dicta anathema

push me to dare you to push me

i'm a new man made old

your sorry story sold well,

deep well dryness in a heart made of aquifer ghosts

libido frond shade

it ain't a tussle

castles need dragons

or their parapets

sob obsolete

replete with tugs

pulling incredulity

either fertile, or sterile

procedure emanates

false dicta permeates

cuz, well, that's what dicta does

hobohippoid

new land of towering tree and bike

hobohippoid redundancies 

gentile flawscapes
germymandered boundaries 

(regarding decent ineptitude,

old flotsam in sterile barrels

wharfs buried on flat quests

slack under standing tall'er not 
depending the incoming bullshit

zeno's froze up arrow

false dichotomy in a salad roll

every plebe a grebe on reprieve

heel yes i wear the indian jewelry of poverty

under your alcoved grassy knoll

archie bunker ashtray

rapids

it wasn't so windy
that one could not crawl into the night.

i made it, again. to an entrance.

it didn't matter.

without a story, the night was so still
                       one could only hover.

it was a little breezy, but not too gusty

you see. a child's wharf
overlooked the least
                           impossible reflex,

upheaval.

taking steps by the scruff of their maps.

                       working time's play.

looking for word

reef aural

foaming docks and fog dogs
                  following men in mackinaws

there is no garbage, only

lone garbaged men.
chasing their knees/ in the doldrums

                   pickaxes don't help

unless yoowanna make the evening news

interrusting.

predictable only in rapidity of weirdness
         oscillating with cravings for moss.

especially sculpted moss,

made of less than cowardice, even
 for cowardice at least owns a name

pooling evaporations residue the cedar lenses

the sought is seen, blankly memorandizing

a compendium of nature

and lower endings wooden clog fires
noodles of lead

red birds in baskets drawn blades fulminations

ankle angles in english languish

trances to enter,

firstmost with not knowings.

salmon were strong from

leaping from couches
made of eternity's tackle.

dank by umpirical

getting dank by umpirical knowledge

is the tough cellar

in which to get sold

and not molded.

sell seashells by the snore sheep

if you musty.

avoid molds at all cost

and ditch costs in hazes of gold.

get drank by ennobled wonderment.

scale thy self

in every

one way

nature

new patterns glisten to what i say

like i like what i glisten to

rocks in rain pour, tend,

portend rain trends

rich presence presents gift

grifting poured patterns of what say i

feeling fallow in footsteps

unseeded cloud silver strips

edges diminish, finish dim visions

sought in bought seems unseen

yet sown in

furrowed, furloughed brows.

crowing for pita

which then blew up the fruit truck

packed with pallets of hundreds

--- - a story that Razziq chuckles in recalling

while forming a bread line

U.S. officials: said:

seeded with bomb's progress

on the western outskirts

and in the pomegranate orchards

Suddenly a man (in white robes) fell from the branches

of the Argfangdad valley

(his suicide vest)

treacherously absent

hundreds crows of joy leaves

they fired and exploded in the trees.

--- a story that Razziq crackles

in recanting, U.S. officials unofficially said

We obliterated those towns.

They're not there at all.

These are just porking lots right now.

and in the pomegranate orchards

the ground remains seedy with largesse bestowed upon

by US officials in joy leaves

joy leaves joy leaves fell limbs from all branches

in outskirts and kerneled multiplicity

the breaks of impatience red

read in the bread

lines. hundreds of

the real dracula

we do everything.

while you enjoy the pompous pleasure of wonderment, befuddled

over which veto to employ, we register to bleed. oh, positive

is good for everyone, no doubt.

blue skies mean sunburn.

my back is wet from sweat, not a river's swift boat to el dorado.

give back my back.

relish your own dog, i'm on break: broken.

the floor is wet with red tears because you dream to ask not.

if things get done, why can't we share a lion taco? i'll eat the clause.

sense is never made of such constructs; that's why art is better

in a heap of plasma, milk, reflected moorings, and de-heaping tweezers.

tweezers made by us.

we do everything, and in our time. we make time in which

our autograph is a shadow on the spittle

reserved for shining things

up. making things

butter. making things toast. making mouths

water