what mind throws at midnight

candy banks a gentle slither,
the mute man walks
the pier
buckets of shrimp wait
off screen there
the dream
has found material, the cold
ocean relents and its
madness crawls up to my door,
giving gifts of rubber
and powdered milk, candy
fronds its deep mind,
so crossed
it erase each thought, with
a memory, a feeling
tone, in gelatin, golden
sepia, a drift wood holding
to the living
shore, being dragged
back out to dread sea.

clutch lender; why the decanter- does not recant

meet the motion
and the junction, will arrive with
in the stem flowering in
you, the queen
sun turns back before
going down, in to
her red yawn,
get to
know the paper sack the
paranoid religion of
evening, get slipped
the moon blessed poetry
of rivers, not looking for but finding shoeless
counties
legs running pumped and,
steaming
the holy rage streams through
you at
the city water board- where
cruelty is fresh awash in Daphne hair,
there IT coolly
bares the heat and steel
& pressed to earths
anvil IT resolves not to bend,
rises up in mammalian
rebellion slowly obliterating
under the corrugated clay canopy
IT is
elevated by shafts; light
cams mobile, dancing
the sky
stale onion skin from
its dusty death, to
firm firmament, to roiling blue
to the royal doubt,
that has doubted you all your life
and recast your life a bone
dwelling shadow IT lights
the bones own marrow.

thin wafer canopy

the full code, unbearably
weighed
of the double
has shifted,
fallen abreast
of the north star
ablaze the cold evening fills
and empties
in its walking
the books open to close and the dear
one hangs
up the phone, after
only
hello,
what now, the globe
unravels and leaves me alone
to know what-
the deft maneuvers
of soliloquy, the bracing ,
breakers
of will, branding the spring born
heart, and yet in the swirl
of time
over
even the new worthless moon
a page,
a full sheaf of
glued
beams
filter down
to you love
to me, to
our separate
suffering beings and
log them for next years
little lusts and matchstick heat
and gives these two vacant hands
prophecy, meaning.

7:15 am French spoken in doughnut shop

I.
there light a fire,
still ambered in the TV
slow she encumbered me
with love at last
the low animal
had been roused and
meanly became the
guardian of a
human heart

II.
damaged as
an arch less brick
as the conversation
of stone continues,
shops full of meat
are closing and in
the town all that
are left are the grave
markers, quiet reminders
of afternoons spent
dwelling warmly
as the mealy conch

III.
I return a collapsed
language a way the
word forms snails in
to the academy mind
and falls back
to the butcher to be
trimmed, ground together
with lamb and leaf fat
to become the common
raindrop

IV.
In the early morning
the ascending elevator
is the angel, shot
through the liver- a
sling shot against fort knox
so full of gold and
longing- with out ever
knowing my endless pebbles

V.
If to walk, walk
now- and then to:
a final truck stop-
isn't it always the hard
shore, the man made
bay that intrigues the
mind most- if only
because the words float
like a whale shark slaughtered,
full of less liver then
the boat- the angel,
lead filled and happy
legal, illegal the animal
unrelenting- you can not
do- this thing, claw
hammer a nail with
that hand instead.

VI.
we must chronicle the aches first,
the inklings of conical being
revealed first in, how
not to do this-
how to have comfort
in the Broken Glass
the eyes reflecting
thier wave length comfort lounging
where none complete the
weave of being and disappearing.

VII.
there in the cinema, the
dust of death rises and
filters the room, the
light fills, we wait so
long to kill evil- the
expanding dark Empire
that at the end of
its long night, we want more
to know- to remember the
shard in our heart, but the wound
fades and the casts and photographs
mean less and less- until
ever hardened and smoothed over by
star glow rollers the
stone we have become can be
swallowed by any one, monster
or lover and pass through unchanged

VIII.
Assemble the machine
loaded with ribbons
of what should be
done, 8 is for woman
it is impossible for it
not to be -8- is the
perfume sea she wakes
with heels and careful
claws keenly delicate they
curve the inner hip of
life, and under their
mercy, violence is done
so near hate- but desire
wrestles the seed thought of death
in to a combine love
and 8 is reborn
in line, a word
a truck idle in the
body machine of being
filled and portable-
working the raindrop
brick and under its
arch the wardrobe of
skin embellishes the
world, of tooth dragon
and spider plants

IX.
we land in Canada
new, old- over timed
clocked by youth-
by names, by schools
by hopes of companionship
where history
columns up the stair
case, the disparate
airport motel & the-
the morphology of
simple city new
urbanity- speaking
of new Capitals hopeful
hounds tooth leaves
the shell unhappy-
wooden  under urethane it
tightens and expands
to twist that latex,
dreaming of evening
wife the- warm
alcohol believing in
hours, the ring of
hours, calling you to
the day sleeping under
medium tea with
2 sugars.

X.
How can the homeless
heart love one land,
all or none, both harden
from possibility to fact and
love drops from the
hand, minted
out as coins, gleaming
under the same one
sun, and betray every
one in boundless
candidacy.

XI.
eleven is potatoes
even out the plate
grown among the
stones so
full the apple of the
earth a delicacy
unstoppable- a truth as
true as hunger- the
hunger, the wealth of winter, and
the thankful cold
decree of that season
to let us know potent
greatness in pressed
slacks, the collecting done
in solid solemnity

XII.
food no other bus
moves me, the
burst of poetry-
of words, of the
wakeful curve, it is
the first fusilli, of
tomatoes and my
being transmuted to:
gone roots, disappeared vine
down in to the permanence of soil.

9/15/07