only in fingertip dreams

And as the moonlight fades, from my favourite photograph,
The memory of her undercurrents and my moments of pre flower voices,
Rescued in an open field,
Her fallopian cadence and my soda edge fire balls,
Rocking in alien time, the sky holds my hand,

In the fading expanse of space,
I hear the distant cry of doves in empty flight,
The descending sun, the rising cat eyes,
A stone rolls out of my mouth, with pieces of sepal antidotes,
Resources for my hands callous from worshipping the sand,
The back of the room always shifting and drifting,
More anonymous hints and echoes in the mirror animal,
A wheeze in a wicca wind.

Time becoming space, space becoming time,
The sky touches my head,
Two cups,
Déjà vu in the edges of the rosetta stone,

The edge of the light from a distant star that collapsed millions of years ago,
Touches the now fallen petals,
Dark circles under the skin of circumstance
Winking in distrust,
The tide in fuzzy ear boxes,
A place, a name, a time,
Fields unstable and dry,
Secret miles,
Would remake all the glows of the background hues,
The essence of all that is shared, understood without the explicit meaning,

The substance of memory unravels to reveal the flower pools,
Round soft doors in the wind, rumours from the foreign accents of the lady in the lake,
Fragile wings covered in darkness stretch the milliseconds between my hands,
Tiny strings that wont steady the rain of all my relations,
In the oceans pressure scales, one weight absorbs another, rides on another,
Whispers to another, suspended electric forwarded costs of hiding and holding , seven black liquid diamond tides with burning ruby points,
Endless swimming absorbtions in the land of milk and honey,

Evaporations in my ears, balloons in my eyes,
The soft circles of life completely disperse,
I walked backwards through the pages of my thoughts,
Clue by clue shadows erupt, step by step through the expanding avalanche in a dark grey hall,
Frail drying traces of venous lattice decaying, the edges so thin, I fell and slept,
I never noticed she left,
The doors remained the same, turn and pull,
But my hands could not hold together the shady presence,
The Vatican vortex conviction of my vision,
I burrow down into the sea,
Of all the seeds in all the fields,
All the modes of understanding,
I dream she sits under a blue moon,
A secret to her own fantasy,

Today outside the boundary lines
Dust and synapses forge fresh silouettes of the frozen eclipses,
Gifts buried in the long and ever winding red road,

Outside the power lines,
It’s my birthday,
I find the true cradle of my being,
The true gift that was already mine,
The passages and reflections,
Discover origins of knowing its own experience
Rich secrets in the air between us,
A pair of clouds, a pair of towers,
Weave twinkles of flame dancing in my mouth,

out of sight

Ride in wet shadows through loop handles in between truth and proof,
Between the jewel pump and the mood sample button,
In my teeth a sole fisherman remains,
The light dries on my navel,
High gauss harvesting, between time and a record, tied together in the valleys of moribunds’ long slippery venomous green flight,

Blood tide in a wet salivating hero,
The sweat never clears,
The vapour forever permeates between star dust and the oblivion born,
In the swollen windmill distinction of “I”,
Three days of raining for the water diver on the edge of wet currency,
I forget my eyes looking for that little collapsing star,

The light dries to hold all the letters together,
Did they ever wish you well?
In those threads of round succour.

Star diver, on the edge of spare change sentiments,
The ample hands that spill their old hues on the floor,
Holding a frame to trust and the triggers heady thrust,
A folding antelope gliding flash,
Subtle dross connectivity,
The wet and the weaving in the curtains of the heart machine,
Someplace soft for my head,
Someplace warm for my empty streets,
I forget about my fingertips,
The sweat never clears from the news they sell.

Break down in the fuzzy dawn of my quiet needs,
Outseeded my brain like a mushroom cloud,
In the stutter prize of lost voices,
Yesterday’s floorboards chipping away,
Little burnt offerings of slip skin,
Reborn for the last supper,
The thinnest intrusions,
The light dries, on the shore, but out of bounds,
Beneath blanket floors,
My little collapsing star, did the ever wish upon you?
On your wet slippery sidewalks,
Or between meteor webs and the silhouettes of a million watching eyes,
Everyone just bets on the forefront,
14

Until crowns of corruption usurp the saviours pause,
Where algorithms endless sheen drown themselves,
Star dust in a wet tailspin,
The end of sight in the double mind,
Looking induced through a few basic sketches,
Uncanny hinges attempt to sever the rhythms,
Induction lines and second sight,
The stranger dries nonetheless, even less,
In the fragile festival in the boarders of magica,
Working the sandcastles elaborate mirrors,
Attempts to retrace the curse of continuity,
Resetting the three days of wayward wishful viewing, holding the wrapping dissolution,
on the edge of the tide, the quiet flow tried on my deepest fears,
The person to person limits, super summations,
Break out of the ground of deaths intimacy,
Take refuge in the generator of pictures of the storm,
In the control orbs features of mismatched dividends and suspects,
Orders of complication from forgotten lores probe the restful core,

Bounce back the end of flight, all the edges reconverge,
Eyes too thinned by stories beneath the skin,
Fragile footprint wells and faces in the windows turn right into my house,
Nuclear warmth in a perfect memory, poised,
What does it sell for now?
As the flowers fall and make the news,
Wistful instigators inside the sea salt eruptions,
The light dries again.

too many eyes

I dream a dance with my pen,
I dream I never found a place to rest,
I wake up again, with my hands full of sand,
And it seems the hour glass broke years ago,
I lost track of each dancing droplet of overloaded fingernail hopes,

I dream I turn up the volume on the medicine chest,
The porous vehicle of tears, gears, hooves, wheels and wings,
Hook my pulse up to the hydra fluent synapse spool to hear the sound of the mythical carriage,

I dream of slow sweeping moon trains where my birthright is still safe, and my feet are in the backseat on a pink cloud,
What would I call it tonight?
If it all came true,
If the ringing in my ears revealed the height of the heart beats,
If the roots of the dragons’ teeth came through my eyes,
If the wind came through my knees,
And the trans fur, opened them all wider,
I wake with cave shawl reverberating in an empty hand,

What would it be if I gave back the serpents head and it sang my name?
And we could speak each others language,
Equals in hiding,
Would it be a moment of crime?
I dream the sponge mongrel cat filter,
Uncle Novus Moth and the maternal maiden breath
Perfect strangers, in the absolute everywhere like space dust,
I dream in prayers and blessings,
watching the suppers end,
where subtle light windows blow into a land of worm skin residue,
I wake and shake and drool,
reaching into the transparent quarter of spring,
as empty and far as premonitions that turn to dust,
I walk into the everglades and the grand piano sings to me alone,
To hear winters open source of a drowning exhale,
Do I hear the roots of daisies waiting, ongoing, unfolding?
Will I see the red house dance again?
In trans fur,
Venus keeper
Wispy browed,
Indie gone,
Roots of waiting and my responses begin,
16

I dream I made the lighthouse turn under my birds head rising in chains,
I wake to fences of misrepresentations in chorus,
Where all my triggers unleash their madness,
Do I dream of winding or unwinding tonight?
In between begging raw applications for the purest blood straight from the wounded heart,
Still beating in the chest with rumours of surrogates and suffragettes,
Orphans and princesses, perfect strangers,
The absolute bottled them together forever,
With back alley promises and bullet proof faces,
Blood carriers who lost their sense of where to put their money down,
Achilles heels outstretched and oversourced,
All unified as a perfect mass of messengers,
Perfect strangers passing the fleeting flame around,
Static charges of satellite circuitry,
In the trans fur,
Of seeping trances,
A bell of circles burning in the skies of dandelion aura,
A little pocket of cross currents, feverish whispers from a wishful climate, worshipping a private oblivion,
Wispy browed, one eye over the horizon,
Mongrel filter flinches for answers,
Nothing stands out in the ocean of my decaffeinated ancestors,