on getting things done

Between the forceps of words waiting that heave my eyelids up is

a yellow bird swinging over a horizonless sea, the perch creak-creaking and

her cheep-cheeping and me deep

- deep in so much to do! I rattle the cage and say "what the fuck are you doing?"

she just cocks her head. I lose my -

roll the "cock" around a loving tongue

let the waves take me and make me

a sandwich, eyes closed.

The Word

i worship the idiolectical 360° gradation;

my altar is all:

plato, buddha, allah, darwin, and the

rest that lulled to sharpness gray

matter under mind

and you

and you

when you say what you think you know are

All Mighty.

Neither bible nor textbook can

hold The Word i seek, but i bow

before each

eye that looks and mouth that speaks.

033012

was outlining

the petals when

they began to

look like little labia -

l lips...

that spoke me out,

a lively whisper,

that keeps me in.

I roll around

my spongey tongue,

its clay -

dirt -

anyway; molded and

molding, mushrooms tickling my scalp,

sometimes feeling

the terror and the joy

to move (ahh)

by association

to the end.

advancing back

'Have we grown?' has been

the question; but have we grown

too far?

we've come down here

where

"your happiness is not my responsibility"

echoes in the

mother, wife, n children,

an incalculable deluge

grew - who knew?

we did - too much - and then

did too much - kill

the light -

grope and sniff

ache and lick

touch and kiss and

see through

bright blinking hearts

you are me

me

are you

ok Oh

hey, I forgot...you mean the world to me.

on never speaking

No beloved Queen Virtue whose

door red porphyr is,

but I, vainly clothed,

send my shadows dancing

through a guarded glow.

My walls are paper - thick

as rock, and maybe Plato had it right

or maybe I just fear to talk

(In the moment of the crisis forced

an image of the swollen

mind torments me

until I withdraw

trembling) by the fireside I

pump pump

pump my pen

sweating earth pigments,

burnt bone,

ground calcite,

the ashes

of the heart that moves me.

I am not I no more nor am I wholly one.

Read me like a hidden painting,

awful in the dark,

and hear the glaring handprint sneer:

how petty, your tale of me!

umi

:

the lazy beginning:

the no where of no ones:

seeking the inspiration of

an inspiration: I,

into the density of

you, ambling, plunge, a

stranger, from the outside you are

seen

by the unambling, unknowing they-me.

But here I see

the outside lucid like a

DREAM; HERE

grown men and women

pound the floor unhappily.

Spirits hurled like

poster paints, childishly,

colour me you. Friends,

don't I know

the yearning frustration,

the frustrated yearning,

the yaustraned frerning

to say

just

just

just

what you mean to mean to say!

and the seeking of an inspiration...

the no where being no

one...fearing the lazy life that

steals like sleep...all this world

began with a colon conclusively: but now,

oh, where to go to be?

Frightful Farming

Sometimes I see

my heart is full

of poetry ripe for the reaping but

I am

an eyeless ant

in haggard denim overalls

and that

is a garden brimming with Aphrodite's

choicest mousetraps. The musky scent of

life and love reminds me yet of death.