The weekend frills are filled with lore
of kings shattered by the sun, who penned
the notations of horizons rain with the
artifice of one forlorn and rustling fellow
with an hourglass within his hand.

The keeper of protection's things chant
the ancient essences of courtship's velvet
hum, I walked the broken road of vanity's
understanding that experience brings,
I touched the cobblestones with care
and sheltered beautiful rings that bound
my hatred with idle wings and wrestled
magics with a dried up old and bitter thing.

I searched horizons wide and far for proof
that only the beauty of poverty brings,
I walked in step with women drunk with the
fumes that perfume sings, I ran through
golden fires with a robe of angel wings that
drank of heaven's fountain scent and scuttled
sour things.

The way I feel when you call my name
makes me go crazy to sane!

One day
I went walking
Whistling mildly
For the somnolence of the moment
Indicated a certain merriment,
Indicated a reason to live.

I worked my knuckles to the wooden bone
Like you, like all of us
Trying to find an answer beyond the fog of love.

There is no other way. If you don’t know this
By now, you might as well be dead, a Mexican Sherpa
Living in a box-car and singing railway tunes
Is more soulful than the corpses of the idiot middle class.

I wandered through the halls of an turbulent sleep
and felt the fight of winged black upon the paint of my mask,
when I kissed it it turned into perfume and set itself within
the dungeons of my heart's lack. I spotted the edge of a weapon
where it had dissapeared with marble blood flowing across a cobblestone
path, I spotted the empty words within its beak bleating questions
that no one had learned to ask. But within my velvet coat,
"It is all the same to me whether I fight or refuse to attack."

One day my armor grew a deep and blood red crack
below my chin and jawline where I chewed the ends of spaghetti
strands and where I worshiped cadaverous verbatims
that the barbaric Christians told me were black. But
the words saved my life like a silken parachute billowing
with the edges of a wild wind that flew back
in replete perfection of a dome made more beautiful
than Classical Renaissance artist's masterful tact.

And it was a woman who saved my life from scalpel's fact.
It was a woman who drove me across the wasteland with ribbons
fluttering as arm bands to beauty's army
enraptured with the rare gift of a desert rose
amid craggy mountainous peaks, amid a dust of stars
filling ravines with the sweet taste of nova particles
in the stream at my feet.

And with the edges of soup toureens we scouped our breath back
from the delinquance of hunger's artificial math.
We enjoyed the ones we loved
beneath tiny mountains and mountainous leafs.

With windows drawn across the shore of our beach
we ate strawberries soaked in cognac and brushed
with sugar's speech. We closed the doors forever
when the police sirens screamed. The fascist
lore fell off the cliffs of the sea into perdition
when the answers to their tests turned red and
didn't change back. I saw your features curve
in Renaissance colors that day on our beach.
I saw your curves sway with the waves as I
listened to the melody of your speech. That
was the day I decided that I wanted to meet
your sweet age across the glories of the shore.

Once Sweet Artaud

I saw clearly,
knew of poor once sweet Artaud
and heard the history of earth
in his lettered pages.
Nobody else
could have told me
so clearly what I already knew.

His sweet canticles
gone unwritten
due to the fear of Septimus.

His frail beauty lost on
his theater audiences that
reduced him to dying over
and over again on stage.

With subtle letters he explained
and explained and explained.
The surrealists thought he raved,
though they merely put Frued in art
while shitting out their subconscious.
Artaud, clever friend, traveled to Mexico
with the sequins of his intellect,
ditching opium as he wandered through
the hall-less wonder of ancient desert,
his mind enraptured with tender details
of a mythic people.

The doctors created his madness,
for doctors do not understand art.

Like why he carried a silver-tipped cane
and struck sparks off the cobblestones
with glib flits of his wrist.

In his torrid merriment, he told the truth
about Van Gogh.

And that is all you need to know about
once sweet Artaud.

typewritten on an office presentation notecard

The summer cars
Drag on.

A hall of bumper cars sparking with electricity’s heat.
The sound of bars, with fluorescent women dancing in their private drinks.

Too much smoke for me, we’re angelic as can be in the image of a pointless life.

The breeze curls in whorls of new scenes, which move somewhat unseen in the brilliance of a dawning light.

The dew held the gleam, you have been set free
From the horror of endless strife.

There’s a picture of you and me
Where it would seem
We had resolved the end of the pointless night.

Have no fear of men nor machine,
Your touch has been kept clean
By the entire sight of your life. You’ve moved within me
Like golden angel wings illuminating our loss of height.

The wonder of scenes, the ribbons on olive leaves, the perfume of blankets
Keeping lovers within their means. A sound of bars, the caress of stars,
And the sculptures of beauty’s relief.

Ancient perfume of armor mildewed in our wet nostrils
in the second hand store where the clothing had been
discarded and we locked lips in destruction's stance,
the beach-time lore of islands masked by fog's scent
that felt like memory and tasted like steel on your lips.

It's just another business
where the popes go to shop
for their Sunday vestments in
columns of monetary beliefs.

I had shopped for nothing
in the veils of aisles with
the summer at my feet,
when I bought I felt like
a subtle Orion
hunting with the star's sequence
for love's nova heat.

And they go towards the ancient backstep
when shopping is complete,
pedalling without balance through
the enraptured nonsense of
rum's spirit dragging at their minds
and feet.

Billowing fields wrought with isosoceles
and urban utopias turning red by sunlight
who bought the star with sleep.