Am I so jaded I’d spit out to dwell a doldrum?
And in this state, I’ll often feel safe
being at arms length and change with all
but in this delusion,
how oft I feel collected
contrasts how disheveled these pieces are
and taxed at their core.
A grey stacked so high feigns the warmth of quilts
Of which I often seek and have yet to know.

Yet still I push, substituting tender embraces
With jacket sleeves and vacancy
In my own eyes.
Like all vacuums, they are wont
To accept anything
Thus feeding back and insisting illness.

The pulses in my fingertips spells out sweeter sentiments,
Preaching beauty in this world,
As do a songbird or a Tyger’s roar,
The sheep, perhaps, less sweet in its semblance to my own vacancy
I presume.


Evocation of the Mangal

Heron air ‘bout the boughs
Swooping swiftly to fowl’s aid
Tympanic burst to fluttering wail,
Arc to mire,
Splintered, frail
Amorous to a bog limbo.

Agar to a mangrove sapling,
Fledgling, now a faerie, fairly
Soaring, culled to muse a bog
Beguile croak of ancient fervor.
Forlorn of forgotten sentiment
Amnesic by the slew of time.

But like a zheng, the popple mimes
Requiem of sinew woven
Unto a sapling, splendid
Slowly swinging to choral popple.
Naiveté cast to a figure’s ache:
The Barking Wail of the Brass.


“I fit neatly into a box”
She says to herself
In the reflection of a Basilisk’s Gaze.
“Neatly into…
Neatly in two…”
Is the song of culture
Breathing love into the ego
Filling the void left in castration
With Candied Fiction.

It’s a surgery upon the feral
to give rest to fear
and distract
from Fuck Juices
and waste
“Like myself.”

Neatly in two
are a body and its master,
the emoter and hipster
Tucked into the Brain Box

“I Fit Neatly”
is a sigh of relief
that escapes and precipitates
in the vibrating web
Crystallizing as
Collaborative Enterprise
Trapping fond youth with ridiculous new fashions
Fed by the airplane spoon

It belches frail figurines
of a weaker gaze
projected neatly unto a mural.
And to onlooker, prep for effacement
of those prickly eyes, like barbs,
seduced by the cool of sweetness in twos.

And the Dragonflies Still Dance

They trace polar projection
from A to B
Determined in each execution

A stare akin to the Moai
To catch a flicker
From meadow and narcissus
To a plot laying bare,
It projects
Here and there
As they fix themselves to distance
Like static,

Knowing not of a spectator
That may know this to be their dance
In a life riddled with feast fixation,
Conducted by a barbed fallacy
Binding to a tortured body.

That attachment is escaping in the biting of her neck
“Such passion for flow may concoct a new ensemble
That may finally express a flourish more impassioned,”
Like an economist projecting distribution of orange peels,

Such qualities are
An ornament
To the community tangential;
A Community Spoken.


The great pale was
when the sky met a moment
where a boat did not sway
and the sun was veiled by
fog, coloring in ocean breath.
The water reflected the chill there,
and in it, vast emptiness
to an atmosphere settled,
Save gaze of a Sad Shepard and its boat.
It forces an inarticulate moan
Unto her Whildering Whirls
and the world about it
Was Waiting to be Disturbed.


‘Ocean’ has become a pond
Of the Discovery channel Mafia
Like all ancient titans; quaint curiosities
with, perhaps, supernatural implications.

I could wear the ocean as a Bangle
and have it play in my dance,
this diminished behemoth
feeding on romantic scraps,
like small talk,
like polka dots.
like an ocean…

…but i could wear the Ocean as a bangle
And become Wild as it is Wild
Fixing hands to bunches of Sage,
Worshipping the foaming mouth of its many gnashing jaws
and pay ceremony to this proud beast
Stomping earth, stirring
Wrapping it about its
many ivory fangs
becoming of this world as i stomp, stir, wrap about its visage
so it may thrash about
to escape itself
And grab at the naked ape that dare seize it
to be a dog…
as it is.


Can not escape the veneer.
I only inhale input.
(and thus,
retract, and
Form syncytial knots).
Of the world formed in the head,
Given, of course, a source
“heard very well,” it
Forms, well enough
To torture: each
Corner, so sharp and
Sweat ridden, sticky
With regret (I am).

I am told I am
Many things
I do not feel
I must adapt, I
Must adapt, I –

Adapting is
The gravity of input
Which keeps me from escape
Of the veneer, which I
Forget more;
Moreover, a plaque forms
Calling itself
A new sky
for the set I play.