Find the Sun

Fractures. Staples. Pistons. Lime. What works with the machinery of taking? Connecting? Who am I to measure the fragility of the total process? It forages beyond me, for sure. Yet I can’t shake it home. The days toil in the work of hours, running down those things which you’d run up, although, at day’s end, the path is level, but not necessarily slanted toward the sun. You must find the sun, and build that bridge, and walk that steep road winding through the planets and not around them. Andromeda cannot live the relationship between Earth and Sun. Only revolutions change the color of the sky.

Infinite Flower Cooling

There was no breathing; there were no lights. Songs just kept coming from under the right vestments out of all the crackers there ever were in this native land of cracking weight and smelly shoes. We are America the beautiful and ugly at the same time. Those who push for independence swallow thought through a straw made of backward words. Those who follow the right make recipes for baking from out of the last colonels of corn found under the pantry of God the limited Creator.

My days start away from these, into the yellow blinding light of that which is before any time is taken, any breathings breathed, any noticings noted. The mind wants its time, but I want things to be vacuumed away from this unimagineable space, slept into a corner by the thugs of everyday’s watching and left to rot on the windowsill of all the Aunts and Grandmothers throughout time who have ever left a pie to cool where there could have been a tornado.

I love all my people, even the ones I have never met, for they are there, too. They are there even before place was found and will be there after place is gone. And even this place will go, and even these. Even yours and all of mine, but what’s now is now, and it is bright with presence. It is bright with feeling, an opening flower to Infinity which smells like all the worlds smell like before time, and space, and pie, and aunts, and all my people.

This Is Word-Processing

This is word-processing.
Flash
Flash
Flash
Through the mind
Out of the eye
Into the I
Don’t
Know
What
Any
Thing
Is
Ha
!
Feel the burn,
Which is the goodness of this
Before your mind can catch it and
Strangle it on the rocks.
Lift
Lift
Flash
Flash
And more than even
Wonder knows,
Said He.
Fragility depends on knowing
Where
You
Are.

Splash!
Jump to the
Thousand
Infinite waters
To love the
Round we dance
In love with dancing.

Never to the Gardener

After all this while,
I miss you,
Even outside.
No paths are delinquent to the sun.
These are the eight hundred
Learnings,
Teaching ways to see the light from
Out of loss and time.
They snap up the neck.
They lose the throat.
The same voice says
Go ahead
That says
Take me away from here,
And never to the gardener again.
He cuts too short, and
I cannot grow.

There Have Been Wars

There have been wars. There have been statements made. The time for these is never now, but always then, always when you last left your mouth to dry outside the sky. I cannot reach the sound, even though its words hurtle toward me through vast spaces within the realm of cowardice. These streaks up my back put an end to no shame. These yellow tire-tracks speak of pain, plain-old, and nothing else but what you can see in every dimestore window in the land of dollars.

These lands are the remains of time. Floods crackle through here beyond the touch of water, singing above the rain that happens whenever any day decides to cry to out of earth. The ground cracks, splinters, bleeds, lingers into a thousand open spaces where my whithering mind cannot go without ways to hold to back, ways to hold things I do not even want back, but only want to go forward, up, out, days lighting up the spires of engulfed terminals at the portals of diminished yesterdays that have not seen the light of day for many thousands of any measurements done by mankind.

How many shades of purple can be accomplished by waiting within any drawn shape? How many deceased cartons of reckless fuel can be made to unflower in this vicious night? We trade our secrets here; we leave things alone here. They smell the way they smell with even no interference whatsoever, and so cannot be imagined by any tackling doors done up in the braids of fancy’s listless days.

I will fly to out-of-bounds, where I shall wait until the last picture has been made on all the walls put up by finished men. These will count as projects done and done, completed under the way the sky looked at any time.

Flowers grow in space, like everything else.

All the Lighted Friends

There is never anything new except right now.
I have not tasted this listing breeze,
Coming to me from over the countertops of deceased mountains
In the fires of forging the new ones from the old ones,
And that seems ungainly to me, like a prayer of playing without the fine-angle zoom of Last year's history to set straight the right and the
Net of leaving everything you've begun since learning to sing.

Trouble pokes over the horizon, lending every air the spectrum of incredible holiness it deserves. Whosoever edits my life will have to deal with time.
I will already be through it and out,
Out, I say,
Wishing nothing but the brightest pearls for all the lighted friends of this form's
Adventure in visibility.
We who can know and disappear
Shall
And who will be the wiser but the air?

Hands of Wasted Shadows

This last time has been the most meaningful for me.
Your hands of wasted shadows bring a circle to my brow,
Telemarketing your vast awareness onto the splinters of my waiting tremble,
Singing my hairs into laserlike ease of pinch, taste,
Bon mot,
Wind-chimes from out of Hell that I
Barely knew before the paper-thieves came and ripped away my sanctuary.

These days the last thing on my mind is curling away into the sea.
The last thing on my mind is swifting away to a baby-talk of
Regeneration of degenerate phrases meant to lock-step you into
Boldness or nothing,
Sweetness of seaweed over the nickelback times of
Ford’s “all-American” way of running from place to place.

However it’s done, this will be the final knell of wishing’s bell
To end the drying-times falling into outer space,
Landing on top of the curving vortex that sees out to every form of
Westing beast and eastern shape that
Bites into my living and
Sends my hats to another country
Where I cannot remain, cannot,
But where I only live and breathe until this borrowed time is
Fined at the eternal library,
Where all my pages have been burned away.

Pig That He Was

I have heard, in my sleep, that
When you are impatient to go to the bathroom,
It means you were stuck in a breathless bardo the shape of a quail.
Such a place is just as likely to exist as
Mr. Johnson’s Bait-Shack,
Turned into firewood a few years back by an
Impatient constable with no sense of history.
So he blew it down, pig that he was,
And set about renewing his faith in the outer systems of delay,
The ones in which most inland minds find comfort.

When the story broke,
Cameramen screamed around his house and bought his breakfast-cereals for
Top dollar,
Never realizing that what they were paring down for consumption
Was their very loving selves,
Set to simmer in a baking sauce before any lids could crack them into waking,
Dreaming,
Seeming out of this refreshment and into some state in which
No noise is unsettling,
Because you can’t hear them or anything.
Set the timer and run for cover, they say, and do.
The corners leave up, away from heat, and blister back to growing with a
Furor.

Uncontrollable Soup

Distress the dirting bubble above the canopy of mind,
Ticking away the shocks and smocks of nickel-plated time
Read aloud in the undergarments of oh-so-many with whom you have been
Intimate,
Except me,
Always the boys down the street
Without cloud,
Without understanding,
Standing, burning bright in the noonday sun,
Unkempt except for their glowing hair and teeth.
This history is written in the yards of cloth suspended from my inner face,
Knitted and embroidered with the ferocious paroxysms of pleasure
Coursing through your veins and into my waiting mouth.
Subdue it,
Wring it from your mount,
Flowers,
Wet waiting inside the very sea
Itself
Over the endless river that flows from
Before I cared to know you,
Before I cared to see what I would always continue to do to myself
When you weren’t there to
Bright me into speakness.
Break away this flower of my mind into the
Uncontrollable soup of everyday’s food,
And I am here to forget all that in the company of my
Love.
Before I can say it again,
Speak me into all the worlds and
Fly, fly,
Smoothe to me to the vastness of infinite water.

The Parting Ships

The first day after I came back from the flood was the warmest weather this skin has felt.
That time with this skin was the warmest I have felt out of this living and into some, any, other space.
Left looking into the two barrels of any fighting time is beyond where my moon shines, no matter where, and I am forever shaken to my roots by the carelessness with which the world shakes off its lives who breathe on the planetary air and sweets of water.
The day the flood came, my head overflowed with warmth and spilled into every imagined cavity under my sealing breath.
I have not slept in weeks. I live only on air. Even fruits are too much. Which way is sky? How might I fly? Whiskers diminish after the stroking, from feeling into plains above dryness which have never been touched by any kind of water, ever. This land is rock, dust, slate, choking. Only.

And yet there is a strange energy here: the air vibrates, as does everything, of course, but I mean in a much more noticeable way, as if it were trying to wake you up not merely from dream to waking, but from waking to some place just to the left, not really very far away at all except in dimension and awareness. This space, like all spaces, just sits, and calls, and strengthens itself with its ownness until the beaters from out of time arrive and reshape all thought and weather into the most common thread, that which can be seen by every eye, any eye, felt with every smell of thought beyond which even the most ordinary recreations are disallowed into the clearing at the end of the wet, shaking rainbow, the anvil forest which has sprung up only these last few hundred years to eclipse the yearning, burning flowers and undulating worlds of all the growing and all the under-time, over speculation, between shakes and inside-out of all the chordal inversions of sky’s shape and path of river.

This fine day has wet my hair and down my body to the nth degree of standing ground. This degree of finely standing has taken my nth-trained seal of inside-wax to rearrange – with all kinds of beautiful, loving anger and sweeping – the last tents of my untenemented ancestors, who have never slept on a ship, but only under them for all time.

Fallow is the breathing ground. Water soaks my wrists up to the knees of all my trembling thoughts, and I am breaking here, breaking ground, breathing for the first time since there were lungs the inside air, the over-the-shoulder seeing of all the midnight passengers ever swept to and fro by the random trains of human forgetting and sleep.

My breathing stills the night and wakens all the ships from private rest. The pavilions are creaking, the jetties are crumbling, and my sisters slip rocks into the dungeon-cups of waiting’s prisoners so that they can see, and see up to the light, far beyond any day’s toil of forgetting to be a prisoner. Their lips open with their eyes, and the truest water flows between their parched lips and soothes into their living. And breathe. And breaths. And not alone, not any more, you never were. Not even once were you alone. No other waits for you. It is your breath and every waiting form from all and all.

House of Cards

Slowing slouching sleechly slecter,
I’m imbibing my nine cats these days
From out of the house of cards
Which I have made over the rainbow’s waterfall.
All kinds of winds go through here,
But my structure is intact, thanks to deals made with
Gods or
Beings who possess such power.

Are you in a position to give it?
Can you build a house out of mere
Matter?
The old one I built long ago was from the materials of
Memory and possession,
Meaning,
Lost to the histories of houses even as the
Spinal shapes of pre-born euphemisms were
Arching up the taillights to my door.

I cannot count the images.
They come forth like a deck of cards;
My hand is the player,
Your mouth is the one that changes color from the
Inside out,
And none of us have ever (or could ever) receive the
Gift of finely-wrought light that travels on the backs of cards and
Reaches its fingers into our uneven thoughts which take place before words and memory.

Now.

Isn’t that the most liberating color?
Does your soup turn in its bowl before wishes are made?

My house of cards sits on top of a waterfall,
Below and behind all the ready-noise of
Your retarded children
Who have broken everything, everything,
Broken it all.

But this house stands true, and above water and sound.
Sweetly swing the licking springs of your own ticking time from
Up above the dust of my vision, and
You are invited here
Always
Always
Before there was nothing.

Our Endless Grandparents

Hell is the wheel.
Ending is real.
Change is the deal.
Represent at the corner of fiftieth street northwest,
Say into the wind the names of all your parents
Throughout time,
Whisper down the backs of your latest grandparents’ wishes
As they ride in the belly of time.

How can a sheep cannibalize his method of waiting out in the rain?
This fixture of fixation is not new to me on this level of vibration.
What can I call the mountainous breeze that
Slips and slurps up to the roof of my mouth
Before any taken has taken the wishes’ refugees
From out of the mouths of tiny angels,
Tongues of flame which are extremely rising,
Risen in the heat of the back planets,
Befuddled into rooms that will never be seen again.

This is the backward shape of history, the lasting refinements of time before
Walls and today’s whales can
Crash through their soupy spines and into
Bottomless milk-cartons on every countertop in America
Displaying the willfulness of disease and disappearing
Which we perpetrate on the faces of our dear ones,
Our endless grandparents
Before they knew.

Where are your children, and
What
Colors
Do
They
Breathe?

Fifty Filths of Burning

Times, times, times,
The strange dingbats have always told me this.
Those crazy trays of fifty filths from out of Easter-time have
Slipped this ship’s shit from the back of the pile of all my holidays,
And no more, no more,
I cannot stand to stand the light
That comes from owning anything not given.
Those anythings are here because the sacrifice has burned out a form,
Any form,
Blazing and tracing the outline never gone beyond in sleep,
Until you awaken into a similar world again and are
Shuffled
Stirred
Repeated through the most similar processes again
Again
Again
And it does not stop until there is an explosion
Of form
From form
Out of form
Into light
Bright
Dazzling sphere
Listening light of lighting lovely lights to
Outer space
Out from in
Out
Free
Godly-Burned from the limit of being.
Chase the horse,
Grab its tail,
And it is
Change
Light
Change...

Shall We Walk?

Fire past a rainbow in the sound most meekly possessing,
And I will return the favor by letting go all the past shards of
Sheeting seams,
Seeming to go north without power.
Abrase my inner dutchings and
Finger into without from evil space,
Before cards made the moon and filters pressed upon your back to the mud of seeming.

Which of our times will be made to wake up over a sheet of pairs?
Which of our customs will militarize past next year’s moon?
I will downfall this oblivion until the
Cancer sucks my neck and draws all the living blood from out my skin and organism,
Smearing the cracks with brackish ooze that used to be life before time smelted its fishy swells
Into the river and into the mouth and gorge of welling, swelling, sweltering,
Banished, worsened wasted weeds of withered hell.

Volcanic ash pierces my name,
My navel reeks with heat,
My sun is a burn of infusion brought about by many layers of enthusiasm
Without dream.

I cannot spell or speak;
I cannot just or sleep.
My days of our forms and wind are gaining,
The tops of all the blades of grass ever done by morning
Will have gone, borrowed-through,
Until the ways and days of Hades’ maids
Determine out the crushing folds of waiting, seeming,
Drifting, dreaming,
Awake at the seams to unite another established bewilderment
Along the rocky coast of minder’s northern shore.

I hear the beach is dazzling this time of year.
Shall we walk?

More Than Eyes

This is the news which has been brought to my face:
I cannot unfilter the seeming world from out of my breaking mind.
My feeling does not know what to do with this,
But I can hear the butter melting under the safest flesh of my understood past.
This is known. This is me.
What kind of power would it take to unleash the fall of water from above,
That water which can wash away only those knots and occurrences which
Fable belief into the freshest of imagined spheres up above the tangled system of lights
Here on earth?
My waiting has been foretold,
My answer unasked.
How many times should this birth convict me of never having to hold another clear drinking
vessel to the departing sunlight again?
The light which turns and burns above the any glass is that which can be seen by
More than eyes,
More than breath,
Over the face and
Under the place which is lifted up to receive the precious gift of water,
Above,
All over,
All around,
Everywhere.

The Freshest Air Beyond

I feel out from every storm,
Wintering the under-blossoms of rivers white to the sky,
Sleeping unchecked into the serious endeavors of all learned men.
This fascination will be my undoing, I feel,
But there is nothing I can do about it.
My fired glass is shaped by these accords,
And this is the lesson I have loved and wondered over since time began in my space.
My everything sits unopened on the windowsill of learning,
Flowers grow outside,
I can feel the wind turning and unlearning all the bright possibilities under the sky
Which I can see without any kind of telescope.
This comfortable burning has set my head and into-my-body to rights.
It is the shape and force of wonder and life,
Precious puzzles left unsolved by the growing network of vines which cover my mind and pierce,
With my blessing,
The undeniable shaking openness that
Wants to breathe the freshest air
Beyond.
This laughter is forever.

Exxon Spills

The invisible holes in the top of my head
Conduct light at invariable speeds
To the electric and fluctuating recesses of inner time that
Seem to me to be a way ahead of slowly swooning.
Whatever majesty presents itself to me in those wayward times
Before the wind kicks in and moves the mouth beyond the brain
Is not thelist of endless shortages brought from out of the mouths of
Swinging, singing dingalings like all my neighbors to the north.
I don’t know where they are other than a vague direction
And a breeze on the back of my neck and a
Pull at the top of my sunken head like straps to a fishing line that has been
Received at double the infinity required for this kind of wonder.

When I was filling up my car the other day at an Exxon station
All the memories ever had by anyone who ever lived came
Flooding back to my space, where they
Never were, and
All I could do was wash them,
Watch them,
Be them in their inner folds and works until this
Breath of me stopped expanding to all the reaches of wherever arms
Take you
Take me
Raise all the living to a wet marble of
Slab
Slab
Dehydrator
Vibrating deodorant under the swells of legs that make up our standing.
Our standing is time, and this kind of movement sweets us into walls and
Breaks our backs open to the white line of all the color you can see
Before vision has occurred.

Exxon spills
Like my eyes from behind closed glasses.
Where were they when the weather needed reheating so my people could breathe,
Could live,
Could fly out beyond the receding pastures in front of any house across the street from
Time
Time
Wax
Shells
Beaten air
Into the space
Space
Tell
Me
What
To
Watch
And
I
Will

Nineteen Shimmers

Nineteen shimmers made of glass
Take trouble across the street.
I can order my coffee by the side of the road
And watch as all the lovelies
Break into parades in front of every suggestion of a slip or a ship or a sail to
Star her by.
Shameless sandwich on my front face,
Licking backwards through all the muck ever inhabited by faceless wonders and
Working vermin from out of the speed of light.
This week has worn out its sleeves on my neck.
I can feel the behavior rotting through my flimsiest bedrooms,
Closet doors open to the waiting sun, the
“Oh it’s twelve o-clock” sun
Standing there
High and mighty in the sky,
Reminding me that I do what for a life,
A what for living that makes it of any difference except to those who can
Hear
Listen
Make an insouciance of shape perk into
Everyone’s outer ear and
Inner.
This is a good word, if not overused.
Inner; winner; sinner.
Beginner.
My room is always clean, and the kangaroos don’t come here anymore.

I Go With the Water

It is late.
The light is gone.
I snuff my candles and
Prepare to dream.

There are worlds and worlds of traveling
Between days.
But I have seen a blue
In the great day of my life
That out-blues the blues of
Dream.

The Island is a body,
And Its blue is the water of the world.
I have swimmed it; I have waded it;
Its density has held me up to air.
No bird speaks;
Only the liquid rush of tide,
Shuttling in and out like
All the worlds of form.

I go with the water.

The light is all there is.

Days of Seasons of Days

One of your friends has died
After a long journey.
He never brought any Ring to
Mount Doom,
But he did open your heart for you.
That is enough.
Today is the last day, after which
Sunrise will draw the ocean.
The dead one will be remembered
In all the ways you do that,
Until it’s done,
And it is the last day.
Then you don’t need to
Pine away the forest
In a world of leaves,
No matter what the season,
For the season is itself
Days and days and days,
Each one the last
Each one the first
And each one between
Days of seasons of days.
In the hour of our passing,
Like days to days,
We will navigate the night-time
With the vessel of our
Heart-open attention
To the shifting of the seasons.

How About a Nickel?

How about a nickel for every time someone tells you how they are unhappy
In no words at all?
“Well,” you say, “nickels are relatively worthless.”
“Yes, but if you add enough of them up, and
And
And
And
And
There is only Happiness,
In no nickels at all.”
“Your words are worthless,
Beyond adding.”
“Yes, they are.
And
And
I’m Happy beyond words.”

*Plonk*

“Stop throwing money at me!”

I Am Not a Poet

I am not a poet.
I inherited this language.
It writes and says its way with me,
Flowing from the Who-Knows-Where
With degrees of speed and notoriety.
My sieve may have some holes,
But it’s what I have and use.
Words come to here,
No matter what the weather or
Degree of internal heat.
Anticipation makes me melt,
So I freeze the water and wait.
But under the ice is movement,
Which trickles and sings down to earth,
And waits for the thaw from above.
I cannot break the ice;
The weather must do it.
And I wait for the
Bird who will fly through my holes to the
Sky.

Every Form of Mother

How many times does the trail rot away from your feet?
To what end do you climb any mountain?
The end is the top, and then what?
Do you lift off into space,
Or go down the other side to a life that is
Similarly different
Than the life you left?

The snow covers all sides
And the peak.
Footprints remain no matter where they are stepped.
Shocks slide down the mountainside,
Bringing a symphony of falling, of gravity.
Odes to all the natural processes have been spoken by
Every form of mother, even mountains without mouths.

Winter takes place on the slopes and above.
Weather makes the beaten shape
That weathers and rests all the somnolent children
Of sleepytime’s happiness
From out of the wind of no time.
We are not in the caverns,
We are not in the crags,
The mountain does not speak to us.

Only the air which swirls around the peak
In the forlorn months when there is little light
Can tell us which way is the sky and
When the birds fall all through the living ground and into
Wells and wells of swelling dynamite.
I live for the explosions of the neon new.
The ground shakes,
And I sleep upon it,
Awakening to a time of blue shelters amidst the
Clammy hands of tiny flame that
Breathe every ordinary moment into our lungs.

There is beauty in the mouth,
But I cannot speak it.

Hyekoo

Blowfish. Crematorium.
This is already on its way to a Mad-Lib.
Good. Fine.
At least I don’t have to lift up a couch with my tongue.
What a relief!
It isn’t Tuesday.

A Lively More-Than-Thing

This freezing is murder. I cannot sleep.
My toes have begun to curl into the midnight,
My sails have folded around the relaxing wave of offshore sands,
And there is little I can do to press out of my room of feeling and into
Dry, beginningless places above the shrinking zone of narcotic memory.

The wastes of seeing betray my endless letting-go,
My rivers remain anonymous to the bright,
I sip around the edge of the cup in the hopes of tasting something
Different, unimaginable, better to the lips than plastic.
Memory has not gone here.

I spy with my handheld camera
Things left unsaid in the ocean of my room.
There has been no activity here for quite some time,
And this is felt by all the walls,
Even those which have not yet been erected.
I sing for their demise, but internally,
Because they are built out of the sand with my own two hands
In the unconscious time before any waiting has occurred.

All the streets in my neighborhood have drains.
The stars are holes to the sky beyond.
What lives here is sifted and sucked away to infinite madness,
Which is every form of color and raw emotion,
And is only beautiful. This my feeling knows, outside skin and bone.

Crafty warships have been spotted along the coast.
They plot destruction of both sides.
The elements have gathered to witness this great undoing,
Seen in the soil and the sky,
Beyond time and through a thousand years into the endless ocean.
Dreams fragment along the beach, waves crashing inward to the sand.
I see the little thoughts of my long life breaking away into currents of something else
Which cannot be defined,
A lively more-than-thing
Dusted from the highest brow.

My open madness is complete. All kinds of weather have shown it, and continue to show it.
Sands behave differently now.
Forms wave in heat, with or without necks to stand on.
Dry gains heave unheralded mists to the fabric of forgetting,
In every moment before and during the following earthquakes from out of this world,
And I am done.
The dome is sealed.
There is no limit to how bright the air can seem,
So I grow with it wherever it blesses and leads.
This is my home.

My Sky Is Broken

I love the light which forms on all formations sweetly singing,
Every wing that lays the earth in bright abundance under air
And takes the startled yesterday to healing, bright as birds
And brighter.
This shine hurts my eyes, but in a way that makes me see.
I have no wishes to unfinish that little wave of yesterday.
Look where it has taken me:
The benign and beauty-presence of the Living Light
Which shines beyond all eyes
And fills my cup of waiting with the longest juice,
The liquid gush of bird- and wind-filled Everlasting.
My sky is broken, and the ocean is
Alive.

A Life of Reeds and Eels

What is the name of light?
I smell the lesser lays of liquid, finished understanding,
Setting in a pool of light without sweat.
The simmering cogs of furnace and heat
Break up the bastards of time with their
Little hats and believer’s glasses.
They take the perfume out of time.
I wish to slip a finger under the waist-band of their mornings,
And fish a prayer like wishes’ eel
For fisher’s time to come, in the waiting dark
Above the skyline of fishermen.

These days, the dark is almost all you can see,
Even without the light to show it.
The winded bird lives undersea,
Drinking a draught of burning-bright fuel
Disguised as living matter made of time and flowers.
These flowers undersea have transparent colors, and
Deep light from glimmering distances shines their leaves to a color
Not perceived by this level of hearing.

Bending upon our brooms, we sweep our kitchens
Clean of pests and dust.
We clean our sweepers, blend out seeming into
Clauses of independent nightshade,
Berries to the rising moon,
Summer playing out in a heat of terrible, beautiful understanding:
We travel as that beginningless, answering unquestion:
Sweeping, moving now,
Bringing us into different and beloved forms of motion
Which scoop out our inner darkness like a life of reeds
At the side of summer’s swooning lava-swamp.
I breathe with my hands,
Spread out to the horizon-line.
This forest has undone my preparation for flowers,
And I sleep alive for the first time since air.

The Brave, Undoing Fire

Endless deep beginning less than
Trog-shaped bright palaver
From in the depths of my oyster.
You forget how the rift seems to equate
Lines with laughter,
All the while dispelling light onto the porch of the house on the
Outer rim of any galaxy to whom
You seem at home.
I twist in the wind like a chandelier and
Make brave maybes to a world filled with jellied fiberglass in the form of
Wicked smells and
Bricked-up bells and
Wily, snooty, warped, wackariffic businessmen
With warts on their minds and dreams of the
Acquisition of everything on their breaths.
This fortnight will draw to a close with the
Removal of baby and the
Installation of the dearth of wonderment into the
Inner temple of Arcadia.
These games are played for life,
For keeps,
Until time runs away from the rotting reach of
Arms too white from lack of sun and living.
These are the waning tremors of will,
Whether they be watching the waxwork clock of
Endless mortgages
Or the melting sleeve of I don’t know how many
Dead dolls in the sands of our unnumbered, unencumbered beaches.
May these wishes drift away like phantoms who have heard the bells from some other place
And go, finite in their understanding like all of us,
Following the tinkling of chimes into the
World from which they had only rented the most threadbare space.
I pray the movers are silent
And know how to open doors without
Waking the neighbors of all the loved-ones of the world.
These faces are legion.
They smell up the stenchiest spaces into the most beautiful airs.
My feet weep for this undulating, constant transformation,
Because they know only the solidity of every changing floor
Under their skins
And not the brave, undoing
Fire from the sky.

Silverware

Which three tines of fork have stabbed you in the stench of gut?
Do you know nothing of this seed of memory?
I think no thing has passed beyond your lips that has not been seen by the setting sun.
My eyes are open, like the windows facing west.

Dragons have rotted through here,
Spilling time from behind their green and scaly scales,
Lighting the very air with points of smoke
Which only hidden eyes can see.
These eyes live in gray, rainy sources of sound unheard of except in
Realms of certain dreams.

Plastic melts in this type of heat.
Who can fathom it?
I did not ask for any of this to be understood,
Or even to be.
My flesh puckers and splits at the suggestion of such seeming rudeness
Perpetrated by the night sky in a thousand folds of
Bric-a-brac surrounding the edges of
All my endless loitering in forms
And forms
And forms
From out of time.

I dream of the open, endless place where all this stops.
The light has come for me, and I slide into it
Like a lazy spoon on candle-wax.