<><><><><>

One's very blood--and the coming lack of it
        stricken with nothingness
                          oozing dark matter
                    handled by a fever of movement
          to the town-fountain broken by universal lava
 melted currency paving the mouth
           disorder of beamed intelligence
               parting the flower bed
                 the transference to mist

<><><><><>

Brother of rubber wheels is gone to the wild low country
   for ten slugs on the bones of Jesus:
     one slug on the skeletal vortex
          to hold the world in place
        for the bones to stay breezeless
           unrevealed and wanting: the rest
          for show of life, to ooze
              in movement on what is dead


 Brother of rubber wheels is gone
            quite raw in the head
                from all the defunct centuries
              piling on top of each other,
                to little effect: love and evolvement
            have left him out, to bankrupt
                his insides: and the meek hills
              and the shearing mountains
                  rise up in anger to cry
               the same song to the same interior


  His lionesque head
                                of healing ozone

<><><><><>

The only solution is to build
      a one-person concentration camp for yourself
         and really concentrate there


    Until you can't stand it
       and you can stand everything else


   Barriers of light and barriers
     of dark I have struck you down
       and I want to be in my body


     Flinging the money curtain aside I
       flaunt blood to nobody looking
        get pulled alongside by an illegal beauty


      Dances of floors that pop and stretch
        into memory-corners while you keep dervishing
         linked flights of bridge rollercoaster


      Over history's shit

<><><><><>

   Barriers of light and barriers
     of dark I have struck you down
       and I want to be in my body
     Flinging the money curtain aside I
       flaunt blood to nobody looking
        get pulled alongside by an illegal beauty
      Dances of floors that pop and stretch
        into memory-corners while you keep dervishing and not looking
         linked flights of bridge rollercoaster
      Over history's shit

<><><><><>

 Fossils clash, in the air
           where their ropes have broken
        slamming dead jaws together
            while their enemy coasts past
         on coats of ivory and wheels
        traffic of goon kisses
          smitten maps of battery on the body
 foundling murdered by ash, by light
 by darkness too, and rings of organic matter
   flinging their mercurial gardens
 jagged circlets of an atom genie
     through the fucked and living universe
       pulsating with error

<><><><><>

Ash on the tent, where we've arranged
        a memory to become fundamental,
   blown and fading, as the fire crawls
          all that is reaching, frond eye
       disintegrating up, up to the curve
             of planetary atmosphere,
                   to be kissed by a rain of light-year's silt,
                       in the drone of orbit

<><><><><>

Four prints on the body
          distinguish it from time.
In the rafters a sluggish network
         regenerates, wings distinguish themselves
                                                          with sound,
 and then world-frenzy,
      micro-ceiling hell where toes wiggle
    eight prints on the body
       make its electron double dance.

<><><><><>

Fulcrum of volcanic mews
   to be remembered, to have no lasting value
      to be the death of an instrument
                            a cord missing


Eruption of sanctuary
      in the valved, imaginary heights
  split hills, negotiated overpasses
        wetting and melting transparency of all


    air-craters and hollow-pockets
      crucifix windowpanes
          and the red faces pressed against
            now flowing out of my body

<><><><><>

The shield holds back smoke as the continents fade out of my footsteps
an end to counting days on fingers
black river risen to the sky dawning
bridges twang town to town city to city
ports and airways are open
but we keep missing each other
like android children


Fossil imprints appear in the undergrowth
eyes of millions in a lightyear tube
thinner than a coffee straw
humming this, this is the earth
and thinking themselves blinded by action


Silverworn, forced
a talisman blue highway
to the dusk heart of

<><><><><>

Forms of primitive love
         in the last unviewable boudoir,
 dynamite rabbit ears candling
          on the high motel's ancient TV,
   stacks of prophets
  on the coffee table, no organic light,
                  an unswallowed protest
                    hovering in the air like a law,
                  vent opens twilight through the numbered door
                  like a cop's lightstick,
tongues blight a series of searing pipe organs
                                   thistles high in the tumult's hair of destroyed melody,
                                                                  the holocaust of popular illusions complete
                                       in the baby doors of the skull, numbed authority petulant
                                                                                                     leopard-print rims
                                                                                         on the orbs of the far-seeing
                                                                                            schoolmarm machine gun,
                                                                                          unfettered barrenfoot flower,
                                         an erring wave of perfecting fire,
                                          fringe cutting inner space
                                      chronosucculent tar and feather
                                          the idol of the fallen
                                              multiplying in armchairs

<><><><><>

Adversarial to the depths of beyond
languishing in forced perfection,
                           senses polished by nuclear missiles
the speaker on the holographic box
has an intestinal tract emerging
                         from his left eye.
 His brains have been stamped in twice,
                from his own speech:
     we are his millennium
         fakes of the gas-pump
             hands on hands on hands
        stunned with the rigors of totality
      psychic bloodbath like an outdoor chessgame
      shaped like flowers by
       the observances of passerby,
           acoustic nickel

<><><><><>

Unlonely, at the level of a grave of the dead
  shining with sight, viewing
  tendrils impossible to grasp land-wide,
       tongues cross-purposed
       machinery of desireless love
                sky's curve turning


        they hammer their fists into a world-wide riverbank,
       bored of the many beautiful people
         audibly lamenting their own virtue
     knuckles' print like a genital map in the mud of the earth

<><><><><>

Rugby unit eleven hundred and thirty four
arrives on your astroturf doorstep.
Your presence, the sheer small heft of you.
Your dolled-up likeness everywhere.
I see you sneak into line-ups
and bring out a rebellion of nurses.
I see your revolutionaries
cloth-banging in a televised alleyway.
Rugby unit eleven hundred and thirty four
has a thing for you, a thing
to outperform death's moment,
balloon's lasso around his ears
high above the human current, smiling

.....

    An island in broken bottle basement
 and plenty of filth to get beautiful with
luster of fools, empty perfumes
tracking a voice along the hallways of the dead
calling universe-tent, the joke of light,
                                      to come down

.....

Bashing green sentiments
 lacework of hard vines
 a mold for the out-of-control
  sky full of helicopter trash
   dancefloors beautified by the doubly conscious,
                                           doggedly partying
          slapped flank blushing near the mirror
          the singer is swallowing a wall
         I was locked up in language
          and by diagrams and degrees
            squandered

.....

Inside the burning supermarket of memory
    all that is worth losing is still going on
   I can see your hard beauty
       and the soft beauty that it no longer talks back to  
      smiling desperately

.....

No longer destroyer, usurper uncontrolled
    an impish dragon, hedging toward dawn
       with alarmed eyes, up a warping hill
          to where reflection is ahistorical liquid
         stirring a fantasy government from the loins of fate
          developing a pinnacle of imaginary leadership
          while the gulls and rabbits and owls do not swoon
         in the frozenness of our spectacle.

.....

World lain back in the cut
     watching the nothingness sprawl
          across the wonderful threshold


My neighborhood is turning to dust
         together our faceted eyes move
              to the burning, imaginary door
          where once we left our masks to turn liquid,


          Immense

.....

  The fire that brought us into
        this life together is disintegrating,
      yet we remain connected--how?


The furnace in our limbs
      and of our cages singing
         has left its fury elsewhere.

.....

Alone in the forgotten language
walking the streets to crystal mirage bed
all doors closed to commerce
walking the streets of the high library
walking with the strides of death's unharmed
in imagination: screens flicker with parades
of the dying, masked
          winged conceptions, a landmark breaking up
          the cornerstone split into salt

.....

Now we are roped off against one another,
                          the empty air can begin to think.
  Out loud: all the settlements shall throw their millennia of repressions
                                                                           at once, with great effort!
     There shall be a new age of forced wonder.
        Gunpoint will sizzle in the re-focused eyes.
             Timeless earthfare on the bedsheets
          a warrior alive with helplessness at last.

.....

The force of life sprung
hammers the unequipped,
hammers them the most,
as if something comical were happening,
trickles into their white-tipped red nerves
and finds a home there


light-sanded, superior to its own
infinity and lack of suffering
my solitude is an eruption of echoes
friends blown off by death respectability and politics
I fashioned a weapon from my discontents
the catalogue of a well-predicted existence