There is a difficulty in the west –

A certain sun refusing to move on.

Beyond the fence of a straightforward neighbor,

my sepulchre raided by gulls.

 

When I hear about sand and sea

meeting with salt,

who laughs,

I shred my shrine.

My peace is a blue line.

In my other language my dream

Is disturbing to the barbed wire fence beyond,

So many cutters cutting.

 

My soul struggles

In scorching liquid glass.

 

His thumb print is the moon.

 

On his blessed dark side,

designs of snow,

promise rare and sweet.

Rudimentary songs,
percussive and primal
parade through my hot mind.
In the stew of my stem cells,
supporting my innards like a
parent a wayward child,
a private boiling,
public steam.
My drummer is a bit inebriated,
and so my steps are quadrilateral.
I grow new eyes,
with a cobalt vision divine.

My monosyllabic life—the faint
screech of a hawk having the joy
of his prey,
somewhere beside the statuesque mountain.

I have never known fear.
I construct cocoons for five dollars each,
chilled coffins for five cents.

The banality of spice seasoning atmosphere,
tossed continent at every place setting.
Typically,
I dine in my nest of cylinders and pistons,
but today there is a feast
at the hatter’s house,
and I am invited if I bring my kill.
I never look at what I devour,
I don’t want to swallow the
resentful soul.

I am the raptor in the rafters
of the hatter’s mind,
his goggles giving him
truthful vision.

I write with thread,
recording morose intentions.
My flowers grow inverted,
chubby blooms burrowing into
the soil
while the root balls glower
at me in the gray Thursday sun.
My essence is in the breeze,
carried far from me.
One last mournful whisper and it
Is gone over the impassable plain.

My blanket will be cold and uninviting,
and I will chill beneath it
like a spurned lover,
champagne,
ego.

Who is it with red eyes,
the mossy fangs?
Who tills the plain?
His flowers grow up to the
unscrupulous sky,
rancid stench permeating the void.

Pastel pastures bask in
the purity of their useful
ponds,
the hammer ringing in
the paleolithic barn.

The slaughterhouse is pink
with blood washed
with wicked water.

Awake and aware,
the animals appreciate
the land
more than we do.

the curvature of canceled
mountains ripple the fields
like an ocean.