Passionate nights,

passionate days on this earth.

I lived my life among the cursed

because I am one of them, because

there are no others.

I picked up rocks and saw

my residence in them.

I watched the noisy places

burn down to ash

on every mangled shore.

A blade that floats in foam

inscribed with cells

in multiplying fractions

climbing volcanic rope

when the river's gone

and a sky of lumpen angels beckons.

Gates guarded by elastic veils

furrows parted by the king of mystic rails

syrup dripping down through summer.

I got chopped up by cameras

in the fragrant woods

frozen in the freezing light

that crawls rough surfaces like raging oil

hung from floating car doors

putting signatures to floating magic papers

seated in the pleasure chair

in time warp diners

that replicate in unseen webs

the gravity of certain types of flowers

has pulled me through these stinging swamps

and teeth filled jawbone museums

lonely ledges in the midst

of broken dancers in the pits

of western dressing rooms

caves attached to all the dragon's wombs

unfolding through the dripping undersides

of cubicles coded senseless

and fixed feathers of metallic birds of prey

gripping satellite antennas

cold tongues asleep on marble

all hooded by refracted pine.

I went out to climb the mounds of sugar

pulling letters from

the boxes of strangers

reading them all

beams from immovable sky orbs

scanning fractured water

embers of swollen islands

bridges flirting with ragged visibility

and the ones I'd known were gone

to the impenetrable hills

bound in fortress pleasures or

cast out to gutter prizes

red threads glittering on sun shocked bones

tresses growing in a music box tomb

whose vaults have hungered

hungered for the fallen ears of God

and the gears of his reactive rod

rented out to rotating burlesque.

Find me in the fire walker's trance

find me in the slot belonging

to a clapping coin machine

smoking by the glass walls

close to an exploding rose.

Mine is the shadowed space

between these towers of empty cans

mine are the scoundrel's wings

beating homeward nowhere

for a ring of solemn flower green relief

where electric fame's inducted into sleep.

Skies are raging with the forms

collected in an omnibus

these vertebrae balloons

ferns emerging in an empty room.

Rain delaying death comes pouring out of the dusk

memorized lusts all burned away by living flesh

the appetite of blooming canyons

calling to my mossy painted bones.

Ropes of seething memory

that tighten over ebbing cities

lax lines of light

dripping dark ecstatic praise.

Ruins of distorted tales

licked into twitching shape

by the passing of angelic rage.

I crouched in blasted rooms

stitching ink into floating bubbles

deep within the windows

holding clouds from some high abyss,

painted rust of unkept daydreams

crackling in long curved halls.

In the oven was a luminous egg

sending fractals into meditative space,

vibrant with the needle seed

threading space like gravy,

porous as the seething sun.