Full Moon In Taurus

Watching brain

circle its own cortex

              like a drain

    or top arena.

  fervent try

tie back dead layers

     of inward chest

shed willfully,

             but involuntarily.  

Meanwise,

     The sands are  

    slipping from Our Lady’s  

  silver line, hooked by

        how much of you is

                       already gone.

Mist and grit

pull for each other --

    it’s been said

            they gnash at the other

-- tighten, tense,

rip                 warp in

         skyline.

       edges of which

           disintegrate away in

     pixellating decay

                            sucks you in

                            chucks you East

loops me into

minute memory:

When I put The hand

before The mountain

salted knuckle before

      top-off and

        tree,

Articulation          itself

     couldn’t have pinned

                         me.

How does a seed of space

      bloom?           silently

First sound?

  beats      on       me  I

am blossoming mad.

I am timshel

  rising mists and open water

Arc of Sun, Shadow of Star

  rotten mulch rosebud

and forgotten flag  

                     I was out back.

Chromatics refracted lengthwise

through grand trine, modified

socket sublime. This side

of the mountain         hangs

by scales improvised.

A scorpio rises

   uncoveted, henceforth, with

   short-ranged eyes.

and the “important” decisions await.

                 Since the thickness buried you,

dependency has forsaken me. See,

                       I was out back.

chose remaining stretch

to gum up fingers’ edge,

soften my touch

make it last longer.

   Meanwise, cops tug

   along outside, slugs

No telling where you are, but

             you are warmer

          than I think either

              of us realized.

Isosceles Mountain, isosceles hillside,

tonight, please keep me

  in whisper

        High Moon’s grace

            heirloomed key to revelry

  offered in all directions

 at once, freely.

Sprout of space is leaf-ing. still

  too soon          to say

  if grasses will be silver

or gray.

                  And too far away.

Makes His Exit

You said this coffee shop sucked

so we grabbed a spot in back.

anything but the screaming wheel

at 7am on a Saturday.

As far from the jobsite

as possible. That’s

where we are: far

as we can get

with our noses still

hanging over

Sniff out that free

time management

and coffee.

So we’re in back of the Bozo

under a clean ceiling

under a clean blue

under which storms have

been grazing for days.

So now all the clean

white babies wheel

their parents around

adventure-morning anticipation.

and each one that rolls

     in the joint

wrinkles up right corner of

     my right eye, the one

furthest from you.

attempts to finagle a blockade

     so you won’t see.

Because it seems now

today and tomorrow

and maybe a morning later

Is all I know of you.

I grow selfishly frantic

in the face of your pain

     even dreamed up,

as if it weren’t always

                  this way.

You’ve gone,

      you’ve gone,

                you’ve  

                      gone

you’ve gone to pry a breakfast taco

out of the fingers of a

      dying paycheck

and I sit both in

      loathing and lust

for men and babies

and the futures they possess

in their silhouettes.

Only I can’t pry

them out with a well-timed

and mannered question.

23 minutes since

            you’ve gone.

I wonder how much

salsa and coffee

hangs in your mustache.

          Bossa nova.

GrindCraft

“MAKE SOMETHING!”

         it screamed. And so

the storm yacked out the scales,

complete and under-flipped in the grit

smacked the score straight, sandy and limp.

The worthlessness of scraping the bottom,

dragging dead weight across the mud

drudging up dead debris

that we then covet

and wield warfare for

as if it were something much more sensitive.

With the care and sweetness

of sinking shock,

of fingertips on a lover’s earskin and cheek,

we cut and crush our brothers’ guts

for ravaged shreds of OUR broken-ness

clawed up from the deep

every week

another hommage to another victim

on a screen that should have been

burned lastpreviouslypriorbefore

Because shadow play is intriguing

but if you’re going to war over

a splintered oar

from ages unknown

you might as well fuck onstage

and give them a real show.

Like you meant to all along.

“SHOW ME SOMETHING”

       worth blubbering over.

so the storm hacked up

another ball of eel carcass

    and driftwood

and you were revealed,

    your nature of ruining perfectly good

        remains

re-purposing porpoise skin and shards

in a timeless swing over your head.

your eyes shone proud, wild

at the prospect of wreckage

using blibber and blab,

as if it meant something.

And the crack of lightning

slithered down and struck

the muck you heaved up.

Immortalized it as a weapon.

And my fists couldn’t twist deep

enough, hard enough slammed in sand,

raging at the land for

encouraging you and your

stupid stand

against an enemy of your own brand

by your own hand.

Took in a mouthful of sand last night

for no reason at all.

But it added more weight to the riptide

more imprint to the fall.