They are only eight numbers away, and you have ten fingers

Avenue of the Americas (The Reformation)...

From desert to city, already forgotten new arrivals in Manhattan.

A rumble came deep and steady screeching like machines of Morlocks unsettling for first time street bench sitter. The underground maze not puzzling the night dweller masturbater and gloomy overcoat prisoners, hiding from howling New York City apparitions of wolves in air vents of bathroom, 13th floor, for the second time. Street visions of Ginsberg in SoHo, I am sleepless and mind lost, wandering, walking with a quarter dollar black plastic bag from laundromat twisting knuckles needing maps. Wide awake in Times Square lights considering month long Canadian nights in the gateway to the rockies, Alberta, Alberta, like the name of some 1920's aunty. Graceful Chinatown newspaper ballet, dances a natural Swan Lake with subway grate, Swan Grate, hooded by tobacco smoke in palms of black gloves while Canal harbours black clad Manhattan Island hipsters with knees greeting leather greeting sheep holding spines from remaining winter chill at 5pm evening, like ghosts we are receding. Simulate midair crucifixion in central Central Park stimulating dance, I'm here and I'm breathing alive in the rhythm of a second. The rock tombs, the microcosmic wombs witness reverence, all in the imagination of the math that makes the crowd, the singular into many, into one, and the two that laughed at roses. Blue blonde by pond the skeletal arms and fingers of trees creeping across the sky spookily, wonder if she's scribbling about her life and what it's all about. I smelt grass down Rambling, felt the warmth between lips and breath of fleeting romance of man and woman in stone alcove.

(On the subway from Broadway to Times Square wondered about mystic similarities unknown unnoticed, they were children they had parents, what do we have in common? The mythic proportions of New York)
Eyes gouged away at grouting between granite rectangular pavement on South Broadway revealing subterranean time lapse backwards through history. I say goodbye and long live New York City, God bless the beggar in Greenwich Village, next time I'll buy you soup, while worrying about records in the belly of a Greyhound bound for the Capital, at least I'm not hungover. The Garden State Parkway somehow reminds me that eights are bound to live long and die alone. It doesn't have to be dark to see stars in America, flag pole snakes stiff and upward saluting a thousand suns above spring red fiery amber tips of branches look like flames, parks and forests are slowly putting their clothes back on after being naked for so long. Turquoise right arm polka dot brunette made inquisitive eyes at Egyptian good luck coin and Aswan octagon over sternum at chest. I also noticed hers. The District of Columbia is a pretty chapter in the story book of Spring. I want to fold America into my notebook and take it home.

the truth isn't always what you're told, it's what you're not
the truth isn't always what you know, it's what you don't

in the bright night blue becomes you

if you believe in one you believe in all and none.

Axis Lumber...

are no golden palms and ancient arms of nature sacred? canyons and valleys under the keeper lune breathe though one breath lasts one hundred years and the pause before exhalation releases seas to the black coral shores of another ruined land where beasts conquered tearing spirit from sky raising tyranny like celebrity or a whore trying in vain to leave a legend though material does not follow the grave and it would be a mistake to assume one is bigger than the sum of parts much wilder than any archetype of man though wild imagination of early may have created a veil for we have cursed ourselves since ships bluntly carved paths through spring bay rains and mist rolling over white shoulders to establish and breed God and steel and steam and factory plumes staining wood hulls in the rivers veins now tarry graves anchoring stormy hearts to the bottom drowning spirits defeated with the knowledge they never had a chance to climb the spine of cloud-dusting totem poles slowly sucking youth and future children of technicolour undoing the great knowing and form through function

The Private Theatre, Comic and Tragic...

sleep
a gentle cheek moored to thee, vertically denied from the opposite side of the balustrade
looking on from a perch of nested velvet, at those whom balled and danced
stairs seemed to lead us running in hands, with no backward look
to satisfy the allure of what will be no more
in a great migration of footsteps, swishing softly in pattern past lace of another decade
motion twirling clockwise like a levitating dervish repeated fast-forwarded to this decade
in the warm glow of memories stored, unlocked for this moment no minds lost in ether
to launch into days loved in abundance
the deep valley of the soul
where no sin yet tear you from thine cheek
the fortune of two ever lost in a gaze
through the zodiac with great spirit
through many movements of moon
and planetary arrangements

wake up !
I brought you to me in the secret coma of subconscious
behind the warden eyelids and back before the daylight guards arrived
though tingling knuckles from clasping prevails