Wreaths of old neighborhoods
tangled with lit bulbs and dangling swingsets
mustache over the eyes
bright worlds in the dusk of thicket shade
seesaws on the sail's mast
a ship of pipes and pipe cleaners
airport paths stumbling through the body
key chains glinting in black mud
rocks winding higher in the hills
where their high walls tilt
to the ascension of shrooms and brown rabbits
wide rocks running with water
from broken moss and dripping caves
tape players built in to a red clay wall
blasting fog and pine needles
through the funnel of a team of bodies
a ditch of yellow roses
reflected in the plan of their eyes
the grid shanked by thorns before blossoms
ribbons at the bottom touchless tied
bells winking like the end of a computer's day.

Wrens ripped
from the surface of the earth
tar and partitioned benches
seaside eating castoff bread
my friend in drugs is scratching hard
nibbling the corner's edge of eternity,
with his grimace flashing insight
shorelines wrapped like ropes
around his throat and crying foul
at concrete walls bolts of lightning
repainted in the dragon's funhouse mouth
the exit through an ice cube
nests set on epoxy blobs
the ceiling of a popped world
there my virgin first car
wears a wig of leaves
brown as the ground of being
cones delicately darkening
bright lights bashed open
I'm a curling tongue on my knees
on the hearth she's breathing
through the tilt of a straw hat
stripped heels, ass pillows
and the throng of me channeling she
to the stuck garden of no shadowed moon
on beards of sparkling terra
skin twitching to shed antique
attitudes and the blues of the arches
that set us on world after world
I'm a napkin sun
she's a fog winking its way into silk
headwrap & mouth
on my parchment foreheard
my script determined she kisses.

Yards on each sprout
families playing without ground
in the steam familiar;
vines on aftermath screens
climbing and climbing cans
stacks and labels and grenades of beer
suspicious boss eyes
under the dome of my thought,
always some fuckin boss eyes
someday I'll snuff 'em out
and firecracker away
some dim morning sun's calling

yards on each sprout
a whole yard to each
yeasty blossom.

Particle fractoids
mussing giant follicles
plugged rain
parenthetically falling
the ledges catching
remains of the moon
lips tracking a picnic spill
and a jar of dark jewels

yards on each sprout
far and wide haircuts of bronze
and ebony glaze
shelves of bodies that will not fly
and many who'll pounce
skyward with no calling
unraveled under the clown orbit
of the called, boy following a bowling ball.

ANAL

The maw picks, and the thistle strikes
dawn is a cracked keg in the ringing of a grey living room
swaying canvas of roses and pig drawings
wire stem hedges and floating concrete shards
a deep armchair and a flask friend from a friend
furies in the bathtub and the tender rings explored
that had always been holding visions captive.

Under the eagle of light,
the mirror claws.
Gliding over its eyes,
the fire of distance closing.

The penciller crouched
on a calm blade of chair,
facing the expanse
with walls and doorways
up his sleeve, raining plaster.

Turning to the gasp of wings,
a blue shade brought to a point
of chalk made rubber,
a red line under a see-through mouth,

and a yellow line
under these winter months
on a whipped bed
where a pile of mated coats
opens cufflink doors.

Boundless terra
folded in the paths of deer candy
with a car key and a discarded shinguard,
love divided and hacked further
by spartan needs
swaggering dispatch of raw labels
grinding a slough for marbles;
marked space deep
outside earth's atmosphere,
yet with a flag on a long spear,
a volcano wreck in glass partitions,
a long but vacant gaze
searching the shells for tongues
and the towers for streaming furs
whipped aristocratic buttocks
and the smell of blood steam,
song script latched
in arabesque pen
around the dark ribs
of the water tank heart.

The ledge pours
green water and uneven furniture,
branches to break on
above webbed rocks,
bent birches and seedlings that stab,
blood from the lowest dip in the pool,
the crackle of a speaking ear.

Moss parts on the rock,
the stone clit is a prism
the sun gets stuck in,
to be evening, to rip liquid,
blow vine through hosiery,
ruffle the rags
on a peak encampment,
and circle the irregular dome
to drip sap from helicopter blades
into rivulet trays.

The bright electricity
of punctured rooms,
blades of delayed bodies
pushing air in parallelogram cubes,
setting a pointed star
of threshing floors,
the summit's flaking skin
a lidless eye pressed to red mica
in the hinge between worlds.

A platform of wrath from undersea,
the spilling claws and high-piled body shells,
lips stained together on a crying rock,
quartz mashed in granite eyes riding a flagpole
with no rope, on the prison shore
blooming with hyacinth chains,
long planks of men's faces and imaginary bars
gathered into a pile burned
down to an arm-breaking
paperweight.

Scales on the sky that have dragged
their dots and lines over the cum-stuck sand
to be draped in limousine gardens
where the guests lie stacked in uniforms,
greeting the under sky,
the stone's lid, the writing hammer
and the long sharp leaves of a shadow
without permission.

Blood-thick fingers stirring
in an upside-down glass.
Heavy heads breaking ornate necks.
Corridors that the stomach knows
in their numbered depth.

Sinkholes of rainbow gasoline
giving way to ink hearts,
a treeline sprinkled
with bottle caps and eyelashes,
the water punched and smoked
re-poured and poisoned
ultimately flowing over.

The black Madonnas among images of grace,
tying the ship to a whale heart
trigger in the clouds,
faces of grim beatitude channeling rain
and happy with the sun,
the ant hill salted with guns,
my twin mamas.

Stumped at the podium,
the drag line, the soup kitchen,
I wandered looking for my name.
I found it in burnt metal
at the back of a grocery store.
I propped it up on favorite icicles.
It fucked around with a readership.

Powdered memory, the king of a bucket of leaves.
Worshiped in refractory back circuits.
The prey of certain seeking conduits.
An armed looker making armed confessions,
the strength of his station
a portable rift that goes fishing.

Furs and fiery dosed coffee,
stacked against the thousand walls'
cartons of empty breakfast.
Taking another name,
with a bid-hand into the air,
I'll have that one, it's mine,
I will sear its framework
into these many minds.

Sludge and fist
and the joy of mercury
a ton factory for hollow brains
the holiness of slain dragons
consciousness captive to the host
lost in his loves and smash-ups
having out-run his mirror and remained

I will do away with this fossil nutbag
delicately for bronze-projected millennia
while he eats my cake helmet
and wraps my feet in seaweed
from his wet mineral drawer
pulling tags and salespeople aside
to make way to my heart

with a stretched letter of zero
a corked anatomy plug sheet
a monstrous cash flow involvement
hewing to the national murder
of the weak and hysterical
because their punishment
suits their central casting
and what central casting has selected
let nobody separate from destiny
let nobody unravel what destiny has afforded
let nobody ask and then what

Black frame variations
from within white flowers,
moving like gray ghosts,
my two mule binoculars
pick up the first flags of winter
only a few feet above
with a rush of sound,
a flock of nearly two hundred
signaling the cold thrushes to come.

Banks of majestic cottonwoods stand dressed like golden spires among the evergreens;
caps of snow timber and brush thickets resound with bird song;
stuffing themselves with berries to the point of saskatoon brush,
feeding on the dry bohemian waxwings
through the blood-red patch of eggs and fledglings done
craft and care taken in their building of a canyon to go
other of the tribe of the world.

Decorating the face with color, ripening the grass and splashing the leaves of the
mythical land: of Eden, California, an island
peopled by a swarthy, robust, passionate race of
women living manless chivalry and derring-do,
the past is also lovingly maintained.  The state is golden yet.

Among them all, only the rough timberline
on the mountains, the September larches stand
the first flocks of migrating sooty-gray coots showing up on the bigger lakes
with their sharp ivory-white beaks and beating

From nesting splitting the wind their way with short wing strokes
in diving they are element, graceful and astonishing--a joy of grace and power

For they are the biggest of all deer and move pure
blood stirring with the first
and small songbirds already gone.

High winding violin strings pluck pine
over the theater's web
dashing backwards on rubber screens
tying pigs' tails to an unfettered gate
a kaleidoscopic sock
dripping out of exhaust pipe
bent paths in skirts of washed-up gloves
tires molding land to a mound
of blood salamanders
tiny hooked spines and detached tails
the question mark of orange flesh
clinging to broken bark,
the diseased motor
of a dreaming tree.

With a light not my own
I pillaged my scarecrows,
they stood in a yielding rain.

Terrible glory of spent hours
hitting the wind, some heat
on the back of that beast's neck,
there he goes.

Chasing days over the cliff's lip
like grains of salt.

Along the ground
in a g-string
and feathered hood,
first body from
the core of the world,
making the sun and moon
see.

Criss crossed pines
on the fuming ground,
borders rubbing together
earth's gash clenching
wheels of rubber.

And the wayward path
loaded with golf balls,
pocked orbs stomped
under the root's emptiness
at every step.

A cold gun fired
inside the reaches,
tugged at by the webbing
of the mind,
trying to find the right
moment to erode,
the proper rift between waves
that draw deep
to lie down in.

Stone slab fallen on
what occurred to the heart,
to memory.

The circle's frozen water
and a bench surrounded by
no other benches
where he can sit with a sandwich
and wait,
for it to happen.

Embroidery of webbed and silken days
catching fire with the lust of one look.
Gridworks of little deliberate rivers laid out
for desire to crawl over
on hands and knees.

Airport Decembers where the phones
dangle like octopus.

A skate of fire's blade
over tumbling ice,
split trees nudging
through parted hair,
fern cliffs mushrooming
lichen'd lips, headboards
of rice paper breeze
fluttering over grass
mattresses, eels flickering
figure eights in mid air
with bodies of multiplied
eyeball, gravestones tapped
under the snow between
black piano keys,
mouth-searing scents
sketching notes
on the torn forest's
orchestra, a spring's cleft
spurting latex gloves,
a woman of water
holding shape in sunrise basins
where the lunar tug is lashed
to a leaning mast, the sword
of a fresh satellite
teeming with gnats of lightspeed
and gaining gods.

I am the hand of death
in a fringe of lace.
The tar mouth bubbling wheat
from a core of soap.
Icicles of bone's blood
shooting droplet hearts.
Muffs of steel
scratching eager arms.
Yards of mice in rows
crawling into a metallic light.
Years in rubber-wrapped parchment
aching for the lines of a studying palm.
Owl eyes in retreat
from an owl body.
Star pebbles eating
through the bucket sides.
And a foppish haircut
crawling stone and yeast
to drape what dreams regret.