the curtain

a circus to share. no original pantomimes

culture imagined and coerced by. the way we drive commerce is pure sorcery

a competition. one with the most tally marks declared the winner

the curtain. painted in whichever color you’re blind to

a stage show. full of beautiful escapees



this rock i’m holding is no ordinary stone

it’s constantly turning whenever I’m alone

the water starts to trickle

look at the fountain

rust spots from pennies and nickels

three feathers growing swan dive arms out of my shoulders

these puddles of footsteps on the road

are they yours?

what remains cloaked by the veil of the bridal brook?

there’s an extraordinary staircase spiraling up to a throne and all of the angels are flying

i. 3.8100 — oil

blind tribes trample upon the land
explore reptilian perception of the terroir
steam fills adjustable tappets picklepot condensor
techgnostic billy goat haunchos OK slurpy towers
bohemian resistance slightly impedes progress
lazy foot soldiers, sleepily ignorant, only move when they are pushed


Show tune lyrics of the future

I know i wasn’t proper but can i please make another offer to you

a chauvinistic notion ledgermen painted in blue porcelain hue chachki chain glue

give it a go I dare ya. stand in front of the motion picture camera for a few

aperture shadows dance with light. ego adapts to the capture device like a monkey to its crew

reality t.v. is Darwinian my dear, just a social selection project, meta-optical science lab practical gone mad hatter

thesis : To judgement, scrutiny. How DOES soul energy adapt? hollywood hookery hack

i hunt for whatever roosts in the rookery, climbed to the top and fell for the leader of the pack.

ten Roman Generals’ trouser snakes might lie on that equation’s path.

i. 3.8012 — silicon

purge nectar from the canyon.

calm collector of sand.

archaic star charts on a bitmap. 

Earth, take us back, shelter our dreams from the lightHogs.

Scarf of the Sky Phantom

Look at how the patterns in the faux-clover patch give shape to the nameless. Thimbles full of lichen douse the fire toad on an oak root.  I barely oblige the blokey crow amongst shadows toking in the temple of Ruul, spindles of mucus from the bundle he fumes smeared on the crab grass. Sometimes I think of my friends at high noon, preening in the telecommune and swinging like pendulums in the hallway. I use the taproot as a guide and pull my weight in its direction.  I lean into the thorn bush, just enough to lose my balance and teeter on the brink of tiny clay cliffs, staring into the starry eyes of a rose hip that’s dried. Swagger to the Funk of the dragon lily. March of the mommy’s boy sworn to the torque of the turbine vibrato. Sheen of the Magnus carousel. Q-pee dolls man the yolk of the panzer.

Let us start a movement of psychotic bliss as we Holler in the name of the crown, shoulders, toes and wrists. Let us submit our shame to the sunshine blade, snuggle, and krumple of a sudden banter, sandals clip clop as we spiral up the staircase . Nothing can  dull the burr of the cattails as they scantily graze the quick, clonking woodblocks, nor dumb down chrysanthemum quills as their pluckings staccato are caught stalking nature’s unveiling keys. Sonatina of the Goddess arrives just in time to bathe us in the plummet of her morning mist. Rhythms are carried by a willow wind  section in unison with the Autumn curtain rising.

Your love is the wealth of the night fabric, especially when you cry, laugh, and yell at the same time.  I am here to steal the scarf of the sky phantom and dance in the pattern it reveals.  Don’t ask me why.  Just keep your shoulders loose, spin yourself dizzy, eyes glued to the maelstrom mime.  I know it seems shifty, but try.  Your spirit is the hearth of an ice cavern. Acapella of the whorls strum like mallets upon stalagtite chimes.  Run with me on the rooftop tile until the rain pours kisses on our smiles. you can be a sorceress, and I a Samurai. I see us slicing, shadow casting like two witches gone cross-wired, pronouncing the names of spirits that haunt us, drowning in our wishing wells.

Bushido and Isobel tip-toe of a pas a deux, shadows playing as speckles on the promenade.  ‘Shido is enthralled by the ho-hum laws of gravity, she entranced by the grope of the wind as if courted by it, both by the scent of the fertile soil and blossom. Hers is the answer to the Troll beckon, his, the sword that shines while cutting the throats of those felt compeled to molest his Wiccan bride. Now you know who whispers in the night.

We dance like misfits on brazen, skin-toned floating flagstones, shelved upon incognito phases.  Carry us, harp of the feisty faerie, with a tune so jolly for it to swoon the beast, merry king of the wild, where Bushido is the Style, and Isobel, the Gnomon of a Moon Dial.