The Bare Archer

Turn timeless words into your scientific leap of faith
because the world is yours
and your heart is theirs to slake
with bourbon like a pouring rain;
“I am tomorrows
and a thousand more,” He said
and I believed what was in your trade
of relationships
as you and I were groundless
mouthing of the lips,
Tumbleweeds in springtime
in an unreturned promise
to return whence we stood,
“Such sweet hiss,” I reckon,
can only get as far as the mind’s eye,

so I will turn this oath into my good judgment,
this wisdom of denouement

I have seen the Bare Archer
and I fled like any sage would
“Does he have enough arrows,” I ask,

“I am a have-a-weakness-for
and a thousand more,” He said
and I believed what was not yours to keep
and mine to leave
as you and I are groundless
staring at the eyes,
Cascades in the desert
in an unanswered promise

I have come with my peapod of a shield
this shell of a wisdom of thoughtlessness

I have seen the Bare Archer
and I fled like any sage would
“I have ten thousand pins and needles,” He said,
He has come with a bullet

“I am a be-taken-with
and a million more,” He said
and I believed what was in this truce
of hearts and minds
as you and I were groundless
familiar recluses
Daffodils in the jungle
in an unaware promise,

Maybe I’m hoping you by
Such sweet hiss–don’t be perturbed
One day He’ll be hunting you, too

Tumbleweed

Sir security guard,
prying unfazed crowd while I
drink my tea
thinking my case is locked
But I don’t complain about the seats
or the feats of rain season’s heat
in my trousers like they’re my shirt sleeves

or even the way I’m writing this
I’ll just nod away my silence in this train

trying to look sleepy-eyed
when I know you’re on the other side

Bat an eyelid for the clock
and bathe away the morning
I’m walking and looking and crossing this side
for the railway ride –
I don’t know where to look

and if I get caught, well,
I’ll tell you right away if I get caught, well,

And if I get caught, well,
I would’ve told you to stay

Half-life

We go back and forth downtown for one day’s worth of
drinking love like a poison in a paper cup
oh how our worlds stop,
here,
But I guess I’ll just start over again
Are you a human behavior

with half-asleep stupor

So back and forth we rehash one day’s worth of
questions like the jukebox in solitude
oh how the songs confuse,
here,
But I guess I can hum along your name
Are you somebody for someone,

unnamed in a faceless crowd

When I’ve sung like a lark
I don’t know how to sing along

when everything’s the same
and when colors are pale
when I can cry oceans to sail you home
when everything’s the same
and when colors are pale
when I can cry oceans to sail where–nay, we go half-life

Mr. Mirror

Mr. Mirror
and
Mr. Taking Off–he appears like a poem;
Words reflect and he’s read more
than Mr. Mirror can fathom:
every morrow,
he’d rewrite them to make a man out of them–
prose that breeds more spitting images
of Mr. Mirrors,
well, they come in all contours,
and stumbling too–
Like Mr. Lonestar (and Mr. Cigar)
on parchment...or so he wrote,
“a kiss is all in the lips,”
and walking hand in hand in the rose fields
like in a prayer:
Mr. Mirror and Mr. Art–
He appears like a note;
Refrains are sung and he’s listened first
than he can pluck a string:
every morning,
he’d chant again to make lovers out of them–
songs that keep more peas in a pod
of Mr. Peapods,
they come in all notes
you’ve always sought

Love Bomb

Mars’ pit–partisan wit
They orbit the universe astray
‘O brazen marching–
He’s going to Venus to
write history anew

Footbinders; dead ringer, father–
Corsetmakers; dead ringer, my friend’s selling relationships
just like my mother, Eve,
They will have them march down in a spring of thorns and light
It’s wedding of the century:
“Taste that apple, she is your sin,
When all’s a Mars everyplace you go,”
‘O Damsel in distress,
Your captor
is a knight in a shining armor

Mars, girl; Mars, sir,
Drawing his lips near your breasts, yes–
Don’t drive that streetcar yet
“They have to be Desire,
They have to be Blanche,”
they wailed–
follow St. Paul

Flirt fishers; dead ringer, mother–
Jailbaiting; dead ringer,
my friend’s selling relationships
just like my father, Adam,
They will have them lounged in their gothic fainting room
It’s fashion of the century:
Porcelain face
Belladonna eyes
Brownsugars–
We will be, born from a rib

The Stranger

Venus is a sugarcane
Maybe not from where I can taste it
like when all appetites wane;
I did not know our tongues can be fooled

Dear, you are a dandelion
Maybe not from where I can smell you–
I am your red rose of thorns
We both only cruise with butterflies

I’m a cascade in summer
Swigging me dry until I’m a dune
I can only stare to where
the moon is; you never pray for rain

when our wisdom can only
get true, love, is one-way getaway–
we are tea and sympathy
Run into me when we’re out of sight

as I am your myrtle, though
not from where I can be your cocktail–
I am not the earth you sow
but I’m content when you bring it close

to your lips. You can shatter
me like a glass but I’d still be the
pane in your windows; I’m never
the house you built it to be; I am

Venus is a sugarcane,
doubtlessly your Mars when in distress,
put damage on like armor
Maybe not from where I can defend

my territory; you are
a flood in my farmhouse of bygones
Brew me, make me a fountain
of your Dionysus, red as it is–

I’d always make you sober
It is a future we bet
when our wisdom only get
vague, love, is a one-note symphony

Getting Ahold of You

Get ahold of you getting ahold of them
Get ahold an atheist in a coffee fizz
Mars on the red corner
calling out on the telephone
Ms. Medusa on the blue corner
turning me into stone

and I am alone,

in blades of grass, wounded
I surely need my fix
I didn’t know you were headed
Home, my prose kiss
the lipless

as doggerels can only cope
All their words turn to tumbleweeds;
I’d like to go to Venus, elope
with her and hit the moon
but I know she won’t be flying anywhere soon,
I still walk in the dusty fields

until I get ahold of them getting ahold of you
When you can get ahold of me in a tumbleweed

and I am alone,

drifting just in time to get home
I was hoping you were not sculpted like everybody else
and holding that chisel
to get ahold of me to be carved for your collection;
Fix your telephone instead, maybe I’ll get ahold of you
Close your eyes, maybe you’ll see more,
maybe you’ll break the wall that gets ahold of us, with Mars on the telephone,
Ms. Medusa turning me to stone, while I’m all alone,
in blades of grass, wounded,

I didn’t know you were headed
Home; yes darling, I surely need my fix
my stone-cold prose can only kiss
what is lipless

The Long Fall of Justice Pt. 4 (Exclusivity)

The interest, yes, he will give to acquiesce
to a dearth, neither extent nor depth
Nay, just to his appeal to repel
monotony to exclusive monopoly
You just have to pretend,
Probably contend
in the mind’s eye
Meekly lie
As he brags his bags of sugar and beans
when the list just about begins;
all around the hounds,
with uncouth watering mouths;
as silly as their crime may be,
since if sins were truly stints,
I was to pay attention fee
to sleep beside your monarch, oh your stark highness
and our thankfulness, yes, to our acquiesce
to a bohemianesque so-called unique speck of existence
among a thousand more
reason to bemoan and feel real rare
Nay I say,
everyone’s a nugget for all you care

Not About Life: a Ripoff

The morning blues
before now soothes
all the nicotine breaths and merely stares up yours
And nowadays’ lesson’s about how sure
you are to know if you’re the third policeman

but does it not scale to be truer
that my time is smithereens-clicking of an automaton
It’s not that I reckon
to be wide awake, for any more resolutions,
and just enough to retch
while I fetch
your dismal decisive approximations

Rapport, once married with Regard
bore children of tomorrow and now they’re just talking backward
I date a mardy Frown,
now are you smiling a tart one,
drinking your wine as your eyes turn white

for does it seem much truer
that time is just a sick in the head sort of various burlesque
It’s not that you asked,
to be here for the getaway, sweet enough to sting
or to depart, or to linger
in a sugarsweetbitterthrill...

...well enough that it’s not about the life
because you don’t have one
Actually you keep on your purple prose
since it’s not about my life
because I don’t have one
Honestly I just keep on my woes
when all I do is to keep losing purpose

Oh is this holiday in hideaway, well I don’t want to stay
That’s what I carry on with when I’m clockwatching
Adjust the hands, maybe I’d stay
That’s what I said when I was singing
my morning blues
It just scales truer because I only dream ahead with my sour words
But I could amend just as much
Take on the time that I think I stole,
stack it up with what I choose,
pass on the morning blues
and abscond the third policeman
because this is not his life
because he doesn’t have one
He just keeps on telling time
since it’s about my life
and I don’t have one
Honestly I just keep on what is mine
when what I’d do is to keep on what I have

Questions (Full of Beans)

If I never don suits
I don’t know if I’d choose
red age shovels or stitching ten thousand suits for a buck
when you can just dream and

trying to race ahead
Because they think we’re led
by time or the universe or the undying cadence
He would make a point by

taking this cold, cold chance
to thirty minutes of chance
before the devil knows I’m still breathing, thinking that he’s
yet to be full of beans

when I think the long fall of prose made you fall to your knees
He does not believe the world is not what he thinks he sees

The Tense Hapless, Uptight Ennui of a Child

The tense hapless, uptight ennui of a child
Wakes up suddenly with no sense of time
He goes downtown to see the wild
The roaring buses and the jagged pavements
The sun of the world, his accidental crime
Was to live
Among the vampires
With fairytales and stale bread and all their pale faces
And to fall from grace
he descends to the seas
of thought and aimless memories
of the wonderful ways
to get by without what they really want,
these jagged pavements over his head
and to where it led, to all the things said,
The tense child wakes up
looking right through the roaring buses
while the hapless child looks on
to the sound of this tangled forest
and makes him uptight,
well he knows he’s right
to wear off at the daily breeze.