Presentation #2045, Country Church Dance

The person in the teardrops of diaries, the person who writes government warnings, the person in the woodcut of age-old stars and a hundred years of wind–this person wears jewelry of black meteors tinted with opaque revolutions of the future, this person carries blue islands in sparkling hands and sees behind the shadow of my next syllable; this person has the smoking laughter scholarship. Dancers are clustered in our tresses and flower dreams, and they can taste the smoke from our turret on the lake of melodies, they give eloquence to the morning waltz and water inland wildflowers.

Presentation #2015, Dim Gold Song For Laura and Rebecca

The sex nutcrackers deteriorate a British cubist momentum well into the old age of chlorine Christmas flames. Rebecca, have you a clue why another blue snowstorm rests etched in nature’s jewelled clarinet until its red-rushing pulmonary roses tint the teardrop of one minute of the government in this rink of freedom? But the rink of freedom is burning to death here in this dark thought; and yet, freedom is grace squeezed into the yesterday of a forest crossing, the Laura I touch, the Laura in my fingers, the Laura stapled to my hair, Laura in my daughter’s red lips.

Presentation 1937, At the Newest Restaurant In Town

Chandelier startles us with gold, gold as her long, new earrings. The chandelier splits light over the flowers, is a lamp of good and evil. Her hair is dancing over us across the street from 23 Emery under spun-glass and cottonball clouds. Next door, Triple-A Radiator Repair also offers sandblasting and will repair gas tanks. This is an oceanic Thursday, “buoyed on the dense marine,” and here we are, under the “Welcome, Open For Business” sign, where smiles are offered and fresh-squeezed orange juice is available, sunny day, lots of music and Syscoware stainless china presented clean.

Presentation 1885

[b]The Moons That Glitter Against The Ageless Canticles[/b]

The moons that glitter against the ageless canticles crack our bones and thunder inside of us, echoing the sun. The engraved quiet has always been the bone of song to scholars asking themselves for their final thoughts of the day. The ashes that are shed out of the thunder, Mr. Hawkins, give common persons a fluorescent light on their beer palms in a white igloo where jets drop turtles on top of our blue reflections, drilling a way into our flaring core of planetarium bark. The wind is an igloo of fits. We must neighbor the stolen igloo’s paisley ammo.

Presentation 1884, Cranbrook

For we have touched terrible universal waterfalls that mist. We held the scorched or parched flowers that burned our name into old neighborhoods and sainthoods all evening all summer with honied moods at Speaking Mirror Lake knowing its minor key like Villa-Lobos or a Black Forest no longer very living. It is that we have sinned and are crying in the hostile wind of that hostile place we see yearly. But there are better memories, as when I formed true verses under the German portraits or wandering through the radish gardens at Cranbrook where gardeners still trowel around flagstones.

Presentation 1871, The Surreal

My strawberry ancient watercolors drip under the black thunder, drip and bleed with the almonds, thorns and winesaps before the green daughters. Here is a Pard, ridden in these ancient watercolors while red wine flows from the harp with its bitter music of stoplight chemicals. Wherefore the peace flower of these poems, as young as art, blows with a witched, regal sound before the wild daughter deeply in her eye, like a hawk over a rouge storm of iridescent theory, those who whisper their dread of red Oxford whips. Observe the gemmed Pard painted there, coracle music of virgin almonds.

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