preservethe careful (or careless) concrete curvesthat genius hath mazedinto an underbellyof interlacing leaves and ells,wordless conjugants, habitués ombresof a breeze,form the ceiling of an underworldwhere some lay dying,carried off by robins,where im half-discoveredwhelmed beneath your words and waysand thoughts of me. my hope is(to be) lost(in it).
i think i'm dumbAh!!! Brave and gentle forms!Oh, fearful apparitions!Would that you could bidewithin my spirit-husk todayand steal a heaveof its blissful breath,you might wishto haunt myhappydeath.For i did so die,just yesterday.
Parque de Madrida message,one that never comes(i pretend that it arrives emboldenedin majuscularletters,carved in cliffs of Black Hills, SDcaptions pregnantfrom the lap of dreamsagainst the rocks)a number one,dark and couplingthis unborn lifeto next,to now,to never,hides a crestingcrown.~*~we could livein Spain.
lead-acid romancehow did i come to bea liquid battery?the glowering oil,subterraneanmolten beasts that flood the fittingswith entheogensmade from smokehutsand sacred emblemshave all turned in search ofyour existence.whatever hulking rockdoth wile my gravitas?i rise up fromunder buried songsof draining organs, set to burnfirst flesh of night,rapacious foryour coiled adytumthat delves so innermost . . .so deep inside.
shirazfound performinga galivanteramongst the curios andcheekbone impostorsfeigning bloodvows,rife solidity;fingertip promises inTimes New Roman.supple wrists, otendoned silver thewsthat sail on heated zephyrsabove the grasp;a sortilegeof sighs and bones fore-telling of table wine andconversation.
save a tree how i wantfor nothing morethan to write somethingbeautifulinto you.failures ofsaid enterprisehave yet to revealhow ink dieson the page.
you're an exanthem in any case, youre (an) exanthem in general,concerning nothingand to no onein particular,hello! yes! me!
what i would say to your facelove, theres proof of itfelt in murmurs we all know:the electric echoes of tellurian pediclesmining for the perfect blend of pulpand theater,and thirsty root synapses casting Babels out of vagariesrecycled, filtered, mangled,or whatever on Earth or Hadesit takes to burn that smile for you;and you wear it with such a spurious pride,especially mordantin light ofyour inhaling an unknown cosmoshiding chaosin the mashand into you and me and every one of us-just -waiting for the crashing of the planet-moon that wafts above you, too ghostly and unrealor the hand on your elbow from a childtoo lite to ripple your nerves like knowingor a kiss from a face that puzzles in darknesstoo warm to survive another night of this,and waiting, long, for the drip that soothesthe sleeping fear of this wakeless lot,and waiting for the violent thrustthat knocks down your copper stills;and proof is lost,and love is real.