Here is one I'd thought lost, but I found it lurking in some non-Automaticwriter LJ community from 2001.

Crowding the World

Never thought I want
The infinite to dream
A heavy casualty of the future
And your hands know
That I write the dance
Without the colors of the sky

At least it's the snow of pilgrims
And its fingers and the foreign sunsets
Your movements are in my head
Crowding the world to sleep
What happened is this moment is dirt
In their shoes to go and in my head
I am born and the future
Or a refracting through a few days ago
A film trailer to stone the dead

How that feeling of ashes
Time is the snakes in a snow
Will be there with sunsets for me
The sky would have a tale
To separate the writers writing this convoy of flame
On wings of sands
The wind, the city, secret faces
The situation carries frosty shadows
The fog lingers until the same phrase
The combustion of the good people
Crowded world ended a snow
To please the future
This, now, a diamond, the city

kalemachka

Do you ever deeply scrutinize the symbols that are important to you, or even those that are not necessarily important but prominent in your day-to-day life? I mean scrutinize them really closely. No, probably not. You may not have noticed that some of them have been replaced by changelings when you weren't paying attention. Your religious and cultural symbols, do they still signify what they first did when you acquired them? Are you certain? How about that cross, or that peace symbol? Or that oversized gas guzzler, or even the color green? Take the Statue of Liberty for instance. I think it has been replaced by a doppelganger. It's not the same familiar Liberty it was when I first encountered it as a child. She has become a stranger. Take a look around you and look freshly at all the things which have a symbolic function. Has anything changed, at all?

An Indigo Solvent

Monastic stuffiness dusts labyrinths
executed in disatisfied luminosity.
A cartoon Icarus clutters the balcony.

Depleted Uranium punch in the bistro,
self-executing Icarus trumpets
middlebrow innovations. Ouch a canker.

Pinprick of greyhounds in the ashtray,
we palpate spreadable measurements,
mindful only of spatterwax descending.

An indigo solvent fast approaches,
each drop a city of green life, multi-legged.
Mutilated, down left aloft, spatterwax.

A cartoon Icarus sings in bubbles.

Why Don't I like the Road?

The sky is monochrome.
Heavy and the moon is much.
Suffice it to watch the party
where seals seem to stretch
tomorrow, sticked by both hands.

Enjoy the old,
it's in the words "Follow the Moon."
You are likely to be doing
anything but being carried by horrors.

Why don't I like the road?
Because I am wondering when the word
"Follow"
is most likely to step
around the energy of us and make a party.

In the old it's the weather,
best of the energy of the beaches.
In California where seals seem to
watch the host of the house,
is a thousand dreams
guaranteed for the pot-laced men.

I am wondering,
when was the road doing anything else
but laying in your deliciousness?

-kalemachka

[this is a new revision of a poem from several years ago.]

Protein Heralds

Tightwads downfall,
bewitched,
ever saner disfigurement.

Vigilance defrays the cost of replanting,
gamey like warblers,
but outside.

Quotations embroidered with dust,
unfair psychotic shrieks,
indirectly evoke
shoelaces of showplaces
the telltale spreadable frosting.

Redecorate the scent of greyhounds,
joined in lifelike plumpness,
yet notched on the windward side.
Pour one out for victory,
pour one for warblers,
but outside.

Curtail the wirehaired racketeers

Cremators lack the right impression.
With their striding brocades they dissatisfy,
Leviathan paymasters permit acoustic moping
because timidity sheilds the fleet.

Larval emendations bewitch us you know,
as the civilized languish
vultures stoop in thoughtful vigils.
Arson is endorsed tentatively.

Egress disturbed, the disfigured regal,
replanting stuffed adjectives
to make cartoons of lifeless polemic.

Calibrated Homeliness

A ferocious victorian fancier
lacerates bistro shrimps,
But sometimes generators sheild
bewitched tarantulae,
as a cartel of adjoined surgeons
regulate bothersome talking.

How mellow the fuchsias, ah!
The fittest classical blasting
overlays coherent cynicism.
Oh how we middlebrow knuckleheads
endorse the labyrinth,
permitting approaching unfairness.

-Kalemachka

Hounds dine on salvaged tarantulas,
unheeding the unfair and unforgiving wind
as it irrigates with dust the furrows.

Toreros on stilts knuckle down to coexist.

With salvaged dust,
the unforgiving tarantulas furrow the hounds.
Unheeding winds dine.

Prolong the arson indirectly.

Unfair winds salvage the unheeding hounds,
as tarantulas dine in the furrows.

Hunching, the warblers herald.

~ Kalemachka

Guarding the doorway of rustles,
cotton plants under gray desire.
Summer morning air kissing,
Two women squat, pissing by her smoke.

Innocently drinking a week of inedia,
The round eyes lay burning in the dusk.
Prawns flow across the palm,
Constrained by throat-burning fluids,
Wondrously attired in fingers.

Dusk in the morning.
The first agressive rush of secret books,
The beach retreats from kisses merry,
But likes best
When filled with shadowy pleasures.

Her head filled,
Paints in a studio,
Scratchy recording kissing,
A ritual, a pause.
We who pass see her,
Naught else, but know what's buried
A few feet away.

Dying animal makes clarity,
A handful of bright past.
Hiking 18 miles,
Play ritual upon a beach.
Walking home, one might flee
Even if strong.

Strong, my skin on a stick,
She leads the procession
Through a restaurant kitchen,
To chests of women, where my hands are taken.

Women empty of shadows
Rise in black smoke
As wings drag on water.
What to the south wind
Is contingent like ferns in April.

Roots, sea nettles in a crowded nightclub,
Gaze chisels of sleepy lust
In a nearby parking lot,
Water-kissed frenzies
remain Southern.

Beachcombing in the dying light,
Animals make eyes pressing ice.
Ice, waking from sand
Consisting of tiny periwinkle rain-soaked asphalt,
Somehow to hide my water
That I save for the mellow dark children.

Heat lightning toy,
abandoned in an apartment.
The sun rises on reason.

~ Kalemachka

In the place of sighs and silver storm clouds,
The future is assaulted by prisoners of life.
What I try hiding in my heart is birds.
We trust, we tumble, time comes from a dream.

And I have preserved the way to hide
My birds of time, their ashen eyes in shadows.
Thus do we reinvent the laws of sleep,
Of marching tales to the foreign wonder,
And only recently do we describe the bright faces
In the dance.

Well, we do divulge. We dream the darkest breezes,
And eye the tales of hiding, of laughing shadows.
Everything isn't at once the beautiful,
It is the rehearsal of snow on glass beaches,
Painted harbors.

The dance isn't a scarce individual,
The dance sees the mind is all moments,
The dance knows that on water,
I do not want your face.

Birds easily fear
The children in the abyss,
In gloomy fury lingering for dusk.
Whole movements in the mind
Disperse acting in the universe,
Sleep ends, dreaming begins.

~ Kalemachka

Mountains in the foreign
Wondered what I wonder.
They, reborn as pilgrims,
Slithered burning,
And birds rehearse their ash.

I am retired, to digest a dream,
Write the dead, and eat the day.
My heart is the beginning
And I am the conjuror,
A tempest in the shadows,
And I sit in a tale of my time.

It's just a war, this madness,
The sad messages in bottles,
Burned in dreams of the poor.
Bless the secret faces in the waves,
I am not upset.
The universe is all terror,
But the colors of your love amaze me.
And from a candle burning,
A cry of the bird lovers

~ Kalemachka

Joined balconies cascade superior flowers,
tinhats guard fossil beds
and poachers spread hands
on dusty tabletops.

Increasing purge of the Djinn,
unrepentent Leviathan
greedily scratches the desert,
pictures for the pale and prurient.

~ Kalemachka

At night a traveller chanting,
fireworks and tears
accomplish a blue magic.

Snowflake magnets milk the timeless,
swat the air in fearless light.

Rain on the road,
a prophesy of happy tracks.
Indifferent remains
of a secret rose,
the stars are this many old.