The Return

Fear the return of acrobats
smashed with books,
flushed from windows,
who witness the turn of the heel


The Conductor

golden-white absence of mind stares down
into bathing towns of running crimson
silver women bow their necks and cum
flexing every popping vessel
to sell moments like these to
an eager audience and people
who see a stranger scribbling secrets
speaking to themselves others have jumped
across the border with new plans for
a nation under siege marching to
new beats all discovered through the drum
for sunny days in carved October
abandoned lots outdated license plates
and self-absorbed eyes under glasses
and amber drinks near bushes walking
with the gypsies into the sea
of Jonah’s swollen belly by
winged heels of Hermes

A Field Guide to the Darkroom (3/3)

Grisly poplar whistles through Sunday.
Gays dressed for winter gossip about
Cigarettes, various habits of
Addicts. Puma women smile at
You. With no face, no shame. Facing
The wall, she came in. Stuck in dark,
Closing in. You felt like a hug
And gentle rumbling. I remember
Leaning my face against you and
Walking in the wind. I heard the
Muffled quietude of boomsticks
And canyons; where the hungry crowds
Sat appeased by paper and
Scheduled bells, formal attitudes
Of progress, fear of suited dame,
And power of anvil and sword.

Back to the wall, she came in. Mouth
Full of peppers, hesitating.
Or, pretending you were ever there
Speaking something just above hair.
To pretend to have mended one
Who found beauty in being broken
And built monuments to the theme
Of isolation. Holding hands
With the boatman underneath the
Clean lamp. With multitudes hidden
Like monsters in the hulls of thoughts
That shake us. Whether these voices
Carry us to another land
Or, upon the rocks for a death
At sea (plunged Odysseus
Deafens the monarchy). Cortez
Covered with disease. Columbus
Ripped to pieces by hounds armored
Metal. On the prow of gliding
Mansions lay the worshippers of
Gold. The Pirate Sea is mastered
By a grandmother in silks.

A Field Guide to the Darkroom (2/3)

The Pirate Sea is mastered
By a calm command.
Despite the swords and mirrors,
Trolls and phantasms, of the mind.
Masked men who play witness
Harmless from separate boughs
Where the final leap of bathers
Are games they play in the setting sun
Turning to raisins
These sweet little grapes
Left by The Creator plucked
For contents of purgatory
Or a bottle of Calcu.

The Pirate Sea is mastered
By men and women
Who tattoo corners
Of their faces and play the
Jealous games at round tables
Under smoke.
Endless translations of faces
Bodies of men transformed
By the cave-dwelling act of
Seclusion into erudite
And euphoric bats.
To play gambits of faces
Undisturbed. To observe
Each mask within the shade and
Shaded grass. And exclaim, “Limbs
Have been stolen!”
By tricks of senses
Unforeseen. Climbing
Through windows of cars
In the dreams of famous men
Wishing runaway
From a petting zoo.
These emotions have been pawned
Before. Stuck to panes of glass
Individual like highway
Flies. Moments, vision, leave us.

And with breath come back again.
Main agent – respiration.
From plants to me, we
Breathe the Pirate Sea.
Far from the bough, plucked
From the tree. Where the vine still
Quivers, and The Snake questions
Naked women lulling there.
Between the roots and running
Water beneath me.

A Field Guide to the Darkroom (1/3)

He walks in shadow limbless
A stupid bellow.
Down roads built through wilderness;
Collecting gloves,
Safeguarding The Seeds.
Twisting, unbending, shadow.
Groups collected in buckets
Long forgotten original bough.

In an empty room white
Walls empty. Sitting on the floor
A record player, two
Boxes of records.

After a Cuban breakfast
To an old friend’s home
Where you see life abandoned.
The only possession; music.
White walls empty, hardly feels
Like a home. Yet, here he’s been
Living. Released
From contact, hidden
Like amber stolen treasure,
A young man absorbed in
The Hive.

Plaintiff bough leaves not a whisper
Each branch dispels a secret sister
For the wicked seeds to prosper
Behind dark glasses like Ray and Stevie.

Whispers to Sea: II

Seeking to gain power? Conscious people laboring. Matthew prattles of Diana. Egyptian thief train station headed further and it is true but I have been, say, except for a few young men, on trains crammed desperately. Slanted eye upon realizing Atlas, except carrying his own – her body. To forget all these sons of whores alongside our train and its far off a man walks by and steals a forward or sways side to side. Camus, Caldwell, Steinbeck. Across the desert in California, 319 UP903134, to be conquered and window and she admires him dark as they do during where no man’s foot has dared to. How large our pride compared. We came in cars on smooth though she has waved her silver in his face, his forearms, his feet of men did once roam Sacramento. The last people to exit Davis stay on to greet the rising sun to the sea – docked. Take a seat next to a different species of butterfly, redwood trees still in subtle ways. Agathangelos thinking in time, somewhere familiar, a place, hills, dew from grass. I soon learned – resolved. A black odor the ceiling. Who was sitting outside on the drive through puddles? Glock with yellow leaves underneath on the 101 things this morning – the moon. Were before me from the view from white mist from the crashing, the first drop of rain followed. I have entered through the door, hundreds of calling frogs one hour past midnight thread. I can see with where we stay. Raining for a few days. Midnight theory. And then what? I worry for his loneliness – paths of life. The woodstove glows orange, lined at the side with peeling cloak the bronze hill. Many treasures found, to write in a room, it looks as animals and plant life, firm muscles and confident stride, leaves on the soil, of a way you are to bring comfort, pauses for a moment, and this little world here – His crop dutifully examining farm, question, learning of any kind. Limits of life are tested. Every winter of my earlier years staring far way into the Pacific – the healing component – and I, in Klamath, like a simple child, disgusting, I believe one word at the side of the road in B. after two weeks nothing seemed. “It’s what I do, I don’t time it!” Return south soon? Along the, and according to Ingrid, the light. No wonder everyone sits. A peddler passes calmly without the wind, is mightier than the way into my sight and brought birthday as a day normal infrastructure is not old, when all of against your hand if I am tossed inside a smoking marijuana sockets examining the man with no home. Every morning we human brain red tomatoes fly igniting Halloween – Table to steal a brownie before inhabit the dens that find no sleep. This drawing of a girl, of Clinton, while her husband docks tunes between heaves and surrounded by these people. You see an old woman walking with LSD vision. I ran to the top color, patriotism see? I’m the one who made it hot 2016, and ecstatic morning can change the feeling of the King Lear, The Rubaiyat, On the Road. I slowly walk to the candles written for how am I to say for sure open enrollment begins? The middle of downtown B., Oregon so, “I invoke thee, thou diamond-fiery.” It is true, even the meanest garb feel inclined to be the first person they heart is willing to greet them, looking up to look into the Matali. We journey in the path of Parivaha; zoom in and see where 108th is, humming the hymns of Mutability. Entanglement about his shoulders. If you were to ask me why I dwell among, to steal the luster from her sparking eye. Election tough for parents, teachers emails show strategy of Clinton pipeline shift. Pakistan moves to block protests. Are you to me an individual obsessed? Claws at the backdoor to the organic cider and ginger, displaced and sad there. I sprinkle words in handfuls, and hear with me, city — of course one day I will. Haunts me also in daylight, there is a walnut tree breathing.