slushy mushy
sloppy slobber
early winter
drool.

yes, drooling and droopy roads all 
dark and melty,
be-splattered be-salted
be-friended with stamping feet,
black and white and speckled
prints of puddled boots,
snow-capped grass and
leaves all soaked, surprised,
then buried.

                

touch to
lucent nerves,
humming flesh and lingering 
friction.

eye-strokes and
eye dancing, 
loose and wayward glints,
unstrung ripples, 
buttered breathing.

interface to an 
interface, 
molded warmth and 
accepted weakness.
                

It's mid-day in your
cubicle
and a tremor is building up in your
right hand.

Palpitations, strange-waves,
Radiation.

A tremor in your right hand.

It's mid-day and there are no
windows
and you can feel the texture of the pebbled carpet
with your arms hugging yourself and your eyes 
closed.
                

bobble-head pliability,
slaptastic flexibility,
lip-tipped open-mouthed,
longing all pillow-headed
and pining, headlining
downward into such a 
loose-lipped spiral of a
day-long windmill humming 
of a clock-tocking tumble-dry
gyration all goggled down
and slack and jawed unwinding 
this beanbag brow is so much
sludge, asleep,
goodnight. 

                

Neanderthal Poet,
such lyrical, tortured
grunting.
Perhaps the first human
lemming,
all wrapped up in her
prison,
everything to say and no way
to say it.

Beating her head against the rocks
left nothing on the
fossil record. 

                

Wishing for the disconnect....
every action has an equal and opposite
ambivalence.

(In this house, young lady,
we obey the laws of 
thermodynamics!)

Wishing for a morphine swim
in warm waters on a warm night.

Wishing for legs bumping into my
legs in the middle of the night.

Wishing for anti-wishes,
                

stuff to the eyeballs,
stuffed eyeballs,
my stuff drowns me,
my snail-trail receipts,
my monster-ball briar of wires,
those old players, those old
tired and lonely books,
shoes i've never worn,
useless consumer trophies
all mounted in dust,
all stuffed in cardboard,
weathered closet mountains,
how does one begin to chip away?
landfill life, Reaganomics all
trickled down and piled up,
                

Tock-tock clicking,
fumbling stumbling echoes
struggling,
struggling,
to meld into a meaning
for this bitter clock-in-a-tock-silent
Victorian afternoon.
Creaky-empty hardwood
silence,
I can feel you breathing across the room.

Puddles inside,
everything a-clickety-clack,
rocking-chair weight inside the brain,
my joints hurt.
                

Solstice....
the downhill slide,
thirsty breathing gulping,
catastrophic desire, funnels
alive and drinking, ground-mulched dawn,
grieved and famished sun-splattered dusk,
raaawwrrrr, it's coming,
that bright-sweet-sugar light,
bliss upon every synapse,
melted-plum muttering
sleep,
and sleep,
and Spring eternal,
fuzzy-soft fumbling things,
and words too big for
                

Soughing wheezing mesh of 
aching light, seeping up from 
stones,
diffuse and padded gleaming
light on wingtips,
phosphor melting puddled
strange-waves.

Huddled here, breathing in each 
layer upon
layer of gilded winter
slapping shock.

Ashen grace, hungry sunsets
against stark negative
                

I can't remember why
I'm doing this.
Can't remember 
why
I

11 11,
two snakes staring down a
barrel,
thousands times thousands
of leaves,
choking brambles,
ghosts in the grates,
these words will be very much
forgotten
                

Acorns everywhere, torn from their spiky homes,
leaves upon puddled leaves, that crunchy
step-crunch-step-crunch as you walk amongst
their shells.

The sun keeps traveling southward, November
looms along the horizon, and I can feel my bones
in the groaning of the wind, in the blankets
that start to line the mobile homes
of those that have no home.

I am my own cliche.  I sit along these tracks,
again,
in late October and feel myself in the
maw of a brutal winter gloom.  I feel lucky
                

Bumbling fumbling key-tapping, slaptastic, mish-mash
2 AM.
Time is either runny or constipated,
flowing and lost or stuck, stuck, stu...
--slap-tap--
on the same same same
second.

Trying hard to remember something,
for the last thirteen years.  It'll come to me,
any second now

                

rented wings, rented wind, 
purchases with paper.
fingers crossed, one oar 
rowing,
one eye always 
winking.  refunds in short
supply, 
authentic-i-TEE in the 
under-TOW,
muddled human fog outside.

sit down and forget 
what reason
there was for getting 
up.
                

The fever is in my brain, 
the liquid-metal-sharp 
awareness 
of everything around-about, 
inside-out, 
past and present future blur.  

Halos of words and thoughts and 
associations beating bat-wings
all a-flapping, clapping shadows and--
son-of-a-bitch-the sky is above us,
RIGHT NOW, 
only it's not really "above", 
as in up-and-down,
it is the earth
                

I can feel this new season closing in, 
ripe with auburn dreams, 
smoke inflamed against 
mulched skies.  

Broken corn-stalk shells, 
shivering dusk.  Looming spiraling descent into 
starched skies, 
frozen morning lawns, 
leaves bright and breathing as the 
winds pour down.  

Already there is that extra 
silence in the air.  
Trains howl against that silence in the milk of