Gloucester's Unicorn

I saw the army approaching from the hillside south. I was
with the troops coming from the northy side of my present
state. I was the only one between the two. Mine hadn't
approached as of yet...probably just finishing tea as I speak.
I tried to lay a few traps the night before for the front to deal
with. But I recently rose from a noxious slumber. My
memory often fails me; did I finish last night? My head was
throbbing as a sleep dazed unicorn/horn pierce. Standing
my shoes on top of each other, I realized I needed to pee,
real bad. I daydreamed as the unsteady flow mocked me.
I could hear the glass crumbling from behind me.
Screaming in agony/tears of onion milk and vinegar.
The field was ripe.
Daisy leach pods, cram apple part cakes, florid rotten
bumblebee bacon strips, candied tomatoes, and rice pudding
sleep caps. I stood watching 'all of this' from the middle of
the field. Generals screamed around me with clasps and
rasps: turning bastards into sons.
A few men were approaching me rather quickly. I was
astonished at their tenacity and bravery. One of them hit
the ribble necked green sleever steam steak; his slippery
blood creating a wonderful slide/toy for the farmer of this
field. Second of them leaped into the circle I had created for
my self to sit in...

Our Eyeless Dog

      We opened the window on the clean cool milk moon night.

     Our owl perched the sill, waiting

“Maybe she is taking the long way home?”

      In the distance I thought I heard her say.

      Each of us took a tray from Grandmother. Lemon shortbread cookies with buttermilk and coffee. “Why would she do that?”

      This time a little closer. I could feel her hesitation in asking. She was holding her apron while trying to drink the moon.

      Each pearl of moon spit could be seen exiting her mouth with each consonance but you really wanted to pay attention to her bel canto vowels—like Leontyne or Marian she was.

      I wish that I would be able to hear her voice again.

      Grandmother reaches over to the owl and removes its eyes with a melon baller. No one hears the screams over the din of the moon in its milky thistle upon the eyes.

Each transparent eye sees only the face but not the tears.

                                                                                                                            Those tears

That

                                                   Drop Like

Pearls upon the butcher's block

                                                             Or upon the

Moon's Teeth.

      At 03:37 the eyeless dog sees

The Moon as a film.

My daughter no longer has my eyes.

                                                                    But she's still my milk moon

                                                                                          .

Kitchen Utensil

Stands under the ledge
avoiding winter rain:
a smoked winston.
Elevators ascend
with a pair of legs
and a glass screen.
See the legs
do not
levitate
but rather
radiate
as if
re(warding)
the end.

Asleep With The Serpent

Why have all these pages been filled?
Screaming through a sound proof room.
Forget it!
What is happening doesn't matter.
Spaces between the cookie and its cream/
                                                                    Spelled a name in
                                        different vestiges
                                                    grew old
                                                             and tidied up a bit.
He screamed through his old Iron Curtain and bathrobe.
I lost it once/fallen through a torpedo basin in kentucky.
Roses fell from a fenced/free thinker.
The note card has asked for a certain curtain to be lowered.
Revealed through his sonic landscape and frozen arrows.
By why now frozen?
are not many things
frozen
        apathy
                dentures of
        steal
                the ship mast
                        and set
        keel
                my friend
                        it is
        the
                only
                        way
Hey!
Listen to me/scratched fever.
Her everglowingness
sorted through the basin amid ship.
Shall she see?
Or driven under the current backwash backdraft, riff raff.
Sleep with me
        he said amid ship
                rowing shapes
                        lowing spears
Let Go!
Out of hold/touch
Philomel?
Nay, but a man with a rabbit instead
forged an amulet for the sake of his rake.
Ask me first of your name?
Why? Out of driven again.
No, I searched for your face, among thralls. I saw only
flowers pinned to corner street lamp walls. Why step closer
without knowing
I thought I could only hope, but I have bashed the cauldron
to the ground in a tight ft fashion
Have you started games?
OOOH No, I have started onomatopoeias/sequenced in
phrases discovered among scattered flatters and madder
hatters.
I wanted to release upon you and drown in you
boo/who/you
        frozen
                escape
        let
                down
                        your
                                hair
        Please freeze me!
                It has started
                        and wont let up
I love INK!!!! please freeze now!
Don't look back Xavier!
[semicolon]
It is not what
        you see(
(curbed manholes
        holes in flowers
                boutique shop
        let it see(
(a hydrant
        corner
                leave))--
It is a progression, I hear
it has not stopped.
                                                                                      This dinosaur has asked me
                                                                                to do him a favor
,
give him his
        bones back--.

On Words

“You're doing it again, aren't you?”

he asked with the flip

of an eyelid.

He thought he heard a car horn honk in the response but he must have imagined it.

The post does not arrive, ever on time.

He could feel his inside stomach ache.

This stomach seemed to ask a question of our hero.

“Where are your toes?

Have they left you?

Have they vanished?:”

said stomach's reply.

Out of the dusted road he could be seen, crawling through tough tar and umbilical cords white washed through the desert rain/tread.

He laughed at my description

“What does that person know?” he asked the air.

To his astonishment, the air responded with a flickering of the desert light/switch cacti.

His crawl quickened.

Knowing his destination was a long ways away.

“Ways away...” he repeated.

His stomach churned, asking for water and coals to heat the aether/fire below.

“I am sorry,” he misheard me.

But his belly bucked as the bull before its horns.

The desert rain seemed satirical in its ever/flowing gestures of coconut oil and spare ribs.

He often/frequented that place on the side of the invisible road. How could he see in this desert dark?

Floored by his own power, he pranced over to the next page, concluding with his distinctive period. Plots of land asked for his signature 3 times before taking his life. “Always down to the pit?” he asked his stomach, clad in waffle irons.

But where did he come from, you ask?

No, his rosy cheeks do not speak of the joyless bananas of which he was hoping, but of fruit nonetheless.

She appeared.

In a coat of cacti flowers and 30-somethings.

He tried to write on her spine but found her gutter instead.

She seemed lost.

“In what are you lost, my dear?” she asked.

“Hey!” he yelled, “you can't put words into her mouth.” This didn't phase any of us, but the vibe was different after the spirits left. They embraced, after a comfortable silence between introspective eyes.

The clouds convened: pushing/shoving for a better view of this couple.

Neither of them noticed.

But there were phantoms.

Cloaks of scorpions and sand/dust in the human litter.

Frozen

in

space

they lapped

each others

blood.

Her eyes, seem on some sort of fire: branded; but it was essential to only notice the particulars.

She screamed as an Earth Rotation separated the heavenly bodies

and clouds' lip.

“Forget what you have learned of me.” Tomorrow he is a new person just as yesterday and all the nights to come.

She pleaded with the clouds and asked the earth to begin its final descent into its motherly star.

(All that has come of this has already been recorded by scholars, artists, and carpenters.)

“But how?”

He grabbed the cactus cloak/coat and saw it fit to fake it.

The music changed and changed again back again.

Through its turbulence they saw the path and entered gleefully only after the foot of the floor.

They stuttered their way into the house, for the fourth time she fit in and he out, again in the desert's drooping rain.

The Quartet continued its play: on words.

Fall From Viol Strings

Milwaukee, WI – Associated Press. Each year a new harmonic stabbing occurs on 11th and Eugenic. Those two streets that some say appear only once a year, each time covered in flooded blood that those self-same people say is derived from humans. Yet no one seems to know where the sheep come from. This journalist has decided today not to talk of the harmonic stabbings but of the sheep that stampede each March on 11th and Eugenic:
     Grey tears fall from vile strings tied to legs that bleat like the milling sheep below
     them.
     No one wants tainted wool yet we are all wearing it, blinded by those tears,
     methinks.
     But how can we know that we are blinded by tears?
     Methinks we sleep
          until March when 11th and Eugenic lights up with those un-dyed wool
          bearers.  Those
               wolves that are not woolfs.


     Or do we wake and find our clothes missing, stolen by some relatively unseen
               hand that comes around during March: tax-free.

Words are so important.

Without them we are wool bearers

for those with

words in their teeth.

Words are blown-out eye socket springblossoms------>

                                                                                                                           inedible, mind you.

Those that know of 11th and Eugenic know of Death. That Death that appears as words but exists like sheep
                                                    /
                                                     looking for a shepherd
                                                                                                    .

Forge This:

     Black anvil popcorn microwave golden attache case. Free Riders of a spoken difference of opinion the rabid rabbit Rubs its i's too many times the speed freak nonetheless

One Word

     Easy

        Does

            it

         brain child the prodigious talents of a comb over

                                                                                             sleep driven

         hat.

             Find the source

         of pleasure because of its need for nature/surprise the greed driven Hat in the

             box smoke its contents.

i's

         Hows

             it

                 go

aside from the Frontispiece

         Its januaries are remarkable This time the man with the mind in the true middle of the room finds his personalized hat of trinkets and Arabic coins

         Hurtless the man crawls.

I am a woman of a hurtful persuasion I have found the golden leash of Perseus and the spires of Zeus this is the time for a drop on the ringlet of Persephone

         Don't you realize

                 “Faceless”

This is the dream

         the everglowingness

         of a certain kind

         of salt

Find the (F) in your pocket you thought you lost.

I control you as you

         control me

         But I am still the woman persuaded

         Find the corpse in the back of the Room the One with the diamond Plated Ring

[stature]

Don't lose me now know now of this significance hippocampus Prometheus

Foot stomp over a Two/Four Beat

Forget the (F) in your pocket you have used it too much

Forgive the man in the long black coat tied (strangled) to the cliff Face.

This candle controls the room but we cannot transfix the Dawn we spoke of earlier.

This is the Truth

            of Silence:

Fallen Season

Hello, my page. It has been quite sometime since we have last spoken. (within the wheel) They say the man knows his direction. Glowing, snowingscapes of leather capes and paisley drapes; shrinking. This is the feeling of a man. But what man? The one with the italian pipe in his lungs and blue-grass in his veins. The rice,,,the rice. My lovely knows her place among the crows. She, Gloria, and ridden. It's true.

This truth

and those lying outside the chapel with top coats and jerkins.

Forget.

The lost and the for.

gotten.

leaves surrounding the scape noted above.

A true note.

Note the truth.

and the sleepless inside the outside fortress of her dreams.

There she exists

without a reason or a fallen season.

Compact these lines we have not been able to write for sometime and the page never forgives its only Forgotten.

of what man?

again you ask.

Joe if you need to know.

The christians call him Joseph. But we shall call him Josephus.

The braven hearted Raven among the crow's murder.and the sleepless

noted above?

/\

|

|

|

|

|

|

|

|

|

These symbols mean nothing to you, do they?

and you know what I am talking about.

YES!!!! FINALLY!!!

you speak of Raisins.

Nay. The blazin hearted cherrywood pipe that calls for your death and a reaction or an abreaction.

But a force none

The less we speak of this the more we

shall

Falter

upon the stones

in her pathway.

She is not the muse.

I knew what you were

going to ask because

You

          Now

             Know.

The secrets of silence and the eternal

Foreplay your mother never wanted to tell you.

We are leading to the apocalyptic orgasm.,,

or at least a damn good one.

What do you say of her?

Trees are not dead in the Winter

So we agree.

yes, and you knew this was going to happen.

didn't you chance upon her?

If chance is the word nowadays.

Turn this damn Bach music off. Give me Italian Baroque or late Renaissance.

Ok. What ever you say Doctor.

These truly are

whispers of

the virgin Mary.

Silence is for suckas.

I disagree.

You would.

What is this------------------------->

Postmodern?

postmortem.

The word will always be the new

Frontier.

What about space?

It can exist.

It can exist.

But you might say it is a waste of space.

 

His Socks Were Not Made of Glue

but of thistle thorns, weaved together with tooth floss and chicken wire to provide a form. He could be seen riding his horse at dawn in his cheap red parka and red wing boots. His cigarette occasionally falling out of his mouth, drooping, for a few seconds on the tip of his lip before, dropping on the ground. His hand is tired and asks to rest a few bars. The faces in the crowd; a herd of multigenerational buffalo, ghosts and those suspected of being ghosts. His music sounded as a whirlpool sunrise (which is currently associated with burt's bees): a carbon atom that only wants to bind with itself. Each song, a geometric form with no dimensions; brilliant diagonal deviations from the sine wave sparkling sonic landscapes. An unheeding quality of unresolved dissonances and spiral staircases; wrought iron (U know the kind that one shouldn't slide down): produce smoke rings outside rubber bands and glow sticks. 

    She asked him once about his stay in St. Louis. He replied with a smirk, "elephants with giraffe ears outside the DMV." Heavenly sent messages of poverty stricken faces growing out of hair strands. His reply caked in mud and semen. Outside was a shape of people crowding around a dead, cloaked woman holding a pigeon's head; grief stricken the CEO jumps for a snow-cone instead of his usual bomb-sicle. 

    His sore thighs clash against his horse's ribs. Teeth slashes and knaw marks on his neck in the shape of a pedal. As the sheep join the buffalo and supposed giraffe: his nose glistens with sweat and neon. Floating anchors above a frozen plateau of steel and ice cream cups, suspended from ships of glory and wood gilted blood, she descends the stair with an elegance and art such that her fall at the end made sense. To a select few in the back, it sounded as a snare-hi-hat crash on the fifteenth beat of a sixteen beat cycle. In a tune that has lasted too long for significance and thought provocation. Ending with a gay clap from a participating audience clad in waffle irons and pink perforated paisley coats. He reached for a stick of gum but found his pipe instead. The dresser drawer is ajar. Those socks rest in peaceful tranquility among snot-kerchiefs and tighty whities. 

    He steps out on, stage to see his audience clad not waffle irons as expected but in pancake batter and muscle relaxants smiling at the man to their right. Whose rosy cheeks only speak of rum, popsicles, and weed. She; craftsman houses line streets of trees pretending to be a canopy. His fourth book spoke as if not dissimilar to antique prototypes of photo-steel and rubber band collections. 

    While itching waves and heat rashes on ghosts of children and former lovers, she asked a question "when is the nearest train?" His reply now in solitudinal reverence..."about ten past four inches." A Brando type kiss ensued on the dawn ridden plateau. 

    An entire life in a pair of socks, locked in a golden barrel of smoke and goat piss. She later asked him of all of this. His reply in stuttered tears and rainbow glares, "staircases called, asking for your plea. Whats 'all of this'?" Then, a clattered hatter asked for a smoke with no teeth in it. "He asked why?" 

    "In gloria ex libris!" She exclaimed pleading with the bar attendant. He stepped on stage and found a familiar broken bottle around a sound cable leading to the mike stand and back to the mixing board (which is connected to the cash register). He will scream again in tongues understood before a syllabification was present in the human vernacular. 

    One can sometimes listen to the stars and hear the sinking specter of demise and hair growth, but the real sound lies underground in warming, hotting, climates of reaction vs. stagnation. 

    She shot him a melancholic grasp with an eye full of thorns and blueberries. A customary "see you later" was delivered in a punch on the back. Followed by a scene of lovemaking censured from public consumption. He left with rose petal feet and wicked grins of unleavened bread. The room immediately followed the return of the water thief and his three brothers Mario, Giuliano, and Gretchen Bigsby. He asked for forgiveness upon his return, only to find an empty air mattress and a stuffed dresser drawer. 

    For the first time in his life he felt like chocolate and coffee, starving for water, asking for coals. He asked a question facing the wall expecting the answer in return, which came hours later in the form of a post: she marked him as dead in the group and as an insubordinate buffoon. Which he confused to be a compliment given the bit about the cute baboon. 

    He sleeps in his socks, on a bed of wool covers and women's slips; penny-rich and floating.

Variations on a Pointillist

Waiting for the bus/Eleanor with the golden tube eyes. I stuck my foot through the sidewalk with a glee apparent from all directions and sides, only to find John's frown. A screeching car halt of enormous locusts and men from Robert's imagination; studied imago/The gynecologist entered the room after her feet left the floor. Eleanor laughed in chuckles at the arrival of an orange bus. His friend, George Hackner, screamed in sea foam reams amid the asylum forest, his shoes smiling. I knew him once; steadying a dead greed bag of mushrooms and glory. A deed mixed with raisins and one and one half cups of flower. He only told me of George. “The kaleidoscopic magnification of stoned rocks and a...” eventually emitting his name. I often snickered as she past. If she only knew. I frightened her once/porpoises and other sea-faring creatures. Did I tell you of this book I read? He told me once. Through the window I saw her blush with a grin of spinach. My partner to the left grabbed my mouth with both hands and lips. We descended the sidewalk in search of Freud and a man named Albert. We could hear Webern off to a shout/right of us. The sewer was enclosing and disposing of outside lights. The sidewalk side stair closed behind us. I could see the jester in legs of bells and soot socks.
Not far behind
a bus
a hound
and a brand new paragraph.