Novel Collaboration (“Identify”): Chapter 1.

It’s not a comfortable silence; a tableau of images coursed through him like a dark wash of blood and glassy eyes gating towards him. He didn’t understand the complexity of what he saw, and shaking, he started to shiver on the floor, feeling mounted towards the absolute of death.

She crouched down with him, surveying his eyes. He felt he was bleeding out, and before he could get a word in, she gently put the cigarette on his lips, told him to puff. He coughed. His legs swayed, his ribs jammed and compacted. Most of all, he felt trapped in a faint chill that squeezed his eyes open and closed.

“Take the cig, Tom, and give it a kiss for me.”

solitary dream.

the canticle is seen through other eyes,

not mine, and I don’t understand a word,

whispers press

unmourned in your eyes,

the trace of winter

into loneliness.

dream from dream

godly fields

of life then lassitude

of the shunt of death.

Father listens to what I read,

Noveau waves in homemade poetry; dream from dream

godly fields

of life then lassitude

of the shunt of death.

Father listens to what I read,

Noveau waves in homemade poetry;


the shadows

cover the sands,

each finger

in my hand

threads liana

coast blue

the bodies of ephemeral

god’s eye;

my father holds my hand


your laugh
like a poison
to surge, the chill
when you look at me;
the dust of the horizon
shapes cruelty.

I am from broken images from my mind.

I am from memory in which I grew from first
Muscle—to bone—to flesh,
I am from the canal in which I’ve risen
From dark-blue infinity,
Seeking only the first in which I could recall…
I am from life, I am from the harshest blow
Of sickles within the wind from the sap of the harrowed tree

In The Stars.

For the present, memory is rattled by the sorrel sobs that do not quell from my bleeding lips
And I, now enclosed, in the flowers and darkened furnaces that blemished on my pale skin,
I do not know, nor do I remember, but it is through the ashes in my weary palms,
On the ghoul traces of wind that says to me, ensconced,
“Slicked through the tears of the dark clouds with wraith-like fires upon a weak soul,
The wind shall hear no name…

Perfume Loring…. (Prose)

Perfume loring, turning, hedged to the twitching, to the crying moon like sutler, silk drowns muses flesh and bone, stitches on fatty quilts, wanting warmth, muttering, muttering through whispers, begged by praying hands,

I hate this place.

A Night Walk. (Prose)

Pennies and old skeletal-like lining threads slip out from the rafters of the grey old well in the mall—search in for the coin, fiddle with it, the dirt croaks under nails,

like the bridal hem that touches the base of the floral steps, patterned by the picturesque; rib of man; “leave a stone at my feet.”

I’ll Keep. (Prose)

my torrent of blood flourishes like a blue weeping violet, rock-strewn to the near hill-side at midnight; I pardoned myself to the wall flowers as the wind vanishes above the chimneys with the grotesque sticky saps on the creaks of spotted ghosts

As I Mourn a Flower.

O’! The tawny wings
Onto a sonata from a pithy child of the haulm,
Of a viceroy butterfly into the diamond torrent,
Falls onto the mouth of a morning river, lay my heart
Onto the mercy of an evening fire, as I mourn a flower

The Moon Rises.

And I go under the facile crystal flames
That embrace me into the settled claret bloom
And when I abandon the sights,
I admire the carnations where they lay