Changing with the Signs
keep changing with the signs,
dodge a thought here, go
over there, just don’t ever hide—

maybe it’s a color, a translucent
salamander on stucco with electric
eyes, the ducks on the bridge
shiver frisky as you walk by—

don’t forget the stalking
pigeon mating ritual and how
it reflects all our lives—

and with a magic wand cast the
spells away, burning in the
concrete swamp horror
brain drain of another summer
way too soon—

that ugly
part of you subtly dies.


Ghost Town
sometimes I meet people
from Miami—they have shifted, many,
this way somehow or another—
we reminisce about the wasteland
that was once something
spectacular, the mention of a street name
and the acknowledging nod—

Don Johnson and Phillip Michael Thomas
starred, Christo’s Islands in glowing
pink drab, hurricanes of course
and it seems like everyone knows someone
who lost a house but I’ve never
met anyone up here recently
who actually did (was Andrew
a hoax, some kinda mass-hallucination,
mind-altering agents in the water supply,
Miami Vice Theme plays from somewhere
off in the distance (sometimes 2 Live Crew))—

we talk about the slow death—even the rioting
has ceased—Miami is a shadow world—
a gently crumbling skyline—

visiting now is like walking into a ruined
ancient city, buildings conjure up the spirits,
every face vaguely familiar,
the nostalgia wells up as we must sometimes
relate our personal inner ruins symbolically
with the city’s—but a keen wisdom
always creeps in, every trip down
there is a pilgrimage, a kowtow and a
a swift farewell to the god gone bitter,
a dragon grown too big to leave its lair
sitting upon its useless treasure—

the horizon is broken down there, the
moonbeams are eradicating it from
the map, it sits sublime, Miami, a
twisted sci-fi horror show.


The Game Shows of Hell
crackling electrified charm
fearing the same sting and rusty
barb, the strike that poisons and
swells the thing—

card castles
stacked on the moon, a smiling
crescent, a winking bird covered
in black space and twilight
requiems calling in
the dead—

the game shows
of hell bake the most decadent
cookies; we eat with crumbling teeth,
the tides of solar seas brimming
cosmic ambergris—

dull consolation
prizes dusted powder blue, synthetic
passion bridging to the lone
forsaken dread.


Genius
Hitler hangs in a balance with Michelangelo, the
dangling weight of mass destruction and
massive creation cutting the turbulent winds of time; genius
is a gem formed in the earth’s bowels
untouchable by Heaven or Hell.

there is as much blood on the canvas as
there is on the walls.

there is only brush and blade and an
infinitesimal nuance between them like the
breath of a falling leaf steadying the
the delicate pendulum of the universe.


Cartoon Freaks
now and then
the cartoon freaks leak
sacred fatal advice,

I turn my head and
walk away and grip my
stride with might;

when the bonking
scissor geeks come
marching steaming
onward armored red,

I blast them with a
laser gun painting
flowers on their
heads.

don’t tell of the secret
boredom lying stalking
in the sand; it bites
and hisses and snarls
and sleeps in the
cradle of wanton hands;

and with this dream a
season in between the breezes
sweeping longing for other
lands—close down the shop
and tend the garden,
live free inside the cage
of bland.


Whispers
gas giants lie beyond, passing the
intellectual baton—relay in
perfect space and aesthetic grace;
we all form
candles blanketing
purple skies in universal
sighs and whispers of atomic
origin flowing into the ears
of eternity—the hard drive
of spiritual freedom rages on
the ornate and jovial stages solemn in time:
every melody and memory, brushstroke
and alien architecture sublime.


Dusk Flowers
I had a flower for you the color of a
dusk sky upon a chromium sea—
I gave it to you when the whites of
your eyes glowed innocent—you
sighed through smiling lips.

I gave you another flower of the
same dream-like color—you held it
for a moment and cried.

when I gave you another flower from
the garden shrine I'd planted for
you, you smiled and kissed it gently.

the fourth flower was special to me
and sacred to you, you ate its petals
slowly, seductively, with deep swallows—
your eyes rolled back in your head.

the following flower I gave you left you supine,
placing it symbolically between your legs.

the next few flowers you gazed
searchingly, but less passionately than
before—they wilted to dust on
some secret shelf.

the last flower I gave you was flawless,
the aroma of a million years of ecstasy—
you looked it over once and tossed it
over your shoulder, spiting the beauty of
its careful evolution.

I grew more flowers, persistently,
but none were good enough—nothing
compared to that one perfect
flower you cast away.


Grow
we grow old
grow uglier
hairier
our stories grow
more and more
preposterous
every time we
tell them
our skin grows
colder the
skies grow dimmer
greyer every day
the voice rings
clearer
paths straighten
themselves out
the eternal
grows ever
closer.


The Middle of Death
I live on granola and coffee,
zipping through a haze, crazy
maze of cubicles packed like
veal in grey upholstered caves—
twinkling eyes meet and bodies
sway flirtatiously, so casually
looking away, wishing sometimes
just for a moment we could
take each other away—so like
school sometimes, the cliques and
the crowds, the loners and the duos,
power trios, a kamikaze dating
game circus frenzy drug and death
comedy all joining in this
masquerade, all got our masks
and some have capes, we live
in the middle of death and
grind through another workday
religiously holding on to the
promise of the night.


Jobs
in every workplace is a simmering well
of collective insanity; a vague ideal
categorized by only the stinging cells of psychology
and commerce.

a fatal brew distills in rusty cauldrons; hearts
cough up a boiling plasma and backs
creak like the wooden beams of forgotten
pagan temples—Styrofoam cups drip the
viscera and crumbled intents of
angels and watchdogs; canary feathers
melt into the bubbling broth.

smiles and handshakes creep around corners
and watch a man piss in the urinal;
every trickle of company water accounted for
with an eager pencil, every fraction of a cent
docked in greed and impish lust.


Hide
tender nothings
sweep through knee-
deep grass, tightly
gripped
happenings
splinter
into tragic
atmospheres choking
the stars and moon
out of the night—

the sun drops
into my lap, drains
the turgid
skyline one
building at a time—

purple apocalypse
twilight fills my lungs,
the dead continue
to march in our
shadows as we
hide in the light.


Religion
there are no gods in my
religion—no rocks or trees, no
steel or plastic, no baby dolls
or bicycles, no parents or
children, no wind, no song,
no car insurance, no corporate
mergers, no honking horns, no
rumors, no political scandals, no
war or heaven or hell, no stars or
planets beyond, no black holes
or quasars, no space or time, no
life, no death—just the beauty
and virtuosity of conscientious
illusions swirling in a void.


Thursday
(for B.)
sometimes the day of golden glittery
barrettes, a day I forget everything
I’d thought to say, each minute quietly
slips away, right there, where
you are, head turned sideways in
line with your fluttering gaze,
so difficult to look at but
even harder to look away
when your eyes dance to the
melody of your words
and trap me in the amber light
of their deep hazel shade;
and then it’s over
far quicker than the wait—Thursday,
such a sullen, beautiful day.


Refugees
walking back to my car,
shapes of a beautiful sadness
embracing, looked
to the sky just to see the moon,
to acknowledge it, thank
it for being there, whatever
phase, thoughtful and fluid in the night
to the dream of a jazz beat, me
wandering lonely as any
cloud before me;

thinking love the lost twin
I seek, wanting quietly to escape
back into the garden,
a blue-black & white projection
flickering silently from the
deepest reflections in your eyes;
the tiny mirrors and glints
of crystal, the soul’s
soft nebulae gently
gathering itself inward,
shining more brilliantly
outward, a moment, an eternal
snapshot, those eyes
looking up into mine, the only two
optical illusions in the universe,
the rhyme that feels so right;

imagining that we’re refugees in a
phantasmal nation of two, a slow
breeze blows between the
buildings of the darkened streets.


Till
she was scared of what
lingered around the corner
down streets she always avoided
for no conscious reason,

till she walked them;

afraid of the empty, scratching
components of love and
the whirlwinds of escaping emotion,

till she braved the storm;

she doubted the boundless
security beyond the walls of her room,
the translucence of tombs,

till she opened the door.


Exorcise
I wonder what all these
days mean—the way I drift
through each, indifferent,
sometimes sad, damning my
curiosity—wondering what’s
really there, what’s left—
the grief of
another sunrise, the day
slowly drawing to a close
under a moonless night,
humid and ugly, I sit
listlessly trying to exorcise
all memory.


The Opposite of Wisdom
the pavement cracks under
my feet, the sun flares in
my eyes, the trees stare and
mock me, miming my every move
as the grass laughs and laughs
and laughs at my desperation—

I can’t stand the paralysis
anymore, I don’t want to be
the lemming falling over
the cliff—

but I don’t know where to start,
don’t know how to get where
I want—

time ticks by reluctantly,
punishing me for existing and
not knowing where to put my
efforts—

I know nothing: some say this
is wisdom, but it feels like
the opposite.


Gilded Shadow
wisdom dawns on us,
the sullen lake with
the melancholy mallards
swimming in pairs,
dead seal in your lap,
the most serene twilight
since the childhood
swing set in Ohio, back
and forth swaying with
the branches, the leaves
delicate clapping hands
in the tangerine sunset—

we can only draw
someone in as
far as we are drawn
in, the space between
always seeming
unfathomable though
we press on, careful
not to push, resolute not
to be pulled—

always the climbing
stairs, the knocking
doors and the rattling
windows, the welcome
mat that leaves our feet
muddy as we walk in,
the two-tone
melody struck
by the hammers of
of a detuned piano—

and then sitting face
to face, one more
beautiful than your own,
the harmony resolves
the noise, the
symmetry of her lines,
such potent curves
speaking in the
alabaster tongue
of dreams, casting
a gilded shadow
across all time and memory.


Apt Pupil
too distant to breathe your air or
the perfume of your skin—fading
signals reach in dreams and
concretize my heart in its cage
waking, sweating disillusion,
just wanting to sleep.

too reticent to believe in the wear and tear
of noisy clocks ticking down
their final tocks, since every moment
out of your glare seems to stand
outside of time.

the universe waits,
unblinking and stoic,
with large open arms,
scintillating into a billion
broken shards of light to
a lone lemur taking in
a silent treetop sight.


Black Sheep
every laugh feels like the prelude
to a tear—there’s some strange
muscle twitching beneath, an emotion
volatile below miles of dust and dirt,
prehistoric extra-terrestrial fossils—
the unrequited avarice of simple
creatures unable to spawn their
beautiful race before the glare
and sting of the Sun.

clocks tick in syncopation and
swallow the precious beat
of an impatient heart—the lost
harmony of a forgotten race
fades in the fathoms of a
bottomless sea.


Gears
the yellow of eggshell under low lighting,
porcelain-cracked smile, crooked
glare, tinfoil teeth broadcasting basic
truths to distant galaxies, the crying of
omega windswept through mountain valleys
verdant and blueberry wild baking beneath
the sun in an aromatic splendor just
on this side of paradise, we converge
upon the center and watch the black cogs
and sprockets, springs, levers and gears of
mysticism grind away, amazed at how
simple it all really is.


Silver Death
all the booze, the weed, the cross-eyed
madness midnight naked television
ceiling fan nicotine spirit visions sifting
through rusted grates into emptiness
I find myself sitting quietly still henpecking
the keys trying to get the essence of
it all into words;

and yet it’s still so vague, my vain attempt
to express what I know is only one simple
idea twists, branches off into kaleidoscopic
fractal patterns feeding the flame I’ve
lit beneath my ass to keep me from
settling for anything less than mocking
the silver face of Death.


Sip
misdirected hormones effervesce in
crystal blue skies, upside-down hearts
fall splattering the cold black ground
below—eyes seek the next sun, staring
unblinking into darkness as we gather
in the center, slanted like totems in the
wind, fists clenched at the heavens,
rattling worlds and stars out of their
pockets into our thirsty cups from which
we can never sip.


Journeys in Decadence
a journey by sea against
mental swells and steaming
calderas from beneath
skimming the surface of tense
oceans; the tides carry
flotsam from beach to
rocky cliff to the mythic
ends of the Earth.

by air, the wind wisps in
melody unpaved by the
rhythms of ancient feet
across dreary and
bouncy clouds in the fluff and
psychic bends of mirth.

careful crawling in the dirt
of decadence against the
whims of idyllic apes takes
penitence in the vast emptiness
and pockets, the brew brimming over
from a cosmic seed, distant and
forgotten as the universe
rends in excessive girth.

a straight line glows beneath the simmering sand;
a boy, a girl nod yes and no caressing faithful hands.


Level-Headed Hedgehogs
tinsel memories twinkle in the
soft light of understanding;
level-headed hedgehogs bear
titanium claws from
furry paws understating the
leftovers from a stale fridge.

a Velcro spider disengages
her icy web from the eight
perfect eyes of time; perfect crimes
rest on weary shoulders while
rogues and crack babies
dance in haphazard goosesteps
over rainbows shimmering
in oily street puddles.

the car leaves the tunnel, a
malignant cough fills the night
air: ancient owls criss-cross
from above: the screaming
leaking of over-flowing heads.


metaphorical data crunching
when all stores begin to close,
lights go sullenly out,
flies gather on a blue and
orange landscape at dusk.

every interpretation, every penny,
people like intergalactic beings
composed of completely different
stuff, the stars dimming,
the universe blooming, the
future slowly brightening.

bones gather in an Amazon
rainforest—the one-eyed lemur
sees his death in petrified stills
of rapid decomposition clockwork
reclaiming the earth again.


Hypothetical Nomads
the slave and perpetrator of the con;
sly imbeciles driving hard nails into
soft wood—

they are we, ducking in corners from
nuclear horror; standing like a
servant to the atom—

any fraction of a story will do;
add it to the pot with the rest;
boil out the essence and stew.

just dimples in the landscape,
shaking right hands, religiously
ignorant of the left.


Systems
we wield these various
systems around to keep the
shadows at bay and impose them
on those with incomplete ones;

numerological whimsy,
astrological forecasts, biblical roots to
mythic origins—whatever gets you off;

we grip the burning boots and hang on,
a servant to the atom, odd limbs stilted
up against the burning of
the Sun—slaves to the endless
desert quest, salmon swimming upstream
a river of sweat;

create, modify, interweave
our various systems, every moment
ironing out the step before, collecting
sticks and stones and broken bones
along the way.


Winter
an eternal winter song
chimes
on icy bells
the snow falls
like
lies
from prurient lips
forming a mound of truth
where I burrow like a
crab
hiding books and candles.

sandals without soles leave no prints:
neon lights blaring;
the requiem of bleeding ears
and presumptuous penguins—
the dead sun the blood moon
warm as mud.

an eternal winter wind
climbs
my icy back;
parrots fall
like
flies
from reticent tips
of frozen boughs, beneath
which I furrow for a
crib
and sleep in its secret nook.


Drawing the Line
drawing the perfect line, turning out
the shortest distant between two points
into magic curves past numbers
with no end in their infinite roots cradling
the winking horizon of celestial
landscapes as seen through alien
telescopes distant and staring
in awe as we do them.

birth to death in rhythmic kaleidoscopic
visions and explosive pen strokes
always leaving a simple black trail
as it retraces ancient melodies with
a unique ink drawn from
the deepest wells of unknown
galactic kin breathing the same
obsession uniformly across the
expanse of a gentle sea, spreading
its arms wider and wider apart.


Monkey Ladders
more direct when apes run lone with the wind in their teeth:

loosening sponges from
mangled pools while misguiding angel fish in
their circling dizzy schools; tried and true,
phosphorescent blue eyes linking the
monkey ladders to heavenly grace in
a seamless ever-breathing space—

climb and climb on rocking ropes, ringing
bells she tells you leave it be and you
let the stars fall from your trembling fingers;
never to hear the sneering voices
through the walls or down the halls
of momentary grace.

lore connects when grapes fall, stoning the mind beneath.