We all float down
here, unfeathered &
fettered against
this patch of blackened
velvet.  Another year & we can
all just pay the rent.  Every
body needs new shoes,
even us nuggets denuded
under glass.  Across
the girdle of the heavens
float our dark twins
like the death that never happened,
imprudently crossing
the parkway while reading
hurry, hurry yeah 
your love is tangled
here with the rest of us
ravens in a rat king
of proclivity, on tenterhooks,
trying to escape the frame.
Not even a dream ecapes
our muddle on the cooling
table.  Sleep now
& let the others drag
your living weight along.


In the white space
of absence waiting, a god

of black ink
at the crossroads

with strings attached
to cardinal points;

the space within
an atom's shadow

in the winking fusion
all souls

know the name.
Thread the eye

of the storm with
the negative

charge of space
extrasolar intraveinous

vanity.  Hangman,
I think we've

met before
but now your clavicle

has fallen at
its crest.  Creeping

at the periphery,
more disheveled

than ever, I've chosen
the axis less traveled

& it's made no
difference whatsoever.

Aligata II

after Caitlin McCormack

A slurry of words to glue
two soft skulls
onto a single fragile
frame: what's
strung might make one
look away & what's left
isn't right
in the head, an angle
at loose ends
until a flash fuses you
to your own
negation: the gate is
open & you dangle
tendrils, yoking
to the other
in an embrace
both final & integral.
It's there looking back
at you like an angry mirror.
Binary lotus unfolding
like history in the dark;
mycelium at the beginning
of a thought.

Lost Blue Eye

An affliction of perspective
      ambivalent orchestra
of vectors happens to gaze
      out upon a heap of barely
acknowledged particulars
      like a fancy view hiding
in plain sight on the planes
      for me with a satchel
of sand & glass & caressing
      hands slathered in wasabi
so be careful what you wish for
      when wishes are holes
in the visage for weeping
      a shower of tears like literally
a shower blasting that look
     off your face like it was
an early death or a carefully
     orchestrated controversy
calibrated to further inflame
     these days of strange odors
seeping from pores & from cracks
     in the floor beneath your
feet bloodied to stumps from
     so much humping toward
the horizon you can see so clearly
     & yet shifts with each stumbling
step until all that's left is space
     for a lone soul's sojourn
across the firmament as his capsule
     implodes & his chute deploys
two seconds too late to save him.

Circus Performers

I have always wanted
to put on a show.  I have

wanted to know
whose views are those
when I run

my diagnostics.  I can
put on my red
shoes, but

I won't dance
unless there's bread,

a decent dry cleaner
within walking distance
& a garrison

of guards to touch
my cheek
before they seize my

phone & leave me
in a one-horse town

whose horse is
gravely ill. 
We rolled

seven good execs
for this livery,
which adds an air

of respectability
to the proceedings.
Even the Frog Boy

looks stunning
as he mounts
his tiny bicycle.

All the world's
a stage
but the next

world is a circus.
Send in the clowns.
It's time to die.


Go where
the ship of the city
will bring you.
Flickering shadows
among the filthy
planes; shining
monks lurk in
moments like book
covers.   Ochre ends
a foundling must roll
with the garbage
like a trusty skull
in the shadow of the towering
crenellated tower; no
windows but in
things flat as paper.
We are all angling for some-
where better to fold:
there's rapture
to be had at the periphery,
just outside of where
once their gods broke open
into right-
angled, blinding light.


I'm buttoned up
but with my fancy socks,
I mean.  It's
one of those days where
you take tea
beneath the clothesline
& watch the
circus roll into town one
at a time.  I'm not so sure
if this
chain-link fence keeps
the crowd
out or traps us in here
with you
fools, the restless rabble,
the peons
in the pit hoping for another
                       fart joke
that I'll indulge with an anecdote
about a finger
pulled by the strong man
who becomes a
frog.  Or there's a log,
a fog that finds us wanting.
We like tiny cat feet
& cannot lie except about
the tontine.
                 He looks demure
now but you should have
seen him beneath the blazing
tree, ridden by ancestors, foaming
at the mouth like a juvenile
experimental volcano.
   We smile
as you capture our souls
because we have no souls
nor cares nor beliefs.
Nothing can change a man
who is marked
by chaos; the dead shall die
& the living shall eat
a small meal between
lunch & dinner.


We all float down here, unfeathered & fettered against this patch of blackened velvet.  Another year & we can all just pay t...