When you don't have an audience
you don't need one 
In my idle quest to find good tales
 to read the farther from the winding 
trail I'd stray the better the tension 
ratcheted up the later awake
 would I have to stay riveted
 in my nightmares that blossomed 
open from inside my head spilling 
out like the darkest octopus ink 
flooding into my room
I couldn't resist its riptide any more
 than I could stop the onset of time
When I stepped out into my backyard
 in the deep Ozark woods that nocturnal 
dream's ink would follow on my heels 
as I wandered further into the chittering 
woods from my yard. The point of taking
 a walk out in the middle of the forest 
at night with no one else around
 is to enjoy the evening silence 
and some solitude blessed by the moon
 and starlight. That can't be recreated
 Not in print, nor in memory. Not with 
mirrors, not with words. Being alone 
remains the only thing that doesn't cost 
your soul. Keep the change
share it with the owls and the rabbits
who cares. None of these creatures read
and neither do most people, mind you
 Only a certain kind of human does that
 One of the rarest beasts who dares 
to be captured by his own self hypnosis
As such may become trusted ally 
or the deadliest of enemies
It's difficult to know which 
on a case by case basis
Is it because humankind 
are mercurial and chameleonic 
and will often change their minds 
on a dime. Tricksy is as tricksy does
I once heard told
How do I know so much 
about humans anyhow, you ask
It's because I happen to be one
Now don't get alarmed
no need to back away 
or relocate yourself
I'm as harmless as the horizon 
at twilight. You can trust me 
during magic hour
It's a brief period when the solar 
rings of power
 adjust their synchronization
 Light bathes the landscape
 while shadows hide in crannies 
The adjustment is subtle
 and happens at about the same rate 
as your breathing
 Before you know it all the forces
 of light and darkness
 have balanced themselves
 out around you
There seems to be 
an equilibrium reached 
on the inside, as well 
I don't know what 
to say except that this 
story is being told 
for no one. I think 
a lot of people 
would think it was fascinating 
and exciting. Yet this story's 
only told for the benefit of the teller
The series of incidents described 
helps him hone his chops
To become a better 
teller of the tales
 he lives. He must first 
disclose the story
 to no one. In all of its painful 
and intricate detail
 The painting of a poem. Hung 
on the wall of a sleepy time 
gorilla museum 
located in the annex
 of a forgotten estate 
on an abandoned farm 
out in some lonely place  waiting
 for its new tenant to arrive
to get framed and hung 
upon the wall



The rising enigma that 
 spans the horizon 
fluctuates in silence
 Do the plants which 
blossom today know
 anything about the 
flowers of tomorrow? 
 For that matter 
Do the trees in your
 yard suspect there 
are more like them 
 across the way in ours?
If they can sense each 
 other in direct proximity 
the way we see the stars
 Their myriad leaves scenting 
one another in the breeze 
 The trees don't dream
 of meeting one another 
from across their vast
 space between them because
they know better than us 
 that time is not the
illusion but rather 




After plundering pockets of circumstance we pack our baggage 
for every hundred thousand orreries that wobble off balance 
one sits stabilized at the center of a region so disproportionately vast
it should go without saying even the notion of exploring it seems crass
in a scenario such as this it would warrant a long crumpled drag 
on a cigarette burning cooler than the embers scattered across Hell 
then flicked off into dead mist crumbling a trail of sparks behind it.

Standing on the fire escape at night with a bucket of animal bones 
time is the puzzle completed and we are the echoes still catching up
reflected in the mirror of the stars as if frozen under stadium lights 
a coliseum where the prisoners are all hidden and the warden's lost
gone off in his head in the state of Catatonia on vacation in Key West
floating in a sea of bath salts flown in under the radar over the border
landing in a corn field under moonlight in the frozen dead of night.

Memories rolled up into tubes and filed away for a never arriving day
impressions of a transcript of simulated replicas impersonating a model
casting the shadow of a reflection reproducing an archetypal effigy 
outlining the representation of a remote desolate unidentified likeness 
all the usual suspects lined up glittering near the Tannhäuser Gate
leave a long forgotten trail behind them sunken in dreams halfway erased
adrift across the gulf of the Obliterate Dust unbound into a photograph.



Photing. Voting by phone
Dreeming. To dream by emergency management
Syncing. Corresponding with a deeper order
Afloat. Feet upon the ground
Firmament. The measure of a domain
Kingdom. The hallways of memory
Castle. Cast by Iron Laboratories
A lure. A Decoy. A mascot
Garrote. A rotting garden
To be fed. Everything you've got
Our Tardigrades. Exalted progenitors
Too late. The definition of now
Collapsing. Circus lung