more the known, knows.

lying
in the waste of excess
i climb the
battery of morning
through
noon purple hues
each divided by its own pink
a division stopped
at my window sill
i remember only the
challenged evening
out of time
through rumpled
sheets of
memory, her there
and still as a ghost,
walled in, only aqua-marine
eyes blink their imposible
blue and crowd
my empty heart,
a calm shifting of
centuries happens there, before
sleep,
before the
first inkling
of need,
pure,
genuine it rises
and the fingers
of mind reach
out,
whispering- companion,
a soft
blanketing
for a soul
once bare
rendering new cloth
from
vacancy
or
air
to spoil
January's delivered
cruelties
and lend peace in February's
hungry waiting stare

bare wires and concrete

I have to hear the city
new, to know her
destroyed wrists, supple
and exploding, quiet with
in their course of aging, i need
to walk these side walks elevated,
shocked by the bright indifference of the
sun and the bone fleck moon,
i trace my heart on the named avenues,
and pace out a life measuring the ally
for neighbors loyalties, this kingdom of
dust and ash can rust, watching each
moth, ascend the seasonal tree, being
captured in the cicadas bronze
summer soundings, all collide here
in this city, desolate, growing
so many flowers, and tomatoes, prayers
of thanksgiving and the ghastly echoes
pushed along still to chlorinate the
dew, and purify the simplicity of being
i walk knowing and not, like love
afraid of what dark thing i will map
in the course of wandering, and
see finally the face of my own longings
deformed by loneliness grown tough
and empty by singularity, a house-less road,
forgotten by the cities tender municipalities.

know know 123 know...5

so transfer the cloth
the rag of witches the dark
colloquial
word
left out on the
street like a moved heart, the
kidney blood
of forgotten language,
i need this back
the lest word
replete with for
ever repeating voices,
bullets laid in mud
and to be the finder of that
golden domesticity
let it be me, forgo all fame
for the catastrophic vision of
a virtuoso, collecting the
debris of a city full of souls,
grinding out the miracle of
misery, the miracle of living,
busting
up toward a reluctant sun

all dull beside the spring

so comely
the absolute
deception the spirits
envision
wanting and
long shadows, beneath the mist
i awaken to candy, to foolish
adventuring
the already
fled monsters- so luminous in
the earth, crowned blue,
grave massive gems, grotesque
behind the wind- where the
day is hard
& across the
water a ticking clock
plagiarist, communist,
the manual
suggests a traveler
leaving
his hotel with out knowing why
while around his
vacant eyes the city burns
out gasoline and cruel need

maiden tale & catnip sleep

a saw meets bone
the carpenter, weeps blood
from stone estuary eyes
i know, this type of
knowing, metal glowing
wood receiving the element
of civility, the pavement
reflects the rain when it
rains, church bells dominate
rooms filled with faithfully
faithless; bound to seasons
more now then any ancient
farmer, wives count days
as artful as a miser and
know when the down pour,
downfall is coming, they
are secretly saving up for
escape.

can dropper

missive, the last mast of
happiness, resolves the
motive of love, the
heart breaks the well of
stone, the code of dark north
brightens to know Polaris
and the dog star, howling
lets loose the colloquial left overs
for her, for the fern of my
brain, so long in the pan the
world ached the rest of
faith out like blood, at the
wound kneeing in prayer,
the solemnity wasted on no priest
wasted on the fulfillment
of past promises, of past hosts,
reconciling and left to ring
around a stone already thrown.