The bloom of plush violet

from this precious misery

rooted in the kitchens

and couches of the damned

soaring up from

rust scarred ditches

in the tortured clay

of afternoon,

clapping icy hands

that turn to hailstones,

broken diamonds

dancing on green grass

that cannot last.

Cut apart by angels

who shit in the grass

tough skies laughing at error

like a hat full of hell

that is glued to a swift

footless dream figure

and the docks are rolling out

like streams of swine

to feed the rolling brine

and I'm at home in days

of far rooted abandon

that separate the trees by reaching

shores that finger towards

some crawling infinity of clouds

that never breaks or yields

to the goals of man

far reaching vast in silence

suns capped by artificial snow

the long and ragged landscape

of glances that are gone

fond looks full of uncertainty

set loose to hell at last.

Skirts of long spent ages swishing by

reeds bent at the cavemouth

in a wounding light

my leopard robe and bright graffiti cup

left behind at the last milk crate alley

where I drank my fill of brine

and even the standstill bricks

were wavy with the future

long past the river that circled

a pine blueberry island

long past the porches

of ancient conversation

to one willing point of night.

The glory and wisdom of God is in

the cyclical movements of birds

under the concrete velvet cage

of web-strewn bridges,

zones of life in flight

above captive worlds,

threads that command iron empires,

pockets of love in spades

of infolded ways,

the flicker of bronzed images

sculpted on swelling tar.

She keeps the bees.

She remembers

rays of sun like swords

in a drawer.

She is an umbrella,

dangling little umbrellas

from her shells of light

that hold so many electric drums.

She watches the ladies who swear

and wear stiff stilettos

she has a flame like theirs

but keeps it quiet

as a wide awake mouse

or some searching rabbit.

She is the habits of the stars,

transplanted onto Earth

like a reverse moon current

of angelic hair

she makes the whirlpools turn

she brings the thickets to the air

she makes the clock's hands burn

and the blackberries feed the thorn

she makes the raspberries stare.

Pasted echoes

of the time that came before

glowing with their own decay,

soft minerals with infinite eyes.

Signs thrust into the sky

from crossing roads

scissor blades of broken plates

bright lights of the here ever after

high crates where vandalous artists

run around the catwork

skating pale and pink

with digital rage

dirt scooped

by the shovelhead piranha

swimmer's lanes

lengthened into downhill

one tilting curve.

Have I filled this unwilling vessel

with light long enough?

Even the bleakest angel

with deeply downturned eyes

shakes her head and says a bemused

No.

For some reason I am expected to go on

with a smoke sail

flashing through a handkerchief flag

with a stacked garden

slamming into my tidal kneecaps

as the forked lightning

combs the fractal yard

and the rain disembarks

from the sulfur of a painted space ship,

I am expected in canyons

where trees hang flanks of gallery space

and marble squares

out-maneuver my floating skull

zones where the girls in my beard

sound a dissecting chorus,

flats of rectilinear light

rented out by an android mania

adrift in ceaseless transit

puffed by flashing grass

into succulent stratosphere,

a wailing leg with seven mouths

like soil that called me south.

I think of you as an inverted comma,

life pouring forward from you

to its peaks of rugged flare

in the cracked panorama

in the summit of agonized cicada

in the flash magnolia

purposed for the craft of heat in savor

splashed on the map of desire

by the echoes that you stir the blood

by the dance beats in springtime

and the ringed bouquet of beaks

that you bring singing home.

Lillian

Your smile is evil like love,

like the split in the universe,

like all the atoms falling through

to become one being,

like the arc my body makes

when I am shot into the sky

and then quickly plummet,

like other bullets

sleeping in the curvature of Earth

to be born in a ruby fountain

tendrils of a shell

the stars sink toward

only lord of your choice of sword.

Islands floating with electric rope

milk crates and tea bag tags

the kisses in traffic

pay your dues

to the thumbscrew stars

and oscillating proto-bibles

theater of galactic bones

cathedral ceiling in a coffee cup's

foam bottom

thin journeys from a charcoal rag

where heaven lights a stairwell

fire escape arms

eyes and breasts in alarm siren

paths raging to a tar like iron

room where the world runs out

mills tilting in the talking hay.

Vain all the streetlight's lines and liquor

vain all the bitches that linger

and the vaults of December

vain all the wailing causes

that gather around the blood tree

and the scythe tongue splatters

beg for the divine ooze

watch the roots rip around

the brave turf near the gravestones

vain watchers who never rise or fall

wrapped up in a tidal scroll.

Skies go from blue to blonde to red

the signature becomes an ingrained gesture

yarn molds the precious cargo

to a fine limb

or a doorway in the blown horizon

poles wear wigs of gone swamps

drained remainders in the sun

walls deflect the yearning vine

and blanch it to a dead script

hilltops are pouring the shine

of live leaves and lips

through the shade of another world

wires carry lovers to each other's floors

the shelves carved into a cave

carry the fuel that flew.

The flower of life is forgetful,

her pain drives deeper and deeper

as action thrives, and

the sky is unappeased,

foundations quake

from the wet root

of maniacal buds,

the joker of hearts

cut to ribbons

in a jagged haze.

The bridge bent skyward

in a bleeding bow

lets forth its radiant streamers,

vines clap solid bells

on gaudy walls

that play with gravity,

pull and strengthen

the wrinkle of unlikely paths,

long states and paused continents

where my shell of hesitation

has gone to be cracked and scattered,

sun beams of a needful way

that pierce the wailing cloud

and any bloom deep is down.

Spooked mountains

crackling with animal rocks

treasures and trails in torment

windows burned by red-eyed stares

in the cabin-hacked valley

antennas are stabbing time

and the drugged wind listens

only to fleeting sounds

one waterfall in a bag

crushed moons in a tray of amber

the shriek of a salted fig

whole forest of screams

in a shovel hand

a pond in an airport runway

the twang of an escapee

singing for his supper of teeth.

Jammed full

of the dump truck's flowers,

torn blue by a wind of grace.

Frog feet

suckered to a stone fence

lichens on its fallen glory

softly glowing.

Short roads that cut

the neighborhood

to dirty diamond pieces.

Long walks with jagged bones

in a body that's barely mine

twin skies and their soft machinery

tongues of twin suns

gleaming on the goldenrod.

Rampaging over waffle irons

of imported sky,

upside down in bathing suits

that shine.

Down to jailbone

bliss whines in retracting atmosphere

my brains a blueberry

cracked in a crow's mouth,

missile-shaped clouds

racing over the sculpted oil,

long ruts that send out

numerical thought balloons,

the office of the infinite copulator

locked down with steely brine.