a house made of matchsticks

From the tick bluck mudden
I, an off-key creaking, grokked 
of oak staves swilled to burst
and was thirsty to be Gehäuse.

As the creaking strained or dripped
and the cooper droned or tripped,
I parched me tithe naked and alone.

Mitt mein sliding in dein Wald
me sotted softly down erect,
moistly tannin on your dregs-

can the harvest even matter
when one true thing is known?

In the trembling light of afternoon

In the trembling light of afternoon a blue sky intrudes
and calls the burgundy haze into brief white question

but it's all just more reason to shrink into the beige jute
and pretend the yammering means more than it does.

Moments of low drama belittled by white clouds snapped
from a light sleep that considered the wisps more relevant.

That was the time

That was the time I almost drownded,
nose full of green weeds in mud water
and bull rushes hiding my bald head.

That was the time when a crazed black jeep
curved the concrete apron and jumped
bloody glass over a white line wobble .

That was the time when a blue vein
hay-wired and the big bubble burst
and left me wordlesss in blank sleep.

That was the time in a dim alley
when a blind grey hood rushed dark
with a silver flash that cut for gold.

That was the time I misjudged wrath
and in the cute glow of a night light
that little ball peen sealed my doom.

That was the time when the rowboat
cycled and kicked up phosphorous
and laughed we over wales to black.

That was the time when I knotted hemp
in a basement casement with a knotted beam
and did the kick and jerk under lathed pine.

That was the time when my blade was hard
but the bolt from the phalanx surprised
and the sting and the red snort was good.

That was the time when my grey whiskers
stiffened and I laughed off the damasked chair,
collapsing into a peaceful wisp of dream.

That was.

Yes it is

Yes, there was a bonk against a wall torn down browning
and it cascaded into an eruption of flowers taking accents,

it's the run and staying awake makes points but points
are as much mirrors as the dream that makes the mirror:

so, a cool autumn breeze tickles the hairs on your calves
and you forget what paradise feels like elsewhere.

Something Revealed on the Street

The only problem with your picture of Armageddon
is the shopping cart not returned to the stall.

The lack of perfect chrome inventory will panic Danny.

Today the pattern was maniacs in courtesy cars
barking an advert in pristine white changing lanes.

Tomorrow it will be another.

Put a number on a humid day and it's still only now.

It will always be now.

Watch the passive grey ghost with the plaid hat
sitting on the ledge of Episcopalian trophy steps,
blind to the godly rhythm of dancing children.

She is somewhere else.

Do the rockabilly swim in Hawaiian shirts
and purple painted accouterments beside
a cream and washed out brick Delta 88
with a cool breeze option that's inscrutable.

The only sorrow?

Being unable to justify saying:

And I helped.

Empire of Dirt

The snail moves so quickly through the sky
that the fallen crumbs seem almost brown
but look again and it's only six point flakes
that do not softly drop but waft in icy silence.

once there was a trial

If you had turned behind me Issac,
I would have forgotten you there,

would have ignored the purple nettles
while I sweated stung through sand,

would have cried a little less over cold steel
and the lamb blood stain on a black stool,

would have dreamed of holy times at fleshy places
with a silver needle stuck in a smoke orange dawn,

would have meteor screamed voiceless
into wondrous galaxies beyond our pale.

All only to cry into granite always an altar in the end.