Sans les Mains

I was trying to relax with my mistress
in a little beach front the cheapest dig
but it was a shared rental door suite not
locked off enough due to ratty chewed
french and rounded angle hinge failure
when the little runts parent worshiped
intruded as we wanted to grope alone.

Offered ribs a premonition but man is
that really the stupid answer to the glory
of sharp surf cuts on blue waves against
a mossy row of suburban garage doors
when my eave is under the hidden floor?

I found a piece of aqua seaglass that
was sanded near to perfect before
I heard rumors about the demiurge.

So many things are not like this

Thirty mile an hour winds blown
into high sky now plangent blue,
but blue is or has to be happy or

those dimples will run bloody too,
and who will spike a palpated mess
to rush a hot pulp of lotus through?

Love meanders circus maximus
sieved to only find a golden now
or a lost ivory comb implicit too
in a farce arcade gone minor blue.

Collecting dryer lint is not as
crazy as forseen post tumble,
weirder spawn of major fray
tumble through a dry land too.

Minor things tinged with purple
point the way to weirder realms,
a meadowlark at cicada dawn
trills a flushed song either way.

Seen in the meadow with curved concrete, brought home to be tried

A thick stalk dandelion impostors a white halo

chucked up in the fraud of an early spring grim

with nose poking into a fake grimace fractal,

a lame asparagus false passport trying to win.

Nice try picked a mugshot in a common jar.

The banquet's in the first bite

The scent of a cigar smoked long ago addagio
wafts in a library with blur pages never unread,
erects at dusk a craving for blue grottoes lost.

They have come again late to prep the fountain
for the season, scraping the chipped azure paint
from under the sickly ice of winter's deep sleep.

There's pain in April when the water begins to sputter:
when above a crouching tiger below the torrent rushes.

You can get your life back

Bearded pansies grow in a thick explosion of bright violet,
that throwback yellow to when many winks wore beards.

Throwback no more, though some would hope to seek
for a wet beard whiskered in place today on chin or lips.

Three vultures and an aeroplane set sail in silent prayer
reaching up against blue sky fingers bleached to white.

The last tilt on the round-a-whirl is not always bitter

Make mine lemon if a fruit has to be squeezed
with godly hands onto any of the mounds I eat,

always forward to maximize a palate pleased
when yellow dawn leads sweetly to a final seat.

Death comes like a meteor that reminds you of yourself

My innocent search went obit black guilt
when a real gone mistress dead one year
was in read white news a ten years ghost,

but I think only of her self-absorbed spouse,
who was an awesome sage of software
but not of her,

who was an audiophile who listened
(as if the messiah was in every groove)
to everything but her.

After codeine, bone, and rum
she said I was the best fuck ever.

I was not the first.