~tell the river~

tell the River she
commands it.     Tell
the riverbed   to rouse.
steles of sorrow
all around it;
idle fingers   on placid
ground.         tell the
River              she'll devour 
it,                     pleats
of dreams all
around.
idle ears         hear but
idle sound.
tell the River
she came to drown.

~mutherfucker~

not a sliver
of a dream.
nightwings trawl like
night-lings; red eyes
over red lights on
a hopeless stretch
of road; a wide
berth of cold. A
city made of
walls. sawdust
on strings, and
vows made of ice.
and love is a
passing stranger;
maskless chimeras
droning on and on


~remains~

I.
slow down
minute man --
eyes that reap
and wander.
porcelain dew
drops in window
panes;
these feet were made
down yonder.
and if ever there
was, there was:
an evening of fleeting
wonders.

II.
and all that
remains are these
mamed remains
--lungs that leak
and flounder.


~lilacs~

succulent lilacs
in tunnels, spring.
heads encased
in mews of pink.
mountain screechers
and power drawls,
vacuumed lovers
with cloud control.
spoonfulls of lye
and demerol;
the turbulent undercurrent
of the sporadic trawl.
nestled watersheds
and blue lagoons;
a bleary-eyes laundress--
weaves a tomb
for wombs.


~cellophane~

don't repeat what
i already know: the
water is still good
for something.
footsteps
volley across an
empty gymnasium,
time cascades
in stasis;
wind-about toys
and leftovers. Love
letters from the
grave. A pencil case
wrapped in cellophane;
a pair of
heads impaled on
stakes.


~witchcraft~

love lisps.
a wisp of rain
cloud sounds,
                          the rhythm
of a crane.             power
plays--             and borrowed
quatrains.        a mountain's due
due,                  diet
mountain due.               a picnic
on neptune.      light years
upon years.          stacked
decks---            of riverbeds'
on trains.
Petunia wine        chicken
Stolichnaya--it's witch     craft,
in the middle of the sahara


~calendar year~

I.
Morning: turning
into seconds.
Graceless bricks
all flittering about.
Salad thoughts,
a poet with
a gun--why do rivers
              turn into graveyards
               in September?

II.
And: all those dawns
I remember.
Hope is a bitch
that slithers in
December.
Mourning drawling
in soupy June,
wine-soaked
tragedies in designer
blooms


~seven worries ago~


seven worries ago
i prayed before
a Banyan tree--
for free.
i prayed to the
thunderlight, offered
myself as a sacrifice.
conjured devils from
the depths but--my
misery is like wine
(it gets better).
corked, screwed,
bottled; hiding
behind some unsteady
light. Waxing and
waning.
aformless expanse
of fire and ice;

undulating with the
swells of the
second hand.


~scorpio~

I.
light. in
     sight of slights
wrong turns       and
pick-me-ups --    quack
of                 the skids
on skites.

II.
and how--      sublime
these dark de-lights.
layers of echoes,
in search      of night
a sliver of the evening
nails      on kites
turquoise cupids
transfixed on pikes.


~hemingway~

we play baccarat
and roulette;
american-- but
                        with a gun.
we play with
needles in the dark;
we gouge our
eyes out for
a lick of fun.
we ride on horses
                       made of stix;
we impale our
bodies in rows of six.
we gallop, like the
weatha' man; we sunbathe
on the 50-six.

stickly sleep
wines and muses.
the mews and the magic,
awake in half the
sigh.
stickly sleep,
two men
bearing bulls;
sad little horses
running limbless
in the rise.
sweetly sleep,
the venin of a cleric;
his tongue, his Bell.
five hands
in the well.


~blue skies~

I.
cetirizine yellow
please     use the Blues
as clue.
those doe-eyed
mutherfuckers
will make the pat-rol
pay petrol for 2.

II.
a tit, a sleaze and a lick.
in Happy Town,
boys chirp
with tongues from
der bottom trous. and
like fairy
armadillos--they'll suck
the soz, and drink
da drout.


~you~

except, you
vain blue.
with all that acid in
your fever. and those
yellows in your eyes:
how so komodo forever, now,
i been breathing
down some spines
coz u a flighty
little fiddler, a hell
in 49. a curtain without a
reaper.

marco plays the polo
but seek and
ye shall never find.
all them yellows in ur eyes.
how so Kokomo forever.


~emotions~

calm your nerves man:
steady.
it's a flit over the
pacific. twinkles
in the North Sky
is all;
a cobalt ambit
inflamed and ready

--

the breadth of
a feeling is measured--
never by an indentation
or the length and depth
of a smile.
it is always by the Sigh.
As long and indeterminable
as the river skye.


~love~

alight old flame:
old fevers of
the evening
ears ring
with mem'ries of
merry and drink.
i levitate over
all , and then bury
myself in the Thought.
I yowl, until the stars
sprout wings.

--

i awake
i saunder.
i crawl my way
to the moon.
where I raise
a crater, and build
a bed. and an army
for an arm and a leg.


~hotel rooms~

in smoky hotel rooms
i yonder;
floes of clouds
flog the sun at command.
it wonders,
in Echoes
and sighs that
don't end,
about zeroes and ones
that do not bend

in smoky hotel rooms
i ponder:
cola machines
in stirrups;
winnipeg babies
born in the dimly
lit hum of the din.
voulez-vous whatever.


~valleys and a hard place~

caught:
betwixt the light
and the ether,
the Other
wanders into
a freakshow.
He ponders the Why Man
(and the Howdy Downs)
but finds the glare
of the Nothing astounding.

caught, betwixt
valleys
and a Hard Place;
hands on beds of nails
on rivets
and things like that:
nothing good can
ever come from cages.


~emergency rooms~

cages: in situ.
electric carnations
along the Seine,
clonazepam daffodils
oblivious to the sill.
a pink kangaroo--
gallops about the
room,
counting 1 to 22;
up from one to twenty-two.
i dreamt of a raging river,
i wake up in a puddle instead.
the nurses are doing handstands;
the orderlies are dancing on stilts


~california~

and what is a
writer without quill,
and his glock.
and what is a writer
without a little blood
on his frock.

--

alabaster green
what's claws for eyes.
the fresh forever;
take a peel at Kyle's.
an urban waterfall,
from 5 dollar lips;
puddles under bridges baby;
gigolos with clipped
hips


~clouds~

gas lamps
and undulating dreams;
streets whirling around
neon skeletons. this
dusk is unending
and the snow
falls like thorns
from floes
from high above--
the rage of the gods

i walk the monuments;
old Ozymandias. and then
i meet a junkie who
sells bent needles
for clouds.