The curious monk-style
of cursive lettering
that~beyond this and that~
just might entail the hiero-

glyphic fount of the spring
from which a creek
will, for a fact, branch.

Giving to the necssary rhymes
when not trotting out

the morise-beaten code
of cherished rhythms
(quite mutely)
Now trumpeting from the klee-

sodden waste pile
wherein the Christmas bulb vine
of morning glories
repeat splendidly for a cloned

patch of green-to-purple eyed trombones; still popping out
for all the kind notes and yanked-
to-curved balls that, Heaven-sent,

herald for the Birth of the Cool.
Yeah. The Birth of the Cool
that, unlike all your Cliffords

and green-headed dogs, keeps
going for miles~uncowered
like some of your butchers & bakers
by a bat nailes to the Ashe door

of (yeah) some alley’s end.


That (like a yoyo~again & again) they’ll meet their match
(a lucky strike?)
for being stuck in a port-

and (well) at the behest
of the pow-pow-powdered,
wigged and craven.


Meanwhile, judging by the singular list and half-eligable scrolls of ditched and stunted character, by now all de-
flatted as some Patriot takes another

pathetic round of pews before waking up at the stern of the dive to (yes and we’ll) the same time of 10:20.
O!–for how his head spins

like a maggot-laced projector,
braced by a split quart arrow-
head of mostly watery smoke
and smokey water, as [hilarious]

our Dr. of Quacks continues like an Energizer bunny if not bastard
on a super-soaked and electroshock of a treadmill to blink in and (yes) blink

out, but (for who knows
exactly according to watt?–
in a yup-sized pen for which
the most I can make out are hic-

cups, deep-fried pig-howls, plastic-
wrapped ribbits from fingers and toes
of wannabe goats; yeah wannabe goats as this last pew, pew, pew

from Zacherious just boomerangs
cra-cra-croak out his last litany
of harder to spit_0ut delusions.
Yes. The harder to spit_0ut de-
lusions that, provided the appropriate blockchain of paper-clipped links,

plan without spilling a drop to stitch
together their own silent spring
and so bathe our own copper plates of hope and given dreams in a drum

of acid, which as the chemtrails
Begin to perm all of what’s kind
and natural into a very warped
and so salt-watered taffied fix

that (as we scratch our heads)
we take for the skunk-tail stink
of (yeah) realism.


cotton-pink clouded
To Phoenix-steel bites of the fuji app-
le General Washington watched bleed

from just below to waxy, bad-tempered stem
that (in mute mutiny

Was from the ground upbelted out from the very tonsils

of a siren (that from the white-knuckles of .[s].‘s own child-
ish confessions) ese Spartans

Was worth (the wonder) a marathon–

some eel-
jerked (and so-jazzed) posse
of jock-strapped tramps

and intranational clowns
just might pur-
port for the scribbling-
scrawl of one of K.’s

[k]lerks; yeah, one of K.’s
[j]ealous [k]lerks.
However, pet-leashed
and ice-trained,

we should (with the curse[s]IV
{e} aide of (well, well, well)
just about every published
and, thereby, as the Earth

no longer in contra, spins
with accordance
to (despite all their deflatted
and flogged attempts

with solutions that, not-
withstanding all the black-
and-so-then white budgets
of salt, are known by a chip-

munk, who even as I (pew) peck
the next cracked character
of this al(e)phabet to not tap out

Maat’s laundry mat

splotch and (more direct)

trundled number & ©ashed char-
act0r from the al(e)phabet
we now should know
and, there to one’s sleight

of hand, which some Taxi drivers take for left, believing there being driven to some sanctuary by Ralph: though it’s already into the limestone cavern

of Winter that Auden first scouted: though, more soundly, it was Stevens, passing a blue-to-silver sphinx in need

of two filterless camels
Then some pinned and need-
less needlework about passing

out on a hen that–
as a child’s story-
booked rooster
hatched a canon’s

ball out the trap-housed barn doors
of his ass

(rubber ribbet white chocolate moose) some hrough the apple-bitten glare don’t of




we all know now for most-

ly jumping ship, and so most-
ly on, as laser-ripe and on-
board; however, and as for
those few bad apples now bunked

and cotted and therefor below
if not beside the stunted and cop-
per stitched table now making a stupid (however special) hit as

by hit one can, from snap-to-chat,
slip in the very call have a go-
go at crushing.

Yeah. This.
A [g]neiss cher[o](k)eye×d× stone
of charred and cat-scratched plutonium

and next to an amber con-

stellation of grapes
as it appears
to have taken Zeus’
first orange

to tar-black swan dives

quite cow-

cow- cowardly ¥π[s]∆und
all this
to •copper-sprung•–*an Tesla-pinball a bullfrog
trapped on a Lilly ___

Who–quite past his due for de-
for a Sevierville spell
In a straight jacket that–

if not the motley fool–
plays himself, himself;
(yeah) for the bunny
booked and cuffed

somewhere up in the Bronx
but then (again)
only a chipped-half block
from Tandem:

nevermind the tick-
tock punching in
of nano-demons
and tenebrous germs

Now buried by the latest lick-
ity split of raked coals already
(as a tongue might suddenly a-
wake. Suddenly a-

wake: and only to s-
pit. Yeah. s-
pit more than spy
himself heavier

than the yellow to black puck
Now resurfacing from out
beneath this gulag’s arched hub-
bub of babo

lot and more clandestined cells
when it comes to potting
certain plants and unkind pottery,
the type that

yo-yo, popeye, xylophone, whose white-gloved choir hand ushers (far out) a wavve that (from the so-called deaf-mute penumbra of the moon)

A Doctor Hilarious first pinged up on Nevermind how K~ now dims
Her brows and lowers Thoth’s claws,
Sharp if not kindly fit for this oz-tensible parlet

the dead-sea scroll of z’s.


Now read this

from The Blue & Brown Books (or the Second Verse of my Life)

[SIDE-A] 1. Hell slap it into them. And not without a fury. Right inside the delicious caption wherein the snail has captured our confidence as he himself confides to a hedgehog about his own classified bones, a creature that as he... Continue →