I Guess

I guess it’s the deep-bruise sadness
More than
the crippling recriminations
Or utter
otherness that weighs within
So many
moments removed from someone

I could not call myself

I guess it’s the deep breath baring
of quiet lying
That tickles a pulsing pathos

In beating a grain brown color
of brain
over Shivered awe dimpling
my fallen
first face

I guess it’s the deep chest brittling
Vapored traces of misguided hillside
That damns the burnished schema
of this
Picklishly laughless and fallow attempt
at expression

I guess there’s a boon to such realizations

A buttressed duty for the inches
and for the suffering

That to this point has failed to save
The Circular Unslept

Sometimes To Disappear

Sometimes to disappear
like Holden Caulfield

crossing a street
through dusk’s descent

on this lightly lit
and nervous city

without a book
by my side or nesting

in my beleaguered lap
I am left go to transpose

a daisied frame
of dimpled

and fallish words

A wrinkle of linking seconds

too antique to recall

sitting me down
dizzy a bit

on age’s breath

So for what will I send
such toyish thoughts forward?

Maybe for no one

as I do love true
the no one’s I know

August Sky

My holy man of this turgid I; ole’ wormin’ fishman–

so ’tis a worm by, and in deed, tangerine
puke yet fading…

Hellish, let stink! Fickleful and
derelict a-‘lectrically ‘cross crystaline,

‘cross deciduousity.
‘Cross a synapse of bunk

slumberin’ oceanic barracks,
troo’ and star-spoked

‘venge-ear christening, wan-
at-point, fatalistic and, knit-wet drapery:

weight-baited, aqua-
translucent to this diaphanous, distilled day-

space to bane-wending, but
weather-bound by a harsh o’ lil’ delivered

quarter-grape, if fool,
venus surprise…

O august high!

O knuckle-bragged and bothering!

O august sky!

O crustaceous wavering in the southern.

O august high.

O boweavil serengeti states.

O august sky!

O parchment above a wily-stilted scorch!

O august high!

O fear-comin’ nothern gaseous giants!

O august sky!