that fool moon again

we are golden

A. Lash, flutter the 1st

Retrieve you me
with bowls and fire
we are an intensity
altogether free of ad-
mixture adverse your
sovereign and purse
have no alloy allure
ally with only my own
flashes no lie now you
own it too know to line
two pockets one currency
concurrently to see all
my current set to thee

B. Flam, accent on the 2nd

We are golden I said
I’d stay my mention of
fetching but I lied an ever
treacherous incentive of one
one‘s eye beguiled by a shine
deeper than the mine itself
mine myself in ceaseless shifts
for a pinch of dust to be mine
you mine, you mine me you are
mine we mind our mine never
minding which contingency is
fit for impressing at the mint
my flan fantastic you can
print this year in me for
ever reeding my sides or
rolling a priceless clip

I am in the dumps today

I come with my head of
steam to find your place
among the garbage there to
make a trench from every bit
of refuse you have nothing
on you and when you do I
do compose an appeal to my
mistress of the compost who
suffers no rubbish in her own
or any body at her disposal

Site me a grim position and
she cites my own collection of
curb-shovings and broom rub-
bings never wholly curbed in me
to the possessing nature of
possessions left out because
no one opened treasure there,
there where it always was

I am to make a playground
to lay the ground as long
to glisten green again
to play in it until contact
a constant with her dirt
stains me with its shade
sun drenched envy not of
earth or within but from
countless outside who see
our conservatory burgeon

dirty girl

I am too, you know,
a dual twist of nature
isn’t negligently let go
that isn’t cheaply shown
to be prevalent but of like
lust with a sister familiar
with wicked grins we are

It is conditional as in
‘tis a condition preferred
ever since my fantasy
and me tumbled in sand
coupling great clumps in
hand till every exposed strip
of land on earth was our box
no toy required but a boy
and his filthy fascination

Certainly I am eminently
capable to see the irony
in that assessment and as
such savor it all the more
all in my head an intensity
unwed to convention not to
mention men who would have
said a lexicon in their haste
to fail or share their better
taste, to have or have not
half a sea-horse pattern af-
fair I diver or runner you are
headfirst for a second burst
to take together or insularly
place in the earth carried
where spades can’t bury me

my hypothesis (vagabond)

It’s a mystery you willing
to come with me the man-
ufacture of belief from the
least inspiring pieces on it, a
planet out of the league of big
bangs blackboards and beakers
for the birds it’s worth a look
by my beak you better be

ready for the first century
of flight was just dust on
the radar picking up not a
path-stratospheric but the
lost cells even the idle shed
as now we shake the blue
screen better than the big
screen bigger than the beds
best practice may be nobody’s
business but ours flying-by

and standing, lost, gained,
maintained in every fangled
manifestation of the right
brain and what’s left, of it,
who needs its cells for more
than breathing but our blood
beating is not the means we
impart more than we teach
that my horizon is the east
what will it be, will it, be

from each his theory, to each her
premise, suggestion, assumption
to be a-gain, my primary, proof
boosts sunsets serenities truth

I could use somebody

Some body and its tenure
I didn’t think to intervene
but now it never seemed
more vital than to see, use
each of the two hundred
plus bones all they connect
and every interlinking inch of
the soft tissue and touch
not as much offertory though
let it be applicable as such
ravenously prone we tore each
piece successive as the dip
in oils, wine, olive and mine,
sheen, a perfect fourteen line

Piece of work, you also,
could use a construct straight
out of prehistoric days no
pages register the first
aptitude and immersion
of a tool, of hands and
confluence (you were) confident
you wanted influence you win
with effort without intending
it means utility you will see
made able to reach through
you this purest twenty-six

honey keeps forever

Honey keeps forever he
thought as the once fluid
substance was crystalline
he’d apply more heat
deeper in the water and it was
viscous in mere minutes
again to smear it as many
mornings as its waiting for
wanting more to bite

Peace be with your property
not proper land for keeps
bees or anything we are
more than dew or golden-
rod hoverers to flower
nectar of the glots we
come to speak and brought
honey for sticky junkies
and assurgency to dance

I am justified to find
that for the first time your
pool though never frozen
the butter blade that goes in
never catches any honey with
the next move to spread you
in seventeen directions from
a dead stop (to stupor) a fly to
tear from want (of her) to glut
her talk to me sweet superfluity

“I cannot repeat emotion, no one can”

You had a grasp on humanity
you knew it by its throes
but you threw away what can be
said of the heartfelt that
hasn’t been felt forever and
just as readily put to flame

Flames you may remember
well or ones to come to fear
they were entities separate
with catalyst and harvest
pressed it was never the virgin
oil that made it burn your
pit assured, lee and lo sunk
so juices go inseparable from
stone though you strain them (so)

It didn’t stop the gorge
the second it was poured
your face made full of the orb
low hanging till every grin
a glistening spectre of the
frenzied spectacle called love
(was gluttonous for what)
an inflammable film you wish
to wash but not extinguish

The burn cannot be repeated as
you can’t reheat the spent fuel
we saw in plumes as rockets
bear over and out of this
world a dusk coloured ethereal
by our glaring waste but there in
the wasteland as penned I can
lastly rivet a glare returned

candy apple

Before the teeth were in
to last you till you die a
particular bite could jar
them leaving an emptier
head by a few grams of
calcium and in the gap of
your candy apple grin an
indiscriminate and young
(diversion of the tongue)

What we got was more
than a wax paper parcel
twisted with the only twist
that a child should be
given in a winter of content
consumption one exhausted
only by sweet vigor’s play

Sweet, a cherub cheek
from cold winds and busy
goings and the inflation of
a famished bite all the more
profound for what futures
will tell in the ornament or
function of fruit on our hearts
for ready or not they fell, fall

Country roads to old
orchards I will hold that
as a polished orb of more
than a rosy view produced
through the backseat window
of father’s car not half by far
or quarter-red and gold
your bushel is ever whole

tickle

To excite agreeably
to leave everything in
a sensation lingering
longer than the literal
touch so much extends
in an index terrestrial
grow earthier by each
tilling of the arable that
counterintuitively deepens
roots while removing
extraneous tangles that
squeeze a quiescent center

Meristem my merry
friend, silly and cilia ami
in the elegant bend on
sides exposed a traction
it didn’t take, take a week
and a day to play a rhythm
amid a mid-section tickle
apropos for a moment you
won’t believe how long it
seems either lungs can’t keep
up or seize at that contact

A tit for tat reaction so to
speak of it, I am not ashamed
to tackle the name of the one
what done this fit ridiculous,
ridiculously in with me chatter
teeth and fingers serpentine
wriggle fidget writhe all in
the skin sensations pulled
in the morning before any
bird ran-sacking the same
(dirt, earth)

still in love 10000 dishes deep

I’ve got the hands that can
swim in blind and infiltrate
or overtake slime and piles
never minding once for mine
is otherwise engaging and in
a different parade of dishes
dirties and cups what one can’t
hold is so far navigable that
she bowls me over brimming
as any boat bowing in the sea

Slop on top of the heap is
still slop and is still on top I
cast a thought to wee sarah
stout and her teetering mound
of flatwear and crockery err
on procrastination’s behalf
having brethren ferried off when
baptism comes or just another
hunger needing place and plate
may the scrappy scrape by

but forget not she of the stack
has more than soppy or puckered
skin she is beyond living in sin-
ful routine with dawning and the
egg cup holder tappity-cracked
it had to be but it doesn’t has
to be for in her the glossary
to speak for in untold tongues
not for washing (or just for it)

tippy in the drip, the flow, sur-
rounding us afloat in a ba-sin
of knowing unfathomable (love)

bucket (qui vive?)

Everything‘s not as we want
it always pretty and care free
there may be a trace of that
ageless face saving contain-
ment in buckets on hand
but that can’t hold the whole
cyclone from the coast no
body can be immaculate
in that wakeful vigilante
frantically on guard for the
obvious flash brought to us
by the light of the silvery sea-
side and her vagabond grey
makes eyes perilously wide

Ha! So we were caught with no
thing to save the christian wave
of burial a military mass (on the
other hand) never asks for one
part wail as the others parted
bail for all the pale imperiled
gloomy to all but content
of the pail and in it failures
of constitution and good
sense not to regale invalided
sailors with your own sick
sense whatever events tran-
spire in for crow’s nest or cox-
swain they’ll find their feet again
and weather can never prevail
permanently it slacks you see
(back to the pearliest days)

anything you can say to the mirror but not to me?

It is reasonable even if
I only have ears for you
a euphony coming through
the static and cracked
panes to make plain
what was everything but

It was a different year,
not new, before you looked
to calendars yet you kept
reflective retreats in reach
the parts of speech still
fresh as your understanding
how to re-arrange the least
flower, print, shade and find
your powers that preempt
language never estrange it

in your inconclusive fits,
the start of aptitudes and
aspirations easiest to face
alone, and in the necessary
cold after steam your word(s)
seems termless to rejuvenate
when tongues could say any
thing it was always you

purer than the market
can bear to part an addiction
an art—work that not a one
from gallery to alley need
would wish to live beyond
without to have exceeded

downside of up

I was raised to see many
sides to any arrangement,
blindly thinking it is good
to be set for money but what
about cory and his settled
piece a luxury in the clear
heads get a sudden suspense
when you can vent or see
its contents sans imagination
(and magnetic imaging)

Faces of dealing
we each have a dabble
mostly falling short of
peeling grey matter off
walls its patterns old hat
in specks and skulls, hair-
line fractured and chaff
it wasn’t our dashed sanity
(ghastly transformations)
in a bead to rail against

It is not among my first
defence apparatuses to
take value at that face and
aim ahead the questioning,
what’s all this and who do
you work for then expect the
suspect in afflicted flutters
to let it all fly for no price
to ride, whatever(!), hang it
all is my reply when pressed to
investigate, academically at best,
what drove those so adrift
and remotely triggered it
was because it is, so?
what’s enough to believe

“fuck-it”

Humdrum and a rhythm
spark makes the makers
mark their intention and
time like a long sought for
score your awe inspired com-
poser whipped off as after-
thought so much effort on
your part made all the less
remarkable by what it was
and done in a snap at that

So if you shout not now
not fair how did this come
about not in your evenings
meticulous with a lyric all
bent around the smooth
essence and effervescent
strings as you string them
proof to plum and croon
to the hum by one by one
cruel to the known atmos-
phere be still till the adjacent
section conduct or chair
frets nearer thee unseated
there theirs was a rocking
movement to the jaw, with-
drawn right angles to podiums
were moved the more he wrote
the more handiwork we owe him

but as the stick conducts it
a point comes to say fuck-it

under the flickering shadow of the oak tree

We chose it, our own forest
of verbs with “failing” not among
them unendingly and hopeless
you copses and new homes row
trees romantic, and notions
where to sit and kiss it the
perennial child’s jibe while
none can have climbed as high

As we (have been) positioned
to have a shadow of our own
over the others, to be up—
to dabble and dapple glad to
dazzle and defy straight-laced
angles of light into these beams—
to come down, to be without
rope and heavy tread of roads
logging longing hours while spring
pours from parties you used to bark<BR>
(skylarking)
At coming noon refutes what you
knew to be a vestige cast and
hewn of a climactic sun one
destiny among its density
in a mass, bio, metric, high
ten and evermore forward
where a purposeful squirrel
pieces together, nests to care
for what can’t be carried alone

are rays conceived not grown
the abiding slope of a rowan
extends above flowers spread
and won by unstoppable sun a
canopy commensurate and one

you got heart

It’s a sole source, you were,
holding on without force
in an open vein until all
pressure is caught, erased

You got heart, all the cour-
age written of in papers
when we still had an inkling
to print you were more than
news, you were physical,
the feeling in fingers
rubbing themselves as if
to snatch one more segment
of you as headline or
savor your flush traces
still visible between prints—
you are material and more

I got heart, an ache of
the family we are the irony
in our blood, goblins of
globin hobbled not in
constriction but excess—
who I love and who is less
never registered in the
central vestibule of this
assemblage, soft, red

We got heart, hearts, too
(oft apart, aww they)
started and are allowed
to repeat their raison d’être
all aloud, to beats we set the
scene, block feet and clock
atomic‘s not the closeness
of warm blood in the room
with you, not an empty
outline on the wall

cats?

It has to be a standby
idea and we all have one
to wheel out when waddling
is not the floor show pro-
spect but you can live with
it for a year, roughly, as
one does with what one must
but sometimes the feline just
has more purchase than a cat

Central committee,
shelter, alley and canned
fish for your moral(e) sup-
port for what the locals call
mongers mongrels all that
mangle the trophy wall
mounted and wife with a
rifle, defiled mackerel for
your pricey tea and strife

So they go and curl and
play cutesy but the minute
you see that nosy nose you
know no good is gotten
up to until you turn again
and again the same angelic
shape makes up for every
provisioner shredded
(through with truth and claw)

zombie(s)

She accused me of being dead
but I am not game, today
there is a different body
governing the situational
interchanges in this sport
interlocutrix for a heads up
lock you up or knock you

Heads down empty or off
highfalutin’ movie stuff
to show what does or doesn’t
come under invocations of
dabblers in the insanitary arts
she stops watching as arteries
have there release when we
sever this capillary spigot

Do the undead get their goose
flesh as we do unable to keep
excitement away or stay
awake after this penetrating
terror takes the breath of us
how much we‘ll find outside
the sparse few lines of tomb
stone epistlers, side splitter
her deed becomes sunless

For one reason the chills and
damp of that enforced reverie
were never your debility were
we staked a feudal nation of e-
states the interring population
would be but seeds of a dande-
lion and I found isolated be-
side me a moth-eaten lea she’s
given in a scent we can’t snuff
(rub out, yet be it deathless)

what I miss (sixes and sevens)

You could fill your proverbial
gideons with another run of
the phenomena of luck
bell-view a belle belly
yer ready to be stuck
bullseye bingo buckle
up for the wheel is wild
and driver out of her mind

Outta here, struggle and
gear never having action
before engagement makes
contraptions shake and veer
from purposes imperial
all the nile by wheel we
came not from space ship
or quarry a body stacked up
for odds ferocious or impor-
tuned for you turn to deal

What I miss isn’t position
of the wheel or spin it is
the thrill for a fraction
and as least proponent
of arithmetic and odds
you are not at odds by me
to add to that my beastly half
shuffled into one piece (whole)
and I do feel it with each lap
we do, a revolution, a spin
wheel recent to our world

rocks/on the rocks

It’s on the ground, so much
it’ll break you if you try
to fill your arms or raise
a mound, old stones not
restricted, cold stones all
you lifted was a flake
of the universe itself
but how we put it down
after mulling each shape
and saying “too jagged” or
“my how round” let’s see how
it takes to this pressure
of unsparing other stones
weighting it in spins akin

In my hunting it wasn’t
fossils form or hardness
I was on all fours for
nose brushing her in each
pass always for fractions
closer to the core for
weeks I broke down with
nothing but dust to sustain
it is in those privations we
find how much we are immune
to after all the sifting and
scrutiny of shale in hand
we can determinately see
it’s on the ground and in it,
it is it, the wanted, crushed
we’ll not walk away with(out)

mind-boggling

If I had the presence
of it I’d stop everything—
writing, coming out at the
seams—but the breathing,
and dreams they are evening
company can’t doubt belief

All our shapes contained
in the alpha organ top
flight of the attic a crawl
space in the basement take
the game out of the game
not the game from gamer
so sure of rules and what’s
the use of cardboard or
plastic pieces to two de-
votees in versatile pursuits

All I remember is shaking
not of a box and its upside
down tiles the sketchy dials
or even capped vials of sand
trapped to measure what we
never could figure before
this tremor of the board
showed more than shudders
of passing trains and fidgets
agitation in the veins its
shift within a second from
out of it with nothing to
automatic and switched
on, spectator to pacesetter
competitor to completed
leave the rabbit running on

uncanny you

I have been the eerie and in
whatever emulation can be
raised from this world of
imaginations limitations (so)
many of those bodies though
live are not alive beyond it
we are but are not seen
to be phenomena as wraiths
and wails sailors tales of old

(So) Light up your light house
white and resplendent(ly) bathed
by what you can do no other
than emit all colours in one
blood bled as prisms in mist
made lost generations awe
and quake when countenance
ablazethere was thought of gods,
and aversion of the seas these
creatures can’t make language
but it’s there between the fog
and the rock an overtaking
volta quells what was deluge
within a whish without airs
all is wells well calmed

other side of the keyhole

All of what you see with eyes
is irrelevant you can be inside
with a wealth wider than all
imagination or huddled over
the cold shell (from without)
hoping for a moments support
before pure weariness at last
succumbs to sleep always a
peer from the outside with
cruel cage as a head rest

What we each treasure is
not the contents of a chest,
but maybe it is that, exactly,
an attachment made of flesh
and fragile clasps instead
of cast metal, seldom wel-
come to a warmth in touch
(let us open with that)

Pillowy the wool and me—
we pull, as a tattered shawl
or bed clothes all muscles
tug for their own side and home
free is not the scapegoat and ox
zen is the outlook of rough
living the outlet of past punches
guzzled, stomached and brunted
yet here we are majestic
and lesser chests alike ready
for the eye to eye reveal for
the side more to your liking

map sonje ou

I saw you after the fact
you were marked by it
gladly a shot of sugar
you turned from pure to burn
the blister of alcohol
and organ drying out under
a hyperbolic sun

We checked our signs and
dug again around the traps
not as shallow as memory
recalls always another beast
leaving familiarity for holes
your implausible presence
did not throw off the hunt
it fostered from wanting the
one deathless testament

There were unreturned attempts
like suicide and murder were
bywords on the island of our
coelacanth, cool hands in a
fry pan, quick wit in the pen
deliver indication or us
from it, an indigo whisper
where we bled but bleed no more

Masters of the artful
telling have scuttled what
at christening was all
promise fallen to fields
some distances stay put
shot rolling with no faux
foliage to stop it now

it’s no small feat to love simply as you and me

You‘ll never experience small
again because it’s in extremis
that this and living begin
pumping the stuff in the
compressor never used before
you’re helium high and oxygen
combustible while inflating more
than a shiny casing for one days
flight by bedsides or pony
rides getting well or barely a-
live all felt happily after being
tied at the wrist with this
knot without a string uplifting
more than meets the Mylar my love

(whatever floats your BoPET my pet)

Go peep, me boy, me beau
this floating has been anything
but predicable we are the wind
invisible and ever circulating
only the buoyant to begin with
taking little (of import) with us when we
blow a whole concession of con-
fession not a hole but a draft at a
loft you keep your Ts crossed
like our fingers gripping the
tether in-name that doesn’t tie
the balloon to the human but the
child to the sky it keeps on rising
while we find our toes are only just
brushing the dust to step, two step

bella

Perhaps the thought was
another tongue could trip
me up but it’s been hopping
too long in these size tens
to be stumped by the stub
of an adjectival extolling
though I do need to stoop
to make the laces straight
a posture to fit the terrain
one man is a wicket an hoop
pure as any manufacture
of rubber and animal
skin too far from subliminal
to forget about the heels

They were dug in to ring
it high as the cathedral bal-
cony and higher still a tower
filled with tones exquisite
from a distance but in the al-
cove where it came a pain
to the one sense and all
by extensions when once
it stops it never stops for peace

And quietly we quiet leave
these spaces for public veneration
and find a private silence, place,
perfectly breaking it, no
crowd or ding of the forge
alternately loud and soft
seldom intelligible but for
one terse word slipped in
(bella, again)

the first I was aware

It was enough for the out-
siders to say I was hysterical
and if they knew what I now
did there’d be a masters bearing
therapist to declare a wild
veering near the attic stairs

It was a summer day when
sweat escaped even the indigent,
came in great rivulets to
roost and drop from the nose
perusing literary boons lost
or last, ever in the white
caps of a windless noon

It was on one of those jobs
taken at the time to pass
the time because dying was
not quite a priority, before
the weight of occupation
became a chore, but not an
angry one, just something
else on a list to get done

It was a conversation I was
finally wise enough to just
listen, even with subjects
repetitive or uninspired
because it could be, and we
are the ones jumping from
rafters and steps a forum
yet to see the triumph
nets in our arrival as we leapt

you’re the first person with blue eyes I’ve loved

Was a line I wrote before
I was certain, not of the love
but of intensity suspended
if you will an iris is belief

I had one photograph
remembered, not for want
and against… well who cares
how that thought ended since
it was a past imperfect yet
still it led to this and so
far that’s more than a little

But I wasn’t sure of the true
tone two hue/trois couleurs,
blue, but one of your blazes
superimposing my dream
that night at your ignition
waiting for the one night I
might envisage it outright,
as one who‘s one by right
to stare and not to break
beyond feint at confirmation

And I thought blue-grey but
was enamored to see I had
to add a primary to the palette
amazed but in a way that is
expected of virtuosos never
let down however the refrain
plays out, drowns in infinity
fraught before I found this
green oneness of the sea

Welcome Home

I’ve had many conversations
waiting for this one day we
may say to each other with
the ability to look away
when we never will

It is here in arrival no
single point or map spot
for what do latitudes matter
when the magnetic pole shifts
us we still have this compass

Pretty words and prettier
outskirts for the prettiest
vista ever anticipated you
are essential to the view
could come through the sierras
silver-streaked and not meet
let alone equal it for you the
stunning summers peak

I take it yet you never
left for the mountain is e-
phemeral a mere hill to the
indelible line of you and sky
combined to checkmate its set

Quickly as you went we
find more than advice not
for affinity of the indigenous
guides but blindly by the right
curve or cleft, cliff or pike