Of Things Meant To Be

As lovers walk hand in
hand placing their faiths on cerulean sunset counting
how much more would it take
to know the other if it was ever the intent 
or are they casually winding up while membranes of their skin touch the other's sweat
or dependency a name for conversation or a 
diary you relate your whispers to
about how she busted the right chance and he
knew more about the farces of freedom
or do they need a mirror to taste the cutlery clinking as darkness engulfs
the space the ways the face
all but the wine glass 

you forget all that is necessary
but they remember the dates.

Or is that a scribble you watch closely every instance 
of  falling patterns to remind that
you are probably sane when the ships have
left the stations and doctors have called you clean 
and lights have silenced creation
and in the all pervading sickness, silence is the only voice that sings. 

Untitled #9

In those very cloudy hours when retinas long for a
kiss and the deep tiring gulp you took
because you thought you could quench
appears struck still somewhere between the 4th thoracic and
sweat-stained leaflets, ready with a eager heart to have the next most politically absurd
ideology to be decorated in Monotype Corsiva,
and the beam of spirituality suffers a quaint convulsion -
you wake up to
a
culturally redundant conversation that involves
knowing the names of the best exotic homoerotic pleasures
the tribulations of being savvy
and pitfalls of a demanding routine of gnawing, sniffing non-sequitur manner of being earnest and smart.

I do not know, for in the space between my ears
several light years explode and
blankness reigns,
the same blackness the lays dandy in the space

between scripted conversations going in the palace and their failure to match
with similar gestures on the eyeballs. 

Day 11

He is watching the spectre of oblivion floating above from the skin of cacophony. catching the messages trying to fly. You gonna hand the silent expressions. Set the charades for a lonely rupture. Blinking the darkness, breaking the clone. Moments of shelter, moments of frown.

The circles close in overlapping the time. Warm mist emanates, trippy dance ensues. It was a moment the decades waited for.
You gonna shape the December falls of strawberries, wild. Or would blunder the signs of blinking? Enter the sun, enter the sun, enter the sun.

I am most obliged to you for making it naked here, my red shoes wondering who would be writing the paradise bizzare or bijaare or out in the love of winter
trumpets blow
so low slow
so so much smoke
so so so ragged evenings condensing into furtive evening

And the sea isn't in the place where it was, trees are beside the houses in the forests made of trees.

The sky rolls back and lines fold there creep and dust closes hard, blowing close.



_____________
Old men, where it all started. 

Close Eyes And Laugh

A slackened pair of limbs on a 
broken boulders rolling down the cosmic, floating
luminous boughs reaching out to be caught
careless whispers running straight to your thought 
desires and 
claps of thunder in the blankets red

You should be hungry before dawn 
and piss in the river that baths 
my soft floorboards
my relative love erodes 
the honey that melts swinging coastal creams

And I try to left my feet off the floor but should his head go up first and his eyes searching his oaths solemn undercover revolts did Injun drop the palette and was it slurry of stones from the mountain tops pleading hanging papercups and brown birds with tattoos on the brain lying in the bed better than you 

Down the laughter 
black black
the happy breasts of a harlot with the arched hips collecting her heaves
And leaves her golden hairs in my silver
My book closes on your open theatre.

Play me a song, won't you? 

_________________________
Extreme madness, with random precision and steel breeze. 

Day 1

On those many special days
when wild flowers are burdened with
milk and 
the dad keeps his palm canopying his 
love's restive eyelids, burdened with many 
montages and silent in the light of stagnant airs loud with the 
silent protests blocking her vistas of fuchsia 
sunshine when she tied her hair firmly behind in a nice
sweet tail and trusted her father's care to protect from the 
slightly tormenting white sunshine
that came in relentlessly 
though she sought a refuge 
yet they barged in like waves of
hungry
leeches
that suckered someone down the 
mofussil roads whose dad merely believed
she herself could save
herself.

On those many special days, 
when the commonstreetbegger whose bare chest barely has anything but a
tatteredjacket puts the upperleft button
in the lowerright
buttonhole and thinks he would safely save
himself from the  
whatever causes the funguys to shriek in contorted faces as to the cause of clogged streets
and sparse chills,
you return home early and safe.