Nightfall grew out of itself, like the

vigil of a vigil.

As Central Park was corraled between.

Everyone stuck around, because it

wasn't their time--like those two.

Led out to where nightfall could go

no further--there was just what stood

stood for it now.

There they stood next to one another,

letting go of hands for the first time.

To hear a cello command Bethesda

Terrace.

As soon as it came to life, it bellowed

lifetimes--one let go into another.

Its sound made archways the height

of what passes through.

Its unbearable ache grew in them.

The burden of nightfall was theirs alone.

They knew it--they just did, now there's

no coming back.

The outdoor chess table they first sat
across, was a kingdom's polarity off the
grid.
Moments before Manhattan tethered its
faintest sway--her face stumbled.
Went side to side, revealing it can live
with anything--because of how much was
dead.
The world grabbed her by the face, as she
smiled.
A well ordered paranoia always about to
drop something, a red-faced frustration
an excuse me away from unrecognizable.
Her burnt out awe pained him, because
she didn't believe it.
How she cherry picked disappointment
when he'd become overly natural, which
she mistrusted.
During a sketchy phone call at rush hour,
she temporarily lost sight of him.
When he relieved a crowd, she told him
she thought he abandoned her.

Hecate holds her stomach,

shuffling the locus of her feet.

Humming how their rhythm

goes, is how darkness stays

calm.

In there are plans Hecate

never went thru with--

now even the moon won't

have her.

Head down, marked by

threes that can't get over

that one.

The cheese-chastity

of her slit, let out

her face.

As she pressed the

purity of prayer beads

to her lips, like a

***** on the lam.

A tractor trailer whose ramp was used

as a slide for a fair, was parked on the

street.

Its Fifties signage read: Rapid Slide.

Azalea Pink, Forest Blue, Vanilla White

outlined its lettering.

Holding up its right to advertise a range

of feeling.

By a familiarity that never arrives--

waiting around to appear like it belongs.

It was chance nostalgia under a grey sky,

no longer wondering at screaming

children.

Awe shucks--there's Tater walking like
a duck on a highwire to Apple Bees.
Taken by the hand--dressed like an
unembodied expression, thrown together
not to be naked.
Layers notwithstanding.
Tater was holding his hand, not sure if it
was her own.
Tater was making a go of it--leaving a
slug's salty death on his palm.
Tater was getting so wet her inner thighs
glazed one another.
Conversation was natural enough to feel
like a muted reprieve, intimating loftier themes.
Comments on random homes were not
about worth, but more about auras which
translated to aesthetical judgements.
As Tater & he tempered the material world thru their cross-read dynamic.
Seated at a particular window-booth, as
per his eccentric placement for food ingestion.
A booth lit so bright, one could perceive
the emotions of dust motes.
Tater promptly excused herself to the
bathroom--where she admittedly cleaned
him from between her legs.
Tater took to the booth again, considerately propping herself up.
Then the pendant lamps followed her
mood like a bird of prey across the sun,
when it was directed outside the window
by her gaze.
As Tater offered that it was the day her
ex's mother passed.
He couldn't help feeling that it was put out there, as if a nun ripped through grace to get to appetizers.

The stock fire of

biding whispers can't

speak of Truth--

which never takes

the path of least

resistance.

It takes everything

with it.

Jezebel purposely loses the little girl she
chaperones.
Taking great pleasure in watching her
face become stiff with desperation.
Lunging from concealment, scolding:
'Why are you always doing that?!'
So a confused cruelty can match up tears.
Jezebel "lost touch" with daddy for the
equivalent of a life sentence, & blamed it
on her ex.
Let bedridden daddy lay in raccoon ****, as the confidences of a forest kept him company well over a decade.
Jezebel wondered why daddy didn't share
a box of chocolate when they finally
caught up.
Jezebel once said her ex looked at her like
a little boy across the room, that she
wasn't his mommy--that neediness was a
turnoff.
Which became Jezebel's twisted leverage,
her revenge on daddy.
Even placing a quote at the bottom of one of her poems, that celebrated the
breaking of a stoic (referencing her ex).
As she initiated an affair.
All stemming from the hardy stead of an
eighties photograph, a little girl kept at
bay with a dolly.
Right before Jezebel became daddy's
supposed power grab.
Sat in front of enormous plates of pasta
she had to finish, forced to separate
portion from proportion.
"Daddy, daddy, you *******, I'm through."
Are you Jezebel, really?
As you seek to avenge that photograph
through men, pose them for that power
grab.
Jezebel knows better now, right Jezzy?

An apocalypse has

always been

the anticipation of one.

It's how we reveal ourselves.

There are people petty enough

to cut the cord of a lamp when

throwing it away, so someone

else can't use it.

Now imagine the same kind of

person seeing the world go on

without them.

A storm is more than a

diffused gathering.

Its deteriorating conditions

occur way before weather.

It tortures tension with its

own fever pitch, like a fool

with room to grow.

A storm potent enough to be

G*d's blind spot.

When stars become

a burner account--

they attempt to keep

tabs on where they

went out.

Not understanding

there's no longer a

need.

That a one way

account, is a one way

account.

Making it the loneliest

it can ever be.

The afternoon sunshine was ambiguous,

& not for lack of.

It was from there that a strangeness did

more than parody the noncontextual.

Its impressions were so sudden in their

completeness, so altogether different

than what experience was

approximating.

Was that these impressions were of

themselves so overwhelming, or was it

that they overcame the ones in place?

It stood to be another Self, crammed

space & disregarded time.

It was a great sadness guiding away

melancholy, a record playing beneath

sunlit water--a terrible assault on

intuition.

A moment alone as water muddies,

ahead of a significant change.

Comes the high discernment of what

won't be suffered.

The very life of it returns to be  

mercifully obliterated.

A frenzy of trespass righted, where

lines weren't.

A witness stripped of sides, swears by

seeing--to speak the unspoken.

A warrior cuts to first loyalty.

Never denying what is, never settling for

what is not--all else is premature death.

Earphones can conjunct like wrong

planets--isolating a soulless listener.

Forced to hear dissonance, noise plugs

that give what they get.

Awkwardly excreting too much

information, owned by goodliness.

The whole bus reacts as if something

is passing through.

Music's ****** paralysis, at harmonious

odds--prohibited flight.

The stank roots one puts down when

caught, the sorriest excuse for being.

Music doesn't play to everyone, just

because they press play.

It knows whose listening.

Innocence quietly leaves in the

middle of the night--knowing when

she's become an imposition.

She's more than welcome, but her

presence hurts--her lightness is too

heavy.

She always means to stay, but goes

because of what she means.

The worst proclaim her, cursing their

parents for putting them here.

As they prodigiously corrupt

everything they touch.

They think themselves majestic

creatures, that must flee back into the

treeline they exposed themselves from.

Wearing leafy masks of misconstrued

radiance.

Being at a safe distance from themselves

is all that matters...

taking cover long enough to feel like

a victim.

These are the ones that curse innocence

under their breath, as they duck.

A vessel becomes the

planchette of depths,

moved by the underbelly

of a storm.

Drawn all the way out,

to know how it's seen.

The bloodless spelling

of its own name.

The unrivaled emergence of a rat's

snout, struck pose of filth en vogue.

Fetishistic tastes--garbage's face-sitting,

shadowy specificities for arrival.

The procession of bumbled streetlights

breaks its leash, newfangled cheese

teefs held in contempt.

Cutting down anything other than

rat-hood, waste's deconstruction.

Its greatest character complexity is

escaping self-hatred.

The disparity of a fine line suddenly

metastasizing.

Made to live as if offending the wrong

existence, beating whiskers in

disintegrative trickles that issue:

all clears.

Meticulous nomadicism.

Eyes that have figured a way out, but

get caught by a body, which repeats like

a mistake if seen.

Photographer's darling, showing more &

more & more dente, with the attitude of

a dork osmotically permeating a book.

Clamped shut.

An equanimous snort from passing away.

A monstrous intelligence helps

up a grin, like a running start

that never ends.

All in the course of observing

what's bold enough to be that

hideous.

Pursued by its condition, survival

makes no excuses.

Crowds are somehow pleased, but

not convinced--even offer welcome.

Akin to the dark side of the moon

left with her legs held up.

Saints talk down certain fruits, under

canopies in waves of nausea.

Their ridiculous commotion muffling

the repeated warnings of moonlight.

Fruits like the propped-up ripeness of

shattered skulls, feel nothing for the

earth.

Trees like dead stopped cranks of

musical seasons--take no rest of

themselves.

Branches stall between wind & shadow

to point out what hangs.

Enough to make worms arrest their

wriggle & die of their nature.

These fruits that come round, while

betraying invite.

Happy decay nestling its cheeks on pits.

Grass should never lie with these.

Hands should starve reach, mouths

should utter: close.

Lightning drowned

its boiled quickening.

Its baptism's wielded thirst.

Sword unto water, water unto

quintessence without name.

Bubbles like a black dress

that meant to confuse its open

conduit.

Charms in cloth, cloth in motion,

motion in dance--downs the guard

of rain.

The silver flood of a star that crosses

its star.

Quartered water, reflectionless

water--spoken over in dead

containment.

Spells that do not spill from their

dead containment--hide the clearest

face from stars.

What's hidden hopes to poison

another's quintessence, that they

may become that dead containment.

Water sees this, water Knows those

blessed by its quintessence, its sheen--

its Fish.

Sees to it that those that curse die slowly

by water, jerking & sinking where a

fish would be.

Late autumn afternoon 2012,

shadowbirds on white gold--Mayan

rascality in the air.

A Polish starlet wearing a Twenties

cloche hat, detonated an all nighter at

our door.

Her fur coat & dress also shared cocktails

with Fitzgerald, as she shook a bouquet

of roses at blind gossip columns.

Our door opened to makeup's fidelity to

rawness, alcohol's turbulent fumage

here & there about her person.

Was made to understand that her lover

was inside, that beyond me was her

very reason.

The silk linings of bat wings spilled out

this address, what was stated to the

contrary was only absorbed by unfocused

determination.

The American dross of Polish

bereavement spoke in fits, hexed fluency.

An nonnegotiable wait volunteered her,

her lover was bound to come out, as

authorities were bound not to be called.

From the second floor window, all things

shiny converged on her with gruff

frequencies & thickening uniforms.

Police stood beside her & set in, as she

got into schoolgirl trouble.

By the time medics took over she was

submerging her private island.

There she was, being strapped to a

pristine white stretcher--her cloche hat

tipping itself.

Her doomed outfit secured like *** roast,

save for the bouquet of roses that hung

out & clotted from her right hand.

As the stretcher popped up it was like

her soul was going to leave her body,

rose petals struggle-strewn across it.

We take up such an insignificant amount

of space, we almost don't exist.

Always in some out of the way place--

out of the way because lives are

particular enough never to meet.

Even if they do, we are ****** rumors

sporadically confirmed.

Kept by alone time.

The earth is only as large as particular

lives, no more significant than that.

What is the Atlantic Ocean to you right

now, or your neighbor for that matter?

You can't find little old me, I can't find

little old you--Yet.

I submit that if one that insignificant can

delineate existence, than a person on the

earth--is not about a person on the earth.

As we feel our way thru the unreal, we

notice the symbols we deal in can't

cover their meaning.

The way a day's events come

back to you the way they Really occurred,

not the way they had.

Most believe it the other way around.

It's more faithful to its illusion after the

fact, which were "events" in infinite

space, like the summersaults of deer in

headlights--already struck.

A short on eating alone as it happens--

truth in real time.

One watches oneself discretely, as not

to growl.

No one can take the food away--it can

be consumed in an environment that

reflects oneself (home).

Which can be distracting, the more full

of **** one is.

It's to stare out--over or under chewing.

Then sigh without peace.

Peace was supposed to be there, expected

even--but eating is too pure an act to

make concessions.

There are those that fill their mouths with

the truth of their lives.

Their faces obey what goes down, as if

giving their mothers a chance to turn

away.

What they consume, consumes them.

What should be sacred & pleasurable

grabs them by the throat.

Letting them know when they can eat.

A cabinet/room of curiosities,
Kunstkammer--fringe stuffs.
Let's (said 17th century affluence) retire to a den of delicious: now-where-weren't-we.
A space of sea legs, a space to clutch a
ceiling for balance--amid the perverse liberties of imagination's selves.
A continental doubletake at reality,
magic objects from the greater world--
another world.
Bouncing off the walls, cluttered proof of the unknown--unsuccessfully watered
down by familiarity.
Objects, things that shouldn't be there--
as if they overstayed the second to be gone.
The haunts of the greediest awe, the
pacts of Faustian must-haves.
Stretched juxtapositions of
taxidermic parrots, speaking
prehistoric bones that turn into the weapons of witchdoctors.
Alchemical globes turning over Abraxas
to geographic purification periods--under
scrutinous van **** beards.
Tortoise shells emanating the wooden
knocks of a tribe's forest family.
Leatherbound books ornate as gemstones, seemingly lived-in by hermits.
A perfumer's castle of scent upon the
next cloud--a zephyr's afterimage.
Scents that were whole lives distilled of
continuum's essence.
Cabinets of curiosities, tried the
peculiarities of their cocked-brow sitters.
Quietly thinking them a peacock's dressing room compared to their changeability.
The cabinet's gestating stimulation conjured appetites fit for their creator.
These cabinets of curiosities were often
unsupressable aphrodisiacs, voluptuous
women would softly roundout sin.
Lick, **** & bite into fruits as their curves swole with feathers.
Where flesh was made & remade again,
lusting after itself in exitless release.
Those who solitarily sat in these rooms
by candlelight & glowed beyond its glow,
gained the graces of darkness.
A space where natural light aspected
exotic variety, a space where a waking
dream outdid itself.
To recoup & assess a fraction of the things
that exist in the smallest hours that region the earth.
These modest places to withdraw, wandered into what became museums.
We've always sorted these cabinets.

In the valley of candles, not only one

view is harvested.

Sea changes too bright for coordinates

flicker & throw around the smoke of

place.

A place is never truly known apart from

places--their spirit passes a cup.

A place is as precious as The Self, which it

fully identifies with thru preservation.

The Self is fixed to place, a place is fixed

to The Self--in honor.

Of fixed transcience.

Home can be a strange place, a strange

place can be home--the fare of place is

fully paid.

Go freely to become remote from where

you were, which is still where you are--

who you Are.

The spirit of place passes its cup, drink

in the view.

What do you see in the valley of candles?

Perhaps a killer taking tea.

Miraculousness without incident

garners suspicion.

As if the ordinary leaves something

out--of course it doesn't.

Nonevents are interested parties.

Which translate to cogito's media

circuis, bringing in a sleepwalker

for questioning.

Not quite with a suit jacket over their

head, but more like hapless self-escort.

The way they're put together doesn't

track, because they're not in love with

the heartache that puts it together.

A sleepwalker is only a sleepwalker if

at the end of the walk, they don't punch

the radio dial forgotten on full blast.

Which's to say all the innocuous detail

becomes a painful recap of creative

correspondence.

At every turn it's: What do you make of

it?

How not.

There where I was told not

to go alone.

I became the probity of light.

Dark spots & the gnashing

of teeth.

Smiles at a different angle.

The forefront at my back.

Absolutely lost in what I stand

to Know--I will tell all.

Starting with the first person

I See--myself.

To that which sees me for what I Am,

let me be known for what I Am.

Lest I take shade under another life.

There's no judgement worse than

contraction, I refuse to let death be a

forced expansion.

Let what cannot be hidden, be my

strength.

Rolling out of bed, will be rolling

out of bed.

It was never given me to yoke being

with covetousness.

That second doing wants to fall from me.

Desperately so.

In the call is what prepares for it--spreads

me out with it.

A prayer's rush is not knowing how it

goes.

I'm certainly not the only one.

We're going to walk out of here this time.

I followed cruelty home after it

did unto another.

I was so certain it knew it was

being followed--that I felt followed.

Conscience is to know the feeling,

how well?

I had to see what cruelty does with

itself, the psychotic breaks it

undergoes.

Not to be cruel.

It's when birds gain currency--

advancing as something pale

or other.

The thin chasm of beaks hurt

to hear, their sounds

aren't as early as spring.

They're not there.

An hour or so after a witch

undressed in front of a mirror,

piled on the floor.

Bottom lip quivering with

unwholeness.

That I elbow standing for the

toilet & face front, totally

deaf to the story arc.

For bed to remake sheet-angels,

that will never get me.

On a trail long led away from what

it leads to.

Large wet leaves bent down to those

led.

On the back end of a rain, that already

considered itself over.

Left behind the basic goodness of a

cool breeze, effortlessly lifting the

forest.

As if edification let out levels of vibrancy.

Those led to observe peak vibrancy.

There again, large wet leaves realized

they were in place to greet--expended all

greeting.

No more abrasive than a pulse, that

gave you some much space you wanted

to give some back.

That's when large green leaves

became so responsive, that their

expressions made you see as what

moved you.

On with them--humor them, round them.

That night should recognize the tribe

of them.

The Watschandies of Australia, chancing

ceremony--as not to be spit out by spring.

To be there is to proclaim belonging,

where earth chooses a spot to open

herself.

As she digs out their gleaming eyes,

before they dig into her.

A ditch surrounded by bushes, symbolic

of female genitalia--absenting

themselves to chant: womb.

From there a fire, a round, a ditch's dark

unto darkness.

Spears in their hands,  phalluses pulling

them along what bushes seize upon--

into the night.

Only when magic outdances the dance,

& a chant's circle heaves--spears are

raised.

Return throws into a ditch--as fertility

throws her head back.

I exist in that I

do not--

I'm always

away from me.

Now.

As always,

an infinite

being.

Whose every

moment is deja vu.

So far beyond

noticing every

detail.

As if nonexistence

blinking into

being.

Teeny tiny hands let it be--

between

the furniture & music of a piano,

It

developes the taste for a certain

texture.

How relatable.

As frequencies turn my beard into

dancing flies.

It comes into focus...

another absentminded midwife

wearing a cupid arrow headband,

loses balance.

As a body of water sweeps away

broken glass.

The way things point out that there's

nothing there--there's really nothing

there.

While the depth & duration of that

nothing is saved, when we come back

from It.

Midwifed by the nearest thing you

could poke.

As if patiently positioned for a

photograph at every stage of life.

Right now.

The promise of stillness.

Directly facing the greatest

composure.

Indeed.

Today I was poured upon while

speaking to someone in the same

burrough--that said it wasn't raining.

There was so much rain in their voice,

that I didn't feel the rain.

I walked with a purpose that came from

the ground offering itself twice,

never one to rush initiation.

Having heard the official stories of where

people are in their lives, I did what a

main character does when he covers the

distance narrated to the present.

I walked home.

A transplanted room, an impressionistic

mockup of one's most stayed dwellings.

The one slept in during dreamless states.

Sighs, dragged chairs--the floors eyes

pooled on.

Light's weather, now light only--dark's

weather--now dark only.

Moved by a solitary motion, unable to

curry favor with *******.

This is rest above ground.

Swept center of center, that

contemplation saw spread still.

Passed cobwebs that rave about walls--

per pearly-faced spiders,

reflecting the silk of absolved breath.

Where music bundles up to play

higher rises--lower falls.

Evolving still lifes of vases cut off by

water, won't speak flowers aloud--

holding tight to their dried reach.

A masoleum's window is a depressed

medium, that clings to rain & snow as

a window to another.

Here bones are harder on coffins,

magnetizing their display to cautionary

tales without endings.

No--a masoleum's light comes after, right

before you.

Its way of Showing you out, if you

shouldn't be.

Struck by a moment, without

etiquette or unit--a man bears

his own resemblance.

His forehead spots him.

To keep in touch.

This wasn't always the case.

Light can do without features.

This is becoming abundantly

clear.

Despite the man, even if

given to it.

Call it a great shift.

The kitchen faucet ran its length

in three parts.

A glistening silver speckled white,

followed by water--then its

detached sound.

It somehow rocked me with how

the world as we know it behaves

in eternal accordance.

Shaking it off shortly after.

I'm a waiting line--a repetitive grand

scheme.

Idle thoughts light each other's candles--

Buddhas line my intestines.

My sight offends karma, even the

darkness behind eyelids creates

pandemonium.

Holiness cuts in front, & sometimes lets

me ahead.

Perspectival sin allowed to ooze from the

dots of die I suppose.

As a blind test reveals that only by

going mad, can one gain on the mind.

All I ask is that there's some semblance

of sleep when we fly from bed.

A ghost obsessively launders a sheet--

to be mindful of form, before donning it.

A timeless washing cycle.

As if a solutionless problem lie between.

It narrows down its enormity to a sheet,

because it notices without being noticed.

Despite another form contracting with

fear upon noticing it.

It knows it exists, but one-sidedness

doesn't suffice--it's more a matter of

one-sidedness than loneliness.

Its power of seeing is not met with the

power of being seen.

Disequilibrium haunts the ghost.

Though it's noticed just as much as the

sheet--if not more.

Whereas the sheetless ghost of it--is a

sheet in a more refined realm.

I milk a stewarded greenery's enriched

concentration--then lick a sybil's face.

To tease the topographical

inaccuracies the spirit drafts, ones that

give it character.

Watch an eagle recommence Seeing by

dipping a wing in blood--to mark the

other half of circular flight.

All while ******* a button I didn't

know was missing--as its charming little

void grows reactively.

The ground runs sideways,

like the legwork of a tide carried

away by flowers.

Peopled stems that say it's all a

blur--gain ten pounds of

moonlight when they clarify.

Wearing the look of a spoiled

surprise party.

Planes of adjusting light stack thin--

too slow not to meet crookedly.

A broken window on an apple's cheek,

in line with a branch.

Not a sky in the sky--not even a

shadow's deflated ego, but a far

greater eater.

There's a world left out for just that--

which one exactly?

Would you know a horror movie from

the flashes on a vacant seat?

It's like death taking a pass.

Where letting go, goes.

In a substantially backed corner,

stranger than the safety of deep

thought--a spider throws off a dot.

In a house in part, sunlight lets on

in the same way.

As the sound of temperate beams

throw off a house.