________________________________________________________

Once I am gone,
I want
the bones

of my body
to be
crushed finely

into a paste,
whereas it could be
used as white ink.

The evening forgets
you and I;
the fish ponders it

in a graver thought.
To discover
nothing;

the angels weep
upon the lawn
of

the
American black cloud.
Someone

has chased me
away
from falling, from

staying
in one place.
Balance

on the moon,
try not to walk
tippy-toe;

eye-shakes
like a drunken
security guard;

the spot-light
flips and
flops like

Paul Pierce's head,
pierced by morning,
a bunch of computer

-generated cortexes.
I ripped off
the frozen

door-handle
from
the passenger's side

of the car
in the coldest
concentrated cold

in a decade.
Everyone is
always wrong.

I am
dimming into
brightness;

drumming secrecy
is rising
into the numbing sun

like some versatile gypsy.
I chew up
the air

in my soul-vent.
I paw my way through
the geraniums in spring.

I am
out to lunch.
Bother me
but beware

of the air
that will toggle
with your noodle-toes.

Language
should always be
lazy and obvious,

naming myself
as if from an "idea";
shenanigans

amidst a kind of
post-hysteria.
I am out to dinner.

I will
fill another
nearing-window

with
the same words.
I have heard

from
the curious traveller;
to satisfy himself

upon all accounts
to discover
the eye of

singular
disappointment;
to survey the world afterwards

so that the outworks
occupy a large
acknowledged situation

from which
there is
an easy entrance,

like
the small visibility
in "Étant donnés."

Even though my father
was never "on the scene"
after my birth

I still feel as though
I am living
within

a posthumous existence.
There is
a difference

between a 'wave'
of sadness
and 'waves' of sadness.

Today, I felt
the latter after
driving by

a scene
of cats
surrounding

a dead kitten
in the middle
of the road,

seemingly
mourning
like elephants

yet what they appeared
to be doing was
eating its innards.

Angels with pinlights
punched through the night sky;
these are the stars.

Standing
on Lurch legs.
I look down

at them
the way an inmate
would

look down
after dropping
the soap.

It is cold in here.
Look at me
and warm me.

________________________________________________________

The apple ate itself.

The seed within

grew like an ingrown toenail—

intercourse of the interior.

________________________________________________________

excisionable sterling screens do not hide behind what you feel will force you into a shoal
let the scalawags stand out "test yourself: whose lips are these?"

Roman balance or Romance balance which one?
the streets are plenty busy Israel is being cut in half by knives of imprudence
cab drivers are like emergency responders meanwhile
even a "possible asteroid" seems corporate

let's find the mountaineers who murder for the sake of blood
put them in their tête-à-tête or be forgivable

you can take the exit history takes the exit water pipes being dug up in the city
this city cannot handle bitter cold weather sweat-laced roads malfunctioning
plumbing opening up the gateways trolly-tracks are now visible from underneath
is this 1909 all over again?

i celebrate by staying on my lawn the factories are feeding coughing
like incommunicable petitions what we mirror is what we become
understand the struggle understand the struggle fly from the struggle
feathered-like like the bombyx mori a bomb goes off money clings to smiling mouths
swallowing it whole marginal croons clogged legs Anne Waldman's voice-box

we are forced to be anchored ashore never let anyone know that you have won money
like Abraham Shakespeare who is feared dead this is the element of the world fear
fear underneath the umbrella underneath the skies there are downloads for that
just throw away all instinct

________________________________________________________

Imagine crunching into that rhinocerous
beetle. French braids in the mouth. Gold
-fish flushed, display your inward telegram.

This is a pop-up magazine, a way of
schooling or interferring with textbooks,
those that are unearthed, incarnations with

-out any new roots. This winter, my outer
-shape is like an Arctic Cathedral; a mental
catalyst, calloused by blister-rubbing words,

words & more words, like birds & birds,
like volcanoes in Japan. Our mouths.
Seething heretofore perfectionism, like wine,

my skull outlasting your skull, delivering
lectures to myself in a cold bedroom at
midnight with my hands clasped tightly.

I think, I am not a little boy. I am layered in
routine, thinking of beta carotene or old
Beta machines. The union of science is

problematic, as if caucasians are nothing
more than bleached Africans. What equals
yummy? swatted insects, unlucky fellows,

your favorite performance, prolonging.
Contrarywise, I like to know that people
are gleaming amongst Lord Byron

or being graffitied into the study of hope
& triumph. I want to get yanked up voluntarily
like sprouted weeds, show what roots still

remain, show what I am made of, the way
one has their hair pressed into shape with
netting. Momentum is always brimming, is not

a spot-light hog like the appearance of boiling,
but is like the uninterrupted listening of
parental affection guided by the voices of

the Victorian era. As fit as a fiddle, brittle.
What's a tree but a shower curtain, verbal
S-A-T. I sit. I now know my baitonik place

amongst what human speech consists of: SOUND,
like how Visual Sense is created from listening
to radios. Mental martial-arts.

________________________________________________________

Angels sitting
on a newel post
as if like
a portable cyclotron

Confidence
slides away
like something slippery
like Flipper

Psychologists
must remain indifferent
There is an appearance
beyond Youth

entirely awry yet defining
forms of sincerity
Trifling ladies
grow annoyed by my whistling

Somewhere love swells
Each handwritten letter
is a form of breathing
The walls are as bare

as my body
like an empty snail-shell
I close the blinds
and listen to my heart

beating, seemingly
mustering the energy to
come right out of my chest,
turns into a chrysalis in the open air

________________________________________________________

Rivulets
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?
Concentration!
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
-rails
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.

________________________________________________________

The FBI are secretly fibbing, like a folly mob
beyond the air, & what exceeds what is seen
as if we all need Bausch & Lomb? Visual scare.
Have you ever heard the sound of shivering weights,
or shivering waits, of those that mumble 'neath their
breath at the tipping point, breast fuming like
a motor-mouth’d cueball without an open-end
to enter, or the unifying of a dodderer’s confusing
assurance that "sets the eyes" like the way
one would set a table? Who would have known
that the porch is presenting itself as a welcoming
target. Bless my heart! Bless yers. Bless years.
Old bodies as confused as war-bombs, today
feels like regiments, a training of the mind,
or of a body, like floating ballerinas, or the
shaped-dimensions of athletic cheerleaders that
suddenly fall & bump their knees. Mark Twain
is the prince of the air. One day I will again be
an American. One day the fields will not have to
sigh. One day Circumstance will be lead into a
gliding Luminescence. My legs 'shuffle' like
Porfyrius, or the language in a Shakespearian text
of which charms & makes one yearn.

[Throughout The Poem]

Throughout the poem
there are pauses,
like right before a storm,

too ghastly to explain,
or not at all. Safety exists
within sorrow--

how I have felt this knotted quilt
flapping over my heart
like a wind-blown bed-sheet

hanging out to dry
blowing in the oceanic wind,
like the arched back of a woman,

the weight of a puzzle, a fire
kindling, clothed by your
backbone, bright as silver.

________________________________________________________

Missing equations, to be imperfect,
burning and sizzling like beef
in grease. I hush
through the narrow of your
voice that I have never heard
but have seen blazing by my eyes
constricting my neck fashionably
stingingly-stirring out what you want
to function to remain like a catalyst
of our roots, newer figs to pick.
Re-arrange me like a chef shapes food.
Chiropract-icality reality. It is said that
the human being was invented in Europe
like everything else. Re-invent me,
touch me, Scandinavian Design me,
but not with your hands. I lift my
eternal head in song, untidily and
starved, and your eyes burst into mine,
bright-white and everywhere, like
gutting a pillow, or a cloud
of snowy innards.

Exclaiming Exclamation

Think
of an exclamation point.

Now,
think of that exclamation point

flipped upside-down.
Did you see it

flip in your mind?
For me, the exclamation point,

at one point,
began spinning

like an out-of-control compass.
It is doing that now.

Until I think of it
as being frozen

solid. It then stops spinning
and begins to tremble.

________________________________________________________

"Getting" afloat.
Fairly heroic.

Cloudpuffwhite
Walt Whitman bearded.

Sight. My eyes
are so green that when

I look at you, your face
becomes an emerald,

or like a meadow
that is so completely absorbed

in its color that
it catches in your throat.

Flowers never need
alterations.

Sometimes
the sky is so beautiful

that even the windows
are in awe,

not letting me
see it clearly.

Windows
built into us, into our limbs,

my feet have bricked wells
built into them,

Thus
I fall into myself.

________________________________________________________

You

and

your

thick head of

hair,

your trendy shades,

and

I mean the shadows

beside you

and not

the shadows

under your
eyes, grape-colored,
bruised-like, when do you
ever sleep? O the power

of youth,

how it feels to be

energetic

with desperation,

without

the urge to fall
face-down on

The Urge Of.

This is not a poem for a reader
so stop what you are doing—

invite the Blank into mind
as you would a guest.

There is no use in digging up the
cultural contex of
frequently-wronged margins.

________________________________________________________

Made trails with my finger
in the dirt in the eye of the dirty dirt


a strip of circular stickers
reminding me of the tentacles of an octopus



an encircling octopus shoots out The Inky
vision decreases shade sunlight

like the curve of a seahorse's tail



The tongue can often slice like catfish scales




I will settle for the trail that you
have walked if I cannot have any of you.

________________________________________________________

I am more tired than America. Lungs dry, but fire in
the soul like a blazing landfield, high fevers in the wind,
nothing is more in control than females. I was told today
that I am a hologram. The sky is tired, the sky is dry,

worse than the Jurassic era, and everyone will soon say
that every city is okay, but rather is filled with terror.
Angry boar-pigs abound, worse than dirty fingernails,
sluggish snails. Thoughts blinking off and on like an arcade

room, like a designist dream despite being deceived by
the design, like "the perfect child" that becomes a victim of
harrassment at nine and then is on trial by the age of twenty-five.
How quickly the tides change! no strings attached to chalk-dust,

the way the flick of a cigarette butt sparks like a "human star."
Everything is possible, as clean as perfume-air, do not let
sadness hold you. Pry it out, pry it out of you, like fragments
from books. Let the door that you enter into be the door that

keeps you from entering into deeper issues. There is nothing
more fruitier than ovaries. There is an embassy of words in
my head. I am too talkative at times like a puppet, and maybe
these are the walls to hide behind, like the mouth of a ventriloquist.

ET CETERA

The et cetera
is like the bright light
at the end of the tunnel.

I am an et cetera
at the bright light
at the end of the tunnel.

So still and quiet
that either you do not
see them or you have made
an error that does not need
to be corrected.

~

I woke up this morning, feet frigid, mind rigid,
congealed in the center. How strange to possess
certain thoughts; a flood of memory, like rain-
pour, eye-soar, wounds never to speak for, thrill
enjoyed like a novelist finding words in sympathy.
Could use an icecube, I am often susceptible to
intimacies, turned around and said “freeze.”
I feel like a Largo, riding the Orient Express,
T.S. Eliot frames with a silver chain on the vest,
disastrous probiscus ... what about dangling a
deadly spider over a silent witness? Oh, at last
the storm draws closer, in character, like a
woman with a black comma of hair falling over
the eyebrow. Recognition is wrecked, like an
unactorly performance, no visible human inter
-vention, venting on preconceived notions:
Mostly the trick has been to find unknowns,
like a monster of Beatlesque sattire overpower
-ing an atmosphere. Concocted memories. I am
passing around a hat, throw in your dreams. Face,
smoothe with fusion-power, a moment devoid.
Walking tip-toe does strong things to shin muscles.
Imagine unrecoverable spaces. Think saucy.
I could be standing nonchalantly beside a dinosaur
femur. Cameras holding their breaths during summer.
Drawing flak from its owner. Long melodious
complaints; teeth-like iron-work, tongue like a
fuselage, erupts. There are times when I feel like
there is a boiling egg in my throat, or maybe it is in
my heart, maybe I don’t really know where it is at,
like a drunkard trying to shave, looking in a mirror,
seeing someone else, not seeing anything, maybe
spots of blood on the neck.