon will be ten dollars (with photo ID)
she is pale, bland, and sad
sees the grindstone sweep
glial cell dust on mistral winds
and apathy will dismiss it all
like the grasshopper did
ignoring his haul
instead playing all summer
and through the fall
where his dignity slipped
and he ate up the ants that winter
for dinner
Diaspora
inside green, slanted, fold
the brightness slivered
dimension-able bottomless tower
bold candles of life swim
waterless buoyed by pre-life
half-sphere, post-past
a muted singer, undeveloped
shuffle planned…
as it goes, or beforehand?
a secret unknown, how?
a mark invisible, why?
a space existing soon, when?
the analog of candlelight
Fence Posts
it won’t take much
for the fence posts
to fall
and the rails
to become
no more than
speed bumps
beneath the longhorn
and raging hooves
yet she stands
as ever
without
a second thought
and the weather
doesn’t notice
the frailty
in its path
In One Night
In one night,
One singular aberration
Decides my whole life and the dressing of it.
In one night,
One solitary rumination
Wakes me to incarnation that is tomorrow—
Of whom it will be,
How it will be,
And why it will be.
In one night,
I stake my life on a vision—
An eternity that is at hand.
In one night,
All I have is now,
And the precognition of it.
In one night,
I die a thousand and one
Times in pitch black sweat.
In one night,
I dream of mornings to come—
Of light and love.
In one night,
I am free of all calamity,
New me out of the old,
Fortune already told,
A grave not yet cold—
In one night.
Rhythm
Rhythm, a sequence in time repeated, featured in dance: an early moving picture demonstrates the waltz. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
In hell, the days are different—
you have to wash cars
or shave shirts, etc.
The rhythm in crime waves
expels
a desiccant
a cheat
to thrill
and if one kills one,
who goes there?
And if one
just now fucks up
and dies
does mercy hide it?
Sex is rhythm too, so is
making love
and masturbation—
the pacification of
to and fro
of up
and down
and in and out.
My routine is rhythm and I
know me, and when it
stops, I stop too.
Hell has
no rhythm, you have to smoke
stars, or eat ribbon, etc.
The dog resting barrel-rolled
on the cool
covered
concrete
chest rises and
falls
a snort
and a little heart
beats.
A pour without
spilling
a slow dance
reciting the Pledge—
all rhythms.
The days are
different in hell,
the moon can’t clock them, what is
probably
missed most.
Revisions
Falls of flower vines veil
The ceiling unobserved
Buried in their growth—
Call these the first revision
Elysian lath walls
The cool concrete floor
A square space softened LC4—
Composed revision two
Her figure blurs the white wash
Whose shadow looks back
For the moment to reveal
The convergence of patterns
She waits sacrificial for the flash
Or else temptation wrapt
Corporeal approach
The steel worn necklace warmed
Her foot braces the corner
Plain moulding divides her
She uses memory to loose
Her elevated legs
And the balanced leather glove
That is revision three
Building Season
I saw a place that lived and died—
Where crows flew in the same constellation
As years before, and mothers
Collected mechanical memories
Fastened to rings and scarves,
While wives read letters and cursed their Gods.
Daughters and sons fixed buttons to holes,
And dogs reminisced on obedient scents—
Searching a final command
Amongst scattered stone cold masters.
Projected in my mind, the tactile
Rock and sweat, the muddy earth,
Mopped grass tufts and raked coal scuppers
Leaning two sides instead of four,
And a shaken tower facade
Shaping the broken landscape.
The tracks ended abruptly,
They fell in a swirl of weapons and fists,
Of boots and metal and markers.
Steamy rusted blood had waft its last
Across soggy open pitch
Where cemeteries claimed their place
Rising from the mire, plotted
Upon the wake of will and weapon.
Last April they washed them clean,
Hauling away men’s stones.
I watched the signs of fortification
Stir across the space with attrition,
Precision and blind religious faith—
Ten more feet by November
And every year is antebellum,
This place filled with holes
And roads piled high with bones
And ancient standards desecrated—
Time does not heal these.
I saw the murder flying through the pasty sky,
Felt the icy clay in my fists go numb,
And cold gauzy darkness overcome.
On my fixed horizon loomed Alcazar,
Built by Tantilian soldiers.
Three quarters is not enough
To save men’s souls,
Yet two more seasons at least were needed
To groom the boys as men.
Hawaiian Sex God
Angular temperature
rigged into a point in time,
I see you but you
can’t see me. I have
opened a thermometer
and climbed into
the mercury. “I
climb in.” That should
tell you that it
was my dream, because
there is no future definition
of “climb” that is “in,”
and the mercury ate
me like mirrored lava.
I call this dream up
so I can watch the
Mungo family from Decatur
thrill themselves
with their own dreams
of an erotic razorback
gang-bang.
Large Master
Large master
over the wedding, over the dances
presses me to do the right thing.
Which I thought was dancing
and craving the adoration of
the paparazzi.
No.
The Large master does not think so.
He wants my dancing to stop
right now.
So I slow down to just a move
or two.
He glares and I stop.
I’m not even really that good.
Why does he need to stop me?
He’s the Large master, not religion.
What does he care?
My moves must be getting good.
Fixed Categories
Packed for courses of aggravation and joy, watching the light’s command a go-cup band waltz
down cobbled gutter trims and walks. Viridian deco-glam adventure, fluttered chests all into
the heart of genius. A mass of movement like turnstile drain water, a postcard carrot, and life
savings from bed to bath to breakfast to camera to car to park.
Pictured rush of regret, the moment not lived but captured like birdwings high on acetate.
Elixir streams meaning as a separate thing, entwined, threaded, codified; reached out into
the underpinning, reconstituted, humidified, stretched. Dangled strands stripped and
lifted thumbprints along the edges with no end, magnificent pumpkin skin and tomato red,
so long as the machine can bend.
Heavy scented pulled greedy, masked waxed sorted and sold, the isle-way of captivation with
gangly appendage gossip eye last-last mile withers then rallies. Smell American breeze and
foaming agent floated six feet up, serpented determined lantern genie turning, communing as
one third of the Trinity, turning to taste backwardly from nose to mouth; a swallowed breath,
a filtered smile.
Chasing clumsy leaves with eyes, idol worship wishbone service a cart, a red vine, a metallic
pair of understandings, pleadings and beggings; a handout, a ride, anything—“just give me
your ears!” Backward walking, looking, blocking; too much is going on: the mountain,
the stream, the river, the caves, the witchcraft repeated. Don’t go solo for there is much to be
frantic for. Barely walking, reflections tying up the unwanted; let’s go.
So the pull and stretch continues forever; and folding too. A motor hum cannot be heard,
it is seen and therefore it is heard. It has been heard before, years ago, going just as slow
and monotonous. The racked sinewy syrup will never be the same again; the lust swells, saliva
pours like squeezed lemon juice, knowing nothing—no answer. There is no incense lit amongst
the mob, only joy like the lottery. Do not stop. Slow, but move onto still other treasures
and pleasures of the senses. Do not be alarmed walking in a crowd of strangers when every vessel
is an alien; not one familiar go-between, not one.
Pavement too, domineers; unrepentant, over again if he wills, “come with me up this hill!”
Then the birds like robots appear, not because they have arrived, but because they are seen
and heard. The verdigris trees they sing, sing, sing. Too spirited bebop wagon dragging
cowslips pitooty, laugh, laugh, laugh; my popcorn birdsong into other-worldly chorus like an
unchained gang. The overture quells them—where has the sweet seaside aroma gone? It has
de-threaded the skull and returns to the sky, along with sunshine, books and sounds.
The door closed unnoticed (it does this every 13 minutes every day, every year). Not being
enigmatic (the door), but the use of it over and over, and still without proper confections.
Is there any hope in spinning static? Better dreams were dreamt for this sweet sand. A cauldron
of dancing webs, and mystic wand hovered romances. Do not stop; despair, for there are
many pagans tithing for a taste of this algodon magic.
Half of the obsession is on the ground, stuck and fluttering like a wounded moth, wondering
where has the light gone. Concocted rush is more reflexive, it is unkind and untamed
as domesticated fealty at the trough nosing through a fare of ash can delights fueling that wafty
park air with its permanent sticky overuse. Overuse as in “never closed” like a theater’s sticky
floor; vaporized, imbedded in my clothes.
Stolen by fantasy, swallowed up in triglyceride heaven, wrist band moniker dismantled walls
not quite a nightmare, though the price kills me. Consider pyro stars and balloon planets
albatrossing across the walk and glow worm skies. Once you take it, where do you go with it?
What rainbow pot do you choose? Step forward in queue in a crushy atmosphere at nine.
The cool air can be seen just ahead; not really seen, but the reaction of those heading in can be
seen reaching noses toward the vents grinning and everyone goes quiet.
Humanity’s sea has organized a rip tide taking the light ones away across the terrace directly
toward oncoming experienced flocks of cigarette holders, snow cones, tarts, fanny packs,
lamp shades, tears, mustard stains, Altoids and liquor. Determined Coriolis of worn out well
wishers fainting on the tarmac, sending distress signals up skirts and into halls, fracturing
sound already in there.
Ringing leap from the beaten drum, hula hoop bubbles floating relentless through every
diaphragm, stopping; some make way. A savage sound excites the soul. Every island
abandons reverie to behold the intrusion like sky writing, “Surrender!” Every conscious being
sips the same cup, in the same boat, same cooked stew. Everyone listens, sameness,
no translation necessary. the edges of reality vanish with every wave, congregational
tunnel vision ears, augen, heart, clasped hands dissolve from grips; fatigue lifts
and a dazzle begins.
Euphoria blows a kiss, a favorite trade wind, a whisper of a mother to hear in the heart
the wonderful hug of breasts and shoulder rests. Harmony of smell, sound and memory-
played phosphenes and a smile. On marches a dale and floats, a mushroom at sea,
a banshee on rails; a symphony. Lively; speed of a funeral, drawn by imaginary majorettes
proposing to every face.
Behold the beaded windmill with silken paddles; Icarus dirigibles front the spectacle bouncing
and bounding, a unified gasp, so much so to slow. The tribe goes triumphant, a picket
of children holding hands sideways crossing.
Louder still the colors, the sounds, a thousand and one conversations in red, blue and yellow
smoke topped out and transfixed. There’s more— steam shovel arms streaming powerful
totem women flapping in Cheshire doubloons— a movable feast.
From hollow cloistered sound coaxed to toast the town; at first distant, directionless, then
mighty and heavenly as an opus. As each one drops, a new leaf grows.
An invisible dome of treasured sound awakens the mad creation; a wonderland and beyond.
The eye of the spectacle is nigh.
Red carpet tongue unfurled, studded, a crossing grate Eiger, vaunted spire; orgy.
Electoral feasts aqueous transmission impaled in glory, conductor of them all.
A cello roars a rubby moan up, then down, then back again.
Then a rowdy violin gives chase through slalom course.
The tail floats through on kite, rippled and graspless;
a signal for the mind to go home, a new moment alone;
first in xeriscapes wide of lost lesbian shores,
onanistic, vanished verse.
Then, out of sight.
Missing
a thief in the day
I know tho that was
after the fact like
empty milk in 2
% gravity
I look into thin
spaces searching for
some weight somewhere, a
little less flimflam
and moving curtains
and missing glasses
I now know the front
door is a little
more civilized I
catch the air in each
ear finding my own
density, shoving
the ocean back in
to the conch dirty
red fingerprints are
exactly what we’re
after next to sex
and weed, like the pet
turtle’s scuta marks
the spot under teal
palm tree Lego land
umbrella, light low-
fat carton gripped in
my hand printed the
portrait of this world
The Walt Whitman Bowling Haikus
Planks pitter patter
dance the Dervish pine runway
balls and holes as one
~~~~~~
Sup with me leaguers!
imbibe thy cold-sprung barley
sort us from the weak!
~~~~~~
Oh my filthy holes!
take thee flaming balls to task
grip thy trophy fast!
~~~~~~
Sing, Oh alley, sing!
let our legacy live on
each ball turned to blue
~~~~~~
Thy supported wrist
snow powdered gloved hand and ball
rearrange thy pins
~~~~~~
Kegler, hear the din!
as a bull we charge young lanes
full alley we rent
~~~~~~
America bowls!
today I return used balls
I give my shoes back
~~~~~~
Cold domestic beer
let today be paradise
summer rates are here!
~~~~~~
Semi-pro bowler!
let your handicap a’ shine!
be forever loud!
Nesting Dolls
Faux cloisonné blushed enameled
blues and pinks stands a bunny dew.
And in that bunny dew
is a pied hide ibex of
dappled thunder grey and onyx
set with wide flat teeth in an
eggy oval.
And in that dappled ibex
sits a green thistle-perched frog
with gold scuba finned toes
even more webbed than his own
and covered in British green and toady,
with two long red stripes.
And within that British bullfrog
lay a sleeping princess in
Murakami pajamas—
the ones with multicolored monograms
in cyan, magenta, yellow
and green on a field
of asylum white—
just like her horse.
And nestled along with that
fashion-plate princess
is a little pocket watch dog
with great big long plum
and beige ears and little doggy
socks and shoes in sunny
orange and lime hues.
All of these sit unnested,
anesthetized and scattered
on the imaginary area rug
beneath the aviary bed
with loneliness so loud
you can feel the gravity.
The Holy Wheel
Day three was lording it over
a broken wire wheel that
had just two days prior
slept away a team of midnight
skunks rummaging.
An hour before, like Swiss Army
knives, the action was slick
and worrisome as a brigade
of nuns prayed over the
spokes, desperate for a sign.
Yesterday, the object was
examined by a flock of truants
amidst an afternoon search
and rescue mission. All of
them passed by, not noticing
the illuminate.
What seemed like minutes ago,
a bolt-action buried a strike
plate for the second time within
one of these minutes.
Five years ago, the wheel
belonged to a frame, intact
wrestling with metal, rocks
and water.
Anonymous Sarcophagus 