A pebble rolls down

A pebble rolls down with a purple rattle partly drawn
from the bouncy bouncy bouncy joy of slate corrupted
with shallow pocks from years of hard rain and freeze-

down where streets drift downhill past yellowed weeds,
its horizontal vein of cancrinite turning orange cartwheels
hypnotically (and now you are in another time where)
past bare white houses where breaths are rarely taken

seriously if you want to cut a fresh hard roll than arch
your thumb and pointer and keep the blade underneath.

The bread is white soft and you are so courageous
when a pebble rolls down.

thought there was a difference

I only realized lately what a lie I am.

It's easy to discuss truth and lies
when it's only the weasel tongue at stake.

Masks to meet the masks you meet, indeed.

In the miasma of self we wish

to fuck
to kill
to love
to lick
to thrill
to worship
to thump
to lollygag at will.

Hide the executioner's face, indeed.

Oh you pretty things, indeed.

A billion realities contained by lies

I am

an animal and a god.

Dream a Little Dream

Blue mold on veined cheese is a wet salty delight
evenly tongued by a saint robbed of artful memory,
memory remembering dreams of a soft blue spread
on a crispy cracker so recently parched desert dry.

To salivate onto a velvet tongue and meet a glass of malbec
is not so hard to take on an unseasonal winter afternoon, when
the damp clouds are high grey and amber and mild warm wind
dry floats across a blinding windy white post-coital mellow drift.

Hoping against the stoneware platter,
the chrome blade cries again for clatter.