45*21

I hear coyotes yell
just outside
and I am
the sound carries
it's all that matters
like pulp
the kitchen
super
I'll have some milk
my prayer is doused in it
give me a regular dose
the grass is growing similar
so some words get closer
the edge is neater
I allow my self some space
and grow alabaster
changed ideas today
open hardware
we are all dying
knowing
letting the freak

45*21

it is hard to talk about the masculine/feminine
person as we rest shaded notes
filigree under the nails.
There is a murder going and we don't know why.
A sky full of enigmas
Cancer is what they call the disease that ends so much life
This sign and the end of time
These brilliant red flowers begin to grow
The walker and the passer by
Snake together in the illusion of the great divine
We wrestle with small chords in a run
and gather up the cables that make the whole unwind
leaf whispers
granular earthquakes of morning cereal
until the disappearance of revealing light
This, which brings the smoke
It is sliding to the inevitable slide
of equivalence nature

45*21

Joe Ben was alive in my dream last night
he suffered from manic depression
unwilling to confront it, said
I'm with the program.
I woke up sad and stiff
Something allowed me to get up
And off I went to make pancakes
But not before telling BD about this dream
She said nothing about it
It was so vivid, it was so clear
His eyes were his eyes
In them, a catfish sadness
Jeremy was sitting on the couch in this dream
He might have been the one questioning Joe Ben
About his maintenance
They never knew one another
Jeremy smoked a cigarette with languorous guile
that makes even the non-smoker want to smoke
I'm supposed to marry my friends
but one of them may not be wanting that
just going along

45*21

There's a rambling mode
we pine for in the back of our minds
but laden us with everyday woe
I jump both feet over the white picket
Am I the white rabbit or the black doctor
mosquito nets blanket the town
The elderly lady hunched over in a C
walks by me, her name is 4 Spanish words
One was rose and one was the sun, helio
We woke from deep slumber on the beach
as the fog rolled in as stiff as egg whites
Someone had started a fire and their shadows stretched
black through a sheath of white linen
I smell the brine and think of wine
A glass in the morning
I toast the sun as it burns off the fog
Walk along and look for horse crab shells
Instead, I find a woman's bra
Then take a swim in water so cold
You are something like a cadaver
The mind reaches its tentacles deep between your toes

45*21

The hunting man and the gambling man
are in church this morning praying
as if they meant it and in their mind
thinking of a new conquest, not sure
if they are conscious of it, they open the book
it falls open weakly and there are music notes
and words of which they know very little.
In the blackness of the night room
lying awake for hours on end
not being able to rest for long
Getting up to wash his face, he sees
someone he does not recognize
the mirror is a hidden room and the man
is fishing for an answer from the specter
in a shadowy light, groping you might say
for some kind of truth.
The mind lets go. He is eating chocolates
sweating, smelling acrid and he begins to disappear
The rational man is at home with his thoughts
growing brighter by every second
lit by a notion of a corpulent industry

45*21

for 6/25/10

"Never the pig to teach us what we already know."
So says the stranger to the whore
we are all strangers on a moss island
there are little grasping breaths
at the end of each slim sideway glance
in the depths of the lacquered hallways
Fat old grandees hit hard shots of cheap liquor
The reflections fade beyond the shadowy dunes
A novelist at the end of time takes a long drag
the street cracks beneath slender feet
an awning comes loose from its anchor
fast sleek runners over hurdles
the waves break as they say, "ha!"
the reel lets loose off the sprocket
the muscle squirms loose from the rock
stitches are for people who want to heal
The decrepit doctor writes a last script
the echos slap against the tennis court hallways
A fake mustache comes away from the soup
in an ocean of ideas rotting in dead minds
of floating corpses in hall closets

45*21

tidal waves of sound
breaking wind in a
park outside my town
I gathered some stones
in an alley way
it was very dark
illuminated by utmost nothing
we grabbed the rail
and sunk into deep nightmare
clowns grew out there
in the distant clouds
porcelain images old fantasy
it is all crazy
how we resist constants
must do with dreams
how they befuddle us
into lonely ire out
there in the tree land
we prosper in individual ointment
flies for an astray
kindergarten at the end of time