the sun early on

joy is the sun, early on
emil cioran

rays of light thru eastern cumulous
like gypsy bands bearing banners
trade in the time of cholera
beneficence battling bitumin.


i remember strawberries
some country road, a river
want to say all
the things that would make you
lie to me some more. but only
for a second
chance at change. mine. something i might
depend upon, the arthroscopic anteriors
a slippage of disc and daily
dismissal of dismal, of all that isn't
bright as a buzzing hive of fire. have
a wonderful day we say to each other
kiss kiss tell tell, a burnt offering halved
by the parries and parties of druther.

but the day wears on, pleasure
drifts away , beams on smoggy air
even if the like is gone, love remains
elusive as a metaphor with a mission.

i miss you , i weep to myself in the car
then begin to bleed. you are with me
no less than you were before so why
do i feel your absence more now?

it is the moon the moon ! bays the dog
it's the freaking pull of the poles snarls the biker
you know i don't like dogs, why you put one
in every change of pace. to which she replies

what the fuck are you doing in my pome anyway
homeboy. you chose your own way to choose
it's not my fault you booze and lose and lose
i have my own release  by holding sway


middle aged palmy, a silent assent
to the dyptych of one on one as two
and more of you than can hold a truce
with ashes and foaming and rent.

oh now she's just going for the stupid rhyme.
face it, you're not anne sexton. and if you were
you'd be already dead. oh yeah . you might be.


i don't know. you've come to me in guises
that i meant to unravel but somehow left
whole in decay. the gun, the cat, the beginning of that.

i still haven't named you but you know what you are.
hiding your dwindle. pulling your billowy skirts
around your face. pissing on the night sky.
you make my tears a treason to sadness.


























*(&&








i don't understand why i'm satisfied
with your half man half wolf costume
but i guess my red hood's graying too.

i think of the thing we might have been
in different bodies or maybe different
beginnings. the call of the wild in sodiom
flakes and fourth dimension angles

which might, as i try to picture them
fracture like a diamond  to hypnotise
me into some revelation of grace wearing

time for lipstick. the way she kisses the rip
from a jet landing, or paints the floor
with juices from last night. whatever i'm sure

it's performance approved. a little tale to inhabit
so you don't have to let the knot in your esophagus
melt into tight fisted digestion. keeps ya skinny boy


and ready for the next toy. what does a man have
when he loses his drive? a hunt for zen, peace
with failure, a motive to survive? what about life?

what about living? i still think it's about the giving
but don't give it away if he don't appreciate it
right ms jones? right? make em pay. it's the economy stupid
it's caching and ka ching and making your way
to the mop and bucket for seven fifty an hour who the fuck
are you to think you should do betta than that?
huh?


the notion of downward mobility as a saving grace.
the parabolic paranoia that brought you to this place
jesus freaks and muju camps and bright white plastic cake.

i wonder where my weed went< i won't send this to you
because half of you is here and the other thirds
are scattered in a variety of email thrusts and parries
throughout contiguous reality  .