Dis Junction

It's a thirty second mob that runs down the cul-de-sac 
their bottoms nude in the heat searching for shadows 
in the labyrinthine radiance at the end of the day 
in a night dream escapade scraped from the dust 
and dendrites that lie still in the desert air.
Jazz shaman Ra! Medium dancer, romancer of HONK & SQUAWK 
a radiant star-gazer who lost birth for death 
is there (just over your left shoulder) which is a glance 
after which "Along Came Ra" wearing a silver skull-cap cover, 
fire in the head of Egypt, of Saturn born rings of saxaphone 
round the keyboard. Monkish intervals between this as wonder 
or as rust. Who continually returns to mangled chords, must  lead 
a dance-chain on stage as aluminum streamers trail commet-like Mingus and longingly looks homeward.  


Lake fog drifts onshore, wanders through birches, a log, a waft of smoke from fireplace three houses east is without sunrise tint, no glint off the quiet still water trickles in gutter drains. No such thing as silence. The leaning of small sounds is woven, it’s own wave. Speak, utter names among bird calls; crow caw, jay squawk, a pair of king-fishers swoop, chitter, criss-cross the lagoon. ~


Apricot dawn bottom lit mauve cloud and a lone Fish Crow is a message regarding the science of apocalyptic solar flare brain-soul, dance tracks, another world where people move in fluid dynamics which is the driver of flow within bodies. A rhythmic slip-flow over-commotion, hermeneutics, interpretation and liquid jazz infusion o Sun Ra and his Arkestra, always in ex-static communication, Afrofuturist intervention, purple robes & gold, a twirl out of Egypt the eternal return to Saturn. ~


Open the chest expands with breath is a double, pulse is singluar skips like a stone. Traitors opened for the lord, red muscle plucked face-slapped with inner drum, blood & bone a flower blooms in a bower, it’s all about power, really, the way of the opened body is a thing of beauty in which art is erruption, decollage, a thing, make it large or painted red which is so controlled as to impose order, banish chaos and anarchy. A thrown stone has an arc. ~

How to Dance

Soft piano sunlight, the lit under-bellies of Common Terns slip to the west, carry the last vestages of Einstein and Monk who spoke of the same things in different languages, each knew how to dance when words failed them. It was really about cycling and a possble twirl in which gravity bends space and there is no need for a cabaret card. ~

Sunrise Sonata

Cormorant morning is blue as whispers telling you of heart-stuff, newness, an eastern sun on Osprey wings which bring feathers and a special theory of intimacy. We relate to each other in spheres, thought bubble interfaces which allow our most private leanings to rub and caress at sunrise. ~



Fire crackle, our personal intimacies are vesicles, ventricles as ifchambers, hollows carry liquid-soul in which carressings of inner walls have interruptions, erections, erruptions explode with embers as glowing epistles are stones where turgid members rise. (II) We wander among the dandilions of flesh, wonder at their bright hope is the green that surrounds them, is the pink apple blossoms, the orchard becomes flush with whispers as wind moans and the Ace of Wands penetrates the humming of the bees. ~

May Queen

Sun-King, solar-heart embodied as we are; we radiate. Our eyes produce vapors, heart blood emissions nocturnal animals crawl, become road-kill. Genuflect, repeat mantra, Amitabha (Buddha of Infinite Light). Crows pick at possum belly, Om Ami Dewa Hri. Roadside Chicory is dusty purple amid Queen Anne’s Lace. Our heart fluids find eyes, we embrace, we dance. Rays, lines of escape into Cardinal’s red at the double yellow bars on blacktop. Here in our memory, we hold in paper bags, deer, stags, the drum in the belly of the world systems swirl as we skate away on thin ice a new day for the Sun-King as rising blood in whichwe swim among apple trees in full blossoming rows within aromaticquietude and the fan-wings of Turkey Vultures circling for the May Queen. ~

Ocean Avenue

pop-corn clouds drift          
unpatterned behaviors  

Chaotic consequences,       
habits are karma        
cycles, spirals, off-shore breezes 

Shoulders brush      
boot-heel click,          
rush to appointments.  

Copper wire basket weaver      
 hot sidewalk Santa Monica         
 leather-skinned Mexican.  

Scrap of paper flitters gutter,       
dry wrasp, as last breath         
old couple holding hands  On Ocean Avenue 


Lost on some path in the Bardo of sleep, a woman I don’t know in white, hitches a ride that funky music flinging notes from a cartogropher, a sketch, a chart, the fringes of which flutter in the sand falling through the egg timer of dreamtime where aborigines sing their maps through space which is an extension of how they gaze at their handprints on stone, red ocher prints, maybe a woman faces a wall of dancers all a man has is his foreskin offering on a wayward trail through a gap, a place thick pretensions about the flail of her far flung strands. ~


Dreamland oil pastels amazon cardboard ripped, torn, decollaged-sleep snow-squall momentum bearing East, smoothness under forefinger, to smear shock green into raw sienna along a black line, burnt-umber rememberances of hollow men. Black death is a rhyme scheme that attacks breath at the source is the true heart of things, of our digital intamacies in a time of viral upswell, men in camouflage playing at each others manhood with muzzled guns. How the brain houses all this calamity between sheets of cotton that howl in gail force unencumberments seeking a being-thrown-ness, into pairs of vessels waiting for “You and I“; you remember Rick James. ~


A log tossed hopefully upon a non-pyre, no-spiders are a thing that exists infinitely wishing for them are objects a subject so full of sullied thought the lake-fog hides a loon embossed enthralled, wraped attention on bonfire, oh gliders listen ratherthan shipwreck, rather than stone or ingestion of a lover’s heart throbbing muscle seeking transubstantiation as if the loon-song were an invitation is a missive as abandonment not in desire but in service me won’t you? The South shore of being-with ensconsed in velvety fourteenth century hearts in which there is this as or within a way of abiding. ~



Oddly intuition speaks in tongues gently pry into waking moments of soft mushy brain-fuzz clings to stubble face morning breath before anything rejuvenates memory in which clots of previous thought clutter as balls of blood some kids kick in the dust as sun bursts each eye opening upon the leakage of sleep-soul release under rib-cage diaphram prohibiting seeds of some unthought idea.


Initial eye cracked open window screen of May gulls screech loudly enough to pull the lake up in tortured white as if salmon as if blue heron wings slow sinusoidal flow ripple spring and all the air currents shift downward to enter me through the opening in my belly just below ribs which were plucked for forming women who sing in cagey ways in which my sleep-soul jitterbugs for them. ~


Sunlight falls into patches of veridian frosted silver May dawning on rods cones receptors of white tipped Juneberry blossoms waver with one singular purple finch’s chitter muffled through glass the hordes of waves crash roiling over grasses make queer sounds each blade licks its sisters’s masses of dewy quivering flesh if you open the door to place your ear ecstatically close to them all writhing in disobediant pleasure. ~


A tactile sense this hand reaches out beyond I is the horizon of I the fuzzy edge of being of a blanket statement about us, the we which initiates cotton medium is soft cover over feet are always the way this hand approaches contact in covid has kept apart somatosensory deprovation as he watches his expiration train chugging tracks rail vibration of the body when gently caressed. ~

As Brits

In between two soft lights, the fleshy bits of woven roped off sidewalk art some kid catches an instant in the eye is the water bubble surface tension. Hold it in your afternoon cocktail rhyme game with Spokane, the lid hatch fan incumbant upon the lies which falter, faster, in a chalk-like way that Columbia County hills trolly the fields of mud ruts as a stag; one thinks this but the recycling bottom in tight black knickers bundles batches of mismatched synapses light a fag as brits with fire. ~


Awakening to rectangular aperture overlook wave after last night gray is a dull thud of brink to wonder at, as if this kamikaze bumble bee, fractured thwacks are the signal, the carrier is the lake’s erosive nature. Detritus in the mind can fog conversant behaviors, rhyme what is meant, a spent phrase slips the coastal bluff; he has to crawl, pull the dead weight of this which leaves us. ~


A pair of Merganzers, ducks paddle webbed feet unseen forces work on us like gravity makes flesh sag gut lugged up mountain range between thoughts and spoken word virus said Burroughs was a brilliant light which blinds angle, hang, dangle of the draw-string at dawn thething is to step out into it; the male turns East, where the sun hides from an unknown as we all do. ~


The lake water is clear intentions form like stones get carried by waves scallop at the horizon of his mind clicks the light switch thirty seconds between grasping at ribbons dangle from liquid ceiling his fate to watch. His father’s pocket carried the time, tic, near interventions wallop thought patterns of rasping speach is only words, bridges between us and the sense in loss there is an implicit grievance against dementia. ~


Everything leans like a stick with it’s shadow against a tree full of chutzpah means a click of highhealed shoes leave an impressonist’s glint of eye shadow under three full strides between chicory at the roadside or the angle at which one leans. ~


Hot coals glow the fire in my head explodes the way the world spirals grow elastic straps  for the mask       

         the male gaze at the sunset's last chance                 
         upon an owl pellet for the mask       
          a poem like a prayer some Jesus postcard                 
          nobody winds up sending for the mask        
           always, always, always these                 
           days like this rotates a thought for the mask         

your eyes fall as glitter for begetting stars                
in a child like a gazelle's acceleration is