the second lapse: the story of two bulls

in this place called heaven
we have found morality
to be a slut,
we have found solitary
angles pressing
circles
into heaven again.

supposing our angst follies
more oft than should
the settled dust,
more oft than would
valleys disguising
brooks
into follies again.

eternity rejects life, as should be the better gray of our mirrors
searching for fog instead of ourselves. the vast whisper of universe,
like a sister at dawn, tells secrets of impenetrable days and rests
lazy on the doorstep- promsing flowers and slow sunsets and a sky
that seizes the eyes; at once with the senses ambling a sigh
toward the midnight gaze of stars and their consequence
too perverse
for the colors
of day, night, eternity
or dead
hounds
aiming their noses
at every path of mine roses.

It washes over you
like a thick mist
in the night

These sounds,
pleading attention
not thought from mind

denied

all of its meanings
all of its forms
nothing now resembles
even-eyed scorn,

Once-distant revelries
come now, too close

twas distance that defined space:
twas space that was endless:
as time,

long drunken nights &
late-night encounters
with the glowing screen,
composing poems, surfing
the world,
becoming nauseas with the
scrolling of the screen,

needing smoke for the engine,
having none around -

a sore halo of cheap hops
clutches mercilessly the forehead
of a once-fealess warrior

of the word ...

lost
and,
forgotten ...

lapsing: the first echo

in no voice hast melancholy sounded
so sweet as in the vapors of wine thrilling
a good night's conversation with the moon
winding with a crawl through the nervous
sky.

in no crib does reality attend as the measure
it will someday treasure- as when walking
down a long aisle in a woods devoid of
breath and light easing in amongst the tailored
night.

in no ebb does flow not expect the pulse of another,
perhaps a brother, fallen to cobblestone without
a pulse or a shadow or a word of merriment or
a reckoning of tomorrow- we drown in embrace wasting
time.

in no altar does wine not hide altered from earth shaken
from wind worth a thousand great, lost moments 'til now
entombed in these nights, and infant cries and halting
clouds in between the winter and the warmth tasting
life.

and forever worse
the magnitude
of the sun
shaking
dawn

awake