Caught in between reading Wright, Ligotti and Moore,
soaring on their thermal updrafts, I reach out to steady
myself with Wei, Porchia, and Bohrs.  I contemplate under
the sunbeams of Blake, Blackwood, and Crane and vacillate
on the currents of Attanasio, Delany, and Dick. 

I dream through the stained glass windows of Bradbury,
Poe, and King, and disintegrate back to reality
with Rucker, Sterling, Shirley and Artaud, 
thinking to myself in endless wonder over 
their keen toll on my soul.  The collective impression
left upon me by Lovecraft, Kiernan, and Shepard
may only be rivaled by Bester, Calvino, and Marquez.

Lost in the labyrinth of Borges, Beckett, and Joyce.
Found in the pastures of Huxley, Farmer, and Ende.
Drowned in the waters of Baudrillard, Nietzsche, and Merwin.

Bound for glory with Gurdjieff, Whitman, and Yeats
along with Tolkien and Dickens, Hugo and Flaubert
where a lot of their books upon my shelves await.

I'm courting maximum isolation as my lonely wife.
Please sentence me to this prison for the rest of my life.



The complete eating of burned skin. Ashen toast.
Can it not warm my pie. I have lost my older
sufferings. Absolve me of my gratitude. Untie
the swift knots of my prayer, but don't merely re-
peat platitudes: for mimicry I do not care. Environ-
mental disruptor persuades a hungry populace that
there is no such thing as the environment, and they
believe it. Just as they believe that there can exist
more than one disruptor. These spun patients slowly
develop a bubble spell reality. Their spin doctors
quickly form encrusted mica shells. All who they've
preyed upon then believe themselves to be a part of
their innermost circle. This describes how they are
each lost to the vortex of their own subconscious
imaginings. While one floats away as iridescent
soap bubbles flocking sunward, the others
gradually incarcerate themselves under-
neath the prestigious carapaces which
never fail to drown them into the dirt.
Dirt is very high on the list
of examination priorities.



Sinning   without you
  like   a   failed
conspiracy   where loneliness
and regret    com-
mingle and   yet
kept     separate
by   the   thinnest
membrane of the impervious

that impenetrable      barrier
comprised of all         the air
in between us    compressed
into an electroplated   shield

shining   over   the   course
of an  isolated  evening
anything could represent it now
from the bright nickel disc
of  the    moon

the solitary
 mirror   be
  tween    us

to a   condom which  success
fully  performed its  function
before  being          discarded
from the car   into  the  gutter

reflecting what really happened
to no one but our crowning star

Now   doing well    seems futile
without you  here   where
the dragon  bleeds
into its  bandages
smiling back  at  us

from the   canted
looking  glasses
poised over our
bathroom sinks



for Matthew Damon

Cursive's rules, its loops and curlicues, reveal a lot about us.
Perhaps its best we lay it to rest, buried along with the worst
of our secrets and plotting and lies; a nice clean typography
will better keep us in line. It's fine, don't worry, the quatrains
will be running on time, everything kept under strict control
while the sinuous, inveterate signature of our blossoming
gets rectified by autocorrection with machine-like precision.
Farewell to our sensuous rhythm. Welcome the fascist rule.