Old ballgowns still blow around where the walls used to come alive. They still do  in a Matrix in flux. Leaning upon the air I do lean now like an old pirate, limping around with a cane of ebony to keep him sturdy. Silver light throws angels through screens in this scene. Just before you turn to feel the touch of it, what you see gliding by perhaps makes you uncomfortable, like the red wasp that I saw land on a woman that moved up her arm like a fake fingernail gliding up one’s fleshiness, then breaks off, rolls down the arm. Go on and feed me to the snide lions. Throw me into the Snake Pit. It doesn’t matter. I’m only the narrator. But this night is cold! Feel it pulsate like the cold heart of The Arctic that has a mind of burning thoughts. Misty Mysteriousness at the mind’s perimeter is a myriad of pyramids. Am I there yet? There when The Dead Sea was still “sick.” There where you can watch me in a vibrato sandstorm eating mountains of gulped air.  

Am I in myself / a private function of Identity? I am overthrowing the Ozone, this instantaneousness to be or to always be because I feel that gargantuan breathing of my Past just behind my shadow, as if my Future is intimateless and undefined, vanishing alongside the light that borders my fragile body in the sunlight as I move out of it. A body disappears with Death, but the phantasy of the Spectator is replicated by the imagination of the Creator when one concentrates on the emancipation of the mind—dared to be identified with Another? like bits of statuesque “Microbial Clouds” in words that touches only the outside of the ear like a whisper, unheard, felt only by breath, like fragile levees delicate before the break.


Twined, thrashed loose
in the hungry part
of the day

(every day), slowdown
before lopsided
leftovers taste like

sweaty concert-goers
with china-thin mentalities
& dare don’t diddle.

Turmoil beckons
Plato’s ghost,

deaf thermospheres.
I’m outstretched
here in this silence,

eating bread, drinking water:
& these days
that’s worse than

Prison Food.
I wasted
my youthful heart

on repressive
loops) mercifully

I’m a thistle,
a repeatable worm
in an earth, squashed,

a mystic
shattered by
accentuated wholeness

in frosty tombs
of frantic churchyard
fallopian tubes

where passivity grass
is beaded with
euphoric sheltering.

Africanizations darker
than that, I go
undefined like

eerily lifted oil lamps,
savor the savior,
manipulate the modest

of C’established
formalism disengaged
forseeable whooped

the keyboards
to Thessalonian times.

Brightest Thinkers.
Brightest Tinkerers.
Rollback? We are

downloading ourselves
into absolute

Watchers’ drawls
knot in a butterfly anyplace.
Outsourced sorcery.

The basics
where I awe
at all engravings.

I wrong
the somersets,
whispers to bacon,

geometricize mayonnaise
as if to justify eating
as monstrously as if

aborting Thai
or Indian or branding
myself to forbear

being an earthy poet
to feed Thoreau-thematic-like
in sample-sizes.

Storing thirst
in a Timex. Worn
wallet flopped out

onto the floor, kicked
accidentally by an infant,
in fact. Conjured

comedy specters
versing their sensitivities
like “overgrown infants.”

Money, money
money. Calories
truckin’. Obey

where you ripple
your own arena.
Coo’d algebraically,

late bloomers
like muskrats snarling
& snotty-nosed

like mistreated
angry bulldogs,
one drenched upon

by mucus, teeth showing
all of the shapes I felt
like History, debunked.


Last night, only light
in the dark: cell-phone glow.

A small insect flies into
the luminescence,

essence to jumpskip
suddenly into my throat

it goes! as I gaghack, awful
cough, swallowing as it

clawed, kicked to reach
the light at the end

of my O-looking lips.
Swallowed, down the pipe

into my acidic pool, then
the thought of protein?

nutrients? what good
for the anonymous speck

in my belly but to think that
it thought that it had died

& gone straight to heaven,
for Absence of Body is To Be.




                                 for L.M.

Could it be that I was living
in your song? Could it be that I
was at The Pink Flamingo?

The foul-person crowd
was stylish-looking
but I heard backstreet sobbing.

Faces were beet-red
& pesky-necked hand-clappers
banging to the blare.

Was this a Square Dance
or a Triangular one? I thought:
“The Cake Walk is not this.”

Megabass through a windstorm
brewed. Comin’ up a cloud.
Cluster of men picking on Telecasters

where fairweather forecasters
dared not tread. A slant-headed
man in a tight-white t-shirt

with eyes like knuckles popping
& engines shaking, demanded
that I give him my First Impressions.

I stood there, silent, as if in
some interrogation chamber, until
the man & I burst out into a laughter!

like you & I when we laugh with a
wildness as if we are still in The Old West
telling tall tales around a camp fire.



What savage beasts humans can be, become,
    a relentless swell of fire-breathing
on streets where blood spills, ebbs, flows, electricity
    of every atom, of every beating vibrating
body, angered, hungered, as bullets
    with anyone’s name upon them
dance with the salivating lips of the kiss of death
    blazing angrily through tense air
where tears flow from tear-gas, transmitted,
    polars shifted. Where are the Patriots & Protesters
in Chicago? where are they to cry outward
    into the Illinois sky where murder
after murder reigns supreme? where are the
    curb-stompers & wide-mouthed screamers
stirred like hellacious hives, where are the
    spiders in the webs around the Media’s
blackout? Self-portraits in a National Guard’s
    eyes!—red red red—dead
to what? Every inhale is a balloon that lifts
    to capture one’s attention, but turns away
dully as one feels it stubbornly shift in a direction
    that is less appealing. The darts of an exhale
is the pop! The Global Economy bursts out
    like a zephyric ironclad rain, steel walls
of re-imagined Berlin-like barriers, a curtain
    like machinations scalping the globe
perhaps the universe as chemtrails spitfire
    as if a kind of Wormwood of nuclear fallout
became our halos—the glass of it breaking in
    a stagnant light, poignant, like sharks on a pier
pulled up by fishermen, escape back into the ocean
    where ships go silent into the underworld
of the shifting liquids where mermaids are maids
    of tempests, beyond mythology, beyond
the imagination into hyper-awareness. Look
    at the heartland of America—the streets
are not golden. The streets are cluttered with venomous serpents,
    headhunters, musky rats with chains in their hands,
quaking boots to rattle the magma of the earth,
    a rising phoenix slips below the horizon,
ashamed—streets of broken spirits, aching hearts,
    tumbling down the American Red-Bricked Road,
defunct, a cold wind in the veins, this mess that we’re in
    scatters our brows by open-ended barrels.
Who to target next? An intimidation as if
    the devil smiles in the details, as if the devil
is really in the cakes, in the hams, in a rotten egg, greyed
    like the slate sky of inhumane leagues
of locust-infested destruction tearing down the
    shapelessness of a country’s stalk, where
crisis wolves claw with skinny torsos along the red red red
    roads, a doggone dogging for a new route
in these dog days of August, where the words of
    MLK, Jr. have been muzzled
as if now capped in some Forbidden Zone in a desert,
    an alien-like Area 51 anonymousness
where mouths drip sands where time-lines go to waste,
    where dreams go to die up in smoke in the skies
in skid rows of battle cries, to the eyes
    an Inferno of the Unforgiven & Desolate:
A world seemingly inextinguishable, ablaze!
                                  (unedited, written 8-20-2014)


No one likes waiting, unless your patience exceeds expectations. Patience can be like a questionable heartbeat of some Herculean Moral Struggle. Ossifrage mattedness.

Splitting hairs so as to see the fleas flee. Jaw of glass, shapeliness of hourglass,
“pretty poison” with “bicched bones” (Chaucer) (ie., unlucky dice).

Why is it that I can see through rubbish, but there are instances when I cannot see through a fog of seemingly conspicuous answers, as if I were a member of a gang that can’t shoot straight?

Nothing has to make sense as long as it sounds pretty, like a Crooner, crooning.


Somewhere and Nowhere simultaneously in the mezzanine, waiting
on the plot to turn in on itself. You

are defined by dangerous reminiscences, without a clue what is human
and what isn’t. Is there a difference? What is done is done?

Meet me in that mezzanine, where there is no There.
We will interrupt the scent of perfume rising from Flesh.

We are not prickish, but we are recoiled in our decorum. Oh look
at the black light of Eye and Light!

It wasn’t the sibling of holiness until Silence (a distant relative)
separated our homeliness for flowers at night,

shakily deteriorating with the wind where the wind
wears its own crown

in this unlit setting I seek to fulfill with the illumination
that you left for me to remember you by.



Coffee is the only evidence that I exist.
Gentrification arsenals could be this:
“Venti” “Fettuccine” “Lamborghini” —

Requesting “Small” “Medium” or “Large”
could get you the stank-eye in this
societal espresso of artery-thumping rushes.

The mermaid jumps out of the sign, be
-mused, moo’d, entirely linked to
Outside Forces? I look up:

Black Coffee Down! I look around:
Jungle Fever Frappucinos. Do not frown.
Pants are cutting off circulation

& that is the true meaning of butt-hurt.
“He’s half of a fireman,” she said,
bc warning labels were missing on the cup.

Coffee slaves smacks of an impressive
third of them at the fresh-point
where medication wears off,

as if one could reawaken like Sebetos,
then those supposed “special discounts”
that I never received, & I might just riot,

I’m going to riot like Egyptians, like
hipsters busting off backpack straps, bc
I’m fluent in Baristanese & I’ve realized that

Everything that is “completed”
is “ready at the bar” (except for the
coolness of jazz; a future torturé to codify).

Listen to your heart quoting fortuity.
The lamp-oil burns & everything that we are
is abbreviated. ST for Strawberry. C for Cream.

That is what I heard him say, but I
believe it. “Don’t make me feel old.”
Coffee freezes when lovers are together.