Soft trees and skies break fall, winter, & spring, consoling the gentle hum of anxiety rolled in with correspondences hymned 3:06am. And as we march on, slabs of carbon prevail in this hall of a purported mountain king with what pieces of burnt offering, less than whole, effervesce. We eventually find our way painting an abstract sun radiating with scintillas and blinding purviews as a hand covers a gaping bruise appended to a soar wound…It catches up to you, this ether surfing, I mean understanding, of an inner Lucifer working, upon a rooftop & in solitude, speaking of last rites of humanity, and what circles of hope, resurrection and hell lay between …....
Without awakening Augustinian confessionals, I left her alone because I can't, and likely she's walking, having cut and run, to some other solitary amour…This is the counterweight, the measure and barometer of the yard, that nimbly, binds clandestine destinies abound, breathing life in-out. West coast blues rising against an Imperial march, the foreground, an anti war dub from a music box, sailing on waves in a skater's waltz ushering in rides of Valkyries, hosts of female figures deciding which soldiers die in battle and which live on…Our occasion is Spring now, no, heaven and hell, my covenant, her archives, our woods, …As a crazed heart wanders to quench thirst for a thousand prostrations and recoiling transfusions in honor and name of Thy Merciful this Friday.....
O desire that escapes centuries of flight, ineffable levers, mirrors' backsides, to my Luna's majestic eyes, when none lying before me resemble you! ....
Eerily ere this simulacrum, these summer elections and substrates of ripples endlessly failing to find their selves becoming my lover on the tram. Still water foul brown, dancing, as new leaves flourish, phrases overridden, upon pressing play on the tape-recorder, square wave in unison…....
How was it, autumn in Paris? And April? I didn't see Vermont's moonlight this year but I never promised, or Florence. Can you smell the perfumed ointment from our promised burning? Do I look still like someone in love, someone in love with love, but loveless love, this can't be love, no greater love or let's fall in love? It could happen to you, what you did to me, this blunt instrument, that dead spot, all azure, realities rivaling imaginaries my secret love; I wish I knew. I should care, but should I; I mean you, in offerings of a private introspection on our minor mishap, our young romance, I, as courier to your royal kiosk, basilica, and mailbox… ....
Don't explain, from this moment on, violet for your furs, black pearls, polka dots and moonbeams, sweet sapphire beryl, of the kind luminescent and ardent. I love you like someone I love, our delight, all morning, soft winds, lazy may, with what creatures & spirits become witnesses. You say you care but not for me; to speak your name by numbers, to pronounce it while multiplying it to infinity, as if in tireless wane of dreamless nights, gazing mirrors, reflecting abound on our histories preceding and future belongings. If you completely understood me you would be me. My butterfly flame, you don't know what love is. From now on, velvety light, petite forests and Russian lullabies, proverbial afternoons, all my tomorrows in a minute, oil on water, a match, or better yet, a Molotov cocktail to a powder keg, tossed in a great holocaustic fire consuming our ledgers and scrolls, and the setting ablaze of an archived nous, a you, an I, a wavering us, bedding what strings memories covet…....
A pause for reflection, the seconds' drag, and a familiar taste appears in this simulacric trapeze of wondrous days, while she moves stranger to myself, with someone else.......
…Revelations of Love, as a knife fight in a phone booth…....
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