Is it enough to be outweighed
by one
s own thoughts
at this strange hour of early morning
when the golden rays
of sunlight bursts through
these fogged bodiless windows?

The body burns. Light hits my physique
as if I were a gelatin emulsion
inside of the camera
giving life to visual speech;

burned as if pressed into a realm
where it is suggestive of dreams,
rubbing me out as if my grandmother
s fingers
were still over-working the sewing-machine.

A tell-tale chill in the heavy-lidded air,
torn into discontentedness,
macerating my image,
mismatching me with a different dimension.

I must resemble waves lapping up a shore
in a clear air. An air
where a cross on a Cathedral
was torn apart by war.

To feel more-than-alive in your system,
infused with exotic senses, fruit trees
with senses, subtle blends of senselessness
in a half-acre with flowers
that fold upon one another
s color,
like multiple exposures.

I spin, without backflipping, impossible,
in my own orbit, a collective rage
& scapegoating fury dials in the sinking sun.

I am an old friend of Clark Kent
s father, & admitting it
as if my youth will never fade away,
as if it is mixed with water lilies, mums with pears,
apples, a glorious fragrance—
clean historical precedents underneath our feet;

the rocks below in a string of untimely
eruptions. E Pluribus Unum-like consciousness,
gold-backed currency. What do these visions mean?

Your system may be at risk
Fragile as spider
s silk,
architecture of clay vessels mistaken as jellyfish-like.
Living there by the sea. Silvery-pale, at first,

nearly Bermuda-invisible;

now, a multicolored light of sunset, then
the moon dragging me to an undertow, egg
-shell soft, fragile

as trimming stems; a faint outline of a whole
peninsula of crystal grasses, glasses;
eyes of fireflies facing my face
in a mirror of the whole mind.

Anything can look beautiful
if you squint enough.

If all of my thoughts are like films,—
which are like filtered memories,—
someone must be doctoring the footage
& every dream that I have is a representation
of a whistleblower.

What is left to say that has never been said?
s silence is the only originality left.
s like squeezing the hands of yourself
as a corpse, still with an unceasing
star-burning inner-stirring.


The accuser brings spoonfuls
of lie licorice wasps-wisps,
shipwrecked hips.

I am aware of my roots,
but lately some kind of
Anonymousness Something

with moose antlers
like fingers has plucked them
from my bones.

I change my garments
with the seasons; I don
t wipe
the cat-hair

from my jacket any longer:
decorum for whom?
an ear of corn or a can-of-corn?

Gravity falls
in love too
with the backside of a rocket

firehorn spore.
My concerns are
worn out from a world
s expectations

that have become
like short-hand
on the long-faced writer

jagged adjective grunting,
which is like seeing ghosts
only out of visual monotony. 


I walked around a cul-de-sac last night—
MUGGY! it mugged me—
sweat pouring down my forehead & back

& all over my nocturnal body;
mosquitoes still out after midnight;
a moth landing on the moon, an architect!

gutting the light, like shimmering
cut-glass surfaces that sing a kind of vanilla
of celestial honey from the windpipes.