Monday, November 20, 2017

Landscape of long wings
flexing in broken soil;
cloth stretched over hot rocks
in the yawn of a blown-up sun
square teeth of graveyards
dripping with fat and mottled beer
gums of rooted brine
the mated peckers of fallen trunks
grooves in the curving claw
stream's wrath of broken land plates
chutes of glued leaves
hands of healing fire
in a breezy chair.
Light prison treatment of Plato
on the forest floor of the moon
the search for planet X on celluloid depth
the shadows of the system move in stately bodies
treading a carpet of gold...
68 women, lying in order decked out
a rubber leaf of star formation
an indirect number of planets.

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Eight worlds
in one head's
aching seven;
cascades of tumult
and tumult of cascades,
brother after brother fresh
out of the diametric waterfall
slugging me, alerting me to my blood,
my fight with his path,
his need to heal me,
across sawed-off trunks
and marks of searing wall
tongues of fire that dash glossolalia
with hot pepper,
secret freestyles by a fire camp,
mystique resolved in outer essence,
after eons of inner tug,
still a smooth pig devil
with bisected eye,
a flailing translator and hot help
from a kicked basket
of shotgun leaves
across a tomb's mouth
and a southern tee vee
pussahasee calling
eight worlds resolved
in the aching seven
with or without a head
stirring the sun of suns
with a sanctified wooden spoon.
Figures in salted haze
abandoning fingernails and eyelashes
skulls and ruddy jewels
on the water of forgetfulness and shrimp;
eyes dazzled on their painted oars
rowing home to the city of high glass
in a furry cabinet;
taking the curtain's breath
in the smite of a blackberry mouth
fences opening goblets and eels,
blank paper peppered on a dangling rock arm
signed in pounding fists
through the galley of a ship's death polka deck
toilet paper feet and its wounded kitchenette
gushing action-movie red
into the mouth of the shark husband
and his head wrap of fresh leaves
cracking an ember gavel
of her notched spine
and her ceiling knife gambit
and her wife's handkerchief.

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Deep and bland seas
full of floating machines
and mousy haircut heads;
drifting on a screen of electronic error
that has taken grip of the sun
the shrinking heart of things
glued to a shattered window
blood map trickling the cracks
unbowed by the bucking genius of death
body of a faint ship controlled by a feeling stick
the peacock in a glass hour
strutting the pendulum.

Expanded pebbles
a town spilling out of each one.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

A pilot of grandeur he does not believe
soon his haircut will fall into his brains
oceans come to his hands
slippery mounds of heaving nothing
canvasses wet with the crash
wire baskets at the edge of a lengthy room
pouring their knowledge of blood stripes
into his skull cracked air.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Golden tips of
dead clouds that
will not fall
hands that claw in sleep
long windows
viewed from a bucket of steam
over many fallen suns
and many empty milk bottles
porch boards pine needles
and a wig of leaves
eyes lit by the promise of the past
in the darkness mushroomed and wavering
another coffee roll
another banana peel
another day another act that
will not be nailed down
another defeat walking in sorrow's body
another stacked shelf that
gives weight to the angles
golden tips of dead clouds that will not fall.

Thursday, November 09, 2017

Tasted by the breaking planet,
a skull of pebbles spilled on watery fire,
bed springs in each ear,
tongue slimmed and forking,
paper hands stuck to wet stone,
stomach weighted with sodden feathers,
lungs to butterfly wings
singed and puffing cloudy glass
blood velvet glued to a time piece
sunny metals on an aching hand.

Wednesday, November 08, 2017

Bodies crammed into my head
with hyphenated tags,
split gazes
and leveled guns
in their frozen hands,
the G.I. of a sexual counter-assault,
mermaid cells with poison bristles
and weaponized soap,
microbe tap-dancing princesses
under my fingernails,
carts of steaming water
that slap the waves.
Propped up on a long grave rock
my face in my eyes,
bristles in my beak
that the sun has dried and whitened,
long tubes of sight
going into the moss green ground,
long clouds fingering over
that pierced territory
where wolf babies glisten and
lick paws to face inside a snail shell.