only if you're counting

A dark blue gray skeleton fish on a grey pink sky at sunset
could be a musky, could be a pike piercing the horizon,

now a small drift into and also away from the possible.

I have seen narwhals approaching from the south
in this most mild of winters

and I was not afraid of the darkness.

To light the bayberry candle and wait for the dusk
is not only sensible,

it is the only possible response.

it hovers under there, in a blanket of mist

Your genome misting smeared on a thickened goblet must of red
is near to mean that revelations are yet possible but partly sealed,

mostly apart from the little drib of saliva glisten left again revealed
when, certainly, all you wanted was that perfect quench of dread

to pitch away into the heavenly green of candle flames gem tossed
under a waving horizon of jagged black teeth lost on broke slopes,

searching for a purple chord that can reign in harmonious tropes
so not yet again a formal sonata with fiery canon is barkly mossed

with velvet greenery grown upon the antler budding sophomores,
who, from the gaunt wolf that howls up from the needles a granite

slab where worship is expected, groan silver dew to black night
in the foggy mystery that wisps and purrs in pineapple spheres.

when the sun arcs low at dawn

cherry red scales of coloratura scent drift lightly
white across gleaming uplifted patinas of sound

and rhythm cannot exit so quickly across deer
skin stretched taut against pale December skies

of cirrus and crystal ice that brush near heaven
with vertebrae scales frozen stiff sky high in azure

canvases chiaroscuro field and ground blanched
to spin a colorless globe with blue focus glowing

on iconic foothills whose spiny bones revel under
the leafless supplication of grey trees that reach

for a god that is half-moon hidden behind fictions
that arise from bored parchment dried to reaching

so far too far when the sun arcs low at dawn

when I dreamt of a faraway place

Cold little winds started to flirt
from the northwest white again
with buffets of black chill to come.

Headlights flicker haphazard
on the sheet metal bevels
of nearby roof ducts erect,
orange flickers of deceitful heat-

one small net to ensnare errant drives
ensnares instead the purple clouds.

Wouldn't it be nice?

Fleet of footing, the bristled beard is decoy driving
around and round an upward spiral of macadam-
switchbacks walled by hand placed rock fences
with those little jagged points discouraging rears
from resting though it was a not a hike but more:

I expected an observatory but here was sure escape
led by genius whose pale ivory parchment was insured
and so inscrutable that we found a pearly seaside where
the quiet craic was good despite a sloped sea wall scare
and a growling gray horizon filled granite pale with skelligs.

At the end of the road a tessellated turret merely yawns
and you ask to photograph the orange ferns and lilies-
I just wanted to say "Wouldn't it be nice?"

a season long in turning

The rock portal to the trail head was closed
but Mount Shasta welcomed our grace with
piney arms that were in pine swiftly opposed
with grainy scree and an orange needled pith,

woody cones fell plenty in a season austere
where snowfall tumbled into secret ravines
and opened a deep freeze in cracks where
bursts of young pines yearned to be green.

A season long in turning matters to spring
but shortens out as one returns in default,
to stare left at whiteness and wonder if salt
will hasten the melt despite the obvious rings

when a beaver Moon has Saturn eclipsed
and one looks backward with quivering lips.

Early to the Barrow Laid

Early to the chamber laid in a bloom barren bower where
the chairs are shrouded in synthetic white because bare
the long chrome legs would near and laughingly compare
to those naughty thighs pressed blackly lush in nylon sheer

the two crones chatter in cotton candy conspiracy sprays
and salivate about where the open House of Debbie lays
for all the ladies that come to see a purple weave betrayed
by felonious saliva that washes their scalps in bald hearsay.

So early to the barrow laid, unable to grasp arcing tropics south
and topics in northern ears that cannot avoid their carping mouths
even while sitting alone and still while bellied wine erases doubts,
a mind blurs behind my tortoise shells and no breath will out.

a reading from the dry ventricle

Ghosts in grey drift a room crossed lob
away, now devoid of eyeballs cloudy clear,
it's a creaky door that denies a greasy knob
not easily opened by the red pulsed fears

flowing down blank corridors, what the fuck,
into the freshness of a stem cut bouquet
standing on a high ledge and looking up 
to freeze a vertigo season where lilies lay.


Each fleshy moment passes in pedestrian motion
because of thrusts remaining safely asleep
and the question never becomes a question
of pulse when the pachysandra slowly creep


over cooked rimmed orange edges on ground
to throbbing at dawn for a Quixote in clouds.

A Canticle of Breath

With every breath is a universe expanded
and contracted the same as you breathe
endlessly in and endlessly out
but you count one breath,
if you remember to count at all.

The time you think you know is funny like that,

so is the brown flutter of a sparrow's wing
on a cold morning in late December
when your vapor is the breath of dreams
forming crystals you cannot see are silver

and this, too, is breath.

A stalactite was formed while you slept
and your dreaming drips of mineral green
gave birth to limestone runes of praise
in a tongue gone pink deciphering you

in whispers you feel are funny like this

and that, too, is breath.

prana

If you inhale many galaxies
I shall re-invent you as a god
and exhale a nebula of light.


If the exhalation decompresses
into a grave and infinite density
I shall blackly breathe your words.


If neither happens
I shall endlessly repeat myself.

in the afternoon being library spent

in the late afternoon being library spent
there is a need to grasp a shorter death
where the details are lost in lettered intent-
yellowed words and a dust gasped breath.

a bit of covered scarlet silk lipped desire
is heaving enough on a scant page turned
to a crescent bibliography of burning fire
where each citation is a reference yearned.

leaves enough in the autumn turn slowly
in an opaque blush of time's modest brush
teases the black nascent wish into frozen be
and ends with a sweet little death not rushed.

what starts with a turn into a lovely long seep
crescendos illuminated into an autumnal sleep

lily pond

a drop of water on the lily pond
is enough to create a miracle.

look into the ripples
and your face is transformed.

Li Po also died drunk.

a grasshopper slept still in the grass today

a grasshopper slept still  in the grass today
unnoticed most by heard sheep munching.

if you were looking for green uneven chrome yellow
the camouflage would at last astound unseen for

even tipped toes though blades crisscross might
have through quiet snoring caught a downy ear.

the persistence of crickets just shy of crescendo

the persistence of crickets just shy of crescendo
pierces the leathery cornucopia leaning to hear
a wet shoe unashamed in post rosy dawn that
some will twitter uncanny in lush under thickets-

it's gray steel clearly that sneaky catbirds sing without guilt
and russet cleared pines lean crisp for a fox to suddenly blush:

in that one minute I was only a listener bent to consider
and nothing else mattered at all.

a whole world just to the left is wet

a whole drowning world lost off library left wet
just covets moisture from snapped dry words-

so cloudy bricks walk solitary lanes barely bricky
where blood is a natürlich barrier burst scarlet but

the window fogs whitely to entrance a silly cyclopic
under the moss paths laying a greeny landscape bald-

and when the fogged window into crispy azure clears,

suddenly you're speechless.

when the shadow ghost is splay

dancing in the dark is its own sweet frolic
even when partly lit by market lights.

apples and onions are close by degree
but do not draw the opposites we see

on a white canvas that dances mundane
where nothing at all by daylight shows
unless you count a steely gear of sweat
that counts for a blue dream fit to a day-

at end of the dancing begins at dusk
and, almost scarlet, lasts the all night

whole.

the alien fingers beckon leafy
but are seem to leave at dawn.

more to follow

While a funny little rain lyrically blows
with lovely drips on hydrangea rows


and scattered endlessly across avenues
is our quickly duck with an umbrella blue.

letter to the inscrutable

Oh, I missed you honey
while I was pretending
to be a rabbit.

It was a puppet really
but I had to get the voice just right
and that took longer than expected.

And the challenge of using my hand
in unusual ways caused a delay
in getting back to the balcony.

It's hard to speak in coney ways
with a middle and a pointer
and thumb and pinky paws.

I hope you'll understand.

kins of nap for wipe of grin

Kins of nap for wipe of grin
is ever over moistly down
but it's just enough for now.

Pale beauty breath sparks low
in a two-part push of bending now
and, out where an ether of blues
glows orange pulled to please,
there's a minor key of salivate.

So many records of scratchly
spin with background noise
of births of static sans respite.

A white echo holds a name in spin
for grins of snap that wipe the grin-

Dance, dance, dance,

when all you need is funny.

There Was a Place

Mostly grey chords in a sweet place
where begin a sneak seal biting-
and open flap surprise bred scars.

There was a place where

we bounced pesky the black ants
and clever spiders drawn through
asymmetric slates extra designed:

this place looked great in the 70's.

Now the parents walk on submerged

brickworks, circulating

in a cool zombie trance:

and a seal bit my hand
while the kids are synchronized,

swimming.

ain't no corn here no mo'

dere ain't no corn here no mo',
s'all up on dat hill
sittin' in barrels and rottin'
'cause a pig cain't et it all-

ground be dry and blistered.

was a time people was happy
and da corn plump and yellow.

ain't no more.

ain't no more.

there is no of

disregarding breath is a cousin of death

once removed.
.
the praxis of disbelief comes flying thus
through a coughing and gasping hysteria
only there is no death really really really,

the goldfinch has beautiful wings.

a truth birthed of lies if ye follow.

yes memory no memory
through the pierced pellicle
of sun streaks yellow orange
now on the branches of an oak
you can barely remember.

little jimmy beat with a bat,
susie swooned against and wept.

initials perhaps in carving
from a blade now rusted
with a wolf risen emblem
that once you were proud.

Read this in Ragtime or not at all

Dark matter doesn't matter so much it seems,
what matters darkly is buried in dreams,
filling a void towards the apple that fell
upwards from heaven to luminous hell.

O! The Mythology!

(Not to make light of the Hindenburg,
but, hey, though lighter than air-
that was one heavy crash, man)

I love fiction, yes it's true-
There ain't nuttin' fiction ain't do.

(And it's made us what we are today)
That's history in a nutshell-
multiple stories, multiple lies.
Here's a bad pun: greaves against griefs.

Corollaries:
Where's my Surplice?
Where's my Pooja?
Where's my Incense Stick?
Where's my Tiki?
Where's my Torah?
Where's my Fetish?
Where's my Hound's Tooth?

(The last one is for Coco Chanel-
That's a belief system too,
but it could be an amulet
or a fetish too too too taboo.

Best to ask Fergus,
after the Druid.)

Guess what? You're gonna die.
Know what? So I am.

Numbed by clear and or ruby red
philandering by a secret name,
was he was known or was blind
to an awkward table lamely set.

Now and Then and When

If I had somewhere to go

I'd be there.

Only now is only now,

orthogonal to then 

orthogonal to when.

Not talkin' about the birds. 

Or am I?

The flutter of blue wings

and a quick peck and 

a red splatter on denim.

Birth.

Drop from the maple

in heavy august mist

and run to the cabinet

for the salve salve salve.

Death.

Feathers rise from the goop

and cycle of eggs and beak.

Past then tense and when future.

The clarity of a peacock

scratching the urban grit

of a granite window sill

is the only proof proof proof

of feathers and breath.

Now and then and when.

If I had something to say

I'd say it.

then in the end

Then in the end there were thistles
bursting purple and prickly
on either side of the moss brick walk.

I was prepared for the end
but the end never came.

An endless row of thistles
as far as the eye could see.

Just purple, prickly beauty
beside the moss brick walk.

the waves break in three

i. try a little dumbness

a flipper with a creaky wheelbarrow
can, seasick, carry so little else:
even numbers hoist a tragic burden

of twos and fours and sixes-
an orange drum of oozing crude
squats in the public square of red proof:
normal schooling has not reached the riddle of three-
perfect odd breeds the pod of mathematical glee:

this is the first wave, barely asking questions,

feckless breakers born of slim perception.

ii. then came the silly thumping

a hairless mammal born of aqua water
smooches to a groove of lonely warehouse
propped on stilts of rust and gray,
scratching a riff devoid of moisture,
in a turn-table suit striped with pockets-
fine this crime that outlives ethics:

this is the second wave, rising into rhythm,
a changeling child of chilly waters.

iii. trump is the beginning of cool

a vest of stuffed squid and shrimp is stylish
for most of the downstream fossils:
these slick boardwalks in the fresh of splintered rain
where triple pops are collar cool in pink and green
for the culture of the never-ending grope and move:
it's never too slim for a flippered slipping-
grand this sand to a fine-toothed beach:

this is the third wave, darkling by nature,

a cunning crash of foam and spray.

Elephant Butte Lake, New Mexico, 2011

The creosote is dry and black
and the mesquite is dry and gray
and the parched yew is dry too,
a dessicated yellow stalk scrawling
its bleached and barren pod into
a high calligraphy of white cirrus.

There are spikes and thorns
with bleached green razor edges,
but the cactus has ceased to care.

If a rainbow can be found
under the pale, pitiless sun
it rises from dust and rocks,
for the eye willing to wait,
and the rocks are drier still:

pink and sienna and gunmetal blue
for when the sand in the washed arroyo
desires the festive cracks of others.

The lake in the distance does not exist
as anything but a glittering that mocks
if it takes an act of faith to exist at all.

It is too early for the spring blush
and too late for the slivered moon.

There is only time
to wait for the time
like the other time,
that long ago time,

when water poured from the sky.

Port Isabel Lighthouse, 2011

Thrusting up seventy-five black iron steps
on chipped paint with edges decayed by salt
I twisted up round and around white bricks
caressed the exposed mortar with wet fingers
tracing for a groove under the beveled lens.

A voice floated up through the spiral,
a folk song sung from a face far below.

Between vertigo and spin I was lost in wonder.

A seagull spasmed against the glass
and shocked me to my senses.

There are things under the feathers, things
hidden from the dust that clenches the throat
with the dry fingers of remembrance.

That time on the last night when the sky exploded.

the lithography of nocturnes is not bitter

In a licking split lashes of laughter,
the tortoise shell brushed accident,
a blush once imagined in a minor sandstorm
of tornadic blue powder, dusted corners
at the rusty table in a dressing alcove
hidden from light by nocturnal browns

a once-famous name, red scraped amber light
behind the face, long ticked, when drawn lines
drew hot presses and the splattered greens
were draped upon a scene of woven linen.

Now the bounce is just a boing,
a bubble issuing from the dream of Krishna,

a rough of bristle dabbed in black
upon the arches archly formed of bore,

a carve upon the greasy stone
that is only borne by heavy pressing
from a gearbox beyond the grave,

a copy of the controlled accident
on tee-shirts for a dime.

Galveston Island (2011)

Motel shroud sheet thrown
down cheap on shore sleep,
the grave sea grass now weeps
a shrift white on shorn gown.

Wait a minute.

And in a minute rise to wait
the footboard is overgrown
to an iridescent blue marsh,

a tricolored heron posed so
blue becomes transparent,
is rapt through lifted sheet
because there's no one there
to cough the fluff cotton down
or downy shades poised now.

Perhaps inside a halo will burst-
no it's kept elsewhere where.

And there's none but a dream of
hurricane rustpaneled amphitheater
importing beauty to salty marshes.

One man lives in a bowl.
others on shorebird stilts.

Pastels for the common folk,
stone for the stone bishop lift,
a dumb wait for a stony heart.

Romance on the third floor
but you're not lead to see
the green patina or scarlet glass,
just a boulevard of sparkplug stores
and a statue for tall revolting heros:

the seawall has never loft enough
to stem the brown surge will.

Mississippi Sandhill Crane Refuge (2011)

Where the grass trail runs savanna gold in winter's mood

the trunks quiver as silver ghosts on trees at solid rest,

so tranquil above the blue water veins of Castille Bayou

and the only sound if you stand stone still is quiet breath

measured in time by the distant shrieks of hiding kestrels.

Here the plants are yellowgold pitchers of deadly nectar

that the summer flies are not scaled to fathom but willed

to a slow leeched death as salts dissolve in season's fare.

Here cypress roots wrap to jealousy around liveoak

and never never let go were tight love to drop its leaves

without the thrust of a season to guide the acorn's arc

in a close embrace that will sometimes clush the skies.

Left on the table cut glass is an emerald found apart,

scattered to crown the picnic leaf in aptly lying art.

in memorium for a rainbow

Saw a half massed spirit of passed friend
though hard salties on the iron rack alcove,
the board with its steamy legs and blown
fibers scary nowhere as a prism's ghost
after a purple day's pursuit, clockmaking's
timely arc icy tucked in a terracotta tomb:

it's just a reflection from the womb, you said.

And damp over the koi pond a brick bridge arched
leads to Otto's ruin amid a dispenser of fiskefoder-
for a quarter you can recover the past in a mossy pond-
one route with many names covers enough tears for now.

A white hearse with a horseshoe turned on the rear
dirty lid in need of washing of course a christening
in a motel that was void of expected chrism dipping
the washer dryer combo dripping under awning rain.

So we move on damned,
faces covered in red wax asking for remembrance.

Maybe it was not a

spot requiring ask at first,

prior the cowled grins fell limp
into coal carved melanin ash,
scorched brick orange grime
they came back one, creak footfalls
slipping past cabled green walks
where a coral snake slithers, asks
of palm filtered light oh! holy day
to please wind the ring's handless clock
in black some fire dappled timeless way.

Or so it occurred to me.

They scattered to nim an emerald eye
in a red clutch of mangrove shadow
knotty near the block house umbra
Spanish moss moist with hidden life.

This should never have been touched
or used for the crispy sacred kindling.

The flight of a sole mosquito
sang the constellations cold
enough for klaxons to be sound
lights clicked on again anguish.

The moonrise was so much later than I guessed.

Equinox, the strong north west wind,
holds no regard for latitude,

or these funny little haps of solstice.