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I hide my wings in the ear holes of my skull.


There’s a rule that lurks- lonely and craggy >
on a blue-black smoggy >
sci-fi mountain top.


I fell asleep in the barrel of a gun.
My dream was like a road movie with out the road.

There was a castle not worth finding
There was a castle not worth escaping.
There was a castle not worth finding.

Each day I followed the the breath of wise ravens and the tracks of rabid hounds.
I named it, the age of licking lightning and spiting out dust.
I wished for aliens but only get angels


The thought is nothing like a Rorschach or a Pollock.
The mood is a dog-eared page found lost in a volume.
Gravity is the tasteless tendons of chewing gum teased.
A black hole of cracked bones and scaffolding.
Brother Job’s sizzling flesh reflected in sister Indra’s net.
like a Kara Walker silhouette

The flickering is a memory
burnt wiggling in a melody
of fire eaters and ankle wings-
feathers primed in kerosene
toxic gold and gasoline.


The thought is nothing like a Rorschach or a Pollock.
The mood is a dog eared page found lost in a volume.
Gravity is the tasteless tendons of chewing gum teased.
A black hole of cracked bone scaffolding.
body parts released like a Kara Walker silhouette in sister Indra’s net
dripping with brother Job’s sizzling flesh.

The memory is patrolled by a melody
"stop, drop and roll."
fire eaters walk flickering -
barefoot through toxic coal
winking toes of feathered gold
grows wide gratitude for shoes tethered to your wordy soul?


Without precision
trace the cloud backwards-
Like the glitches in an old VHS tape-
Like Michael doing the moon walk.
Like a dropper sucking up Kool-Aid.
It’s told this cloud absorbed 10,000 ravens.
Fluffy black with burgundy hips and turquoise smiles.
This cloud’s sane like heavy petting.
Ancients mention animal pattern recognition.
Like licorice root and fuzzy candy.
I see a nipple, a clit, a bear’s nose, a noose.


Spiritual doesn't mean
don’t step on the hands of evil men.
Spiritual doesn't mean
don't get caught naked out of bed.
It doesn't mean acceptance or bliss or doing the right thing.
Spiritual is like the cream in an Oreo cookie.
Sandwiched between a crunchy heart and a crunchy heart.
You can scrape spiritual off the crunchy heart.
I suggest using your teeth.


We watched and listened in hues of burnt sand
hunting for juice, yet lazy and cruel.

Fire made space for crisp and neat
like the curve of your spine
when I spell vice

The turn of the soil.
The blood of Christ.
Nails in the dirt that wiggle like worms
-stories told of wood and flesh
and a bag of bones that had capsized in the storm.

We watched and listened in hues of burnt sand
hunting for juice, yet lazy and cruel.



She comes at me like a galaxy.
I am a ghost on the road of sand and dirt.
We gather crater’s, and we flip them and we fold them
from clamor into calm.


The heart behind your heart
like a plum behind sirloin
pop gush a finger through
deep to the knuckle
your nail will scratch solids
like a speckled pebble behind dusty sea glass
that’s when you know
like a body guard that can’t stop weeping
these galaxies are patient
can perform single file
one behind the next and the next
just like a belly dance and the guts behind it.

First stanza
is something about desire.
Why fear the dreadful words
never meant for a poem.

A yawning accommodates
the souls dirty mark.

In the distance
I see an assembly.
And I know that house quite well-
the dynastic of jumble and maladroit.

The blueprint is love-
whose erection is a creeper-
with rungs made
of evanescent sluices

And night pines
the dominance of grief’s
habitual stair-case.

And all and all
and all.

The friendliest vein
of stratum
is a cool and brightless
shattering:

This is not me!
This is not me!
Not what I am!
Not...



The books
are no longer held
with staples or tape.

Gospel today
fills the soul
like glue
from a Wonder Bread bag.

Like the photography of some vital
motif.
A passing of traitor -
disappearing the early morning
dew.

The gelatin silver print blisters
with foresight.

A reflex assumption.

One perilous lineage
hooked by clairvoyant creations-
only to defecate the denial of truth:


The dying beast is your child,
your demon,
your God.

Mystery is the staple of our design.
Calling.
High-end and comfortable.
Stunning beyond bolder.
Step forth.
Yes its our calling.
New love
wrapped around your finger.
Geometric is our undoing.
The heat and the rumble
and the crud in the lung.

One week. One time. One
ounce. Once... Shhh...

Hold me.
An absolute disaster.
Everyone...get it?
A ticking time bomb shine!
Take a look
All round any corner.
All round any world.



I walked through flowers-
past Calvin Klein
reclining nudes
and airport eyes.

A monolith of inked up
pages.
A girl with doctored sleeves.
A boy swah swimming.
100 plus.
Languages
and dialects.
Only 1
motor bike insight.

Grimy Red Cross diary.
Bound by a string
some writing by Shakespeare?

Security with gapped up faces
enough to get a knuckle wedged.

How a hand can carefully
block the wind
whilst spitting from a train
window what looks
like Dracula blood.

Shwe means gold.
And something else means tall.


It Makes me think
I can live with this
This dark cold morsel
Particle of particals

I can go out
there
And mingle
And mosh
And glide.....to the next
negative space

I will Light a candle
in a niche
of a cavern
in a cave
Of a system
That blows the mind
a flickering
Flame
flame the same shape
as a drop
of water or a tear

He held a mock
drawing
of a mock
suicide.

In his fist was their rallying
point.

Some even thought.
The Foundation offers two options:
Fragments of teeth embedded in the love.
Fragments of teeth embedded in the hate.

His development was simple
timid dirty unknown -
a hug trapped in a boulder.

Some hummed a squadron through his veins.
Eyes gouging to the left
sound current
and to the right
sound current.

A full-fledged fell swope
A werewolf before sex sex.


For more Poems Check my blog:

Licking Jungle Cat Claws

Poetry
2014