WINTER 2009

I rip up another poem, submerge myself
into animal thoughts:

a kitten sitting on a curb that is questioning
the size of the rodent. A bird picking
the teeth of a crocodile.

Just down the road,
there are people on a roof

installing a bright star.
How dumbfounded to be easily monitored.

Cohorts of disproportionate themes,
tentacled cuts in the experience

like glass cages of snakes & lizards;
visitors leaving smudges on the glass.
The horror of seeing a child carrying a gun full of

water,
at first seems as mysterious as
an electroluminescent stage.

Scrubbing the Latin
from my future dream.
A dictionary is a rainbow.

Donne on the mind.
Who said what?
An ævum is taught—songs singing
without specks, singing away
the English rain. Rarely
do I open these curtains—
rarely do I expect the styrofoam plates
to be licked clean by the cats
before re-filling food on top of food—

dry as bones bleached in a desert—
Now, minimal music &
I divert my attention towards the
swaying tree;
the result pulls alleys from my heart,
a “crowning achievement”—
a blindspot synthesized as poetic landscapes;
being outdoors, like a pipistrelle,
reminding me that we are all winter berries—
not like a painting that one becomes bored by—
but rather by the sudden “all-over”-associations defined by
reflective connective tissues &
elements of having flings
without all of the literature or memory involved.
Is this myth-making?

Butting-rams of laminated shock
like seeing a mosh pit at a jazz concert.
Tuck me into your full-Nelson.
I'll be your art product,

like a mannequin,
but first let me walk back in-doors
where my reputation is orthographically presented
like an aging Louis XV

seeking out diamonds for a mistress.
I am accordian-like in your presence;
plumpy jovial stirrings in the winds
like an abandoned building, lungless,
pattering at the heart of corrosion—
breakable like a shivering backbone
in an unlimited winter.
You collect me somewhere
in the dust of your memory.
I wake to see the moon hanging in the sky,
thinking I had seen an angel appear
as an orb

in this room. O how we trouble ourselves
like broken handlebars,

rustic opposition, dreams of flying
through the loopholes of our distance.

As winter arrives
the cemetery has the sheen
of a carnivore's mouth,

opened wide, teeth of an angry football team,
the sudden near-silence of too much noise
surrounding a city.
Our hearts are cities stirred in the mud
of harmonic pipes underground;
echoes design the ground

with lyrical intensity the way our southern "roots"
mostly map the
Infiniteness of direction.  

SENSES WITH EXPERIENCE

Rain, my uncle says, smells like ear-wax,

or that just-got-out-of-bed smell that can

never be acquired by one’s own senses.

I knew a girl, years ago, who always

smelled like gasoline. I love that smell.

Her voice reminded me of crystal-clear

winter skies; her eyes, B-Sharps;

her shape, ambient. Scent of LYSOL

in this room. A manufactured glaze

to deceive the rancid scent of cat feces.

The rain pours. The bumble bees

huddle & babble. Perfume-hydronics,

southeast kiss of wind, the trees want

to dive underground, cuddle their roots

like a mother holding her baby

for the first time, eyes glinting like

Come to thee. If I were to smell

what you smell, my nostrils would choke

on one of your Anemoi. If NASA created

a perfume, let us all smell like outer space.

CAFFEINE

I drink this coffee, ejecting caffeine into veins.
    I am not you, but I am some equivalent,
naked as the day, palpable exactly, recall
            
In a dream
surging through the mind’s shuttlecock,
this coffee instructs, I take my cape
     & wad it into a ball, throw it as high as I am able,
        decoding the air,
    stomach growling like Raskolnikov’s (recall)—

   body
    as dirty as Wellingborough streets,
& today there are people
walking those streets, dirtying themselves,
looking for a carnival ride, looking to disarm
& soak themselves in a feel-good moment,
    regardless of dehydration, sickliness . . .

With precision, I peeled your flowers’ petals
as thin as stigmatism.
            When it comes to love,
I am as blind as night. Mindless
onrush—menopause or men-that-pause?

I am paused. I remain in this skeptical spectacle
position, sipping this slowly cooling coffee,
    mid-afternoon approaching,
needles lost in hay,
a king’s burning crown trailing the queen—

    staggered as from a physical impact,
the total momentum at the beginning
shedding the worst impressions,   
    held captive by my own
noticeable lack of a throbbing Belonging.

MY NEIGHBOR

If Rachmaninoff had of been my neighbor

       I would have been invaded upon like a ruinous

Emperor, except that the mending of my pains

       would come with a series of firsts: Music,

beginning, with a heightened awareness of sound

       (—what L. Bernstein said was like a spasm

in the middle of his mind—) would shovel down

       into me, pull out the clamouring doorbells

from my loneliness, & Sergei, next door,

       magisterially cutting incisions into particulars—

my ears like climbing roses upon melodic

       trellises, transfiguring my weaknesses—

Adagios heavy in the beat of my heartricity,

       like walking heavy in shallow sea-sand,

consuming one’s body.

If Rachmaninoff had of been my neighbor,

       unquenchable sound would tap upon the

windowpanes, becoming petroglyphs—

       a new vocabulary—as rhapsodic as his love

for Natalia Alexandrovna Satin. Satin, silk,

       exhibited: evidence of my sashaying,

mimicking sound, ventriloquisms tanked full—

       his bittersweet symphonies keeping the fireplace

lit in the Winter. In Spring, flowers blooming

       by sound alone, on-stage in their opening,

further furnishing tones, fecund. Then, to open

       the doors wide—the windows salted of melody—

standing, listening to the music tasting the flavors

       with my mouth wide open; my heart seemingly

multiplying, sweetened by the recursivity

       of the dissonances that vocally branch through

the air’s unseen monocle, refracting the unthinkable.

___________________________________________

The sun is run by poets.

                             Somewhere

The sun runs from poets.

                            there is a mirror

The sun’s sum is the poet.

                            that reflects unwillingly.

The mind is the truest ancestor.

___________________________________________

I hold open

the ethereal jar

in the air,

sideways,

in the same spot

where your mouth

moved

like a cry of birds. 

CHESS

I play chess with my cat.
She knocks over the pieces
one by one. 

She sits in the middle
of the board like a queen.    
I prefer it this way.

I am out of options.  
The only checkmate
is to be yielding to

this fur-shrouded aura.

POEM

A glitch at any stage of

seamlessness in this ghostly

cocooned state is a landscape

that a Rolls-Royce would

struggle over, going kaput.

“America the brave” in the grave,

citizens living on covered bridges

of illusion, a grave “to have

and to hold” like Percy rising

from the Gulf of Spezia

with a crochet netting

to conjure up Mary Shelley,

as if like a wide-eyed Ebenezer,

eyes as bright as lanterns,

Harriet Shelley appearing

from the Serpentine to stop him,

rubbing her still plump belly

with hands of silver scales,

a landscape moaning with

gravitation: chilly, yet warm

to the touch, like a moon

ringed in fire. Who would dare

walk it now? An expedition

for scenic flights and ballooning,

or destitute sharecroppers

in Depression-era South;

a landscape stubbled with

quietude, the bones in our

bodies undisturbed, rings wildly

for our era, naked and challenged.

HOUSE

I alarm myself
when I walk
into someone’s house

that, at first,
resembles a
sugared peach,

sweet as
Orient Miscellany,
burning incense

of air,
to then discover
radical change;

sweetness
disappearing
like a rainbow,

as noticable as
a midnight
velvet sky

that is like
the black-toned
Bagheera.

Change of air,
like walking into
a morgue,

as unsubtle as a
sledgehammer, or
like being between

the hammer
& the anvil.
It is then

that I find that
in some manner
of peculiarity

I am unable to
walk away
from the house

that is like
a putrid litter-box,
somehow

unable to move,
as if I were
standing on

a sandy isthmus,
contemplating
both sides

of the coin. 

___________________________________________

I framed another void of thought

to watch it reveal another wall

behind another wall’s blitzkrieg

where I still clutch the clinging vine.

I would like to know the dead,

to squish through that void—soft,

moist as a sponge, nearly Play-Doh-like,

eject myself from this Mental Seat

for once, for a time, not reducing

but rejoicing, like a pilot in a burning

aircraft. What is the mind without

Abstraction? If I were a bird,

I would be a clay pigeon. A Cloud,

backlit by the clockwork of the

evening light—pink-orange magma.

It is difficult to juggle what is not there,

but detachments are necessary,

like standing in a thick forest—dark

as the insects as they watch from

the trees, the animals as scattered as

pointillism, every vein in each leaf

like the anatomical remains of

Henry Thoreau—the gaps in the tops

of trees could be me, or could be

like great nasal passageways, where I

breathe, undetached, going about

like the rattling chassis of a prancer.

___________________________________________

Some days you are the unfulfilled
cenotaph, & your heart beats like
the cadaver carrier tool that is used
to move corpses to morgues from
hospitals, showering a rain of melodies
that retreats like a troubled knight.

Do you see me as one of the
alternating sequences of your life?
A filmic parallel where the sun
is really amaigrissants stockings
stretched around the dust-bones
of the universe’s “sweet spot”?

What I am trying to say is that
we are all carrier pigeons, un-extinct
like catching a ghost in a lie about life,
but you cannot always expect
the flavor of life to be extra-crispy
on the bottom, like paella.

I will be here for you, please know,
like pears in the spring, like a raft
in a river of ice used to save the
drowning fisherman who caught no fish
that day, who has, himself, become
the fish, holding on for dear life. 

___________________________________________

Two beautiful blondes
drove by in a
magenta corvette

as I stood there
on the street
where blood

had once poured,
& who knew
that this moment

made me lesser
of a pixel?
The ground

should have
very well
just opened up,

swallowing me
whole. 92 degrees
in May,

too uncanny
of a resemblance
to July, & like

that honeypot Circe
who transformed
Ulysses’ companions

into pigs,
this heat
could make

a house transform
& die.
Earlier, I saw

a couple that
looked like
they had the

battle-lines drawn,
two humpty dumplings
falling from

the wall--
about as romantic
as purchasing

a slab of bologna. 
Without spats,
some people become

a spent force.
No matter,
I am in

my din
of childhood
where I

take the place
of the texts
of the present.

The present
is no match
for the past,

where I have
swallowed
the awkwardness

of youth. I could
have been the wind
that blew through

the hair of a former love,
but the burn-spots
left in my eyes

pierced through me,
everywhere,
the Great Core of

every matter
always stretched around
the clock,

a great fidgeting
of the mind,
lissome as

an unfull belly,
where the cache
keeps mounting

in shiny fallout,
disjecta membra.
Love-loss as

an art-form.
In the early 60’s,
Forbes was

attempting
to help prove
that business

& artistic expression
were not
mutually antipathetic,

& perhaps
it’s like the hero
that always refuses

an offered happiness,
bringing hardheadedness
into flower,

as poignant
as a flowerchild
in a wedding,

as vulnerable
as an egg in-hand.
& then there is pain.

Pain, like the
white rib
of a blue whale

lodged
into one’s pink
stomach.

This poem will
never end, like
the Pollock-movements

in my jumping-spider
body.
Will you wait for me

to release the snail
from my hand?
Will you catch it

before I drop it,
before the shell cracks,
before the eyelid

of this moment
blinks out?

___________________________________________

The clouds,
white-grey,
thick as a

Slavic accent.
The upward tongue:
imagine a cowlick.

This is the sun,
behind the overcast,
or a deleted scene

from a dream.

Some people
are soured

beneath breath,
leaving trails
of fallen stars;

a wounded elixir.
If we could
merely squeeze

the horizon together,
forced to a tunnel,
would this be

where Method begins?
Imagine expanding
to the limit

of your eye.
The way that
fog “holds” light.

Lozenge under

tongue, I am
the lozenge under

Tungsten
this night
like a still-life

& every time
I sit here,
whether incidental,

or consequential,
there is always
a purpose

for misleading
the eye, as if to
temporarily censor, to

add spirits, to
squeeze the citrus
from my heart,

a brewery for taste.

Out of the window,
cloudcover-low.

If the fog
gets any lower,
heaven will become

a halo
over my head,
Language tearing

through me
like the power
of hydraulic rams’ horns,

& there is no city
of comparible size
to that of the

poet’s heart;
his swollen crest,
universe-wide,

panorama-vast,
everywhere in motion,
in one guise

or another,
feeling as strange
as Hiroshima Day.

The light
within my soul
is far different

than sunlight. My eyes
sweep across
the sky

with tender ovations.
It is as if
this air were

vox, et praeterea nihil,
& that very voice:
as light-heavy

as a wishbone
tweezering
the heart.

__________________________________________

My heart reflects the colors of my brain.
I would rather have a broken heart than
a broken tripod. I enjoyed it when our hands
were like tripods in our hearts,
like new pressures, like a bodyguard
falling asleep while the gun is being loaded
in the distance.

The face is a camouflaged makeup where we
vanished through the tremors, leaving leftovers
for aimless objectives. I am often a typo, a static,
an interval veering into rhetoric supercedings,
therefore why should I ask myself what
I resemble & reflect when your third eye
always tells me what I do not ask for?
like a paranormal television turning itself
on & off, waiting for me to “make a move first”
& secondly:

I feel strongly about your spookiness
like a desire that reverses itself because you have
forgotten what it meant. I feel clung
in the teeth of a star, while you glide by on a meteor
resonating with retinal-blinking, your limbs
like taking apart an umbrella, like admitting
the bandaid didn’t work

& my heart still reflects the colors of my brain,
as if a rainbow sneezed, letting go a mass extravagance
that nipped every person on earth, turning their
darkest secrets into multicolored reminiscences of beauty,
enveloping the senses, the way that you elongated
every horizon with your smile, where I found myself
in those moments between image & self.

___________________________________________

What time should echo is the thing

that lets there be no mistake in the intention,

as last worst seen, barefoot.

In the woods I left the light to walk its own path.

Like Geronimo, I made no attempt

to count my own footprints. There were none.

If these windows breathed by comparison to

the flower's breath, we would cut ourselves

on the motionless surface of the night.

As a boy, the train tracks were a way

to meditate on the strangeness of youth.

Fastened to their intrigue, somehow

they always revealed new sets of

thought-patterns, as if with a spectral analysis,

the words still, even now, linger like thorns

around my ankles.

______________________________________

The obscurantist doctor
replaces the word Death for Life

with a resonance that builds
a framework of immediate

positive reaction,
but changes his tune

like a corruptible
one-man juggernaut,

taking on physical thrills
by ignoring wholly emotional

vulnerability, re-arranging
a room's glee, watching it flee,

& then reporting the real news,
then listening to all the shuddering,

the inner-vaccuum that
spins the energetic wound

of the Moment, like
a burning star, erupting,

unspooled from the cosmos.
& then, like a new gear moving,

there is a bright glow
left in the hospital room

where the loved one's spirit
has left the body: a perfected relief,

a pin-on mise-en-scène
where heart-thumps are assaulted,

left in silence, a memory
like a papier-mâché mask

incapable of being feverish
like family & friends

that eventually resume
their daily routines, a void left

like abandoned railroad tracks,
or like the branches of a fern bush

left bare from the sliding pinches
of a child's unknowing fingers.

__________________________________

It is difficult to take the heat off

if you are in the line of fire

but you can always keep the light on

underneath the coffee pot.

No matter how things shape up

the ruling class will always be

kicking around theory after theory

like some modern method of

fortune-telling. One could dig up

a mountain of gold, but one will be

mistook for a prowler, always living on

the other side of the tracks,

fraught with danger, like a child

riding a glass bicycle in a dark alley,

like being awake in a nightmare.

It is said that one shouldn’t run away

from something unless one knows

what one is running away from, but

often times when one takes the liberty

in finding out whatever it is,

it is like inserting one’s head into the

jaws of a lion—one enormous nuisance,

like trying to break through a

padlocked door. Danger often lurks about

in silence, planting distrust in one’s heart,

the way that a mosquito may land on

one’s flesh during the night, sucking

“in peace.” In this modern “dim age of

barbarity,” I just want to cut an Eden

into every home, quicker than the blur

of an ancient raider’s blade, giving one

something better to look at than the

daily decay.

______________________________________

There are a lot of things

that slip through the fingers

& become like vacant lots

where later you say,

I knew her when...

but you are only speaking

in riddles with unwavering

accuracy if you think that

the spirit of the past

does not remain. It is true

that things that come easily,

go easily, but sitting around

waiting for the photo to lie

is like touching the bottom

of the swamp, as if it were an

arrangement made in heaven.

POEM

The man-in-the-moon has been worn out

with trying to sleep with one eye. The sun,

giving him a hot foot, the way that the sweet

milk of romance will often curdle, or the way

that a groom or bride gets cold feet before

the wedding day—the use of last year’s brains,

deflaming, fleeing, & say, the bride, just standing

there in expectation like a stuffed owl,

looking as if she had fallen into a barrel of flour.

One must be careful to green-light romance

or else you may end up with a pocketful of rocks.

There are people that would rather be put to death

than put to shame, but at least they are controlling

their own tempos. On the contrary, there are

those that look to always be holding the canteen

in the blistering desert, that keep their “rank”

in a shrine, that build around their values.

Then there are those that will say, “Welcome to

my neighborhood” but are unable to remember

their house number. Yet still, through it all,

someone is thinking, “Instinct is usually always right,”

& the sun still shines as brightly as ever

& the moon’s illumination still ripens the night,

& most importantly, the moon still has her man.

CUT-OUT

Seeing an old girlfriend’s

new boyfriend is like looking

at a shadowy cut-out of myself

in a maze of similar avenues
& I think, “Do they compare the good
with the bad? the bad with the good?”

Time steers from our sides, is often

at a standstill, yet moves onward

the way that Good News

never comes too late; the way one

may look past you as if you were

not there, arousing a peculiar passion.

I see them together in a beautiful park

on an occasional shaky video—

sudden laughs; their eyes:

absent, grave & empty?

He, tugging at her negligee,

the reflections of the camera

in both of their sunglasses,

mimicking my “four eyes.” It is as if

cameras have been rigged to capture

all answers, to expel all mysteries,

like a house with secrets, walls with ears

& search-lights.

Many of these boyfriends appear

as if their wishes have been granted—

the girlfriend, on the contrary,

surrounded by a grayish-grim imbroglio?

What a treasure to have as pure a

conscience as a babe’s—my curiosities

& observations, like great thundering boots,

& when I see one wearing an iron key

on a ribbon around one’s neck, I think,

“That may be trouble,” like a false rumor,

for it is from Experience that I have

often caught that big bright eye

peeping through the keyhole, & I

cannot help but to wonder if there

are always saucy rogues

suspended around every relationship,

as if struck by frost, like a meaning

that never intended to mean anything.

POEM

Some days are like

bringing rabbits out of a hat.

Some days one must

hide one’s light

in a barrel. Some days

one’s heart doesn’t want

to to stay where it belongs—

it keeps going

flippity-flop flippity-flop.

Some days there are

unexpected pleasures

that leave you in a kind of

impressive pause

that lasts long enough

so that any random sound

will make you jump as if

gazing upon the nucleus

of the neurotic.

Yes, unexpected...

like over-hearing

someone say, “art gives me

the willies” or like tonight,

while flipping, or flopping,

through the Complete Poems
1913-1962 of E.E. Cummings

that I had recently obtained

from an antique store,

I discovered a pressed

marijuana leaf on page 776,

covering a poem titled SONG

where lines from the poem

such as “precisely ours /

is the now to grow” & “our summer

in fall / and in winter our spring /

is the yes of yes” befits my

inflamed discovery just as

“strolling slowly(mind in mind) /

through some green

mysterious land” caressed

the underside of the leaf

on the very opposite page.

& then I grew anxious for

more discoveries

so I flipped through the

thick book where I was

thinking that perhaps

I’d find money? a tiny birdie

with golden wings? & suddenly

on page 383

I made another discovery:

a four-leaf clover

that had perhaps been aching

to be seen again after thirty years

like a corpse that longs to be seen

in a wax museum.

ACCENTS

My thoughts are often thrown

through mill-wheels,

treading like

a secondary accent,

like one’s wisdom teeth

never cutting through.

The way that certain people

breathe, it’s like

they are telling fibs

through their ribs.

What could alter a voice

when one

“has a strong foreign

or regional accent . . .

the individual with the

less obvious accent

will naturally try

to mimic the stronger one”?

Was it the Toronto-native’s

eerie drawl that I mimicked,

or was it because

I sounded like

James Mason’s accent

in Lolita 

when he attempted

to delicately illustrate

his “mature depth”?

I speak in minimal scruples

when I am anxious,

like peppermints

melting on my tongue;

pearly taste where

taste-buds dance

as if at a polka party.

What of the accents

of eyes? Mental glottis, like

sweet scents of gardens.

A Beauty that is out-of-place

“like discovering a prim rose in a swamp.”

What of the accent of change?

the way that I spun around like

a frightened lamb this evening

as the dishes shifted like

the grounds underneath

a nuclear plant

after a major earthquake.

Should murderers be dipped

into radioactive lakes?

This poem may be about

accents, but it may not be.

This poem could be about

scaling up a wall

towards a window

(if I were that tiny)

where a fly buzzes around,

sounding like a dozen ‘copters.

The fly lands on the window,

cleans its antennas,

its legs moving as fast

as hummingbirds’ wings,

producing winds

that nearly throws me

off of the window sill.

However, I scale further

to get a closer look

at the phenomenon;

the fly’s multi-colored eyes

glistening off of my face

like a prism.

Has every accent been betrayed?

Perhaps Yogi Berra would take it

a step further, saying,

“It ain’t over ‘til you’re buried underground.”

Perhaps with a tooth

-y smile, like

a cobblestone road?

Accent of disappearing

from your body:

new verbiage for your

eternal destiny, passing

through, becoming

a “rookie” in the

Vast Unlimited shape

of it all, where

we are mere fibrils

in the

Universe’s body. 

MALE CHAUVINIST PIG

       I saw a male chauvinist pig today
with the distinguished head of a piranha,
wincing, fickled, adult-headed enfant terrible,

spouting utter nonsense beneath

an uncivilized veneer, Lord Chesterfield-like

in the eyes of emotional ignorance

like the government shutting down farms,

force-feeding their muscle-power.

       I saw a male chauvinist pig today:

his icy eyes glittering, an idol on a

giant cliff he placed himself, doffing

his cap in plainest language, like

The Department of Defense that is on

the offense, twisting every door knob

before tucking oneself to bed.

       This is our animal reality. The way

one's face may burn in the company of

strangers. Every chauvinist, male or female,

is stumbling towards a disaster; eyes

that feast on oneself like a narcissist Tsar,

"scowling like Jupiter."

OVERLEAVES

Overleaf

A distant reflection cast with classicist leanings. 

I wanted to borrow that woman's eyes for a moment: 

viaticum for vestige. 

Overleaf

I am staring at you from across this page.

I am a cyclops with two eyes. 

The "Cy" in "Cy Young" stands for "Cyclone." 

I am a cyclone with two eyes. 

The Alphabet, in clusters, is jumbled in my gums. 

"On the double, let's go!" 

Overleaf

I see my great aunt sitting on the front porch fanning herself with long bony fingers. 

I still daydream of dozing off in a field of cotton. 

Every piece of cotton, like tiny cumulus clouds hovering inches above the earth. 

I must remind you that this poem is for you. 

This poem is a well-fed ox. 

Overleaf

How strange to see wood that would not burn. 

Old habits are kept like sunscreen that gets skin-deep; 

a re-charging of the body, as fresh as islands of green.

Overleaf

I watched a yellow butterfly flutter majestically over the top of a red car. 

Visions, stretched like dough. 

Overleaf

Is anything ever actually 100%? 

Overleaf

Too sudden our time slips away, like slashing off the heads of flowers. 

An oyster choking on its pearl. 

Overleaf

I could give you my knees. 

I want you to stand tall. 

I want you to hand me your arms as we witness the alpenglow sweep over the city,

like the tolling of a bell speaking of the passage of time.

Overleaf

The fervor of violence coupled with a thrust & counterthrust of the hearts of Men, thirsting. 

Spiritual throats swallowing all of the sorrow from their Tumultuous Whole. 

Overleaf

If our little lives are "rounded with sleep" why then do I keep awake like a giant colonnade? 

A fiction? 

A frenzy to be so alive like moods of Bach? 

Overleaf

I attempt to live in two worlds at once; each interpenetrating the other.

To turn a new leaf will be glossed at will. 

To tear a photograph out of mid-air. 

A work that is fragile & too quickly forgotten. 

YOU FACE THE DAY

with the radio on

the night before

is as silent as unrented rooms

No

make that

an ever-invisible satellite

scanning the heart's desire

in every room

"the only place not being occupied is the ceiling" 

I face the day 

as if blackbirds

beat through Bach

beat-boxing

The night before:

broken vessels

tissue-soft looming

tree's root's circulatory certainty

Flags might be flowers with ventilators 

Uncertainty

perfectly pancaked 

between your day & mine

We ripen the chosen parts

Everything else is rottening like momentary planks

except Light

Light is its own soft bee

glistens like orphans with a new family

Deathrow is lifelike

a weak arm like a broken window

An actor always "looks like"

someone else

blasphemer of life's emitted death

Take aim and be me

be me

To take every moment

as a galaxy

leading you into a waterfall

quite clearly

Arousal

Our Bio's are perfect circles

but who listens?

This is ironic

&

Irony is a Christmas crook

slipping on crooked frozen mistletoe