Patience and timing leave all to rhythmic silence to unfold seamless Sahara sky to rich body of silk and tomb under a silver moon the pink shell spun sets to suit the frequency of heart, dying jackals to melody the night.
In the coal bin all cocks look the same, eager beaver whoos her much too fast with ash in fingers with furnace embers that used to be candle tips before romance left the building
If I could have seen the next corner the prelude would be neat as prose. Only binoculars are dreams unseen and mystified by the seasons that surround, in orbit of starry systems and wronged wavelengths.
I read of the prophet as I sucked my cigarette hoping to never go blind or be without breath. Hope. Hope up against the walls or revealing it’s essence in a secret flute of air that you only catch before a sudden breath.
Hope the last to die. Silent reels of it spread through bronchial lungs and thread verdant veins of fat oak leaves.
I have seen wrinkles of bark on the faces that pass. Widows peek behind their curtains with candy floss hair in vale, the best entertainment will come from memory.
I must make mine good.
The milestones and the mirrors roam, the mosaics of body beneath the beats of all and over the cracks and into them all and the cities, the whirlwind compass up avenues following a scent of something brilliant.
Search, salvation, salutations, salty copulations, revelations, foot and paw prints and lacerations, random rendezvous, to bitch and praise all empty and encapsulate to fill for the sake of a simple sip from the cup of life.
i want to remember her grape…dead potency of berries and bearers of all that has made me tingle, die and resonate. Come and read or listen for a few none will matter but all have gathered
children in a maze of demons do not handle guns with care but they talk of poetry from their tower they speak of mirrors and doors made of soul, the laws of fluidity apply to the streets, individually there is none just an interplay of mass, time and space.
Send messages from the precipice so young can falter and sing to the voids…supersonic freefall sugar face striped with candy colours…

Communal Isolation

Four billion voices in four billion heads…buzzing out words through mouth or by mouse on the web, building their own, individual clones

Being a waitress makes you aware of bodies and eyes and all the insatiable needs that mask candid glory and present all out of one vacant face.

Under a fluid swath of sky, what makes you thirsty and whom do you choose to swallow? Do you keep the light on when you sleep?

Four billion stories and four billion ways to view the world. How many births since the dawn of reason seas?

And why was I surprised to a see a hammerhead bleed red cells over the dock? When everything living has a face.

All exchange breath and find rest in the gaps, the root. Let me be a human being. Let this human be.

In the busy restaurant we connect to feed and serve departed. Bellowing beings lost to speech.

The wondering mind returns to indecipherable confusion. Maybe because the sum total is aquamarine immensity of the magnificent infinity of zero.

What shape do we choose to form as we cycle? Polarized oxymorons may lead us to the holy grail.

In the mean time that ceases to exit I will serve you an iced tea and cut you bread and when I return home I will not remember anything prolific about what has been said.

Bella

I look into my dog’s eyes and think somebody is definitely in there. Inside her floppy eared canine head a voice responds and I forget she cannot speak. She sits like a little prophet gazing out the window at the city. She sleeps by my side and sometimes we spoon and she wakes me with her snores and farts – true companionship. My two feet are now six. Her brow has wrinkles like a sandy shoreline and I think of her as my silent sage until she licks her ass and I am reminded of the animal in us all.