in the eager cosmos,

the reëcho
splits our whispers.



Ticking of sleet
began, I first saw it raining
when I was sitting
at the intersection
of North Rd. & Wisteria Dr.
Belly-scratching the sky--
sweet laughter. Within each
raindrop holds a memory,
a throwback, almanaque almighty
foibles. Later, she asked,
Did you hear it
against the window?
but something is wrong--
claustrophobic feeling--
hushed in anticipation--
chased away by a tiny echo.


Every "fault" is a poem,
like a dip at the faultline--a sea drifts,
forced & hung
like weathery jibbering, slipping
off of buttery hand
like unobliging cats
that will not come when called upon
or where camouflaged animals burrow
into a semi-dry, thorny ground.

It never matters. The ground
is only good for a future existence
of fixed days, bluer than sky blue, greener
than grass-green.
Town bells striking the hour.
The future is a twisted hand, boundless.

I spell out your name
in the soggy brown soil. I clear it away
& repeat, like the stuttering lions
on my tongue
as if reaching for
what can never be said
when mesmerized by your beauty.

So this a poem, eh?
Or perhaps a fault of mine
for being so darned poetic
that people try to understand it,
& to understand me, as if
one searches me out as I stand
in front of a black backdrop
wearing all-black--blacker
than our tax money "at work,"
blacker than ones with
deceiving rhythms of breath,
as if within a half-conscious state,
as if to actually "talk to the hand"
& being able to understand the hand itself
more than what comes out from
your paranormal mouth,
where Trouble appears
with all of its words attached.

The faultline is sustained & soothed,
between vespers & compline,
odd illusions crashing down.

You see it in the night.
A shape in the darkness
that appears to be gripping a flashlight tightly
with plum-skinned forms.

You realize your fault, then turn away impatiently,
swinging back to the doorway
in a delicate shiver, like a pressed cuticle,
your thoughts leading you away
or leading the way.



Look closely for the small gaps
where angels weep. Orbiting
we go through telescopes,
finding the viewfinder

we enter the eye of the viewer
striking the keys of the mind
& then forget to leave.

We travel through
the unbroken silence of space.

Our great continent is sinking.
Mortified Equinox.

Every prize squirms.

In total ignorance, we pecked
at every imperfection.

My heart broke
like the preacher
of a rebellious child.

Extirpating elixirs.

We feel free & unobscured,
but Feeling is a matter of Moments--
we acquiesce within its truths.

We adopt a horse & adaptly ride
where the fields never sleep,
that seemingly never de-colorize,
held captive by the marks
on the ground. The sky, reddening.

What is it about the ones
that seem to have none
or very little
compassion for life,
how their entire face exclaims,
my world is filled with fear.

Flee from those that are binded
like poisonous leaves
rubbing together.

Humble palms

There is a great drum that is
continuously in action.

Be careful, I say.

The surface is pronounced
without an exaggerated shape.
Months elapse & are dragged
into our secret recesses.

Thick Membranes of My Memory, Like A Shining Circle

Behind painting is immunity, behind "I"
are naked pianos wheezing out identifications.

I remember how we mimicked one another on the lands
of the snow-patched university property
spreading our song, lengthwise, on roads that
we were not aware of.

Detours, like glaciers. We slipped and slipped,
and you were elsewhere, insulated, fiery for details
that I could not give to you.

Everywhere else, our flesh remained on attack
yet crippled by the fragrance of countenances.

To you, wherever you are. This is to you.

Ferocious underflux of memory, how it humors!
Our uncivil skies pressed for identity
possessed pulsing antennae, a booklet without directions,
a map unreasoned with highways.

The concrete gives horror.

The city. Each city flakes out for a time.

Tiger-skinned buildings with room to breathe; ointment needed
to ignite scar tissue, deleting out the delete.

Fleeting dust and spit, suspense in my heart, my quivery mouth.
Suspected listeners on either side of me, listening in.

Harpooned. You spun me into your web
like some eternal terminal.

You gazed at me. I felt that it was impossible
to be gazed upon so powerfully, yet delicately.

Grimaces like Cappucini monks.

Often I felt alien in your presence. Evading or invading.

My bones, with sprockets.
You left your oxygen within me.

I thought: There goes all of my dew.

I thought: Eyes of Sofonisba Anguisciola.

I thought: We stand here as if like burnt-up trees.

Abandoned buildings are like governmental souvenirs.

My hunger, even at this late hour, moans.
Moans and moans like saucy trees in winter.

To re-paint over a thought like this.
This is what is precious about life.

We were spooked, ballooned
and floatingly-unnameable
standing against bricked walls
taking photographs of one another.

"The uncomfortable truth of things."

Ham-stringed on stars.

My memory reminds me that
I could never be alone.

My memory exhales delicately
throughout every part of my body.

To you, wherever you are. This is for you.



Am I hanging upon your walls?
Am I stumbling in the picture frame?

I picture you in a gully-gusher as an Acrobatic riding a horse.
You get struck by
the lightning of a brilliant thought,

your electric-storm hair-do like Jimi Hendrix's afro

& your face of a content owl, its eye-spaces
like two halvened pears.

You are my sunrise, my sunset, my silhouette.

The rain falls & is then sewn into my umbrella,
no drips.

All of the world's museums are blank,
filled with speakers.

I am recognized as silence.

Look at me. What have you seen,
what do you see but angles of stone,
flurries of the "melodious hue of beauty"?

I am more nervous than a lamb alone in a field.

Unending tension.

Medusa is like "the manipulation of a mirror."

I am breathless & paralyzed by the sight of you.
Woe, distinct glows.

Kiss me as if I were your favorite painting;
hang me upon your walls.


Ay, today my shoulder was accidentally pressed to
a stranger's, & I felt like Dr. Jekyll for a moment,
without Mr. Hyde having a mutual satisfaction,
& this is a completely new point-of-view, like a
graphic novel, or directors using artistic licenses
to re-arrange original ideas. Secret carvings
are like bubbles & fizz; lectures on organic
solidarity. Caress me, as if you loved my heart
more than anything, like how the Humpback of
Notre Dame wanted to be loved by a beautiful
woman, when a grasshopper would have loved
him all the same. This goes beyond drama, beyond
novelization, beyond fiction, non-fiction, a mighty
physical power: this is the plowing of instinct &
the ultimate instinct to want to be squeezed by
graceful arms, without there being razors in the
eyes, without an unpredictable burning, like
California wildfires, like a foolish clown
screaming at you just by looks alone. Where is
my shaving stick? Where is my nourishing canvas?
A soul-picture is colored & humored by suggestion—
autoeroticism avoiding actuality, recessing to the
fricassé-like freedom of being tossed about
your language, my heart bleeds to feel your
touch, as if it were a Scarlet Letter, a pearl in
your shell, melted & outpouring into the stirring
of the pavilion of my irreversibly reflective skull.
The shine is eager. Shake me up to loosen the
remaining ingredients. Please do not say no to me.