Mind Reader

What was sky fever is now a wet plate moon mound. 
A crescent grey rose coin. 

Misread commas calming soothing mint. Daily wound wire mileage.
Simmering focus. Fence post collapsing.

Ten yards down and untouched. 
Resounding rewind and solar couplet 

Jitney of trinkets
around the corner, the odds were nowhere to be seen or conjured. 

No sleep ahead despite the upcoming sleep just ahead signs on the 
barns and billboards. Reheated creature. 

Cast back washed iron coffee cup.  
Dust work coated book worm gloss. 

Set back to lower proof the obvious vice. Smoke back the deep breath of the old case.
Inside the water of the wave,
beside the humming of the hive,
along the narrow sheltered seed.
Away from refugee, away from facing the push of sandcastle sorcery. 
Along the sunny side of the draw bridge.

The player reel of danger dirt.
Dark outlook, cast a harrowing net of skeletal choices.

It wasn’t long before the thought of passing it by became the only means of keeping time.
Sacred horns previewed the pouring sad rhythms echoing in the footsteps.

Around the block at morning bay window the heart adrift. Order of chasms, scales announce their watery sequence.
It won’t fall into the dream pipe and change.

If it can’t see a way into the forgotten river it won’t return Itself into the one you remember.  

Journal Entry

Circling the ceiling with a red crayon.

Stirring the cereal considering

sealing the circle. Sliding further away.

Partial coats and wicked forsaken sacred whispered buttoned up secrets.  

The open palmed oracle of seething.

Broken shoed and token.

For shadowed and cloaked in opium. 

Deluded and soaked in narcissism. 

Drenched and famished in trauma. 

Tossed and marbled in hypnotic karma.

If I thought about it there’d be no believing in that 

kind of magic. 

If I dreamt about it, there’d be no believing in this reality. 

If I talked about it there’d be no denying its gruesome grinding. 

Got a sound booth in the receiving page. A message in a gray box. 

It was a diagram.  

It echoed decluttering the silence in the old wood. 

It frosted the lining in the soft tube.

It felt the motion of the glowing from the galactic lamplight

It summoned the fuming of the fire sky.

It rescued the notebook of the the lost recipe. Missing a page. 

This won’t go on forever.

Sunken beet forest.

The wind below the wheat beneath the street beneath my feet 

won’t offer the code to the angel of secrets. 

It won’t blow the air from the angel of silent breathing or strike a match to the smoke from ash piles.

It will watch trance protected connections to the undetected through a wintery lens. 

Paper offerings sacrificed in peppery cremation drifting even further away.  

Dumbstruck sun drenched snap in a stone bowl. 

Sentence noodle throttle back to a rest. 

Stop ascent at the steep height.

Quarter tones bend to the drop light. 

Blood stained telephone ringing. 

It winds to zero in elastic glass capillary synapse. 

Settled and befuddled moments counting three or four collapses to forgotten starry skies.

It clicks and snaps like a shutter. 

It confounds like a riddle.

It becomes what it has lost. 

It’s ambient lingering ring has five to the one. 

Centrifugal calendar crippled fire to the four. 

In descent through counter balance, rains premonition of this finger and that consenter.  

This subito forte to begin and become That finale of seem.