Forecast Marepriest Denture/ Breakfast

Might start to see the unearthed,

the shackles that show when
some upright stance wakes up
and nothing but grey streamers drag in Following.

Might start to quiver, but not dead and not even.

The shackles blur the distance between mirage and mirror.
Morning comes, brings a torch that shines a light
to a carpet of astronomy where the planets are dilated-
here, facades are only sleeping soundly in the basement.

You found pleasure swinging between branches

of the most unkempt and spiky nests-
it vomits all on all of the screen doors,
until you know where the smell takes you.

Glaciers where you can't see the humans.

But now there is a point at which
a finger can touch
an actual chin, an actual shoulder.
Mustn't leave this place, this once-known now in the re-making.

You, aboard the crest of alcoves.

You may have uncorked the nook.
Julep, What's Your Chaser This Hour?

Two stick figures sit on chairs

distanced from one another.
You do not know where you are.
The carpet is like moss
Growing endlessly
but you start to realize after blinking
that there's a lawnmower between your eyes.

These stick figures are tantalizing.

They are skeletal and have cameras.
There are bugs flying around one of them.
There are actually bugs flying around the other.
They grow to like each other.
Basking in the same sun,
they start tapping their feet rhythmically.
One elbow passing into the other's forearm,
cross sections in the promiscuous hive.

This is the husk of an ancient scene,

leaves and cloth, transparent, thick,
carried over a land and in its midst.

A bass beat starts bumping in

and you forget.

Then the stupor slips out of the hourglass,

into another one, increasingly external
and yet increasingly hidden. Now led
to recounting:

"I saw so many tendrils

in aquatic gardens that the smog did not refute.
What wakes a slant? What stifles security?"

The reeds of slumber recall the more sublime frequencies

yet these are couched in between invasive material,
not of the heart but the hand of so-called
someone else.

Barbed wire on the porch now. Millions of people,

textbook-like, crowded around. Innumerable hosts,
captured in the framed portait. We are evasive candles.
We are the dust of these candles' stances.
Wicks efface machinery when the montage of signs freezes.
Our physiology squeaks in the afternoon,
and an adherence to geometry is glimsped at in this moment,
only to meet with smoke in a tearful seance of symbiosis.

Two stick figures, aged now,

losing hair, eating off of plates.
One asks the other what time it is, and the other steps inside the house,
and does not see a clock. He seems to not remember, at his old age,
whether he is getting the clock fixed or someone stole it.
He gets bananas, however, for both of them to peel and eat
Canopy

canopy,
witnessing precipitation
and the bolts,
of metal and of lightning.

canopy,
rusting under duration
like a bullet in a drawer

and I see the changes occur

regardless of a lull

and I see the clash occur

after premeditation turns into a giant husk

but a clock face can turn into a band aid

when seized is a kind of notion of permanence
not undone by the wind and moon.

Crossroads
a blanket draped
over head
pinched by the reigns of some spacecraft known
in increasing amounts of crevices.

when shapely domes kiss the same sob over and over,
you know it's time to pack up
and send for the only temperature that doesn't quiver.

we want to travel down to the basin

in order to raise a catch
that does not have
an abysmal cloud
coating its body
like an orchestra in a sinking time.

and you may see an assembly line and get choked up,
the grass always looking greener,
but in the tunnel disposable candles arrive in the absence of vision.

the air becomes wrinkled

when a shift strangles
the inventory that led up
to this crossroads where clotheslines are blown over
to another house.

parted ways, just upon the overlook,

the wiry fences become a chorus of dim prophets.
we relay the path around a lake, and underneath our fingers

the mercury is waltzing.

Pooh Corner
a winged beast and a gopher
always like to argue
until a stone runs over both of them
and coming in is a generation anew
wet behind the ears
and haystacks surrounding are gloomy
or meant to be.

sitting on the fence,

beckoning to voices so accessible in these times,
you and I in a shroud of tempting blends
see that the spots made by the sunset
are noticeable in ways adrift
from the sounds shrews and sloths make
when a bird’s eye view catches an eye
and enflames it at the bedside.
the striped sundown crows at dawn
and you’ve got to be off your rocker if you think we can bustle our chests
proudly in that sense,
even though out of the gopher hole falls a glow worm
that sees holes as sanctuaries in which to brood.

and you've got to understand that you and I

are foaming at the mouth, even after having found a solution,
because of these animals, and rock formations,
and the echo of our own.
a winged beast and a gopher have no mercy and no vision
except that which is filmed upon the mention of moths.

Serial Vignettes

1.
he swung around a pole. fate would have it,
got his limb bent by some mouse traps posing as donuts.
I think that this lint won’t harm me,
although it does often feel as though
an axis tilts us, makes us know
of the fragility that came in the box,
all parts included.

2.

when half-awoken,
bleary eyed but still astounded
by the upright material at the side, the table
that we can't believe in these moments is a table.

solid waste, glowing in the orchards where you met a first frame,
you don't smell it anymore
and start to picture a tiny twig and leaf
working their way up your spine.

sound of doves, lack of story, pentagram of layered story box.

now the table is shot to scraps
which can be the coffee
of a morning's bend.

3.

Rising like a peacock's tail

over the archer, a male
once desperately hungry from his pains,

and still a fire, a scarecrow, a dame.

Dust settles on it as on a tin roof,
a harbor unchained, a valor aloof.

And what of the chime of a stepped-on tail?

The pores of a pogrom, passed on by mail?
Now the snore of echoes.
Now the eye of semblance and sauna,

but cornea deviating and blooming

when the sun goes up
on a history unabandoned,
belching a network of neon
into each store's shoe.

every day a low price

assuming itself
and prompting.

Election Poem

fiction pictured in a flayed species of spark plug-

time and time again, bugs on the windshield at the parlor
where houses hang in the alphabet of sorrow mentioned by the broth of
man-made molecules.

the influenza struck by a cane, a runway

where a word is.

bring to May a time capsule that faded once you touched it,
and comes back in the forest of background's gravity.
the exploitation that once pretended to wane
makes the head pivot,
but the coffin has veins.

elfin homebody in the fleeting borough,

where a word is.

and the feeding tube,

in the shivering lens of print,
speaks now of a species of spark plug
driven by speed's bar room.

shoulder pad in flames of frame,

where a word is.

capture the monitor? belch with the happiest fury?

no anew but there is Door and Shivering Lens
that could be in the bank of a drum roll.

banana peel. nickel at the side of the road,

asphalt combing an exquisite corpse.

Charity

A windowpane of someone's younger sentence-

"and I'd like to keep giving in these situations-
plain, cold, and benign
with the tar of a symbol flashing in the rear.

The tail pipe covered by the absence of a sonnet,

but the words just as powerful no doubt.

Charity,

faded and gaudy, seen in the ear of an owl's reflection.

The tempting sound of a new grove,
but the ever-so-honest who's got to spare anyway?

Damaged by the same ideals that aren't even ideals,

I huddle into what seems to be the opposite of a butcher shop
but is still being renovated.

The carpenters look at me blankly or funny

and here's where it ends?"

The aftermath on television-

"I arrived at approximately the tilt of doubt

from one demigod to the other,
in a maze of tunnel visions.

The car was not running

but I was in it and my brights were on."

Untitled

Under the bridge,

a hernia of absence is brought on by
something not quenched,
placed on the altar
of a trial beckoning to be

in graves of semi-visible
emblems of the sharpest
panorama and error.

Be gone, spirits that may have not been around yet

in times when such a struggle as this
was placed before the hands of a ribbon-kitted one.

To hope, mocked in the storms after a story,

seems now a panel of the gesture that simply lets the lungs live.

And you may see the idler coming forward,

past the mailbox and the mortuary,
into the hands of a nod and a laugh
after some suit has been worn.

This is not a test, maybe a quest,

but nimble as the idler is,
the idler is now a monsoon.

Cobbham Corset

where the kings unwind

in their respective thrones,
a casket disappears
and in its place stands a photograph of you,
color in your face,
bent over the table
in the middle of a house
next to a cemetery.

there's a lot of circuitry in these objects in the rooms

and you sit there,
noticing from time to time how it's a wonder how
you don't get weighed down
by a history of material construction
or the panting juice.

the cut outs, diamonds, and snuff boxes arrive,

voices of demagogues aren't heard, but a polaroid of the house
across from the one you are in
is the voice of reason,
or one that lingers in a way
that it can linger in the trough of a second
and create a polarity seen on windier nights.
the tattoo parlor was beginning to open its doors.
smells of hair conditioning mixed with a distant sulfur,
and you were nowhere near a boardwalk.

king and country,

fame and fire hydrant,
loss and ant hill.
all around the mulberry bush,
the syntax of privacy is not eaten up,
but it can eat itself,
thereby turning it inside out.

but stock rooms and meals of assistance,

and little green beetles where the time goes through.
the silver lining of care, making a moon or sun
from congealed material
over rough edged vegetation.

Medicated Polar Molar

a cobalt blue creator

and a gene pool of singing temptations
underlie even the submission.

pumpkin fields go by.

the car has a stick shift. there is a rose at the top of the hill.
it is as pungent as a jacket.

felt remorse for eagles slaughtered

in the name of micropatriotism. like a fox,
you scout out, but make it quicksand at the last minute.

such a mess, it is to say.

i'd say it is a mess.
but now the boardwalk can chart a "doctored" beginning.

the scales of a soaked

make for a feast
beneath a harvest crescent.

walking up the hill,

a fog that sings in such a tone arrives:

it says for it to be brought the catch,

and to order you chores
in the damned cocoon and radiating stamp.

folks, intervention lies in varying basins;

their shapes and locations are like cosmologies. lit by a limp tongue tip,
swallowing these tablets feels like destiny in a damp corridor.

speak of the pills, and you may be shot down,

discoraged and taken out of the ironic medicine box
of a skeptical observer.
"no more than a soldier to a pillow! no more than the cancellation of a gyrating spear!
no more than a sphere of warm complacency, an early old age, a myth that eats you up!"
the blanket of ash cannot help
but be painted on your face by a piercing observer
who has learned of your giving into this,

but now i take the crevice and the road.

Counting Blessings

Counting blessings by the metallic fireside,

down, down,
a motor stranded on a desert island
desires fruition and multiplies
by foam and barnacle
and wrappers swept away by fish.
We look under the sea
and find a large being asleep,
cradled in a cold band of amber needles,
suspended just a few feet above the floor
of this body of water,

and we count our blessings

in the pent up cameras
and monikers of wrappers swept away by fish.

An answer becomes an imprint

in the idle embassy, a portrait made to be cast underneath

morphing shields.

Here Again

the consul, while stirring tea in his sisters' drawing room,

had these words to say:

"it seems like the operation is to do what i cannot,

or so it seems.
big medical stirrups waving in and out of the pouring light
and the open rhetoric wagging tails of sunday.
i could, and there is only so much in the way.
i must, but the operation must withstand a bitter cold, it seems."

planting a seed in the undergarments of a big tree that stands,

slightly defiled by the leeches and weeds but showing its true colors when shined upon.
"this shortness of breath is the kind that feels right," I exclaim,
and in my pocket a condom is replaced by a dental dam.
but what comes next, in its brainy beam? a door key or a barricade of abc gum?

I wonder if a storm's eye, or the stroll around a water fountain

in the middle of a seasonal arcade
can sometimes be a lead-in
to a chapter so fierce

you check out library books and return them within hours
without even reading them
in that tornado of a segue.

turning around in bed, a pregnant mask attempts to serve as guide,

and it makes way for a needed blindness. Courtyards and lagoons
in the gated city of what will soon be yesterday. Trucks of proportions
shocking to the meager make their way down desolate highways
and a chicken plant is snowed upon more than once a year.

heralded as a return,
maestro cranes his neck
and a dozen rows of eager walruses pour into the layered
coliseum,
bound by orders and attempts of a striving constellation.
rain doesn't let up, but frost on the ground indicates
that evolution is brittle, sporadic,
but not defunct.

in the den, a slime that is golden gives birth to a famed

pauper's shadow when the blue light gets entangled with the rest,
for in a maze created by a monetary monastery,
the piper is the mistress
and the doghouse is the kingdom.

Egg Roll

felt its fellow trees

swinging in wind of indifference,
but did not give up and went onto the
porch that collapsed because it liked the lawn better.

it was a tree that grew in the living room,

untouched by human hands,
not bought at a store.
the oil on the saucepan had a light reflecting onto it,

and it was the same fluorescent light that,

when turned on, bounced off of the tree.

i leaned on the shoulder of an armchair,

and hummed with eyes closed
whenever someone crossed the kitchen's threshold.
there was a cup of tea getting cold on the table,
and i was bent over the floor in the storage room
inspecting jackets i could wear
and wondering if i should call a friend.

it was on the porch now,

and the porch was caved in,
but maybe it likes the lawn better.

but be careful with silence.

Pandora’s Pox

the fading of an architect is a temporary scene

the picture of a goose with long legs, standing by a team,
a gang of white men roaming in lagoons of thickened ash
a sight to behold tenderly, a joy to let it pass.

and what
will it be
that solves the mystery?
pine cones of a past unveiling swirl atop the knees.
and what
will it be
that finds your face in morning's bookend,
only now you realize
it's a corpse with a golden fleece.

the tapping of a sailor's hand, a fable and a stunt

the paper of an actuary, the lighthouse and its hunt
sight of timber, coin of trust, and the sign of something new,
buzzing in a hull of silence, the wax that somehow grew.

and what
will it be
that solves the mystery?
pine cones of a past unveiling swirl the knees.
and
what will it be
that finds your face in morning's bookend,
only now you realize
it's a corpse with a golden fleece.

you on a throne
you swim in moats unguarded
you see a ghost
you with the high regarded

we're not alone

we are the shit machines
but we tend to find
love by a stranger means

dissappointed mardi gras, never a goodbye

the beaming of a doorway that comes only in the sty,
hate will prosper in the hand of a solar, sandy chair.
the eye of our forgiveness meets the shadows on the stairs.

and what
will it be
that solves the mystery?
pine cones of a past unveiling swirl atop the knees.
and what will it be
that finds your face in morning's bookend,
only now you realize
it's a corpse with a golden fleece.

and where
will we go
when tiny embers see the sentence?
we will travel open-eyed to a destination's dream.
and what
will we find
in cycles of the sound of scissors,
everywhere a car repair, but someone sees your eyes.
Bed with Candle

mud and breezeways.

a stately piety, the corner

where sirens still reach,

and these candles that are
not shielded from the sight of naked and aging bodies.

storming the shelf of no return but your own

and watching the postmaster from a distance.
weaned off of steam, at solidarity with a mass of ground,
and seen from no below,
you feel emblazoned with the edge of anonymity,
but with computers we
can see that simple touch of your index
finger can puncture;
no wonder why lights are easily turned off and on.

born in butter, past the expiration date yet still able to exist
without onlookers being repelled by a smell they have acquired,
car washes and tax firms were built with bricks
so the slate isn't ever cleansed
but the solar island is mended by waves
of a migratory sea.
seashells unearthed in the clay
of a come to, an aural hair
standing upright in the room of a fence's choosing.
thunderous cowlick
in the gallery of buried bellies.

the scratching of a bell,

the ache of temporary impotence.
one dissolved into an abandoned interstate pictured in a magazine,
and the other dissoved into
the network of reaches, the sound of presence,
where documentation is a sword of blissful distrust
and the knife of a trust that is warmly unrepentant.

nouns bleat and expand in your stomach,

making sure there are times when it isn't a caress to you
that you need the most
to let the oily flame of stability carry on in the quieter room.
yet don't forget the sources of caress.

and when the third person arrives in satire, lamp-lit and spiteful,
please be cautious and don't fall through cracks
that are too narrow to fall through.

Toy Soldiers Burrow in the Nest of Fingerprints

I look out at the brow

of a marked dawning,
and I say, are you the beginning of the end?

I can still recognize that street lamps

require a repetoire of energy sources
to give their light out,
and that makes me store up the wand of solace
and the grief of our own claws in the canister of night.

Roaming past the oil spills,

I glance at the yield signs, the gardens partially obscured by houses
and a continuation is birthed
from a stretched-slum.

The face of numerology is an elusive one.

One that sometimes indulges in breaking
the knots of security
once savored and kept in a perfumed jar.

But the brow in bed,

the steet lamps as sacrificial goalies in the ice hockey of Neither,
and the gardens and jars
embalmed by the night.

Time to reach,
out and in,
or backwards in that which I will assert
feels like a twilight.

Not to say that filters aren't swimming,

not to say that auditoriums can't be conjured
at the sweep of anything like a hand.
The timeline may loosen up,

may walk past

the mural depicting
cinderblocks and arrows in a circle
and understand that the chore of clouds is forever
insistent ovulation and accept it.

Until then, let us pray for the signs of just as such.

The Spine that Laid the Golden Egg: Its Brother and Its Humbler

it was a rupture that i won't debate,

except and please accept that i will feel around the resemblance
of an encyclopedia for clues. and let me guide your hand in this narrative
if this story is not done with; suffice to say there are no boundaries between
bodies uprooted and seeds planted,
and yet look how a plant can grow in the middle of a barren field.

never-more in the cloud will a pilgrim go on hiding.

never-more will never-more be, yet we can still
find leaves turned over in the shed.
endurance in a nutshell. the steam of a blessed
and guide me with the rose of administered taxonomy, the elasticity
a freeing from subjugation, but not a denial thereof.
a tidal wave and i will hold out my hand,
for the slate has endured the sequence that had the frigid knobs
of an etch-a-sketch,
of a radio that i kept saying wasn't there, even though i also kept saying it was.
none of that, but not to say there is none of that.
i the glaciated nation state,
it a crease needed, a storm that knows no surviors
but in its haze is still the spine that laid
the golden egg.

now to put a flag in the ground of a forest, and to hope that someone will be there
to hear it if it falls.

the allure of finally realizing why those books were written

is one that catches you as the sunrise hits the corners of a cemetery
and, becoming animal form, mounts the walls of one mausoleum after another.
the books and notes once grew mold and the vitamins that drew you away from graphite
were convincing. but what of the headstones that did not hesitate
to dance in broad daylight? there was a syndrome of restless paranoia,
in the tumors taught by unexplained syntheses. you withdrew from measuring
droplets in the reel of a slow massacre. not apathy necessarily,
just the prismatic treat to behold in secret oaths,
a luxury seductive in terms of its keeping you in the bleachers of tilted breath,
and you were not alone even though the color scheme was kept between bookends
whose light may have blinded,
or wait, they were made of wood, they were built by death. nevermind.
that's why the people scowled and laughed, and the semblance of hunger and negligence
withstood the supposed
tyranny of facts and massage of erasure,
tinting the tennis courts with apprehension.
aloof soldier i was.

i and we became numb as archways were broadcasted onto flat screens

and i was left with a fishing net. i wasn't self-conscious
until i fully acknowledged the luxury.

benevolent while mourning so much,

rows of farm workers
introducing the spectacle of chance's chasm.
kneeling by a doghouse, your's truly looked into the opening
and found the spine that laid the golden egg
in the pocket of a man
who has lost his train ticket but is standing by the station
and watching trains go by
and subsisting on food offered by strangers.
he sleeps by the wick of a candle that he stole hundreds of years ago
to light the drifting into puddles,
the cleansing of the glaciated nation-state that he knows best,
and as the foghorn let its dulled surprise leak out over
the witnessing emergencies,
another nation-state curled up
and lets its paws grow docile, in a way that let nails be cut but not to the nub,
for fear that too much clawing would lead to nowhere.
the limits imposed,
by the sheets of ice,
and the scarecrow
of veins and orchids

Untitled

economy and erosion.

could it be in my wagging for the past months
the regression mirrored a trickling rescession
where the alpine in a rooster's crow was heard and adored
but not cared for properly, not carried into the discipline needed
for the nest of no ninnies
in the coney island of the backyard?

the air conditioning of forests beaming with nectar,

it glazed each top of a ricocheted tree.
where evening struck, so struck the cornfield,
a scent of revolving renderings.

steps rose at a glance, the ease at which

doctored contraptions present themselves
with or without their own eyes. sometimes it seems it is up to you
to construct their gaze back,
a leverage in the ear of wavelength and radiation,
a seething cauldron amidst hums.

but what, upon this recognition,

a deer in the headlights that couldn't get run over,
was done afterwards? the steps that rose from the meeting room did not have a footprint,
but i could belt out a chorus over and over
and the echo would roll in the square frame
of the tilting altitude.
what is an advancement and what is not, asks a wrinkle, asks a bog in the yard,
and we all get scared when we see a threatening hairline.

Irrigated News

aglow with fingerprints,

a dock in the waves
with headphones to boot
easing into the irrigated news

and dusting off its paws to get a good look

at a fawn emerging from the surf,
quenched by salt and frightened by tide,
earlocks are not here, naked ears.

this beach of astoundment, bearing rocks that laugh at tenants,

is a place not seen in brochures
because it is too thick and present
to not be.