the pyrrhic triumph of a taxonomy gone awry

i. can a minor struggle with a major classification go unpunished?

meanwhile, the electro-magnetic pulse is not a timeless adjective,
just a simple case of seeding the wolf before the wolf seeds you:

I shall never use it again,

unless, of course, it is required by your trowel point of need.

a papa-oom-mow-mow
a papa-oom-mow-mow

I shall walk now on haywire splinters of golden intent,
but, perhaps, more erstwhile than my careful voodoo friends:

there was something in the gumbo that defied digestion.

ii. reversing into paranoia has a calming effect

your every move is being watched by stalking eyes
that are alien to your nature because you are alien to their eyes.

there are periods of disgust that rattle the stalwart mesh
of blacked seamed matrix knots and the fish that got away:

I hear this sound everywhere I go.

iii. vanilla creams on a curb pebbled rose and gray

she plays her last hand of scarlet trump,
happiest, as always, when everyone else is not,

and delivering the pat percolation of a demonic smile-

beaten soundly by muddy hands into muddy deltas,
the inopportune chirps of the downy fledgling
could not hold the day the day that we imagined:

it was the funniest sound that I ever heard.

it's a strange evolution that drives

i. suprise! it's a mutation

the blossomed cherry branch was deeply trapped
in our bursting spring of unexpected exuberance:

we laughed, if you remember, when we snuck
behind the white history of the blistered fence,
never suspecting a scarlet freedom so deliciously close:

from the deep retrospective of a pearly cirrus swallow,
we never expected, then, the opalescent snarl of a dragon.

ii. i'm sorry, were you saying something?

to be in a time and in a place and to do a thing
is exactly equivalent
to being in another time and in another place
and doing another thing:

the skull still smiles from the hedgerow
after the balky deer have naturally bolted.

sometimes, there is a point for tears.

dripping sweat into the crescent

i. bastet leered when you sanded the dog-star

the dynastic womb of your drooping limestone desire
had prickled the chipped tomb of my pharaonic intent
when the crescent dove flooded the canine drawl at dawn:

you can't be serious.

grrrr.

how many lascivious cones does it take to mold a croissant dominant,
patiently, into a steamy delta buttered by kohl black nightfall,
an empire once mummified in a chronic loss of apocryphal noses
hidden inside the starry rolls and ermine wraps of buttery resolution?

welcome, once again, to the boredom of eternity:

where the fuck is my cat?

ii. the secret ministry of frost is the first misdemeanor

you were caught by the generous green boughs of hemlock,
before the sacred teas had browned your crispy veins,
before you slept, awhile, in the scratchy embrace of velvet fingers-

misdemeanor the second:

before high-piled books, in charactery-

misdemeanor the third:

the lone and level sands stretch far away.

call me serial:

oops, I did it again,
but badly and out of time.

isn't it romantic?

iii. not a moment is ever wasted

always, but only in memory must we return
to the moments when the sleek quenching rain
abundantly splashed your freckled face and
unexpectedly gleamed the shimmery grain of alder beams
in that secret orange loft under the gauzy sun of winter
where bits of dessicated hay anointed drooping marigolds-

it was the day your eyes rolled, timelessly,
into the whiteness of tomorrow.

it was the day we died in parallel,
like all great lovers do:

what a pity to be born again.

hallows and halos and forced hellos

the lozenged mirror of gray cut glass reversely
smoked the sharkskin mints of an iridescent suit,
exposing the reet petite of blushing diamonds
and ravishing the violet heart of albino blues-

before or after the clubs, I don't recall-
but there was something about those buttons and stripes
that really blew the metaphor I was hoping for:

people decking people
decks peopling decks.

something like that.

chalk stripes are often too regular to reveal the true crime-
true crime requires nylon, stilettos and blood
if you want to rise to the scarlet pitch of pearly perversity.

this is where the charcoal danger comes-
bid another suit and do a brother solid;
the other recourse, that apology most profound:
a stage-managed bow that reeks of powdered lilacs.

adding a feather would, redolently, brown
a book-pressed rose discovered too late,
but, man, it would also reveal, in spades,
the strangely dealt trump of yellow sprouts
that matured, slowly, in the april rain.

the age of the manly kowtow had morphed
into the timely flutter of dying blossoms,
blossoms that dropped pink and white
and made me cry most of that afternoon

as I watched them inevitably shrivel
into a dry, lifeless brown.

I am only telling you this now because
the beige spines of your cursive history
have been chewed by long-eared greed
and, frankly, it does not matter anymore.

you closed a door; I closed one too.

there is always a dance in memory recalled

do you remember the petty thieves that nicked our golden time
with inexplicably bucolic adhesives and simpering mailings
while, in our panic that suddenly erupted over a bloodless box,

the ticking low tide crawled in like a sneaky scarlet clock,
and grinned?

I think I meant the tide but I might have meant the thieves:

I remember the clucking of a wet tongue over frosted puckered lips
and plaid shorts that rhymed the bongo with a wryly thumping rhythm,

and:

go, man, go.

if you needed a color to make this scene ring true,
I would have suggested a pale, cool, translucent green-

then there was that geometric row about cranberry and lime,

before:

lefty told gene to nose the impala out from the lane and watch for heat,
and paul declaimed mayonaisse on a hamburger if lettuce was included,
and paula groveled her greasy coins for the salvation of neon seduction-

My clamdiggers got wet when I washed the tidal loss,
and I had to go to bed.