unClouds (4haikus)

Trying on a gown,
she decides against the blue,
falls asleep once more.

Dreaming of songbirds
and two little white girls,
balancing two cups.

One: riverwater,
Two: memories of sunlight;
symphonies of hope.

Western winds blow west,
but before they can conjoin,
Eastern winds blow east.

On the wall

Voices from the distance,
an insect chorus mends the air
and I sit here in silence,
loving the world as it slips past.
The sound of my own voice startles me,
and among my collapsing thoughts,
the wind is little comfort,
singing in my ears, bringing the
twinkle of birds in his breath.
Ants crawl among the wall;
this is their land, their life,
they will know nothing else –
I, on the other hand, am a fool,
tomorrow to leave this place a memory,
to rest among the pylons of my past;
there is darkness here, left by me,
I see it in the distance,
shouldering itself against the corn fields,
hidden beneath the branches of pyramid trees,
and I leave a little lighter, my burden less,
but the stones speak their own truth:
they have been here forever,
footsteps on stone, the sound of blood in the air,
and through the beauty, the darkness is always known.

Rules and universal things

I tell myself I have no say,
my mother tells me not to say,
and so silent I am, supposed in time, frozen,
living my life one day at a time,
Waiting for that beautiful moment when you are
there, your figure in the mist,
me in the mist, us surrounded by dew,
but I am told No Wait Now isn’t the time
and I scream – harmonics be damned,
the melody and chords and rhythm
of this song can go to hell, because
the faintest hope that you are there with me
can give me good mornings for a week,
can bring sunshine on my darkest days,
but I am told The Time Is Not Right.
I write these verses in rebellion, in anger,
frustrated by the manacles on my lips,
pissed by the fragility of my heart, but also
bloody incensed at the unfairness of it all.
– I am shot, my little heart broken,
and I cry myself to some kind of sleep
because, because, but the laws – I feel dulled.

An Acmeist Wordmonger, unspoken

(I speak not elegies,
nor mind the right and wrong)
Oh deist, mine own,
eternally in the sky.
They say your son is a devil,
shining in the moonlight,
his grimace a shimmer
and his laughter gone.

(The elegy crows through me,
riveted to the now)
The edge of the mirror,
pock-marked, studded with rust,
it hinges on the wall.
My visage is a blur,
who is this face in the pale?
His eyes are uncolored.

(Falling behind, moving away,
the elegy is on the run)
Oh heavens, you leave me pondering
on the seers and prophets who glance
in the sea, only to see the waves,
only to see the waves. The curls
are their prison, as the foam grows
and becomes death.

(The music fades, sentenced
to a life of servitude)
The density of my soul,
no, that’s not right, for I am acme,
a block of iron dumped into the sea,
my words are worth nothing, my
definition becomes like the vision
of a distant mountain, unknowable.

It’s hard being back in the saddle.
It will come soon, though. The old feeling,
the bump and sliding of the tongue.

The Avenues

Poetry has fled for a moment,
replaced by the grinding of gears
and a shiny new cover.

It has returned, though,
much to my surprise.

It is perhaps more common,
more heady, touched
with the necessitudes of a life
not yet lived.

To dream is divine, yet to live
is somewhat benign,
unless one walks bravely to the cliff
and faces the wind
with the water on their face.

I’ve seen the avenues
that proudly stand,
their trees and broad trunks
of my own pastime,
yet I hold the future is unwritten,
to be taken by my whim,
my hopes, and my fancy.


men with gloves cook lamb by moonlight
you are with me, beside me, around
charcoal smoke fills the tent
dusty and burnt sticks are crushed into the ground
the dull sound of the street from outside

the cold envelopes us
you are with me, beside me, around
tv light from apartments flicker inside windows
a police car, flashing colors, is parked ahead
dark shadows of bicycles are an illusion behind

I fall asleep to the sound of conversation
you are with me, beside me, around
a scarf wrapped about my neck
the warm inside air conflicts with the chill
the stairs sound hollow against our shoes

empty streetlights blink yellow
you are with me, beside me, around
headlights loom in the distance
lego-like buildings pass by, mere ghosts
a gas station glows in the night

a large padlock is wrapped around the gate
you are with me, beside me, around
the guardhouse is illuminated
my door opens quietly, unobtrusive
I settle into my bed, dreaming of tomorrows

Lyrics to a birthday

the old men in the park remind me of children
they play their games and laugh and drink
the old days fade into dusty yellow books
they smile at me, their teeth askew
the old memories, they never go away
I am a year older

the morning brings cats, hiding in the bushes
they meow and hiss and slink away
grandmas walk little white dogs
boys and girls kick balls between cars
my brakes squeal, the front tires rattle
I am a year older

the river is frozen solid
under the bridge the water has broken
men fish on ice, poles in water-holes
they are like modern eskimos, without the hoods
cars pound smoke into the street
I am a year older

today they sang happy birthday in two languages
sheng ri kuai le, they sang, happy birthday to you
being here, at this moment, feels like watching rain
the window slashed with streaks of water, ragged, smooth
dreams of green hills and laughing children fill me
I am a year older

Five Statements of Being at a Local Park

I. Steam; boiling mist
spills over rusty, black bikes;
bushes, withered, dry.

II. Moving arms; palms wave;
red brick apartments surround;
twilight exercise.

III. Spaceship trains, guns raised,
children at the helm, silent,
winter on their face.

IV. Monkey temples rot,
thrashed by time’s terrible war,
while old men play chess.

V. Windows reflect sun,
burning my eyes, while winter
synchronizes me.

诗 (Poem)

今天是秋天, 很 冷;

Jīn tiān shì qiū tiān, hěn lěng;
qiān luò yè;
wǒ shuì zài huā de chuǎng li.

Today is autumn, very cold;
many leaves are falling;
I go to sleep on a bed of flowers.


Those golden lights grace
our harbors of memory,
imbued in blue.

Night lampposts diffuse
ephemeral threads, hushed in

Waiting by the road,
listlessly taken by the
nevermore of stars.


My peace comes in breaths,
stolen from the cold, ripe air;
dreams dream of dreamers.

My own, slashed, gutted,
fed to monsters of the deep;
to the future, sung.


It’s a different way of thinking.
Picture this:
A man, his face torn and bloody,
sits on the bottom of a dark and dusty shaft.
He believes himself forgotten, displaced, so
when he cries out (which he does) his voice is
silent. He is like this for many years.
And then a hand is placed on his shoulder, and
helpless, destitute, he knows he can see, and
the shaft is filled with light.
He looks into the eyes of his savior, and he
is amazed. He is common, ordinary, but
he carries a warmth, an invisible light.
And as the old man opens himself, the warmth fills him.

[Romans 1:7]

The Passing

They sit on their temples,
songs passing over heads, swimming
with the clouds, vanishing among
the stars, faded moon, and the sun-filled
heavens. They watch the multitudes,
in their bright and wild colors, pass.
They remark to one another: How
strange they are! How remarkable.
When midnight comes, and the darkness
envelopes even the light from their eyes,
they shudder and cry out. In
the morning, some of them are
different, as if they caught the light
of the rising sun. They stand and process.

[Romans 1:6]

Meditation on Face

The river, quiet. Clouds sparkle, shadowed by thick mountains.
A lone tree, shivering. The breeze is slight, traveling on a breath.
The man sits on the grass. He has green eyes,
like the forest’s bloom. He lies on his back, asleep.
Peace fills his face. Birds speak in the leaves.
The grass, the dew, the dawn sky. The sun floods the heavens,
it becomes like reeds through the clouds.
God is here, on the earth. His feet, as if a rumbling storm,
his heavy-laden voice, as if the high wind.
The man stirs in his sleep. The water of the stream bristles.

We are the men by the sea. We sleep in dreams forged by
the heavens. We hold the earth in our hands, we hold
the power given to us by God, yet we are too much of the flesh.
We cry out to him, and then shield our eyes.
The steel we have taken from the earth covers our eyes,
we are blind to him who made us. We are silent,
our mouths sewn shut by our own hearts.
We sleep by the wayside. We feel the breeze against our face.
We sleep on the green groves. We see the sun dawn the sky.
We meditate on the waves of the river, and we
listen to the song of the birds.

But his face seeks us. His face is like the brightest sun,
and through his creation, he calls to us. Through the intricate lines
in his memory, through the blood in the trees and the
feathers on the bird, through the vales in the mountains and
the lines in the river, he calls to us. As we embrace his call,
the crowing of creation flows back to us, and we are at peace.

[Romans 1:5]


What is in a name? By what glory
do you stand before me, and shout your
radiance? What right have you?
I am among the dead men; they
breathe and die, are reborn a second
time, and quest for the eternity of
the horizon. They smile plastic smiles,
pure smiles, lustful smiles, mad smiles,
all the while counting their toes
and dancing on thin air. They suck up
the blood of flesh, and dry their teeth
on beggars� rags. They know nothing, yet
everything. They chisel their name
on temples, and compose ballads to the sun.

The magnificance of the light beyond the sea;
we strive everyday, sacrificing our children,
like lambs upon the altar of dolls; we forget the
wisdom of our grandfathers, and in lieu,
we fight amongst the circles of time, believing
ourselves to be heralds of the coming age.

Our savior is a breath away. He dreams when
we are awake, and stirs us in our fantasies;
he has no tangible name – for it is impossible to
name love. It merely is, yet it is not dead,
like the sun or moon, with their lifeless shores;
it is alive, spinning, transforming, becoming, arriving;
we are poles to this grace; we fall into his arms.

[Romans 1:4]

Girl of Sacrifice

Above the azure haze,
where the crown meets a maze of light,
little children sleep on beds of oak,
leaves browned by the summer sun
fly between shafts of light, raining
upon shattered dreams and sworn hopes,
and the little girl lying on the grass
with her heart in her teeth and
a blaze across her cheeks, her eyes
like the sun unclouded and her
laughter tolling across the green,
that glorious voice bounding across
the heavens, glittered with tyranny and
majesty, this little girl falls peacefully to sleep.

She is unaware, blissfully so, of sacrifice.
She dreams of golden stars and polished temples,
she fights off demons in her sleep.
The din and echo of mortality has
faded from her innocent face; she shouts joy.
The immortality blasted across the threads of hair,
chiseled upon her serendipitous nose; the etching
of time slowing in her silk-fed hands,
all of this she is unaware of the sacrifice.
Peace comes with a price; the falling of a
blade is heralded with gifts. Joy is not free.
When she wakes, the illusory world sways
before her eyes; filigrees of hair shield
the sun from her eyes. A bird calls out from a tree.

[Romans 1:3]


Did you forget, my son?
Did you forget when I held the sky
for you, and stopped the storms?
Did you forget when I blew the wind
to make you cool, and grabbed
a bit of the sun to warm you
on a cold night? Did you forget?
Do not forget, my son, of the birds
in the trees whose song I made for you,
of the rumble of the clouds to awe you,
of the beauty of scales, so when light
flashes across the surface of the water
the ocean is alive with beautiful,
moving stones. Do not forget, my son.

Long ago, when I held the first light
in my grip, when I carved the mountains
from my fist, as I watched the planets align
by my song, in the dwelling of your grottos
you slept, waiting until love came to grace
the earth and fill your belly with food �
Will you forget this, my son? I am a sad
one, for I see the oscillations, the mirrors
of the future, and you my son, will forget,
and so I will provide, giving you a field
to sleep in and wheat to harvest, animals
to sleep by your side and companions to guide,
and when the time comes, to give you rules to live
and prophets to speak – and you will remember.

[Romans 1:2]


Barren woods,
the realms of lofty dreams all
measured next to nothing
when compared to the light
of the future; the light that
drifts from home to home,
carried by a star, carried by
a torch, carried by the glimmer
of a man’s eye; he keeps this light
in his pocket, in his purse, in
the shelves of his wallet, waiting
for a sign, waiting for the star
that falls from heaven, all the while
his hand is burning.

While the slave, who sits among
piles of garbage and ruminates on
the shadows as stones of immaculate
grace, the star burns on his forehead,
the tempest blue, bright red, blazing
into a night sky filled with the horrors
of the day, trampled screams, fearful
hesitations, the drawing of the knife
and the wasting of the earth – he burns
through the night, and his voice is like
a field grown with honey and mint,
reaching into the folds of the soul and
measuring the wealth of a man not by
his pleasantries, but by his rule.

[Romans 1:1]

night maestro

we laugh and play by the rocks at the sea,
we dance to the sound of the earth,
it washes against us, and we feel the tug of time.

somewhere on the beach, there is a song,
it is soft like sand, but echoes among the cliffs,
a fire roars into the night sky.

from where I stand, I see the flickers of flame,
they signal the stars and silence the watchers,
they stand in some sort of holy observance.

we are the masters of the night,
we are the pinnacles of light,
we fly as heralds of sight,
we are the might
of the night.

Children sent by heaven

stars are among us.
we are the dancing comets,
the heralds of the future,
constellations make our name,
we are the children of the past,
and the descendents of our grandchildren,
we cry out to lost stones,
raise our fists to the irony of the wailing road,
and ponder the mystery of time’s last repose.

We are the child of the present,
lost in the haze of the city,
our hands and feet touch the lights of windows,
our mouths speak truths made of thorns,
our hands build monsters of pearl.

We are the future.

We are here, the living, the wanted.

a wedding of particular peculiarities

waveforms on a wave, flying through the air,
curling beneath the sand, our legs drenched,
filled to the brim with starstones, dying of crystals,
we are the memory of time, slip-drunken and fled,
silenced by the moment in which we fail to understand
the intricacies of the inlaid moon, with her silver lines
and mysterious shadows; seconds pass in storms,
flush with red and violent and blue-green leaves,
while the season comes to an end, and we find ourselves
at the gate, where a pale-faced woman greets us,
asks us our name, and hands us two iron bars.

time has flown

left alone, left alone,
beside the tunnels of the soul,
we sing among the golden alleys
and lift the thorns from heavenly melodies,
but too late, too late,
the time has come
for mocking’s sweet sigh,
cradling in high,
the unborn waves upon the sand,
the wind and tails of a forgotten land.

traveling to solitude

Locked in, transparently
held by my own hand;
wearisome, the toil of
eyes placed over and
around my throat.

Vapid smiles, rancid
rolling laughter:
in the fog, corporate steeples
pledge their souls
to alien words.

Lifted slightly, sunbeams
crashing into the shore;
sand grown on the
back of kings; scepters
lying in the river, alone.

glorious, vain glorious

when you go to sleep, sleeply dream,
dream of berries bright, heavy with delight,
dream of blessings, son, don’t ever play the sun,
for earthly things are mortal, mortals be,
away from darkly lit, the skies are hallowed see,
mill the words of old, and seek the holy fawn,
who sleeps in sleepless dreams,
among the glades of men,
yet within the barrows lost,
lie mysteries unforgot,
and heaven lies in wait,
for he whom tomorrow takes.


Generations come and go, but
we remain. We remain silent,
the ones behind, the ones with
the philosophy of wayward souls:
but words like this mean nothing,
they care not for weary tirades
or serendipity and souless skies.

It is like a dark blade of grass
under a new morning, the sun
shedding her light over the
phosphoresence, the glisten of
the dayfire shuddering across
the tip of green.


Alive and well, it seems.
I stamp in the ether,
my feet making fog-holes,
the clappity-clappity muck
sound frogging the effervesence.

Wherefore art the single-minded?
Where has the poem gone?
Into the netherworld, the solemn
and dark land of delights, chocolate,
and cream fingers.

The Music Men

Where are the juke-boxes?
Where are the simpletons in
the plastic hats, waving their arms
and singing folk tunes while
carrying backpacks of rocks and
burning the land in their wake?

I saw a lad not long ago,
he sat by the fire in Tomble-Toe.
He drank a glass in one hand-right,
and strung his soul with eyes of light,
he filled the room with music fatly,
while the world outside burned luminescently.

He�s a bard yes, of that terrible time,
one of the pack, they said, who roamed
the land with string in hand and voice
of silk, who could capture your soul with
just one note, and wait until the world outside,
became as ash of a dark, dark day.

They pass, as they always have, but
their shadows turn to figures, and those
figures taken upon the earth, gathering up
within the ash and taking form, to play
the lyre once again, the music of the earth.

Hall of Memory

In a world of memorable skylights,
of jumping rat-a-tats and chorusing
larks, the invisible sits beside the stone,
fingers mimicrying shadowmen,
the honey oozing from the eyes,
flooding the hall with light.

We stand beside the invisible,
contemplating the source of song.
We stand behind desks, holding
lightbulb pens, penciling out cursive
recitals to our unknown gods and
playing moss-laden flutes, while
the world in memory shudders by,
jumping in juxtaposed flashes of light,
time as indefinable as an empty star.

Birds of Prey

We are the flight-birds, wheeling our cries
over a stark and barren world.
We have wings of steel and eyes of pale
moonlight, and we hunt in the noon-time
for chariots and herons, not having
slept during the night for fear
that our dreams would come and haunt
us during the day.

After we hunt, we sleep amongst
a pile of stones, sapphire, basalt,
concrete, and ruby, and we see the world
as it always was, but could never be dreamt.

Poetry Written near those Mansions

Morning calls on the zenith
of our lives; stars wheel above;
the Master watches us in repose,
and we are slights to his gaze.

Memory serves its purpose…
hissing through the clouds,
heady on the invisible wine,
man speaks volumes of rubies,
spilling into a bowl outside of time.

Glowing, the fires of manna,
they fall like dazed and
awestruck children, spilt like
stains over velvet carpets;
the cajolers cajol in their romanticism,
while I am alone in my mind.

Time exists outside;
the snap of a fishes jaw,
the scent of a burnt rose;
these are inside me; explosions.
The crackle of fire against glass,
the sound of a whistling kitchen,
steam pouring out in raptured breath,
and yet, even so, the words never end.

The sixth: wondering acephalous in free

Upon a night of midnight clear,
the Runner fled among the golden tombs,
he was a man of ancient and high renown,
who by the fate of heaven was scattered below,
and left in madness to hear a voice of fire:

“Oh Man, who caused the sun to fall,
who sleeps beneath the moon and dreams of pain,
fear not, for I will raise you from the dead,
and bring you back among the temple’s Knights,
to Run among the sunless, godless men.”

But he, the Runner, shrunk back in fear,
for though it was his wish to dream again,
he feared the light and warmth of summer’s skin,
and so he ran, in dreams, in darkless light,
to the east he ran, away from Fire’s Hand.

The world in form was dark and deep,
the Ministry of Man had died in sleep,
those cities of gold now stood so silently,
and Man, like shadows, fought the rage of time,
while biding till the end of darkless days.

And so, the Runner ran from Man,
towards the ending of the world’s great Dark,
and leaping off those pitiful, wretched shores,
he found himself alone on a forgotten isle,
and fell to sleep, to dream of better days.

The fifth: accentual verse

What are you talking about?
The sun has risen,
The moon has fallen,
Daylight has come on a star.

Longing for one little spark,
You sing in circles,
You build your steeples,
Yet nothing you do brings me hope.

God, in his visage, will watch,
You fling sand castles,
You have no master,
You follow your own ruling, raw.

I tall-tale the message of love,
It speaks of trials,
You see me smile,
And realize I am now you.

The ending is far from now clear,
You and I, we fly,
To the moon, we cry,
For now we have nothing to lose.

The fourth: the poet upon a bed

Can’t think.
What is a poet without inspiration?
I haven’t read any good poetry lately.
It’s all a farce, anyhow.
I’ve been watching movies all day,
and now Richard Gere is on the screen,
in a blue bathrobe; the side of his face
is profiled, his hair is grey, and although
he is trying to sound tired and dull, he can’t.
He doesn’t look to be the kind of person
who can write poetry, though.

But a poet is not writ on the skin,
but in the hand. It is not the sparring
of the soul against the mutiny of the world,
but rather, it is the humiliation of defeat
before the awesome presence of a golden drum,
forever beating day by day, past the horizon,
and knowing that with every pound,
you lose one more breath of air.

The third: nonesense (or, a pictoral of my room)

line one: a flute on the wall
line two: wrapped in strips of black cloth
line three: the boy fights long-toothed dragons
line four: he holds his sword blazing
line five: the world stares down at a wooden floor
line six: the panels reflect the names of cities
line seven: clothes are draped over a suitcase
line eight: a white-collared shirt and a receipt bag
line nine: an elephant shoehorn hanging on the wall
line ten: the plastic trunk has faded
line eleven: a mirror tacked onto a poster
line twelve: it reflects the closed blinds

line thirteen: as the color streams through the room,
line fourteen: the shadows are illuminated

The second: about a stone

Mesmerized by the inconsequence
of a single act of unrequited brilliance
the young boy steps forward and
while settling his mind on a small stone
placed in the palm of his hand, he remarks
to himself how beautiful God has made
this stone, how the edges are perfect,
the color glorious like the end of a sky,
the size is a bite-sized rendition of
a romantic song; then taking the stone
in two fingers he lifts it above and throws,
the stone cascading through the sky like
a fallen bird, steering through the mists
until it lands in a lake, splashing
in a torrential burst, the waves on the water
flickering away from the impact, escaping
the realm of the immobile.

The first: green men

Woe upon those men of green,
who sink beneath the land,
they thrash and wail and scream and haunt,
but nothing does ever come of their want.
They are the men who live within,
who live alone, unfeared, untouched,
those men who we forget to see,
yet live our lives and daily be.

They dance upon a rolling green,
with grass so strong it cannot bend,
the clouds are made of wires,
the sun is a terrible fire,
the hawks that fly above
sing songs like disharmonious doves,
and the little green men
who sink beneath the land,
can only breath and shudder.

Words Just Because

Corporeal, we will feel,
the bite of life’s last drop.
That time comes like a fallen top,
rushing to meet our doomed doom zoom.
Fantastically, we fling rascally,
amazingly, we sight flirtateously,
but below the belt of azure’s wrath,
within the glare of knife’s bent gaze,
we sweep the porch of sightly might,
clear the ivory-covered kite,
flow into the golden-hued air
on wings of trespass; it is night,
we are our generation’s last hope,
to save the rest of them with only a rope;

a rope?
yes, a rope.

[Lotus Seedpod Men]

In water-caltrop raiment clad, with belt of floating-heart,
you dwell in faerie wonderlands.
Such lush jade-green, your perfumed hue –
tho’ wind may cease, its fragrance yet expands.
Egrets’ reflections grace the pond no more,
only the autumn wind’s soughing, a soughing so glum.
Alone, but for the rush flower, you bear the nocturne wake
and await the heavy dew that with the morn with come.
With greasy make-up swept away,
true character takes form!
Red garments loud, stripped off, display
strength of a subtler norm!
Live up to what Lianxi said:
stand up “pure, straight and tall”.
Follow not the withered leaves
in chilly ponds to fall!

-Lu Xun, 1900

elegies on space

on the edge of the world
between the glass light
“terrible, terrible,”
he says, while fishing with
a pole, in plain sight of the
beast who lives
on the edge of the world


the men who sing, the man who sleeps
between the covers of night and day,
who recounts the days in flights and rakes
the earth with only his wake


troubled mimes, incessant chimes, / the irony of the moon outside of time.

I sit among the rubble of / a tree unfleshed, bare and brown, / and recite the memory of the jungle / with a crown on my head, / ensnared to the ground


a sweet lullaby, loosely played / upon a lyre of ruined waves, / dead against the pale stone shore, / they lie alone, drawn without care, / fraught upon a dream of dearth, / wishing upon a reddish hearth


sliver, silver, memories of ice, / casting down their truancy of price, / we cast our crowns into the sky, / understanding nothing except the lies: / they speak to us in tones as soft / as heart-felt moons left alone too soon


cascades, torrential waterscrapes, / flooding among the valleys of noon, / madness descending, upon a calm lake, / the boat in the middle, the fisherman with his pole: / “oh dearie dear, my fearlie fear, come to me, / upon this midnight clear, sincerely yours, / the Mariner,” / he says upon his boat of gold, / although it is not gold he is so bold, / and as he sinks into the drown / he fits a knot into his scowl, / and cries to the clouds in a loud, loud voice: / “I am not dead nor ever was, / fear me world, if you canst know how!”


where are the ravens? / where are the crows? / where are the birds that roost in my toes? / can you not see them? / can you not see? / are your eyes so blind as you smell rosemary? / I carry on flightily, / singing on mightily, / rarely unaware of my trespass fortnightily, / yet scarce do I know / of that terrible hole, / in which lies the greatest of lies, / that all men are liars, / and I am the bride


my heroes sleep in castles not found, / hidden in the depths of time unsound, / they pound and pound the terrible town / and wake the memories under the ground, / but here I lay, my bones on the earth, / my mind in the clouds, / my heart filled with mirth, / and wakefully I dream of time’s better seen, / of heroes in castles, / asleep on the green



Pearls, I grasp,
sitting on a pale-flesh beach.
The sun is a lion,
talons reaching into the clouds.
I feel below the sand;
there is a hint of sadness there.
Memory, she says to me,
is but a hope for dead dreamers.
She is the sun;
golden, fragrant, world weary.
My love for you wanes with the moon,
she says to me, her voice a silk cord,
bound in wild and delicious colors.

The waves rush toward us.

Paper on Jovian Strings

More’s the more,
rain falling through the cracks,
serendipity calling through the
eyes of a transparent fallacy.

He stands there, his unblinking stare arrayed against a circuit board of trees; the little people mimic each other, crying for help. They wring their hands, tears fall from their cheeks, bombs blow off inside their heads; smoke pours out of their eyes.

Reality is a sway,
rain falling through the cracks,
the darkness beneath the streets
moving in slow motion,
those intrepid gypsies like moths
before a paper lampshade.

growing into one

Levering the trepidations,
washed upon the shore as litter
from a bygone era; those horizons
smile fortunes, gold glitters from
the wreckage, a mouse chews foil,
eyes as round as a bug, hair
like whispered waves, shoreline lice,
waking to dreams; the trees by
the rocks are tall and twisted,
wrapped around each other by wind.

the aura of legitimacy

Fate’s pale artifice, glimmering
with artistry; I am submerged
in the subterranean roots
of a deciduous ethereality.

It stings; pain transcending,
filling the mouth with light,
revenging itself on the mind,
who saw the transmigration of
good into the obscene.

Mentally, this place is impressed,
to be cared for as the bird
flutters her wings, springs of
water falling from her eyes,
gathering in the cool, dusky pool
beneath her claws.