Was it a road? A street? Something about the experience made me think of a nightmare. A sprite emergent from a dark doorway, darting into the sky. Some recognize that I am the firefly self flung, lighting from finger to branch and back.
Church spire representationally painted in in background of an alien Madonna. A spear of xenophobia.
I thought I spit chewing gum onto two civic buildings, but I guess it could have been my legs. If it's a turkey on the boulevard, do we give thanks like it's in stone?
Say nothing.
Say it.

perambulator
a walker for two
Even the word stroller communicates the walk

sing softlysit sweet upon the seat of a bisycle built for
not the hiss of sinister
for my left arm makes rectangles

NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE ROLE OF LUCK
in- out comes
tripodal, a shrill creature

notes from camp got sontag famous
, the site is still demarcated
ringed by a high stony fence (works progress admin)

and another bookstore on telegraph
street closes; 'some people have sta-
tues, some holes'

this is
a long walk
to make alone

'we're gonna rock'
which serves which? speech
or bedlam?

if it weren't for carly's
cream there'd be no clouds
in her coffee

Shadowbox is a good
word for it, for it desc-
ribes what we do and where we live.

hanky coded orange
blossom hangs on the left
of the tree

death for all
came from the loins
of mother night fearing no fire

show me good and evil
and their differance is distinction
and absurdity

From the dark I emerge
you on my arm, be-fore and af-ter
and eve-r "heart on s(e)leeFe"

"jacques de"stroy
my quotation
mark s i f you can

Where is the time? I throw Oasis' Be Here Now on the floor, and switch to No Doubt's Rocksteady for the song "Making Out".

Nude, descending the stairway, I feel the steep gradation passing under my feet.
Sing, sang, sung the last lyric as flinged, flung myself off the last, lost footing (step) to collapse in a sobbing heap.

Terrible symphony of de-railing, on a fuited plane (steppe).

Scrawl on a STENO "Rock is Dead, They SAY", and maybe in West Virginia that is true. But, mine is yours.

The song was a very famous one by Roy Orbison, but he couldn't ("for the life of him") recall how it goes. So I killed him.

A black cat nearly crosses my path, but it changes course, realizing the danger a car poses. It returns under-truck whence it darted. Folk wisdom prescribes an immediate reverse of course, but my hunger for Ethiopian food, and a chuckle at the irrational, kept my Geo bow East.

There, at that pool hall, the old tracks pass by. Folks say not to venture there, though likely they so say because of the lions and not the ghosts. But it's a good idea not to mess with the ghosts, too.

While on wing to heaven, that moth got caught in an orb weaver's web. She(,) got(o) gobbled up.

Laugh at immortals rather than at those whom know at what to laugh.


Is there a difference between play of an end-of-world-song Revolution 9 (no. 9...no. 9) on phonograph and the use of a device with white apple emblazoned upon scratched metal surface? This is a reference to a Shakespeare play, though I am not sure which, since, at present, I have only a copy of The Tempest with me. By now its pages are too stained to be legible, so possessing it is useless anyway.

Trains flow in track like blood in vessel, whistles disembodied in Dennis Potter work, heartbeat. We're on a (rail)road to nowhere. Where? Ghost story, circular narrative, moth-obscured headlight in the fog.

A wise police officer once sneered wisely at my forced smile, "...keep laughing kid, cause life's one big fuckin' joke. A joke, yeah." He is right, though he does not believe. I am laughing, in some abstractable way. Newton and contemporaries are right to call the force that binds us to Earth gravity, as the term conjures just enough fear to check our humor. Fate is grave. Here to Earth am I stuck. The apple strikes the ground.

Gershwin wrote a Rhapsody in Blue, mine is an encyclical, an Opus in Blood. Doomed to repeat the same mis-punch of the ivory tickle. If the elephant could see me now, but he's busy minding the riving loom; spin me a new cloth Arachnae.

Ashes to Asher, dust from moth flutter.

As I drove a dark lane, a black cat returned to the side of the road to wait.

My American Idolotry is:
creating craven images of Danish cartoonists
wanting the talents of John Shanks, Virginia Woolf, Isaac Newton, Michel Foucault, Alfred Hitchcock, Linus Pauling, Woodrow Wilson, Georg Riemann
belief that Sontag was onto something; the critic lives but to cardfile and organize free art into a "Survery of Western Lit." course
waiting for the chance to topple the notion that fruit juice = fruit serving
shouting that advertisement is unsound in promoting unscientific need for product
eating the yellow snow, despite kind warnings from that loud, obnoxious jew
following Virgil into a dark wood
wishing that Denver was planned like Prague
finding a Coke can revive a soul band
knowing no amount of prayer can bring back the Clinton years
plotting my way into public policy; remember eat fruit, don't drink it

I keep myself wel come
to avoid acci
dents

Ice.
Snow.
Blue.
Stops, prevail not relief.

Only uneasy feelings of re-
peating the same
October
with the same Gh(o/a)stly Michael Jackson song.
Suzie got your number, and Suzie ain't your friend!

Clove cigarettes replaced by the smell of stale green tea
the only comfort a label of Fair Trade.

I am the ice, and I do
not
play fairly.

Summer gone, winter comes. The holidays aren't for lovers; they are for trysts.

It's like finding out you're dead, when, you're not. I am in the centre, just below the surface, but, swear that I can still breathe.

Suggest that conflict is natural, and I'll suggest that death is too. Feel that same ocean, stealing my glasses, stealing everything else I have. To give.

Salinity like tears, tearing my eyes. Twain, who do I see? River of blood, river of fresh water, no light pierces a stream of cliches. Where is imagination? What can save me from life not lived in absolute candor?

I woke alone in New Orleans, but had not been alone. Monstrous, seductive scent, filled me. Filled, and emptied my body. Leave a white rose, flower a magnolia tree. Welcome to the lake, the mud's just fine. I saw a bumper sticker, I see it every day, for that matter. On the highway; on the way to work (when I still...). It says: Silt Happens. And it does, cause silt fell twice in my hands, and without the Hand of God I cannot make Man of either pile (let alone make sense of ribs, sp(e)are or not).

Pierce me, fuck my heart. Mere pointed desire. Suck my neck, I'll moan teeth or not.

"Chile, why you gettin' in line, if you don' know whatcha wan'?" I knew. I wanted jambalaya, catch o' the day, with bits. But got lost in a pool of gravy, imagining its murky bottom.

I'll tell you what lay there, biding time in benthos; what's there is soft, decaying, and feeding. It searches, swimming circles, waiting for that apple to fall, sink, and rot.

Where is that place I wanted to be? Never forget: "Whoops, my bad. Stick it in my eye and die. This is not the world."

Brag to me, and I will ignore you. I may secretly be impressed. When tested, the bragger must be right, or risk turning me off, around, away, upside-downside.
Blood pressure nothing short of perfect, I have gained nothing but ten pounds since high school (a previous time of weighing too little). Hyperlipidemia is not one I know, as plants are the only organism who need fear me. Sadly, their characteristic is their doom, rooted in place.
I wake on a bridge over the Mississippi, to see a purple DeSoto beside the bus I ride. I hope the DeSoto's driver appreciates the humor.
I collect objects in boxes. They are boxes that remind me of the dark. A copy of This is a Photograph of Me, post-modern and "taken the day after I drowned", mostly aside (parenthetic). An old VHS of Citizen Kane, apostrophic, proof that Colorado "isn't the place for you to grow up in", a thrashing good reason to send east mother's beloved child. That damnable framed picture of the sun...or moon, (heart-shaped frame) partially occluded by clouds, out-of-focus. A piece of hematite (a lodestone, without it I am never tempted to point any gnomon at the north stars, and therefore can forget solar movement widdershins). Macbeth. A "loveletter", revealing the cat-mouse nature of Caroline, bloodthir(s)ty bitch. That poem I wrote, but never gave, to Caroline, cause I realized that despite her saying so, life's more than a pool game. The album Be Here Now by Oasis, featuring a clock sans hands, which is fine. A photograph of Denver's Union Station, cause we're on a (rail)road to nowhere (Denver-Pacific once Denver-New Orleans). A dead white rose, gift from that fag-vampire who stalks me. A wheat penny, as Lincoln persevered in time of darkness, and rumored to have used coal and lumber as educational tools.
Shadowboxes
is a good word for them, as it describes what they do, and where they live.
Left to my devices (I chose apostrophe and irony), I shall coax Gothic from its grave, and
WE NEVER FULLY
apprecIate
THE ROLE OF
LUCK IN LIFE
It's all fantasy, but could she still be alive? When was the note written? But I thought she exsanguined on the bank of the Creek Champa. By her(e,) own hands. The Queen of Diamonds.

I use cliche only when something important be said. The apple (choke cherry??) falls (burns) not far from the tree (bush).

The word Capitol is a noun, and capital is an adjective. Therefore, the description of something as "Capitol City" is nonsense.