Broken Abbey

I built my self an Abbey of delusion content
     with angles, sharp and thick; a discharge of underground ink.

I came upon a downcast flood of commercial recipes,
     dawning thanks to the fool who juggles an excess meal.

We see the tender perspective of her ways,
     As the March hare, feeling thus:
     To rain unknown…
     To murder the threshold bricks…
     To subjective patient breaks of thick deep…
     To label (in murmurs) the deep…

They angle fetch the last,
     otherwise heaving simplex ingress.
     They angle fetch
     an otherwise deposit to decisiveness.

Woman leader,
     owing white to description…
     owing black to the objective slab…
     They eat the headpiece
     (so nice to bloom for sure afar)
     forcing us to narcotic up or
     hail thick the joy whistle.

Thick and fading hail, his fade bare pursuit.
     Light afar the further thought vein,
     fleetingly inject one dictatorial flatter…

After having the worst day of his life, an unscrupulous New Yorker has a difficult time making his way home. He is repeatedly lost and abused, and is haunted throughout the night by a single, reappearing cabbie that frightens him.

Apollo’s fissured time,
     muted and screened by circumstance.

This silky night of tears
     eclipses the eye in shuttered laughter.

Delicious tragedy,
     life’s movement a conflict
     of fractured author and masqued audience.

This one is actually my wife’s idea.

This couple has this baby.  The baby is very in tune to his/her parents, and it can pick up on what they wish for.  It begins granting their wishes.  Sounds a little wierd, but I remember reading once that one of the Native American tribes believes (or believed) that we are born with knowledge of the language of the gods, and that we forget it as we grow up, forgetting completely by age 4.  Interesting….

inhaling a starless breath

we limp under a hanging world
     whose pressured shadow
     tastes hot like silky desire

existence kissed by imaging