Dog's version.

The mulch is made up of birch, seed and bone.
Do you know my shoulders have been blinded by the sun,
Peeled bright orange and rare,
My buzzing eyeballs glazed and pinkened, no longer awake...
Am I qualified
To beg or
Fetch this remnant of Another's
Ossification?

Innocence.

Imperiled eyes
Looking in on amber
Birds,
Their swerving newborn heads bounding in funny circlets
As the air fawns to obey the motions
And as I appear
Before them.

The devil.

In each
And every kiss
Lies the serpent
and his coiled
Blueprint.

D'you know...
Your breath
Divines our filmy governance.

The devil.

I don't know much about cake blood
Or what it takes to clean it
Off the road
But when I watched--and it was drenched,
From a safe distance
My cleanliness went away
And I started to learn about the regularities of
The path you've bluely shown to the drivers.

The devil.

Buttermilk,
Blue curtains I've never been tortured
Stains that run watery red
And--I'm trying to be honest with you:

This gulf into which humankind was born is both deep in cultivation and charismatic.
I

Deliberate acts of appeal.

Only if your boys hold me down
And you take a bunch of cheap shots on me
Will I
Will this bird go free.

Each night is like a thousand years....

is an Autumn window, an amber tax of the season, built, and is the resin of slowly-built profit no less natural than honey fixed, built conquerable, and preserved in the Pharaohs' needy tombs ....

Hobbies.

"Here/Here in the moonlight/Hold me while I sing to you my Teenage Sonata..."
-Sam Cooke


People spend money on roses, candy and every old wretched thing
Their eyes are flashing with
Tenderness.

They aren't creatures of
Comfort

They're just passionate about their hobbies of
Love and devotion.

Tick.

My impartiality has cost me seconds
To the minutes I'm owed.

Solipsistic query.

Where are the birds flying over me--
Their flashing shadows?

Once they saved my thumbnail encounter with living
From the arson
The sunlight.

Regret as it relates to mercy.

Mercy must be the sincerest and quickest
Revenge.

Not exactly the wish of the heart, but a balm,
Resolved to destroy that to which it might
Succumb.

We are alive in a mealy dearth of wisdom,
A wealth of regret.

Drinking blood.

The air of sophistication is breathed
Into being
The moment a bottle of wine hits the floor
With even a trace of its heavens interred.

No, it isn't pretty,
Yet we watch out of duty and thirst.

Biology 101.

It has an indecent odor.
Maybe you remember the nearly black lawn clippings
Composting in the yard
As a kid.
If not I assure you they were nearly black.

Your surprises are turning black
As all things deprived of either chlorophyll or
The light do.

It needs not a wish, not even a volition.

The auld lang syne (variation).

You really ought to go back
To making Magic the old way:
With Lies.

Untrained ears.

The poetry of reason--
What a sweet and distinctive
Din it must produce
In the ears of those
Who've never heard it before.

Call me stupid.

Stop dancing!
Everything is rotten
Disagree
Call me stupid
Breathe on me (while dancing).

0000.

Everything lying here is
An encouraged variety of honey.
Once released the captive stays.

Reliance.

Spoken to and relied upon as an adult,
But retreated.

This cabin, and winter nearing.
This winter smoke's rise in the chill--
This retreat is confirmed in it.

Impostor's ideal.

If holding is really real
Then I am holding you.

I am searching for a pool to lie in, have a beer
And bleed.

My corruption runs like a coaxed
Honey.

My corruption--I am forgetful,
Runs out.

"You can make me feel bad"

For Saint Arthur Russell

A flyspeck is infinite,
and I also got a little lost.

But between these buildings and the ladling in of fresh
Atmosphere
I awoke, not a Christian or anything like that exactly.

I took a shower.

Fear.

Fear
Fear of injury
To one's fingers while cutting
Fear is gorgeous.

All fear and no
No loss employs me like Your--

Mostly fear.

You would sit in a bar and talk to a dog.

I think the purpose of indignation is to keep warm the edges of the thing. No, hold on. No, that's a waffle iron.

A kimono.

Modesty has a new proclamation,
Which runs so contrary to the pulp
And stir
Of its being.
Has it a kimono, one of those foolish mustaches?

What am I? Was I young when empathy
Ran off?

A toast..

"People come/People go/People lie nameless in the snow"
-Destroyer

To people who carry placards and
Blearing rage
Knowing not where life begins,
But where our jurisdiction barely and frigidly
Clamps.

To that burnished fraction, to me and my neighbors.

To the humble and modest as well.

The master race.

For the grand optimist, Ben Schott.


Of what good is the master race
When it can't even govern us properly,
Reign amid us even adequately?
Deploy us to Limb Loss?

I am not even shaking.

I haven't looked up with
A prayer in a very very long time.

Brief encounter.

Cecilia Johnson walked across the platform beyond
And Rachmaninoff.
The sturdy air of please more...

I love these old movies and they
Rain.

A liberality, not a binge.

Wait! Maybe both.

To the injured.

Are you okay?
Are you demented?
Did you draw this picture
Of a man with sky for hands?

Could I call someone for you?





I am intent on pleasing the moon as well.

Another thing, Vonnegut...

Isn't a need like a want--
So glad to flourish in a drought.

Through its belligerence
Or beauty
It does so.

Blood tributaries.

The wise and wishful and necessary,
How hard to differentiate.
Could only their Mother know?
Could it be possible that an hour separates their births?
A minute, a second?
See their features--
Is She trisected for the same wailing baby?

The theirs.

The theirs has been maimed. Totaling my strikes, the tally is blood rinsed and quite significant. Like the time I fed the Wolves torn bread and aioli in a crowded restaurant in a favorite dream. Everybody was nervous and first:

Their hunking jaws--
I'm sorry THE hunking jaws,
Abounding on the food.
The food!

Please cut my tongue out.

Mysticism is for assholes--
I was put in front of a group of casually-dressed
Adults in night school.

I was asked to say that.

"Will the world never end?"

Imagine a glowing bulb without skill,
Originated in an attic
Similar to the one we were all
First afraid of.

Now dare yourself to extinguish what we have
Imagined--without skill.

It is why we have reunited,
Is our bias. We
Asked ourselves to experiment
With the possibility that not

Oh, and the marsh of Mars.

Don't you want to know?
Hasn't it a curiosity to its skin?
A puzzle?
--the extension of why me!?
To compliment my
Why You!?

The marsh of Mars is buried in a cup of smooth (and sugary), while the doctor who relocated to Mexico City to cure goosebumps--G-d bless him--he should be shot.

I'm temperate, but for when it comes to the treasons of skin, the bullring growing from my nose, picture of the valley

Where you.

How!

The attenuated divide.

(for a tardy muse, whose symptoms have given me an early autumn cold...)

Purpose has yet to fail us:

This is a testament to the wild length of the road,
Not our durability.

There's only one thing.

There's only one thing we ever dreamed about.
It startles,
Is why we even dreamt it.
And the method of procurement and why such a
Price
And why such a calibrated
Voice
Is needed.

(I saw you grinning on the sidewalk and I was as brittle as cold dripping glass from the eave.)

Their efforts at extinction.

Despite this weariness
I am capable enough to tell you
That the flood was a rambunctious Thing
But we're okay.

Their efforts at extinction proved inadequate;
Our courtesy has run wild.

Vermouth drinkers in the afternoon when nobody saw.

Their infatuations are passing,
Seeing as they are old, having caved in.
All their teeth have turned to sour thatch in
Their mouths
As they enjoy their drinks.

The wild you,
How unpredictable the wild you is, watched, and
Is.

Last night I dreamt about an open suitcase.

The dull patina in the eyes of Edward Hopper's prisoners:
Last night I dreamt about an open suitcase.
Open window
Wet butter knives spilled out on the floor,
An overturned drawer.
Her affairs lay open on the desktop, drenched and
Illegible.

By the suitcase ran spilled ink.
Cursive and at such a breakneck slant,
Heedless, the way an animal would charge,
Antlersdown at the creek,
Charging the adversity of All Things
Embodied.

It was unmistakable what she'd been thinking,
Whatever it was--we're just here to observe this reliquary.

0000.

You would lie naked in the field
Without a hand to warm you,
Without any consolation in fact.
You would be there with me,
Ever I was that I was not there
But there.
I am in my eternal fluctuation
There.

Do you see how the smoke rises,
And how all beyond us
And us lying there
Is ruined?

Nakedness.

Still from Peter Brook's The Lord of the Flies (U.K. 1963)

Bees buzzing all around
Flowers implode with scent and wretched sorcery.
And time.
The natural world is full of ordered swine
And time

And us,
With what manipulation of science did we ever distend
And call it science!?

With what do we, as we still do it?

I think we are like Golding's Ralph, not spared for his equanimity nor resolve
--for either would have saved him,
But for Good Fortune.