You be the hot grenade

I'll be the stomach of steel

that catches it

the mouth that exhales smoke

translating fire into speech of many tongues

branches all caressing

from the molten heart

the fevers that make spirits flesh,

up past the barriers of bladed space

far over chariots of darkened matter

and orgasmic information

into blank angelic zones

that smell of broken chocolate,

into the most fertile wound.

All the grime of blown illusions

riding on a cloud of maggots,

inhabiting the thoughts

of a disfigured species,

tearing the sail to shreds

that dripped with captured daylight,

stuck to the hull of reality

with no relief from time.

Teeth on a chain of pink plaster

clicking for an earless breeze.

Corroded walls on limestone

reflections that embroider on the blade

dissection of the ritual assurance

that carried sleepy bones into the grave.

In the curve of winds secured by ghostly circles

the heights of ridged hills

and the smell of cracked rock,

bright eyes are the heat's holder.

The cave cups fire dances

smoke rides a fissure out into the sky.

New blood is paint before it dries.

The bridge of smoke mysteriously retracted

walls that speak through porous images

silk running down a hill of steam.

Ecstasies remembered

in fragments like blades,

sacred without number, lost.

Bronze throne of reverberation

no jewels in sight

the wings of broken gliders

trapped in treetops

banners fluttering with faded history

vines coiling in cave mouths

silver steps to a rancid sun

flaky layers coming off

with quick fried letters

landing on swollen floors.

Bring me a milk lit thistle

alert in a bucket

calligraphy of blood worms

sprayed on the soulful lid.

The light of the sun is gray

on these ruddy brown hills.

I have seen the statues fall,

I have seen them be replaced

by faint projections.

I have seen stone turned to jelly

and men become steel.

I have seen steel become soup

and nations netted hives

besieged by hyenas.

I have seen the lion shed his hair

and the shadows become maps,

rice paper ceilings

for the dwellers of caves

in the earth.

I have seen through planetariums

to the real outside.

Stars go pale with time

the distance rides in

veins of travel

red with battered clay

and living dust.

I retract my symbols

pull my desperate blade from the soil.

This tent of skin

becomes translucent suggestion.

I build a porch beneath my bones

let the forces go roving home.

Rivers on wayward courses

the delinquents of a dying dawn.

Paths wrapped around

the black hole tree

kissprints on the ice

that holds the world

curved claws on a violin

wind blowing over horned instruments

deep closets opened by a sigh

time's errors in a swarm of stung ghosts

dime turning on a statue's head

worms woven into florid patches

on the jacket of a replica cowboy

form talking from disintegrated form

checkered letters from a book of ash.