>pain brûlé

>collared red redundant pillows, then the meandering whims of last night
like blood, half-dry, spread over that evening’s balmy comeuppance 
flying nowhere then sick and high from promise, just the smell of it
popping capillaries where skin lives in sin with morning air spun cold.

>And then The Explosion, Flames Ripping like FISH HOOKS Into The Sky


i am not afraid of telling you
that disappointment cut me,
(but i am afraid to say your name)
You, snoring and moaning: a log
loafs incontinence down a slippery
hill, and i am nothing but a bald witness

these sights and sounds, the pastel pallet
pushes electric east then wild wind west
as i shake my head and daydream, “will you hold me?”

loafs incontinence down a slippery
little list of lazy, inopportune, poorly timed insecurities
PERK … [ long pause ] … PEARL
maybe the only real creations of our lives
will arise from troubled times

i cannot live in this vessel, i cannot live outside this vessel
i will deplane whatever it is in my hand, harboring, harboring
the port is but my flesh quivering beneath my flesh

what pet taught to fear the incomparable
‘i’ through which we know the world?

fear him, subtle, push at his temple and knock
himself from the horse of *GOD* at every triple-fork
Bacchus, Mana, Commissioner, Persephone, Necropolis
my followers will know you for your kindness and warm kindred.

i am handcuffed by thought trailing through a river
throat warm and wild, you will find a maze without escape.


>How brave those eyes, sidelong and lonely

Tender, stretched knowing and pangs struck
Across an anvil stretched from tip to toe.

Fingers first then greed comb over pelted arms
Posture like John from his Master, many fairer
Deign no greater good, abandon no lower canvas.

After disappearing, the blinking coastal air pants
Fever inhaling the deeper reds of the little girl’s sunset
No one lonely: ‘The still sand warmer on the beach.’



The dog dashes past
What fills the basket
Or the tall red bin
Itself, a matter of time
Breaking morning light
Our hours so fast, so
Suddenly ataxic. His claws
Clanking on the tile floor
Nail prospective, withering son.

>is a metaphor

>the most important image in adulthood

(is a metaphor) she only seems to be standing
black hair bouquet on a pink blanket & arms
arch above her head, fingers spin a smokey web
emphatic, elastic with a rage
insulting passion, real passion
nothing about, and knows no subtle range
all egg shells, at this second.

>9th Street & 4th Avenue, You are Many Things, First and Last of Which is Not Me

>Half-naked, dear wondering about the middle of the street
& you hear it, the water exhaling underneath
the sweet music none can see
floating like an oily film across the sea
begging for its single match, hungry for change

Half-naked winking dear, a victim of disease
a beautiful messiah caught laughing in the trees
nearby foxes chase quick bees
from the flowers of their dreams
into hurried little traps, which
well, you know where they lead

Half of the buxom dendrophobic, naked dear
scant allowed to know and better we all are
imagination carries us far too far
to the pollen in the catch
smelling like haughty laughter
mixed with lascivious sap
she goes wandering the road
wondering about the midriff of the street

Half-naked dear & near double yellow seams
chains the way together in a certain stitch
each artery arresting beneath a drenched white T
stretched black sheet punched through with teeth
loose iridescent bolts she wheels around to catch
oncoming stars and rain, dizzy umbra, spinning steep

Half-naked dearest sleep, incidental sting, trips on soppy shoestrings
and passion pink mangles wither black like a sleepy kiss upon a cheek.


>Please keep close, the best part’s almost here ( Anatomy of a tear, fearful & round blossoms from, replant redolent dead sordid bunch watches weather & peels hopeless basketweaver emerges berryless handfuls of sweat unpaved, though traversed brand skin in one motion stripped back reveals crosshatched patterns of sweet. Tear fearful from weather unpaved sweet ) soon we will swim in the cool cave full of warm water.


>my biggest fear; my big fears; i fear many big things
: look at this wall, you are my love and for me
_____________ you must follow my eyes;
_____________ and then i will judge you
: my grand & elaborate career, you are my love
_______________________ and for me
_______________________ you must be free;
my fear biggest my fear biggest my ____ be free-er

: collapsible proposition: this is why you are dear
__________________ this
__________________ again

oh no, this i can hold in my hand
_____  there is enough room beside
collapsible presupposition: i will carry you
into the bedroom, though you will not undress

: candle, wick, flame, storm cloud, dance
( i fear many big things
________________ ) you will not lie
( my big fears
________________) i can hold it in my hand
( my biggest fear
________________) and then i will judge you ( …

>Untitled 11152009, 9:08 p.m.

>“Monday. Delectatio morosa. I spend my doleful days in dumps and dolors.” – Lolita, HH, VN: Page 43

“The dream has gone but the baby is real / Oh, you did a good thing” – This Night Has Opened My Eyes, SPM

Untitled 11152009, 9:08 p.m.

The haze flattens out as the bus pulls away
Ahead, to the right, three Russian hags gorge
Bend awkwardly at the waist, their object no feint
You see yelping smears of eye shadow first, then allow
Knives of cake-thick perfume, the bus reels, stereoscopic buzz
Over the steel-lattice grating stretched across the overpass
White thread spills past the womens’ chattering yellow teeth
The hum weaves, targets used to being broken
Appear in the road guiltless and naive like a pedestrian
Drunk on thumbs and dumb with wit; how a smell
Can be a manufacture of providence, yarn braids between
And disappears underfoot to you-do-not-know-where
No foreign sounding utterance nor vicious scent
We are alone, again. Prick-wise and solemn
With shoulder-blades each rough brick counted
One-by-one by the inbetweens the corridor begins to boil
Your hands my hands your fingers my fingers your fantasy my fantasy.

>Lying (for Zelda, with a Moving Grey)

>For the sake of taut rope
Your true voice stranded
Swaying island of chords

Tears one-by-one
Time darting through age
Trembling uncertain eye.