333 Kelvin today

candle sticks stuck
in a plastic flow to the bent wall
are the disgusted representation
of my exterior state
sweltering in the city.
And I thought this was supposed to
be canada
not havana.


the cat tells me,
also with her candle languidness
that she beacons to the wick,
always ready to burn up in chemothical mischief,
so she just lights there as a living log
, a testament to the pavement
of which the concept of temperature
cannot apply.

74

a lime in the light
is drying up tight
under the scrutiny
the fast pace of ants conveying routinity
to the floor always a floor above the next

slide eyes
pealed tongues
ramparts apart and the cat gone beserk
sitting upside down
i n a place, the palace is leaning
and the wisdom annealing
, the wind is blowing
and the clouds and gowning up
in the waiting room, waiting for god to move
over and let a rover take over head
and stock of the situation
what is it that is sitting, listening and biting

slough jumps

an old owl stole
a tail or two a carbon black
tree on a farm or noon on the hot planet
close to the sun, forget me knots holding
the laundry to the line, so the light can blow
and dry like bones

slow low

solo lilly pads
floating on the surface still
roots shooting for the silt
south bay preachers, slimy shells
long legs carrying groaks
red wings singing spoke
out and said to keep
paddling past, no turtles
in the warm high water

twenty four years ago,

today, someone
happened

friend of the cat

a bishop ringing bells
a flower bringing bees
have in common
at once and forever again
a cell array description
parse here parts there
and flippant location

ibis threats , owl flying, cattle lowing
yet better than the ribs
pierced and liver pulverized
of a lamb on dew in the
morning noon or night

the moon visits the sun
while the start of some young pigion
makes a roundabout admission
fissuring cobalt to scions and ribbons
hear they fly and I and I bring a doubt
with the damndest thistleing

wing in the pillows

on my arm,
my head. a farm
of thoughts spread
with manure and last years hay.
hee haw says the cat, getting
ready to do something dragonish.
pelicans soar above and wait
for the fish to fly to them.
its nice and sunny to be working on a farm
in the boring urbanity of it all.

sring love

daffodils
on the sill
in soil

eve and saddam

o bummer.

where are ALL
the american heros
all the muhammads
and the blue folks
and impassable comanches
watering horses and trains
fighting nowhere
for the nobody everybody knows
,kings, all of them,
parks sprouting trees on buses,
sowing sanity and eyesight,
dilliminal tickets to the twixt and twain
among inner city zealots
not stopped not moving; inbetweeen
always starting
lightning rods of the world,
kites of mediums,
prophecy of whats novel
.?



when all thats left is prosthetic television precision
annd

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