SMALL MOUNTAINS

1-

Some live long lives when dead.
Some in the cities speak only gibberish.

Some painters fall in love with what they can't touch.
Some pretenders like to tango behind the 8 ball.

Some serial killers
would rather be butchers.
Some priests would rather be pedophiles than Christians.

2-
Any metaphor can be absurd if said in the wrong circles.
No mind is Zen but
a third eye.
Rain has its own apparel to undress on the line.


Everything accidental might not be so if it didn't happen.
Tabla players playing for themselves are playing for others.
Extremists often act normal when crazy and crazy when normal.

Tibetan Buddhist monks with nothing on their mind have no worries. 

3-
Apples are
the rosy cheeks
of
desires.

The inconsequential
are the big men
who surrender
their little selves.
 

4-
If life is a joke, then
death must be even funnier.

If you keep dreaming
you will die
in your sleep.

5-
Translations in Chinatown
are as white as the laundry
when clean.

6-
Nature is the violence
tracked in the snow
for now.

The blue water
is in the eyes
for what
is seen.

Forever
is the memory
to learn
when happy
again.

7-
What if the world means mankind
has to be re-invented again
or everything will die?

Many find through meditation
there's a bigger bridge to cross
between causality and suffering
than first thought.

Atheists who still
believe in salvation
might not know how
to pray for it.

8-
Even if lost
in obscurity,
friends
can still
find you.

The languishing 
for the day stars
touching the limbs
of the wilderness
is sleeping
in the trees
like a fruit.

9-
What if you
perish
in academia 
if you publish?

What if all the
imprisoned birds
are pardoned?

What if
the hyperbole
of politics is
a wall that can't hide itself
from those escaping?

10.
What if
the baby naps
are only for the strong

and the medicines
only for the weak,

and the master
sits all day
in the playground?
 
11.
If I'm not a child
because I break
your balls when bored,
then I must be an adult.

I think in Gettysburg,
there are ghosts
from both sides
who will die again
for another lost cause.

You would think the church bells
should ring the loudest
for the religious.

12.
There's no singe in the fire
when there's no ashes
in the smoke.

There are no real flowers
in paradise.

We always elect
the wrong leader
when things
are unknown.

13.
 
The old still wear their hats on their sleeves for the holidays.

The lonely can be unseen with others.

The lawn might be greener if you keep off the grass.

Sick governments
are dying slowly
by torturing
the public.

Odysseus swims
across the crime waves,
even if the police
can't rescue the drowning.

In California opinions
were chugged down
the toilet like roaches
when the Mexicans crossed
the border unnoticed.

Height can be translated into French
as long as the Statue of Liberty is still
a gift for
immigrants.

Military deployment is not for those
who won't leave home.

14.
Sometimes there's no such thing as being early.

There are war wounds
soldiers get
that only civilians
can recover from.

The Russian peasants would
spit on the flies
rather than admit
there's an underworld.

The Moscow oligarchs tell us
they no longer read Tolstoy anymore
to find out if the monks
are faithful.

In the tundra,
only the Eskimos
could sing
when walking
on thin ice.

The guru warned the hedonists
there is no such thing as a happiness
that lasts, but there's a sadnesss
that does.

The unseen things in the night
are like the fingers of a thief
pointing up from an empty grave.

The snow-banks
think like the flowers
we watered
in our garden
all summer.

15.

The ancient stones
could tell who came out
of their caves undressed.

In Old Vienna
we could have said
fuck you to the king
if we were willing to die
for freedom of speech.

We are strangers
in the homes
of our ancestors.

We have no space
to see enough
in the darkness.

The seniors were
as dry as
Talmudic scholars
in the Sinai,
but not as thirsty
for clarity.

The silence covered
the city with snow
until it got too deep.
.
16.

It's always gray in November.
There are no more flowers
to pick
in the woods
when the hunters are there
in orange vests.

Smoke coming out of a
a log cabin
chimney
in the country
is a warm feeling
for those transplanted city dwellers
being reborn,
weather permitting.

The daytime outdoor chain saw sounds
are just as natural as the nighttime sounds
of crickets, who knock
on the wood coffins
just to spite the tipsy crowd
who walk home alone
after the last call at the bar.

What if a would-be thief or a skier
 in a ski mask
gives me directions in the street
and politely
thanks me for asking.

Sometimes the rain stops
in Manhattan
long enough
so the jugglers
can drop what
they are doing to
take the subway home
before the hard rains
will be a-coming.

Sometimes we lose
our minds
in nostalgia
to live without
following in the footsteps
of a father we never knew.

17.

What game
do you win
by losing?

What Proustian
 is more French
than Balzac?

What good can be said
about unregistered guns after
a mass shooting
by anyone but
the N.R.A.?
 
18.

Fragments
as rituals
that can never
be translated,
lines as dry
as a pilgrim's
Bible,
hours as cruel
as a long
journey home
that doesn't exist.

The priests
in  yesterday's
cathedrals
swinging their dicks
in the wind
after years of
neglect.

19.

In their blindness
the gulls eat
the forbidden fruit.

In their sloth
the ranchers ring
for more oxen
to serve them.

In the holy rain,
the illegals
cross the border
behind a wall
that doesn't exist.

20.

Yesterday
sleeps for life
in today's
prisons.

In the temples
of the bankers
even the incense
of the gods
smells like shit.

The same stones
that cried for
Socrates
no longer weep
for the Greeks
who speak
to the dead.

21.

There are online
pirates holding
barnacles
while surfing.

22.

The china used
to build a wall
in my heart
can't stop from
talking in its sleep.

The dawn
can no longer dream
about waking up
in a noisy night.

The forest is so blind
it cannot see if
its branches
are painted white
by the darkness.

Even the secret map
of existence
I paid dearly for
can't lead us
back to the eyes
we lost sight of
when we never could see
ourselves without
a mirror.

23.

On the back porches of
the suburbs reason
sits quietly
in the summer's breezes
to explain itself
if we smell something new
in the air.

24.

If  let out
of a dream
to live again

in Miami,

the nights
may pose nude
on the beach

for those
who retired
smiling
about getting
old.

25.

Stigmas crossing over mountains.

Feathers clinging to the valleys.

The red earth of Montana bleeding
in the woods,
where the wild boars
shelter down
when they leave
the big cities for good.

26.

With a thousand prayer wheels
o discard in the backrooms
of their temples,

with the nocturnal demons
blowing off steam
while the midgets

are chanting numero uno
in their elevator shoes,

it's up to the square shooters
to straighten out
both the workers
and the bosses
before the factories
also will be a thing
of the past.

27.

Sand
is a shell
found
in the half-bitten
heart,
where the migrants
eat outside in
the rain
and dry themselves
in their own
blood.

A sickle
is the wand
every traveler holds
when he must forget
that he can't
ride the shaft
forever
without carrying
too much of the load
on his back.

The contests are
seminal
about inner-space
dispersing uncertainty
by kicking in
the divisive memories
of others
when it comes to such things
as dates and places.

28.

Everything in Butte
smells the time
of checking in
for the abandoned mines
to never be done.

No one is alone
for too long
without first knowing
when is the best time
to die.

With so many pores
for respite,
the nation opens up
its arms again
to sweat forever
in the evening mist
until there are
no more solutions
left on paper
to answer our foreign
visitors with online
condemnations.

29.

The air in Montana
has no teeth
for its virtues
to chew on.

Gold cannot pay
for the wounds
mortals get
when hard.

The winter whiteness
cannot blind you
when looking at
the sun.

30.

Everything leads to nothing, even if it doesn't.

Death is not a dream if you are not always sleeping.

Playing with guns
is the opposite of needing them
to hunt and protect.
  .

The memory of the Lord fades
if not regularly worshipped.

31.

This is the bed
of roses
the fish smell
when sleeping
with the dead.

This is the stream
where the hours
have no time
to keep going.

This is the small world
where you can know
who stabbed
you in the back
without turning around.

This is the corpse
we will become
until we recognize
ourselves.

32.

You can always
be alone
in the company
of others
and have someone
to talk to.

You can always
turn away from
the angels
if you are not
one of them.

If you shout
you still may not
be heard.

If you stand
near the heather,
you still may not
be there.

33.

Chilly monocles,
                     plastic armbands,
one-armed bankers, 
                 
where only the extremists
go under a tan moon
                    to sit at a foreign beach,

where no one speaks English
when drowning.

34.

How removed I am
from my daydreams
when I look out
at the foothills
of the Himalayas
and am struck more
from what I left behind
than what I gained
by starting a new life
without being reborn.

35.

Sand falls
through time

during the seasons

when so many
passwords
are forgotten.

The world
has only so many
octaves in its songs
before the night music
gives us more reasons
for dying without
thinking about it.

36.

The Bardo goes faster
amid the streams
then do the
journeymen

who search the undead
for themselves
in the rubble.

At the borders
of the transient moons,
the lights shine
on the migrants
to show us their shame.

Feeling winter's pulse
in a flat world
that flutters,
is our way
of staying
on our feet
when we sleep.

In the messianic nights
of our dying cities,
the drunks ask us
not to drink
if praying,

When the stars run over the vines,
the wine uncorked on the Bowery
is Thunderbird.

In Spinoza-like movements
to open all the doors for more air,
there's the holy sounds
of the creaking temple doors closing forever
on the inner fears of our nature.

37

The face of snow
has no ears
for the mountains
cover-up
in their solitude.

There are no more
grab bags
for all the pilgrims
to never find
a happy ending
in the bottom
of their of their piety.

38.

The flutes that
play on the WH lawn
are meant to pull more wool
over the sheep.

The haters
marching in Virginia
are only the undead Nazis
from Berlin.

The immigrant crossing
caged children
will always look
beautiful compared
to their Ugly American
captors.

The face of a country
can't blush anymore
from shame, if its leader
is not sane.

39.

There are nasty images
in the unpictured slums
of misfortune
that cannot be drawn.

There are sandmen
 at the cathedrals
for the lonely
whom the blind priests
move away from
with so little wind
at their back

and so much uncertainty
in front of them.

40.

The evening tides call out
for the silence of the future
to put away its scary knives.

The hungry nudes under the winter light
are the unseen ghosts living in the snow.

41.

Salvation is a funny disposition
inside a fire that sounds
an alarm for conviction.

42
A plastered city
is not always
the one framed.

Salesmen from Malta
refusing to be ghosts
must be wearing a cross.

It takes the tears of an elephant
to remember how big
were the hands of the czar
when the revolution ended.

There are crumbs
on the counters
of existence
that only a mouse
returns unnoticed
to the kitchen.

43.

Unmapped roads
are for rabbits
running scared.

Suburban fires
are for yard sales
before the shrubs
can be trimmed.

Central Park
listens to the joggers
when it hears you
walking.

Brown borders
for plateaus
are political
manifestos
that Neruda
won't translate.

44.

Rails across the backs
of slavers are forever
leaving their track marks
at the station.

The senators diet
on the forked roads
of democracy
they impeach
in pairs.

Nothing in the blood
sails without your stomach
forging its own memories
of childhood.

For the rose worn in error on the heart,
for the fear that holds the thorns in place,
for the church tolls that never stop and
for the children pushed off the ledges
by their perverted saviors.

45.

Through translucent meridians
to the front of the boat
and the back of the minefield.

The booby traps amid the causeways
that carry pain away in loads
from the free zones.

For the stewards
poring over the copious bonding pacts
to find new masters.

For the just time in the Zohar
when there's
nothing new under the sun.

46.

The red daggers of success
bleed from the skyscrapers
when the wind is brain-dead.

The muck turns to beans
for the homeless living
in the dark when the city
withholds its resources.

The fallen war veterans
turn over again in their graves
when it gets too noisy
for the night to let it sleep.

Somewhere in northern New Jersey
there's no stink or futility
when the civil service truants
toss their ideas
into the schoolyard bins.

The deplorables raise their hands
as gargoyles, when responding
blindly to a beastly orange-man
playing Russian roulette
with the world.

47.

The skin that's removed
from its insular soles
are your daydreams
without cornss.

The ashes
from death
falls off
the limbs
of those
unaware
of their fate.

The breaths
of
the walls
you climb
grow hands
to paint
a pretty picture
of you
when you never
wanted to be there
but still was.

48.

Your lookout
at the sea
calls for more
to be seen
than just
the shadows
behind you.

Your hangout beaches
 call for you to relish
in the shade
so you won't drown.

The rubber boots
worn in your blood
is to step deeper
into the mud
to be saved
from always
having too much
slack to drink.

49.

The limp emotions
 hurt the most
on the lam
across the moors
of solitude,

where in the fog
we no longer
recognizeg ourselves
disguised
as the tiny creatures
unwilling
to see again
our truths
looming ahead
in the distances.

50.

The dregs of imagination
drowned in the river
that was never dredged
from my system.

The sand of the snakes
fell unripe
from the branches
with no more art
to hide behind its
fruit.

The treads on the wheels
of the passing time lines
breakdown
in its sleep
rather than go back home
without any excuses.

51.

Your outward sea-like
blueness
masks no purity.

Your beach-like
crab-eyes
in the low-tide
heats up the kitchen
with recipe's
from your nocturnal past.

On the rubber mats
of the future,
on the waves crashing
against
your nature,
on the inevitable landslide
in the dark waters

all the children
have come.

52.

All flowers are not red.
The sky is not heaven.

Cobblestones
are not the only steps
where time has no end
to bring back
your childhood
path.

Your geometry lessons
are not the lines
everybody stands in
when they must
cross over dreams.

53.

A language
of psalms,

a cloven tree
of throbbing,

the shivs
of sorrow,

and from down
the road,

the luminous meat cans
being kicked in the aisles
by the millennials.

54.

Firewood has no spare bones like ribs.

The snow does not spread easily
like butter on a sled.

The world has no business sense
of its history.

Even if I took no nourishment
from the wind,

I could still run
my fingers
into the ground.

55.

Imprisoned in my desires
to be my own prison.

Happy to read
what I don't
write.

56.

Chisels
from yesterday's
mills.

Gruels
from yesterday's
corn cribs.

Letters
from yesterday's
eye test.

Ergots
in the elms

of yesterday's
posts.

57.

Tides of
deceit,
margins
on the Pallas
columns.

Pine tar
on the ground
for months.

58.

For something so imperative,
the locals redo
the Spanish eaves
in their ranch houses
to hold back
the pious,
who pray to shut down
all the frontal parts
of town.

Inside the paper mazes,
worn thin over time
because of their legal strategies
with the shooters
tunneling their way
through Tennessee
to land where the toads
burn their gold and where the flint-heads
can fit into any horny society that rubs
against their jockey short members
before any of the outliers jump out
of the wind and into the muck
like the young ones do when
learning about
the growing pains
from a Faulkner novel
just by living in Mississippi
.

59.

Recess presumes there's
a time to stop
playing ball.

All the sins of the clergy are forgiven
by the masses if God wills it.

Istanbul has a photogenic view
to remind rogue tourists
why they don't remember
taking pictures of what
they thought they were taking.

Alone in the Botanical Gardens
might give you an Adam moment
with Eve.

Dealing cards
for a living
might explain why
you don't know yourself as well
as Socrates said you should.

Even in Alabama, you don't have
to speak English
to understand the truth.

I might know Melville much better
if I was also after a whale.

The most callow youth
join the Navy to become men
by hoping to get their sea legs
by wetting their pants.

What I love about living in squalor
is how better off I am
because I can hide
my dirty laundry.

60.

The greener the grass in the cemetery
the louder the silence grows.

Gustav Mahler sits unrecognized on a park bench
and no one passing by talks to him even when he starts
talking to himself.

Russian history can be forgotten
just as easily as vanishing clouds
can be remembered.

During the heat wave
one noticed the reason
the dead were buried so quickly
without a pastor officiating.

On some nights
not even the full-moon
acts crazy.

As far as things go in the mountains,
there are no dead hikers reborn
on its tops.

There are no takeaways older women
get from selfies that children don't get
from a baby doll.

Believe it or not, on Halloween
some unmasked tricksters
will rob those wearing masks
just as a prank.

61.

Once upon a time
the forest wore a mask
not seen in the dark.

While the mongrel's coda might not exist
for the everyday poker players,
it exists for the card sharks
pulling rabbits out of a hat.

If we are never sure of the weather,
at least we can be sure of killing
a deer during the hunting season.

The bumpy roads in France
have foreign names.

Beware of buying socks for the weary,
the black market will give you no refunds
for turning back the clock
for lost time.

62.

For the mission to never be over
the end must always be in sight.

If I could sing I would not be a bird
who can't fly at night.

If I would confront my detractors,
I would mention how seafaring
and earthquakes and playing soccer
can relate to buying pearls
in an emergency.

If a marble salesman knows the cost in building a church,
he should also know for the 'true believer'
the only happiness can be built in a dream.

Yet, if it rains and no one is home,
there are no excuses for you to try
and make amends for not having one
in the first place.

63.

It flies as the shape of the wind
from the anthills,
when there's a loss of crumbs.

In bed with the tulips,
our backs never grow straight
when turning over to embrace
other lifestyles.

On the waterways of mild recovery,
the commercial buzz won't deliver
the free news that the future
may never come.

Before the clouds sing again in the city,
we can relieve ourselves in the vacant lots
where the snow is the only pure thing
no one snorts.

The declamation I gift you on Christmas
has no hanging fruit to pick off the tree.

When I'm in the woods, nobody tells me
to keep off the grass.

When asked by my men friends if size matters,
I looked down from the top
of the Empire State Building
and saw how involved I could be
in things that don't concern me
if I were a few inches taller
and had a bigger brain and more juice.

64.

The feathers blew off the steam,
so bring on the mountains.

The crooked nails were bitten off the boards,
so take the cole slaw back to the shed.

In the reddest halls in town,
there's no satisfaction
in the sanity clauses going around
all the circles when choosing clauses
a
nd vices to fill in for when the roof leaks
and the heavens never materialize
.

65.

Time never moves alone
outside
without sounding the alarm
over its sleep.

Maybe what's forgotten
can't be remembered.

Maybe what blows
back the wind into our faces
is nothing more serious
than the dialing up
of all the ill-will
we face every day
from demogues.

66.

Support is only fodder
when the seasons
can't change
and we walk all year
with a limp.

Nothing is a miracle
if a prophet
can't afford
to be seen
if not there.

Whatever is borrowed
from the past
can be returned
to its infancy
if the world gets
nasty and ugly
and no one
wants to meet
any more strangers.

67.

So it goes up North
when the dead
stick their necks out
and become the undead.

Whatever is hidden in the snow
becomes the trash that strains
any eye test with false comparisons.

The notion going forward
among the nature boys
comes away empty
with any mercy team
on the trail
that stalls
when the stars
can't see itself
slipping on a night
that's rigged for
the way the deer
look so sleepy
when talking to themselves
only in places like
Maine or Vermont.

68.

The green menus
match the counters
that once seemed to be
a pretty good idea.

But the gyros served there
reminded the patrons of
the hazy streets in Baltimore,
where one could get a glimpse
of the future by just talking to the
defrocked priests
who still dined
on the past.

If all lies have some truth,
we could hold a raffle in a bar
and argue all night
if that was really Johnny Cash we heard
on the jukebox.

In place of suburban truths,
the numbers we have kept in a safe
never lie if packed into the shiny hearts
of the inner-city and if anyone else
could just turn around their life
to see us getting closer to the best news
coming from as far away
as across the Atlantic.

69.

The games played
on every city
street corner
shave no ice off
the face
of winter.

As forever in showbiz,
the passive streets crack
in the early stages of the signs.
There are also roles to not dress-up for
when turning to another opus
and not having a spare ticket
to pull out of the hat at the last moment.

70.

Once you get out of a hole
you can take a hike
to correct yourself
as a target, even if you
wind up in sanctuary city
and don't speak Spanish.

But you better believe
it takes a normal person
to be tethered to a sadist
without screaming in pain
for more thoughts
than resolutions.

71.

Wine is a white river
no one sails on
in despair when tipsy.

A sea-horn is the ear of a muted sailor
when the brass takes the world ring
out of its mouth
so it can say what it can't
get out of its head.

In the marble hills
of a Pentecostal burial,
the chips of rebirth are buried
in the shallow graves
where the forgotten names
of the young hunters
can't crawl out of the woods
anymore without hearing the gunfire.

72.

Hauled off a pennant
for all the folly
above the facial lines
of middle-age angst.

Ripped off a slice of dirt
for it to be carried cheaply
on the backs of others.

The bark of trade
as an illogical-wind
for barley and cotton
to find its own bags
to soil for the futures
of commerce and culture.

For the odd one driven home
from a for others.

ll the black adders
to the flood without turning
his well-being into another
safety object of loneliness.

73.

Those left choking on ribbons of shame
worn out from too much
cuteness questioned
by the elders.

The pilgrim dandelions are treasured
when torn apart
from the syllables of their existence
and also when stepped on
for their ground support
of others.

When the barricades to the future
are up early, those expecting reprieves
to visit the Promised Land will find
the security loosened
by the tides of the buried argots,
who can never be square again
in today's consenting world.

74.

The numbness of winter
runs its hands
over the fire
and would have burned
if it was not pardoned
for its expediencies.

All the deceptions
in our nature
do not stop
when there are
no more choices.

Love supposedly
leaves its footprints
in the snow
and when the snow melts
there's only a shadow
in the ground.

For some travellers
the end of the trail means
that it doesn't matter
the crime or who is
the judge and jury.

75.

Much of the wax
is an inferno
rolled into a ball
not completely melted
when you are
left alone
in the flurries
covering the partial truths
falling from behind
the one heaven
employed for you
to be still working
on your thing
inside the growing chains
of interdependence.

The unbled city circuits,
in their office spotlights,
form the tree knobs
at all the exit points,
where only the orbits
get around the tape
to be free again and
again.

76.

The curses
in the eyes
of the storm
never go away
when already written
by the persecuted,

who are the tree huggers
driven
over the floods
with their gilded coaches,

who found oversight
to their advantages
in the many honeymoons
they took to reach out
to the most northern shores,

where the boundaries of nature
kept everyone away
from all the political purges
that were demanded
by the beseeching hordes.

77.
The marginalized Alabama tracks
led feverishly into the sexual beds
of non-consent.

The mobs of dancers
in the back roads
of delusion
have fallen
on their shoulders
by the blue cypress trees
to wait for the children
to run across the fields
of their memories
so they can reach
all the vertical
highs and lows
they can
before there are
no more
yesterdays
to celebrate.

78.

Coasters of hailstones
undigested
in the moldy
plowfields
of the South,

where yesterday's soldiers
died for today's causes
and the winter stars
kept bleeding
after each battle.

The lonely
are the only
survivors
who go unrecognized
when talking
in their
yet to be
un-invented language,
a human gasp
more holy
than the visions
seen in a  prophet's dream.

79.

With no appetite
for the crinkles
pointing up,

with no feet
on the ground
for the orthodox
to stare back
at the temple's
glares,

you feed
off the world's sleepy
prayers until
content.

With too much dew
on the heavenly grass,
you have come home
a stranger
to find the air is
tangled-up in the worms
that have crawled off
the hooks you took in
for missives.

80.

Hand-outs
for the field
are stretched
to eliminate
the thoughts
to be a part
of the harvest.

The ochers removed
from the home-grown acres
you are buried in
goes viral
when the snow
is misshaped
by the hands
of the Millennials,

who would throw you
under their plows
if you couldn't cross
their barriers
without becoming
more hungry
than indigestible.

81.

Protections amidst
the dorsal neophytes
plunged into the bell-fish
snortings from habit
in the glacial lanes
of the native
stepping-off points.

In theory just a treaty
made with your eyes
to outline
the invoice disclosures
that underwrite
those with skin
in the game.

82.

Going around a life
sleeping on its own lap,
as sheep looking through
the peep hole
of their dreams
for answers.

If not, how about
following the Dalmatians
down the poles
of their endless evenings,
as the red wine drips
on their frozen lips
until no oath of merit
has nailed down
the signposts of prosperity
with an ything
but a sense of perjury
that's cleared only
by sounding an alarm.

83.

Punic amps in steerage.
The spores unkindled
in the Roman departures.

The flagellation among
the classes
I lived for
at sea.

The flaccid faces
up against
the strong
backsides
of the wind.

With my mates,
I inched my way
along the masts
onto the balsa sawings
you cut down
from the halves
that turned out
the super chips
you can take back
with you
to the other side
of the journey.

84.

A pouring out
of unction
for the truth
to slip away
on the real steps
of marble.

The powdered stuff
to rake in
for the holiday signs.

The ghosts in the snow
to melt forever
in the mouths
of angels.

The untreated carpet feelings
for riding out
its magical pains.

The bloody sight
of too many queens
on its lines.

The stubborn tide
of seaweed cake
to batter.

The uncontested figurines
in the age of disbelief.

85.

Remove your head
when whispering
to the sages
about the thoughts
inside your sanctuary!

Take off your naked looks
when dancing in public
without any word
about the summer's warmth
it takes to tango
in a fresh speech!

Rattle the branches
in your pinkish past
when bowing down
to the images
in your skin
that expired
when you couldn't
follow the path
it was on!

86.

Wings born out
of the shops.

Gongs arched
over the grills.

The hungry quails
                  uplifted
in the night's clairvoyance.

In the Alpine flurries
of life and death,
the total convictions
are taken down

for winter's dreams
to freshen up
with some libations
for the seasonal truths.

87.

Streets crossing in the lights that are clear.
Rain playing games in the halls of a pool.
Holes in play for the depths to get deeper.

Flukes in the blue sky for a chance of rain.
Hens in the game when there are no eggs.
Boundaries for the homecoming when up in the air.

88.

Unconsumed mental garbage
floating on
memory barges.

Coastal greens
swallowed whole
in thleft e untold dreams
slept on.

Burrowed manifestations
turning up in the logs
rolling out of bounds.

89.

Roils in the cracks of memory.
Sparrows outside the limits of watchdogs.
The smell of twigs under one roof.

A busted cascade of boulevards.
The brewery of passing nights.
A lifelong drink about death.

90.

Stupas to a mountain
no one pictures.

A tipping hand
bone dry in the stream.

Circles around
the shortest days.

The keynotes
in the structures
for not playing.

A cargo of bitters
correctly sent
to the wrong address
for no reason.

A mall for criminal answers
to always refund
what can't be returned.

91.

Willingness is the hand
lost holding onto the ball
during a moral break.

The song is the inconsequential
outside the bones
it takes for a dime
to turn on its own limits.

92.

Fish on their way to school
without learning
where to get left back.

Hours in a morning rush
to the stops
to leave time
on the clock
to never get there.

Hacks going through
the writing on the wall
to say what's
not on their mind.

Beverages in the oven
when nothing is cooking
to drink.

Rivers in bed when asleep.

Pills in an emergency
when crushed.

Aggie meat no one eats
in a better world.

Titan fluids reduced to foreign soil.

Ping-pong in China
that loses
if it speaks for itself.

The truth as a judge
in jail with murderers.

93.

In the eddies of misfortune
the templates of the underworld
give us their wanted posters.

On stick farms nobody ages from within!

Around the tents of alternatives
are where the wasteland's words
turn to wheat that not even
the hungry will eat.

On loose trails nobody finds what is lost!

In the jungle, men
pray together to contact
the gods who can help them
connect the human cries
to the ones of the animals.

In the abstractions,
it never rains
in the winter

and it's never too soon
for coming around
the corner.

94.

Take the mercury
away from the clouds
if it rains.

Bring back
the ovations
for the performers
digging themselves out
of their minutes.

Turn on the seasons
for one more
chance of snow
before there's no hope.

Let the wheels
come off the cart
until there's no more
that is unseen ahead.

95.

Thin ice
as unfelt as the truth
ripped off the sleeves
of emptiness.

Deep holes
as lost causes
for those who
are never home.

Free business
as the sanctions
the world returns
for seconds.

Sibling rocks
fallen off
the blocks
for consumption
as standardized
as chips.

96.

Unintentional winter juice
pouring out of the harvest.
The occasional business rub
before the sun turns orange.
The grail where the mellifluous
have the gall to process the machinations.
The frightful who assume
the superfluous is discernible.

97.

Bad clams
for the sandman.

The truth
pumping
the blood.

The spoils
raised
for the pressures.

The traps ossified
on
border custody.

The wires crossed
in the shadows.

The scales
as precautions
against the wind.

The spirits loosened
from their bottoms.

98.

It's hard to find something
that once belonged to you
when everything is lost.

All lives are dreams
for those in the real world
who turn their backs
on their fantasies.

99.

Russians beyond the gates of time
never speak English when
climbing over their highs
in Siberia.

The Spanish moss on the documents
even smells cold in the jungle,
where the city sleeps
in cages.

The rustling breezes
never stop the spindles
in the woods from getting lost
in the other world.

The syrup of history
sticks to the plates
of civilization
when you taste
it before breakfast.

The king's widow
seems so common
when she
rings the bell
for the past
to return.

100.

Taking a long shine
for the harbor riffs
when boating
is not being a sportsman.

Gaming for the uptown chalk
running traffic
over the white lines
until the entire
Grand Concourse
is blurred
is not a pretty site.

Buying nothing
for screaming out
that your chances may stink
badly if it later pours
is not being a cheapskate.

101.

Strangely Pittsburgh in a year of dogs
is in a place where no one barks.
The loud chimes play only for the fugues,
those drowning in the shallow water of mediocrity.

On the road to righteousness--
one stop sign is the sign of a flute's high note, while
the other is a lost sign for logic.

Brevity rides in the taxi
where only the birds
can sing when home.

The thieves who steal your hearts
light candles in church, in vain,
for their souls not
to die in the
dark.

102.

Tinged with the eclipses
of the fallen decades
that astrology
couldn't account for,
the laughing stars
were dislocated
from our sanity
and the world
swallowed itself up
in a sink hole
of relativity.

103.

Rustic apples gathered
to taste the good life.

The iron feet of treachery
needed to walk away
from the Raves
without being there.

The apostles reborn
to swim away
from drowning
in their churches
by being martyred.

The church fathers
to learn from their history
to pray less for forgiveness
and more for the chance
to live in poverty.

104.

The flowers on the Mexico balcony are
for decorum only.

The clouds singing violently over the water
may not be real.

The ship stake-out in the bay
cannot see itself in the mirror.

The short people redacted
with their feet dangling in the air
are the losers in pulp fiction.

The sandy beaches in super-paradise
are home to the nymphs dancing
without men.

Time has been a closet
where the years
have been kept shut in.

On the courtyards of contentment,
the friars press the flesh of the rich
without embarrassment,
as the sun keeps going down
and the sharks keep looking back
for some privacy for their pleasures.

105.

Deconfliction as an appetite for weed.

Red shoes as a compunction for venerating about ballet.

The numbered tails children use equations for as the new suburban math.

The future as a belief with no tenets that you can dismiss as a void.

The corrupted system bleeding from its moral wounds until it stops being moral.

The summer resort where the sun can't get out of its own way when you go there for a dip in the pool.

106.

Retorts on the gravy trains
to Brooklyn
need no more tokens.

The unread book
with a shelf-life
needs no time to expire
before you reach home.

The subway short-cuts
not on the maps
need no motorman
to tell you where
to get off.

The Canarsie stop
you don't see in the light
when coming out of the tunnel
needs nothing from you
even if you could see it in your dreams.

The vending machine
you bang on
doesn't care if you
are a good guy.

Life is the third-rail
not losing sight of the way
you care whether you are
standing or sitting.

107.

The desert has no trees to read its leaves.
The city streets have no mountains to hide its climbers.
The jungle has no wine to celebrate its vines.

The temple has no prays to save the world.
The cross has no more martyrs to resurrect.
The sand art in Tibet is only for the artist to destroy.

The dead will never again sing about themselves.
The hours will never admit if the time is wrong.
The heart will never be touched without love.

108.

Rip drops in the dew.

A muffled wing-spore parked
on the wrong side of the street.

The spew tripping monotonously over
the dead vines in the vacant lots.

All the backup singers facing the flag pole
for their group pose were on diets.

When the snow came at noon
it was hungry.

At night there were no freaks kissing
in the theater alleys.

A group of caravan gypsies, with round faces,
predicted that none of the drunks on Broadway
could remember the name of the first wine
they drank.

109.

Treason has its own spine
for dancing in the wind.

Justice has its own limp
for those tripped in court.

Opportunity has its own darkness
for the lovers who can't see themselves
in the moonlight.

The winter has its own cracks
for the frozen
that have no emergencies
for the sirens to work.

A muted religion
must find its inner voice
to listen for salvation.

110.

Drawbacks
in the spring
need cleaning.

The unused carousal
is a musical face
in a junkyard.

A blue-handed monk
is festering
in the undesirable streets.

A downturn in the city
takes the shine off
its hope chest.

The morning chimes
sound off
as a soldier's duty call
when home on leave.

The steeple in the New England village
looks down at the passing strangers
with a coldness once reserved
only for the unconverted.

111.

Whispering ryes.
The wheelchairs of age.
A memory forever of a wheel.

The tickle of a gentle rain on your face.
The high hands of a pine tree raised.
The tongues of Guava near the stream of consciousness.

A flowering casket with worms for fishing.
The empty tugboat leaving the Canary Islands.
The void in the middle of the film.

The humanity in the plastic moments.
The footprints of desire in the city cement.
A cowboy lost in time.

A bagel made whole again with enough cream cheese to melt in the Georgia sun.
A stranger taking home the garbage in a new place without knowing better.
A fearless deer not seen in the headlights when on the road home.

112.

Trees without limbs.
Nights with exploding stars.
Outside street fares for the boundaries.

Too many weeds to get hit in the ears.
Not enough caves for the fossils.
The meaning of memory forgotten by public education.

Time withdrawn in the flood from the river deposits.
Darkness forgiven by the sun after the storm.
The leap of trolls for what is going viral.

113.

Rain in the sand.
Shade in the desert.

Wind in the shed.
Clouds over the house.

A one-way railroad ticket to Memphis.
An amputee vet receiving food stamps.

114.

Modules in  hell.

The fertile gnomes
of the Earth
that prevail in the fire.

A songbird
coming through
the tabernacle
window with a prayer.

There's rejoicing
for the migrants
who have searched
for their souls.

In the eyes of
the beholder, there
arises the unseen
truth of the eternals
and the blurriness
of the past.

115.

The trombones
of the future only
come with no parades.

The rain of steel
can only drown
in self-pity.

The sandtraps
can be seen only
when the light shines
on the heavens.

The noise only
gets louder
in the quiet.

116.

Open-hearted snails 
for the captain
to slip on.

A dice game
for the regulars
to grow some brains
when on the clock.

The galley visit
when you can hardly
smell the steam
and the rice is
turning green

117.

A memory of you
still fizzles in the wine.

The looms
are the signs
from the gods
that things
never just pass
quietly on a path.

The bones found in the mountain.
The fierceness touched in the stupa.
The sewage set in the sea.

The way we look
at each other
when dying.

118.

Praise God
for the mercury
in the clouds
and in the quarries.

Bring the red circles
up and down the hills
every night.

Turn to the wheel
for solace
when tracking
over the ashes
still smoldering.

119.

The short hills
are the aspirations
becoming.

The stones
are the certainties
too hard to exist
forever.

120.

Some fossils
are the temple's
half-dead tablets.

Some lichen
are treasures
hidden in the shards
of entreaty.

Some craters
sing in full-throat
about the ancient
accretions purging
the unholy
from their perches
in the sky.

121.

















 


 


dyspepsia