POEM

Madness 
Often blows through my head of Mount Vesuvius 
Like a dandelion lobotomy of daddylonglegs stirring, 

Aerially lured, untwisting their feeble fists, smoothing-out 
Crumpled anthropomorphic origami entities, 
Standing without bones, propped up, caricatural, like 

Fata Morgana, 
Gorgoneion upon every door, 
Kitty-fur enduring thistles, thorns, briers, 

Raisin you wrinkle in a purple skirmish behind an easel, 
Unblessed pew where I unname myself, 
Spread throughout an uncandid Cantos, stricken 

Against my bouncing persona like a wheel of firecrackers, 
A shepherd’s nightlight, feeding the fragments their leaves 
In a whitewashed penitentiary field of cumulus sheep.

IN THE FANTASY

I’d be a betrayed Wizard of Oz (spilling the beans) behind an already-ripped curtain or a see-through veil, tremors in both eyes, smiling on the Jumbotron (the gold standard). 

Stars on a staircase. 

Meteors on a doorframe. 

The universe in my waking eye, aureole aura or an air of.  

Jagged are the edges of all fields of perception. Eliquation: only maps are aware of visible borders. Draw a line here, a line there. Where is the unreachable finger? 

In my ears, animals jeer from tree-tops. A piece of bark has been ripped from a portion of this pine tree: a mustard-colored wetness. Trigger-happy, like a berserk masseuse, I touch the open edifice. 

On my side of the tunnel (where I want you to be) my equilibrium is at the brim & a face appears within it while everyone sleeps. While everyone sleeps, the sun’s infallible speech-horn is enough to blow the covers off of the big-toes of old folks & youthful tottles, high-schoolers & their sad babyfat faces. 

This dawn, like every dawn, the sun rose from out of my spirit like something that hums above your home.

POLLEN WOOL BLOOM

Gorgeous your nape 
like a velvety cape 
I long to touch 

in full shuddering, 
unshakably existing 
without mediators, 

riding upon Love’s clamor 
without bondage, without 
plenipotentiary-potential; 

seamstress of the depths 
of my Being invading 
my passions like sex-idlers 

touching a thorn 
to see if it really exists—
red, so much red, 

dethroning the dermis 
the way love blooms 
like pollen wool kissing 

soundly the vineyards 
of threads, endless threads 
of our inner-pink hydrangeas, 

camellias, or Carmilla’s scarlet 
desire, or the wear-and-tear 
of one’s psyche 

after a mastectomy? 
Let Love’s pain be lush lips,
a dollop of this, a dollop 

of that! Oh do you know 
how I just want to be 
touched by more than 

curiosity? I want my lips 
to be soft chewables 
in a staccato cursive 

around a torso 
like possessed machines 
unable to stop 

at the caravanserai 
of Life’s unending volcano-crash, 
blizzard pastels 

of livewires; retrotransit 
bodies elevated, 
who, like me, is saddled 

in-between spangled masks 
that you place on my face 
of irrigated circumflexes 

like torn music in our coterie 
below the swept windows 
of mysterious verbiage, 

playful circumlocutions 
sending our femurs aerial, 
making the floorboards lighter, 

houseplants shredding 
in an esteem 
of what could never regather.