woman buried in the fourposter cinematic bed

breast bared to the ogling stained glass across an asphalt financier's vapor trail
storeys angle up to an eastern tower
construction paper crows live it up on a ribbon of a mineral vein's flesh
window grate drawls with whine of building exhaust
breathing bricktipped cornerstone
names carved etched chiseled in pallid polished face

entrust lungs to doorknob recitation
the bare breast is an unmapped throne
not for disuse or forgetful anticipation
all planks smoothed to glass scythe
posthole diggers spark on the bedrock
doublebit slides through the bark like a hand through empty pockets

i waited for you
but the leftern bank was too western
polygons were perpendicular to honesty
and someone came to kill us

shovelshoesnowhorn

it's like squeezing an ice cube firmly
a trumpeting portly bell
slick black swan with a cast-iron hide
radiates orange blue firesicles that hold an edge

for a time her eyes remained at rest on the broken bottled daybreak
in a snowy corridor that never holds dust
bleary idea of what ace is in the hole
up a stretched willowed sleeve
eyes and teeth keep dust falling long after wind blows cold to sea
out the absolute absolved backdoor
backtrack to pacing in a cattle-car
cat-calls by least design
easy latticework timetable
background wishes white
for snowed in
stove up sliding saddle
stare over land at an island

for a time a daisy buried with a robin egg in the glove compartment developed frosty
consonants
departure to eastward domes
out the wrong direction
marina sky bleats watery wind
i tour the backtrack to somewhere in brooklyn or memory

for a time i wondered why i couldnt drive the train
authorial name in larger letters
posted back that way
they cant swim
she handed it to morse code morning
larks above and a look to goodbye
until they group trees by grace we'll be stuck with light years

i think in terms of compass points

i think in terms of compass points
(and russian hotdog waitresses)

a pair of fleas set teeth in cheesegrater dawn
resembles guardian cakewalks
you, the marooned carnivore, float, ice-like, through the catacombs
bedecked with sailors

infectious march hare rhythm of screech
chill till mirrored claws rise
warm

reprise
light and refraction
incantation decanted and sautéed lightly brown

damascus steel and ermine fur

tall smokestacks replicated in Dixie or Louisiana
fuckin kids in the door and telephones falling from laps
cartesian well of crowding
on the basis of looking around
to meet a homelorn biographer or a farm store martyr
the peace pipe to portals abandoned in the sand
well-sodded portcullis unsure of his fame

flapping leather balances muffled coughs
asks for sugar to sip tea
slowpace telegram twittered through speakeasies
sideshow mutton racks douse the fabled mire
regal mousetraps in chimney sweep eyes
caught on the big top selling cigars
firecracker decadence in fender strewn woods
conspiracy sidewalks lack control
root word outcroppings batter the walls
advertised on billboards that cross the drawl
magpie watches the mice crown her king
camera full of pictures falls from the fire

wasteland of opportunity
meditate like pilate
over cannibal clout
icetray trajectories out of the iron garters
put the paper together
to get all the news
pieces of eight woven into a tapestry
with catgut and Kevlar yarn
nomadic tubercular alphabets
women exiled in certainty
blowhard morning earthquakes
dally longer on the threshold of open space

form

the rooknosed sniper alone planes the stone smoothe
leaves curled pebbles on the october floor
braided silver trinkets fall out of the grooves
as the laser-brained serpent falls through the door

blindman's anchor set firm in the woodwork
splintered dress adorns your stationary jaw
that bends to no mesmerising beacon
relieves a broken costume unison
stageshow that holds no consistent draw
beyond your constant misinterpreted smirk

the translator crosses the yellow lawn
on the worn footpath shone clean by the wind
from the sidedoor to the rusted concrete platform
where water is drawn from the tightrope's loose end.

relevant cornerstone

cryogenic waterfall of day's not-yet-light
embraces barely intoned shadows
as i recline on creaking embers of furniture
daisy-eyed pallor or another petal of nostalgia
braces me for what is best know as today
poses for tomorrow through my fevered reverie

my hands are trained to trace the shapes of thought and memory
in a barnburning wakefulness that cant be avoided

patterns in stone behemoths
gain on clarity
the longer i stare at a derailed grid system

chimes outside reckon with clapboard fabric
and resemble another event
that has passed and dissipated
in a camouflage treadmill of recycled wind

the curvature of light: a book that never exists