I spring the door of ages with the sinews raging of what I have created
I am crusher of air-cubes where the inhabited live, to be cured of silence
fallen out of their anchored telephones like children starving
patios climbed by fire-escapes where grey thorns match red
the match head burns in a tray of glass where gin splashed my eyelid
crying child's wrath of imagination across magnetic poles of the earth
vision solid as the scales of a reptilian people
the inside of abandoned steeples laced with the poetry of
our few flown outcast brain-saviors, brazen announcers of the night
with a poisonous counter-poison that is alright.

Stadium crater mic to the treetops
long lightning in sensitive shadows
down the trunks on a broken shore
spilling roots to the sand side
where the sky melts the earth
I kneel by a water cooler
spilled ice from a red mouth
grass running over the bounds of the fallen
heights of the civilized speaking with a torn mouth
from the water's line-spill into electricity
and falling wool from the edge of a sled's slip

THE WRATHFUL TREES

The wrathful trees will strangle your death
in their long hands and give you life.

Other forests will join in with their natural poison
to celebrate the tongue of your corpse
speaking the soil of the future.

Man belongs to the infinite.
And the earth does not.

They work out their guilt on you
you're a tin puppet carrying diseased cum
in a vase with robot fingers around its glass neck
flailing with original dances on a microwaved lawn.

Warrior of poetry, pounding fist that smashes the faces
of the complacent with the sun's voice.
Warrior of flow-etry, speak to my speakers
with the air-space of a bossa nova cube.

Murder my false authorities with sadness, murder them
with a knife and with a gun, that I may feel greatness.
Fist me with your wedding ring
that is evidence of your link to a glacier.

TRASH CHAPTER

Phlegm-daughter phlegm brother,
riot for cones of hilltop light
with horns in the belly
marked for colors in the high mind
flung by leather to canvas
of cast-off clothes,
peaking on broken ceilings
where the fingers of water
reach like vacant blood.

Tongue hugger of pink lips
for what leaves life steaming,
pool of ashes and bent leaves
where a battered plate
hangs suspended.

From the wire that becomes its plan
existence is twanging shapely, erect
and forgetting motherfuckers.

Hang plate with a navel on its old lid
glazed drifting eye with its pyramid
of stacked daggers.

They live surrounded by their dead gods
and cannot empty their minds.
Life like blood in the mouth
pouring out of me.
Death like glue
in the nerves of my true system.
A life-attack from light,
that leaves the darkness
unsatisfied.

Chameleons live on the members of the chameleon
sick fishes away jelly on branches overhanging water in foam nests
you need big chunks and disorder
open flames like the bottoms of bottles
an uncovered circle around the valve floating in a silicone blob
grasping feet and prehensile them climb

Spiny oysters and snails live
beads or glitter with hot glue
the copper wire with lengths for each of the lights
you are a beach walker lined with forests of evergreen
rivers are a jar of sea glass
zones of mud crannies along eroded shores
young drift in the water, mimicking fallen gray mullet
the trees above the rising tide over the bead wire
the crab-eating frog lives on a head pin,
plastic with a button inside the earring

Sunset slope of the line absorbs and evaporates sympathetic spirit,
to flex the dinner bell for the right to mate with vibrant shades of metallic khaki

Canyons split open at his foot-reach
lightning trapped on the rafters
where he stepped in from the sky
eating with energy
stamping his fist
upon the beautiful creation
in order to improve it.

2 THOUSAND 5

Nerve-blasted, half dead on his feet shot through the neck
teenage hurt guitars on the cemetery hill
have that stung blueberry pie
on a drum machine highway
never touch the limits
a stinking stung by kisses
understood the forced sun, in its distance
moon in its holding pattern hurt
dog walked into a new silence
the lust of its musical hours sended
the podium it held upright in the woods is melted
its fort is a heap of leaves

Dams of crayon break like salt
on the desk of my brother.

He is scribbling his whole life
crafting his whole life
bringing his whole life
voicing his whole life without mirror
tongue-twisted by fate to make
the call of melody deform into meaning,
dissolved into several.

My brother has a feeling
which will last for ages.
He crouches over it and bashes it
into fern-patterns where the whip landed, on canvas.
He sorts by strike until the colors have faded
into a different weave.

In the temporal arc
tensions that held me together are drifting
chains of the flesh that cloaked
are unlinking time's disorder,
stretching what loves emptiness
to palpitate a fallen sky's hot winking triangle
muff I fall through
while I call to you on this cellular, secular dissonance
that resembles the twitch
of a fallen religion

Passing through dust through water vapor
disposed to dream light from a dazzling occult
women in thrall to the destruction of the human mind
starfish pineapple a charmed pearl in an enormous ark
the light of a blood-red sunset built and stocked on the coming disaster

Fawn fall on your yard
like a yardstick going soft in the damp
waitresses cycle through clusters of trees
on a path of risen ice,

flinging bits of money into themselves
while the sun eats the daylight
and the world starves for it.
The windows glazed with breath
square off against the inside/outside
that is killing and preserving us,

lopsidedly dancing the machine of humanity
into a veil of cool black plastic.
And the bodies are taken out by those
who can still move, and frozen
in the river of frozenness
that has overwhelmed and underwhelmed
the real flowing thing.

I'm wild for the sun on the road, the sword in my pants.
He who chooses the highway bare will attract travelers.
The gridworked ribbon winding toward the planet's light,
I watch the trees and houses dip out of shape.
Panoply of grief's music for faces
keys jagged in piano's work of hands
the shadow of the wooden leaf on canyons of strings
parallel singers in the wind of metal
booth mic'd and expressing the clitoral spider
of amplification.  Beaches that unfold in the mind
to lap the readers of sleep awake into its purified
consciousness of water
the desperation it does not reflect.

PHOTOCELL FOR A FIRE LADDER

breasts in half brothers and sisters--both females from a genetic point
meat on a platter with powerful jaws and yard lights
the alpha's den snapping a chalkline of its own genes
pups has rails and switches and whisk rungs
wolf pack is a new year's cycle of subordinate breeding
denning another burrow snug against the sauce
both sides with the marinade muscled into alignment with the mud sill
follow the wall up--siding is lightly sauteed chanterelles

Charcoal sunrise wet with yellow rain
the circles cut a square of sky taffy
barren ships made barren land
for rent of hair the wigged moon slips
for lending ass her lips surround my dick with shifting seas
my babies leap on her belly like birch trees
we murder the anniversaries of our adversaries
with our female ends pointed at the speech of each other
corroded by the sight of white brick
in a wilting landscape floors carry
hearts in a dish and the unlidded eyes that bobble upon them
titled and tilted by the misnomers of silence
the milk stains the linoleum fried shapes
our cum evolves with a lake of fire in each pair of iris
thrust against the tent roof of earth
shaking her titties like a wet nurse driver
gaze to disarm an elephant's panic
a firm foot variable in the pressure of orbit's measureless breeze
dark daughter of matter

Refreshed with ribbons of mint we balance the skewered fish
medallions of veal to delight in those moments when he redeemed himself
with a midafternoon coffee clear of the morass of religious dissent
apocalyptic events refer more or less to a cold soup, but the leaf pattern on paper towels
with a watchful eye can master this fine space for meat and char
a floor polisher with a clean, soft cloth starting the engine
a man's weight on knee and toe boards with a wooden float
in a bowl with the base of the powers of divination smashed to deliver

After the shrimp have cooled through tough hides and thick hair and hang on aspic thickness
juxtaposition of raven windows or a wet basement persecuted by people
the tongue of one in the groove of its neighbor females
the sauce caulking stunt won't work space between sub and finis to spot sleepers
forests for winter, north to the tundra king carcass
a dodging rival built for dining
after the flames have subsided from the grill splash

PLAY

I honor myself, the spark of creation at rest in me
which will overwhelm galaxies.
I dwell in bung hole nirvana,
armpit of the imprisoned colonies.

Tablets and furniture cluster in shaped air
at the glimmer snap of my key ringed fingers.
Engines shuttle out of the walls built up for solitary travel,
the circle of eyes grows to eclipse the moon.

The shadows of city ships totter like lampshades
attacked fleetingly by the drunk of hell.
Love medicated by punctured dreams,
stormed by reality, subway seats and country trees
split open, leaking with sky stuff
and scum basement stuff, the brittle funk of ages
halved shell of spilled grease for brain
from a going omnibus.

WERK

Vents reflect the soft light given of the breeding female's urine,
which had been marinated in several of the frieze boards

I'll scorch you bitches and faggots with hatred,
read you the tangled bicycle of my body
with a relish of stinking oil,
give you my hate with a plate's edge
no handle for your lost soul to dig in with,
run your round numbers of silence
your uneven numbers of the blade's miss,
until I bury the hilt in your heart
and explode on command like a sun-fish

Took extra breaths while I waited without solemnity
scorched earth with the back thrust of my song
climbing the small town's sky-sword of broken ground
simmering panic that does not flow efficiently over
crowned my experts with dunce cap lavish meant
the boom bap core is eternal purple
the stars are fire marshals squawking like geese snarl not
the noise for peace, the whirling paint rose garden blown over
tails of laundered coats sown at the elbows blowing toward the exit way
empty suits pointing like clay

Born in the cave-womb just as a wolf howls
marked with the blood of a sacrificed goat, scourging any woman
naked through the city howling with ritual laughter to seek power
the drums changed their spirit world
his lunge for the gills and whip drops these rocks will break through
the entranced fish out of the water with a depth stop

When the high beams of you both track and lead the traveler
with the front bushings from a horse's bite he never predicted
to pour concrete into the forms and the panels stripped off
tying the building down across the level and the nails the parsnips after
we have killed enough wolves.

Bye GG

All the barriers of sense will disappear.
The imprisoned will have beneficent, total revenge.
The complacent will be raped and murdered
by their mid-gods and demi-goddesses.
Fuck them.  Eat this land and tear it out of your throat.
Fucking die.  Fucking die with the stares of the numb
cackling all over you.

Haggard, toothless, hair fucked:
the man who wouldn't listen to the professionals.

My defiant library sings in its
color on the highest sea;
it's true that my ape's ma
left humanity to attack me
properly from its haunches.

I sow herb towards death.
I dig ground with nimble what's bloody.
The sound and sight of life tell me what to do.

I call you the earth
I dream you and sing you
in your offshoots and remaining fragment.

I sing you the bridge
that hymns my body to yours
across the falsified centuries, a crucifix in salt, a barn standing
yours, mine, ours, eternity.

The circle of the moon
on a dull day it would come hard in the sky
furthest to a center of thought thrust
and a nest in the sex
a relevant bulb of information burst
in a head dreamed dull
slammed shut against a wall of shit froze
no reason for the pendulum's swing.

I am the falling rain, the death of
man.  Who calls me by name
knows me not.

ROOMMATE

His pig with its thick walls, the house's soul.
Chicken and chilies wheat rolls and coffee salt
bawling for its eastern neighbor or torment of fire

drag their rockers onto porches like water lilies
this great pit will be unsealed we sense Maya
tied to a yolk yellow consoling childless Sally

stains the four corners to a crisp tortilla
chockablock with tombs of new life
vulnerable to sheep and soccer
Employing paint

Death of their era through hatch or open eaves
bone rasps and the staccato clatter sporting wings of vivid bug repellent
to backstrap looms, one end newborn, the fledgling house must be fed
blood spattered on incense is set against villains of weather and wildlife
to curl into the blue heavens, beckoning the rich green of new life
smoke-blackened color-washed village of faith the cycle of sustaining corn
royal artist-scribe setting about his sacred uproar
the low lament of the gods and their cosmic spiderweb
throb of a great wooden drum and passports by flashlight gaps in the rusted-out floor
severed heads, torn fingernails, land is sad and faded
the vanquished are dragged by their hair from the chaos in the female realm

Along the plazas and avenues
there were clusters of closely placed upright poles

conical types and a few low,
curving antipatterns that convey his eyes,
almost as if he's waiting for a face

in the bright falling curls caribou land's brave settlers
necropolis of a golden empire
their rituals in the sunken court disappeared from history

I see myself old as fuck, a twig
wrung dry by a young man's game.
Smelled in a corridor of life's wishes,
thought through the labyrinth of implanted hearts,
brought on an illegal feeling through glass walls
to the thickly rooted, thinly vaunted
superstructure of human animal
feeling, the cube of lungs building
on mid-air.

Dry as a baby, pawing the current
for rumors of hot life and super-heated life.
The grief of the trees is the grief of my bones.
The grief of the elves is the grief of the giants.
The grief of myth is a fist, and the grief of DNA
is a pang in the galaxy's work of ribs.
All things will be seen through, laser-lit
because they cannot remain flush.
The thrush tugs with beak at a wing-pit
in its staircase of feathers.
The spring of tigers will not come.
But one will come, and one, and one,
and one.

Making smooth silvery lines on the red to Nike and lance mountain
sliding his tail at the apex
as both flashy dandy and sober think     van Gogh as a Buddhist monk
gilded I waived all my rights and revered by the plain people above sea level
a waterfront with ships from whitewood furniture, the shelves of glorious copper dome
velvet on a gray satin ground profusely decorated as Christ, Rembrandt, a bohemian outcast
an obedient, faceless servant of a dogmatic establishment class bourgeois to
                                                                  core self--or, as we would say today, narcissistic

                                     articulating a sense

I will suck vegetables of the earth
and rain terror from the strength of my bowels.
On the opulent interiors of the gilded age
I will make my song to the electricity of unstoppable worms.
And the gilt frame will come alive
with the totality of my fuck-error.
A highway of sadness out of the bowed trees
stronger than the blown reeds of the river stream

PESKEOMSKUT POEM

I hate the voices of these bitches.
The dope's shroud moving with him, as he talks.
The cat's vain back
as she struts her limited gambit, back and forth.
And every motherfucker eating his own shit,
tell him to hate this place too, on his own terms.
The beauty of earth, suck on it.

The beauty of the rotted blood, suck on it.
And I will proclaim and sing the true name of this land
until the sky swells to meet this place
and the wrath of blood desecrated runs
with all its names alive in the corridors of power.

And if anyone should disrespect,
even in the silence of their mind,
the true name and charter of this place,
my poet's curse will follow them into dark hallways
where their family photos warp with secret error
and dark hairs spill out of their nostrils
like the beards of the living numb.

Drained canals glint of reserved water
below tadpole and minnows' plain
shelved up on rifted soil
drying banks offer up the sun on surprised shoots,
weeds of flower sodomize the moon's reflection
in the bent dim of afternoon.

Not only from the waffle iron sky
but also from the leaks there, in the stern lining;
sun-cracks that speak to the eyes through a shattered terrace:
a wrecked place with pastels to sip toffee,
see brawn whistle and lie down.

Ferns of hair come through my grave
seed pods of silk erase my bloody eyes
roof shingles slide to land beneath forked pines and pave the earth
enchant the shade's collapse and cup a deer's turd
in the landfill of an underground forest--
scythe's blade whir and whistle behind the swing set--
branches of broken air that eat, mend and extend
while trees outline the groin of a larger forest
hinted in the ice, burnished on the sea of the sun's face
wrinkled by radio waves--stunted stalactites of spiritual life
building wells in the mid-air of a cracked ribcage
where a prism of language re-filters light that has struck it
like a spermy kiss touched by split wood
and the smell of charcoal clothes

Lean hard on the blood moon hype
dagger man out of the sky for mountain fuck
sending eyes to the height of mold
through a massively annoying hyper dermis
in the bleached field of nerve kisses
where blunt cylinders rise as makers of extra
proud excess fevering out of train caves
knuckleheaded human activity filling the air
with busy neon languages in hot transit
playful fingers tweaking horrified oxygen
so that new orbs can descend
and break in the form of water
hacking the death of what's left
with its sweet non-insistence

Firs of autumn strike the mark
artificial dark of ponds
flaming with an underlight
and gone to the sought after dawn vagina
ages palpitated by madness

fishes in the sleeves of men
who wander in her orb of thoughts
to be forgiven for their torments of the cloth
and making stinks in catacombs of grease
to feed the geese a bit of bread from overhead

and heave its sweet collective gizzards to the breeze
in song of galaxy death
rushing bridges' street with portholes to worm intact
multiverse city to multiverse city
idiot eyes lighting up at the sight of a girl's

thickness through falling veins
and a wrung-out velveteen sidewalk
needle pulling to the center boom
the paint in an apartment room peeling
for a condom'd finger tracing toward broken brush

the song of a thrush trigger's mantle piece eyes

The workmen on a yellow girded roof
are scraping the sky, jack-hammering clouds
upside down, loins and hands throttled with sweet
futility, bricks pouring out of the vapor.
The clash of sky with sky
as a game of marbles shifts them closer
bends horizons deep to blades they held in check
when all our earths were separate, and God was hood.

Buildings that hate their own brick, pets on brain steroids
who have taken over households...ditches dug
by city-assigned workers flowering with colored worms.
Power lines taken down for use as sex toys.
The chilled and crumbling flash-frozen tundra
in a landscape of shadowed drones
where I hope for yogurt.

Fossils of new moons fitting neatly
into excavated canyon sides and valley vagina,
bones melted into flesh and becoming penile.
Years turned to pillars of salt in the position of the body.
The failed urchins of drugged concrete corners
munching wafers of vanilla substitute, eyes
stained charcoal black by an unguarded sun.

Toolboxes snap shut like instrument cases, spit
stains the experienced cement, garages
open robot beds, drills of hardened fauna,
screams of null time.
The muffled babymaking of the new slaves,
wings of the feathers that pay
by falling off
into valley hands.

BODY BLIND LOVE

Love this body down,
love this body under
thunder this body in thy veins

Give me body blind love, landscape
arrayed with secret warriors,
festering with real lightning.

Meekness departs from my being;
the scraping of breakfast cereal
ricochets to the thrill of my forehead.

BUCK

I rush a corncob over my fucked teeth
and think of laughter in hell.
My tall dick in your mouth.
The moving sky and its living
objects on the wing.
The afterbirth of eternity
scouring over our last thoughts.
The bridge top
where you finally tickle my airplane ticket
in an ecstatic moment of destiny
that ends on the cusp of a city-wide sink
and kisses down its canyon sides
in an avalanche of burning glory.

He places a dead moth on top of the live one.
On the motel door, wings under weight,
and for this alone he deserves to die
if one can deserve the inevitable.
The 2 moths separate into numbers.
The door opens, the door is his hand,
the redhead in the corner's bed opens
the eye of her mouth, says he is the only one
who feels, can find her with himself,
the drapes are thick with silver embroideries
and he is a moth man, her prince of dusty hands
who replaced life with a symbol of life, and then
entered.

Archipelago of suffering beauties
invested with diners of gauze
circulating through its waters
the strongest current of dumb love
the sheen of gasoline on a kissing face
the evolution of an interrupted error
an eruption avoided by our sad dispersal
awakenings perverted by madness
a charcoal kiss that removes the rot
fire of the ages built pyre upon pyre
on a human face.

<><><><><>

In the mirror I see fighting itself
woofing what's been given to a torn sky
fish features truck stopped in my loins
coins fountain that scumbag back at me
in godlike reminiscence.

Dig for the deep planetary eye
the gland of universe's birth
behind the prostate.

<><><><><>

Torn from the emptiness
a cell cries out
whimpering in error grand in truth
protesting forced existence for more existence

barren hills rise up from fallen hilltops
broken water is unfrozen in long long
streams to longer and longer oceans

where the pocket deep does not enslave
does not chafe in its mutation
glowering with light, not ready
to blow up the scarred remnants of the known world

until my body is kissed by flies
and my pecker's outline filled with sand
I reject the civilization implanted in my heart
and sip coffee from its dragon's udder

<><><><><>

First the flower-things fell off the wall,
the doze of elements broke through its entirety,
and the rimmed angels lay down
to evaporate with their master.

Second the seconds expanded to minute size,
prisms' beam unicorns off of the twilight,
takes a chunk of heat out of the universe,
heat with heat, to kill the teacher of logic
who lives in the snare of a gun, with a red bouquet
with the feigned innocence of thorns,
mother finally fucked for good
the cling of the hillsides, the clutch
of the touched moon.

<><><><><>

Our one torpedo moon, sheathed in dead silk,
unwinking, oblique: I blow you up in my mind.

And still you descend sideways to rend my planet-side
rib of ages unread cave scripted on the walls fossilized
bread that the ages never ate and so became the stilled
cityscapes of the tamed, viper morsels playing a grid's game
to be deranged into sameness; and the aimless
river that became the channel that we flow in, is overflowing
for the strength of the moon, gravity's mad placenta
of energy, colored by time to arc in sync with formlessness,
to shape the changing of an age by aiding its expansion,
I build a mansion on the torched expanse of a torched mansion.

And our moon expands its lasso, I'm a mouth-mushing
Progresso, painted in grease on the table, taking the cables
of my house apart compulsively, to set up a bunk in the wreck
of me, tides are the shape of me, a symphony charges my throat
an ampitheater openeth my ears, I bang tape cassettes on pianos
I manage the breakdown of the cosmos with my sphincter
and cosmic cock of ages, I spank sages this dick is free
and the moon's every imprint is imprinted upon me.

<><><><><>

My body hive
of the five stricken
elements for a sixth,
a stumbler wounding,
condition of blankness
corrupted.

Stacking wood
with a hard-on,
I play the don
of consequences,
sky eating
the eyes that are eating
the sky.

<><><><><>

Onstage at the tedium's fire,
held in wreckage that won't dissipate,
I know the core of the woods
is climaxing in its basements
of skunk fur.  Sticks break
over wells and scatter bark
on distilled waters.

<><><><><>

Ointment from the womb,
honey of mother.  Earth's cradle
spat out by volcanic matter.
Nourish the air, this vessel,
and the truth in all ways.
Keep from hiding a firm walk,
pock the sun with keen glasses,
fuck like a frog in a snowglobe city
bring heat to the unlit villages
hidden there in terror, stash fury
in the light of action,
gashed open by silver dictionaries
bleeding organic kisses in flunked rain.

<><><><><>

Preludes fall with kisses'
arrival, wet blanket of moon
attracted and senseless,
pocked and crossing,
fallen heads of march
empty acorn eyes
graveyard wet and giving moss light.

<><><><><>

The garlic bites the underside of my tongue,
the trees rise up, green buds are sky-size,
lake's river flows, flows through my soul complete
to its river's entrance, and takes from
all the foliage reflection
a spark of space.

<><><><><>

Sash on the floor the long way of looking
the eye of the whole body
floating at death, tauntingly, bridgeless
for the chasm which demands it,
ascending to the core, the janitor's closet
at the heart of the sun, with the door
left standing open.  And her future mouth.

<><><><><>

Punk deep river flowed reddish rounded hills
asymmetrical table and laminated water--warlords, sponsors of the chaos
a thousand feet long with walls boiling on paper
the queen eats them and I had to illustrate her whacking it into shape

<><><><><>

Radiant and cool mountains, well-balanced trees,
a breeze from the rift in the rock where
the earth was broken and now channels
a descending wind, light manufactures dusk
in the pools of shade under the pine,
spring's work through mineral and moss
cupped hands at the chilled nexus
where sky breaks on the river
computer children rappel from burning forests
spiked heels in sap and squirrels of blood
with knives like ends of dream in teeth.

<><><><><>

River alive with scum child
river alive in a last gleaming
river alive for my flesh alive is a river
river alive with morsels of pigment
of which I am a definite particle
also dying, in an airport with a bucket
of fish and mop water mixed
meal fallen and bleached
gun in the mouth gun in the mouth
such excitement!  A full tub!
Morsels for me in the excrement!
In the here ever after!  In the next
movie!  Time to die, fuck!  Yeah,
morsel.  My rage puts the paws to my hands,
I soften under claws.  Islands rise up
in the dark like tears.  My helpless anger
wears a bed like a bonnet
and eats the air from a mirror horizon
like a pork mouth of dawn.
The parking lots open like old sores,
heat's rain of shit and hate glowers down
like a shrub, like an infant.

<><><><><>

In full flight from reason,
the robin-faced man stood down
from a menacing picnic table,
running the irradiant waffles
of his stamped and molded form
spiraling to mechanania
slowing the eye in flesh
that cannot veer from its tomato-dark,
its darker than melon insides
and shivering cliff-side decline, emergent
in showers of earth from a bearded sand-pit,
the shaking of laser light
from a banished canyon.

Molten with hurt feathers
he repositioned himself
with the dustpan eyes of a goat
next to the superior water.
He grew with inner life until
the crests of cities blew loose
their crawling vines of oxygen's prize
as if with him in mind
then fell shuddering to rifts of pine bark,
gardening in the remains of his stomach mind.

<><><><><>

I could see on my wings traces of the ice black-throated blue,
many cisterns and rain-water catchments
current events which dominate society myths of multiple imagery,
myofilaments that slide past laterally to enter a pit with the fair hair, hard blue eyes
with a roar of wings to altars and appurtences of worship
nonliving, structural part of bone to a bedside of the sick under a bright light

THE AGING YARD

Bombarded into ferns
on infant backs, by imaginary
planes, to a place opened by
music that will never close,
seeking the trunk and lurch
toward death of an erotic
sadness, that eats up
summerday afternoons
with its atmosphere of wronged
desire.
I am tribal, these kids quote from
                                        a bible--
     thrummed as a song into their
         tyres, sung as a hymn only
           to broken trees, frenzied
            neighborhoods, and death
          by gold's seduction
  as the mountains slip in stature
    and the doctrine of the
     ocean takes over.

HIGHWAY CHAINS

The whip comes with candy here.
My own country treats me like
a stranger on every corner.
From a diamond of unharmed
sky, between shackled trees
wires that multiply
trials from human being to human being
a frolicking goddess hand
in madness of forced error
cloud by cloud and landscape by landscape
may lash us out of our sugar forever.

My whip came in with a huge
bronzed clover on the headboard.
I drove it into the harbor for a song.
Nothing happens here
even with a tragedy to usher
it in: factory sealed windows
and doors, heads glued
to a grid work of merciless ceiling,
inflexible material astonished to
be alive among the melting.

Down comes the immaterial whip
and all things are astonished,
smitten by pain of classified murder
into care for life, temporarily.
Fuck all their death my dawn
trouble from the beak of the eye
planetary-wide derangement.

<><><><><>

She is the colors of both life and death.
She leaves beautiful stains on the air.
Coming on the whole world,
from a small booth adjacent to the world.
And it is a pinprick.
And she is a star lit by extremes
of resistance, unwavering
in the telescoped airless.  Newly lipped
and ready with ducts of extracting vengeance,
she has her way.  And shrugs about it
while the waxworks expresses its melting disapproval
all around us.  Stunned by her peril, in
twos and threes we lie down to please her
in robes that do not hide our faces,
with an advantage, with a horde of ready blood,
ready to murder at a twitch
for a lunch hour of pornography
to lie down in her torso
where love is punished into love
and the dream transcribed on her
hides in a falling subway
where her hair is a salad of light
in the perishing door her walk her way
her nameless odor with a name.

<><><><><>

Dandelions over the treeless hilltop
beats from the boombox, baseball cards
in the cardboard, swing set calling,
segmented lives in the partitioned
madness, rented cartoon panels,
downstairs from the hill where iguanas
are not playing, igloos do not mirage
from the steamy ground, for no winter cradles
to long you back again, the red-faced
men are dead you are not wanted
in their unpainted kitchens or the blouses of
the ones they kiss good night in bad weather.

<><><><><>

I play drum like I'm
caulking a tub, deliberately
rounding out the bottom.
There are no corners.

I load a washing machine
with boots then stand back
and watch.  My frame listens
to my fascinated eyes, and my
fascinated anus thrums to the
plink of the quarters dropping
to reduce the prevailing void,
to reveal form with a jackhammer
and then lie down.

<><><><><>

We are wandering hunters under the sky or under a tree or in its
silken tent, candelabra, and a mechanical clock rainfall, coursing into rivulets
huge alluvial wagonloads of silver and gold the fancy hunterfolk
that the rest of the planets have their dress and throne unapposed

<><><><><>

A flower fell on a lemon tree
and scattered the tree where its own blossoms broke for a
thin skeleton to fly out bright with flame and paint
from a dilapidated hammock flung up by the fall of thousands
crush of trees and wash of stone
crunch of bones and cram of the famished pushing fur
through a web of rounded androids, catalogued as perfect transformers
in their own mirrors, river
of transparencies disrupted rectal dream of light ocular
dissonance of wrecked recital
tantrum in a photo piano booth
that is ashiver with old suns that died without hearing
commands or verses and thrust the greenest mountains up out
of their sight to reclaim cities whose blueprint bears their spines
as melting trains drift track to track, the speechmaker of music
immortal is immortal, mechanical is animal derived
through the struggle of mind to destroy matter, to bend
chapters into the center and descend to be deliriously
abandoned.

<><><><><>

The vast territories usually cave, leaving small devastated pockets
here and there to remind us of what most of us have not been,
what is caved in is most lost, therefore what is gained there
is a preciousness unto totality, it will worship the noon sky
with six long razors for a head eyes ablink in its length of moving blade
stung by passing transparencies of harm evermoving in the genius of our ways
the biodome of silence in reams of error
horse of flame unbound to strike emptiness
converse to the air of mottled
death that surrounds the flame and now is revealed to be
blank.

<><><><><>

Six wounds to get me out of Friday night,
six wounds in the elephant of my sinking consciousness,
the cabin fixed to mother, the airport open with barrenness,
trees and trees and trees on the way to hell
and trees and trees and trees on the way back to hell
feed on the beauty green the spread of the impossible
notched cliffs miss the rift dim highway suds,
manufacture of broad daylight in cemetery motor
core of death's achievement, torn paper skull
bronze files piled to the rafters and leaning
a record of silence tilted scrapingly up against
the last wall, cymbal of ice contracting time-flutter
rasp of a dying drum set the pale of a cool room
microphone warrior hungry for dark air man trumpet animal care
an animal caring for twilight a staring midget
and the one who admits he is fucked and goes to his homeless weather
the peak in the head leafy frostily reminds sun
the lapping dead froth of the swamp's half-road
effect, dying for the wobble of a thousand Adam's apples
gulping to the tune of private madness spurned
on high to low down the spectacle and bring wreck to the six wounds
of what the pig meant to the unremembering elephant
in my soul in my soul in my soul

<><><><><>

I am the bread that is broken
and I am the hands that are breaking the bread
unshared, the shivering ground is the lightning
the huge hands of cities and the horror of DNA
pulled towards death in this dimension
the music of the body in a cage of fool's devices
dance of pricked landscapes on a shifting grain
shaving surfaces from stars and glint of planets
draped in planet cum returning to orbit
in a haze of what matter once considered an error,
one everlasting orifice universe-led on a train of tumbling carrots
logs of corrugated pepper lips measuring one another end to end,
crease to mouth-crease stung and leaking the stuff of life
chicken foot and chicken eye the presence of man
in frightened feathers cluck buckawk shivering and stepping off
from the white rain of commas
crater of unbound thought
reset to enema

<><><><><>

Breast and belly moss-covered ruby-crowned king
seeking water, identical villages instantaneous photography wrested from the chaos
gold around the fane or the vast space of valleys and lakes
they came with their beaks full of worms the male brought a dragon
one call, after a wet August, a single, sweet, clear, flutelike note,
as in a second spring, and as singing sounds again and again everywhere

<><><><><>

Finally leveled in the body, ready to bring
weight of armor glinting against death,
form of life in an unliving shell,
descending and breaking further,
to still greater decibels of great force
still stones in space, the myth of
never descending

<><><><><>

My life is hate on a stick
a smile stitched onto a telephone pole
radiating envy of death.

<><><><><>

I am a changed blonde frog,
crawfish eyes on a turkey burger
in lofty pine-lit air, bulbed surroundings
singing for the chair in which I will never sit
threshold upon threshold the fathomed world closes
my realm is a stark tongue stuck
on warbler's peak out of reach
of the jailman, the clerk snailman
and the phallic brontosaur, my favorite.

<><><><><>

Mad mudslinger father of the finger whose mud and rubble walls are seldom painted
lamb coat which was blood-stained for each invited soul
miniature armor specially made for him, their painted doors and their sacred diamond
hold no more meaning than the name
and painted green iguana saints ride shotgun on the mud flaps
to their sanctuaries.

<><><><><>

The granite woman and the putty man stood over him with his legs apart with an axe
New Orleans was crushed and broken by those tell-tale traces
our shuddering limo in the ear of the dead one
the bones in a clean white cloth with red soil
banana leviathan punches on the radio to paint flowers on the tombs
the power of the black hand will paint the sacred cities back to life
the pebbled banks, the brilliant bolts await the pyramid; the mother of blue water

<><><><><>

Endless day, on which I mostly
looked for my frightened cat.
In stairwell deep closets of gauze stacks,
with a small blue cigarette lighter,
between work shifts
while in a high-ceilinged room
happy people ate my family.

<><><><><>

Love with fierce abandon within the spired cities and domed pumping stations
disarmed and disrobed written in golden sword and scales
forced to live by its foreign wits in nautical clocks
rotting meat which nowhere touches the planet, entirely independent of preexisting life.

<><><><><>

Tribes drop from the sky fragments of darkness measured correctly

<><><><><>

Curbstone cum filled gnatcatcher
slate and copybook under his pillow, crowned and anointed
a pair of women's panties and holy mother, father
the use of a computerized charting system reflects the nursing process
to space, and the radioactivity inside any world
branch to branch of a sycamore on six giant mushrooms that form a kitten
her black lace garters of events; the souls with prayers and new paint
hammock and gray-green henequen before the flowers crack
like the creatures from the bitter water

<><><><><>

In the dictionary of dead names
they perished your whole alphabet
in the library of silence they ate your heartbreak
and benefited from it greatly
they learned and learned your beautiful errors
admired the tenor of your disobedience
got real complicated with your insides
daffodil grenades for skull eyes
poise of shoulders bare under torn
leaves for rain to slip through in watery shards
and smack my secret beaver in the torso,
where I vomit hunger
and in blood of confession
furnish my incomplete body

<><><><><>

The wounds of soldiers are imprinted
on me.  I am not like them.
I must stay behind to take
advice from women, then plot
with twitching hands a clear head
to transport parks that peak in the eyes
past the police, to soar without breaking
and without leaving the ground
sparkle, without winking out
to be climbed in splendor for ages
as the jeweled owls and the breasts and eyes of women
shimmer on its surface and feed
the hands of the climber
while telephone elephant ears
swivel from carts at the top
painted and wobbling in track magnetism
roadfish anointed to bellow soundless
roadfish anointed on this roof to point back to the ocean
roadfish who is a non-wanderer
because the whole world keeps wandering through him
staked to the wall, no longer gasping
roadfish, of plastic eyes, is still
roadfish of your intestinal territory
king of the hour of your lips
when you speak through his unrecruited soul.

<><><><><>

Fallen into all the backbone of color
to fly on wavelengths that crash
into satellite disc walls
hollowed out by the sun to kiss
with burnt lips the tabernacle pussy
the crux of furtive being
and the wings of the butterfly
that eat at the eyes.

<><><><><>

Fogged hour that I cannot find
my way back to.
Schism in my skin, to be resolved
mostly without me.
Hour of restlessness that could not
be resolved, yet quelled itself
in darkness.
Days of fury boiled down
to a soup of bones.

<><><><><>

Scientific codes, sports and game rituals and wavy lines, beetles,
bumblebees and birds--a wide variety of mechanical artifacts
to leave the planet and escape death as a fantastic dash to the handcart boy
perched in the back on deckchairs used for carrying pigs

The ash will become fuel, the sun will be triggered forever
a winning streak in a casino there a frenzied pulling of strings
an old rusty green infinite hierarchy of universes
nested within one another with light that has circumnavigated

<><><><><>

From the forepaw of the mother
the frightened end of the father
daisies dragging the day up
through a mound of sewage
sky circles that shrink planetariums
and sharks gasping away from water
a cuboid soul, six eyes in place of each one
seeing little more

From the light that burdens
the neighborhood with its own falsity
cracks houseboards lengthwise
crosses from path to path
touching hives and thickets of mad minds
devising and escaping fangs
that span galaxies with their violence
a household of murder students
blossoming with many bright accessories that speak
more delicately than the human

<><><><><>

Let the hate wash over you, I say to myself,
let it make you a stronger man.
For the choir has melted,
the preacher's face turned to a dull ham
and the crowd dead: all are turned
to the dying of dying things.

It falls dynamite rainbow-like
through a long glass chimney
to blow through undergrounds and peaks
I feel the hairpiece of eternity
refused fall off my head

perishing, perishing body,
unamused by illusion, slyly
fucking a hole in the fabric of the hidden air.
Eternity's terrorist radio shredding all that is fertile,
the land dark for ages
and the emergent poets with axes,
hacking all their fellow humans to pieces for freedom
breathing their essence like season tickets.

I deal with the world like a man reacting to a tragedy.
I myself am a tragedy in my skin and know it.
Because I have nothing to hide of myself, beware,
I have nothing to hide of you whatsoever.
I take the mind from your preciousness
and I set it on fire.
Let you bathe in the fury of your own putrescence.
His genitals cropped, his muscles bulging:
I watch this man in his own hall of hand-mirrors,
encountering all, sympathizing with all,
turning away none.

<><><><><>

     In the death cell, by waters insisted
its leather hand guard worn and frayed from this dull earth
                  the abandoned oar the lined face of the prophet
       white plumes and streaks in a glide path the sacred resin called copal
                out of the roof garden to railroad and coke magnate
                  a virile almost animal type buried by the ejecta


                        a cage for his sparrows and canaries which he called a comet

<><><><><>

The abyss opens into a gel of grey subterranean light.
The other abysses melt a crust accordingly.
The universe is flatscreen, voluminous, lost.
The times had in the universe are unsalvageable.
Celebrations implode unquenched
fire crawls floor after floor
all are both thirsty and dead.
Tables go crooked with weight what's fed to them
mouths are universe-large coughing and eating all
shrunk of stars language bent and mangled throughout the body.

<><><><><>

I can alter time with my fist.
I was the first used car salesman.
I masturbated first the gorilla and then the alligator.
I fire porcelain jelly on all the inhabitants.
The excitement of nerves over a wide landscape.
The screens distended with awful laughter.
A red drop in the dark credits
a standing army of praying mantises
engine over the hilltop
staring multifaceted glaring
the turbulence of things imprisoned
leering to fury out, fracture solved
with heart of laughter paradox vagina.
The stack of dead mules with a live bronze wig.
A parable made of sauce.
Fucked status.  An anchovy imprinted with
boot-heel lines at the foot of a war monument, all
crying its whole name in daggers.

<><><><><>

Violet, is a part of the spectrum
on the stone rim of the spring trough
through the air of another world to the peak of a shingled roof
no swamps, no oil
filth revolving before my eyes
through the thin frame walls of the houses sun slanted down into the shadows
tubercled underflesh was stained rust
the tattered remains of the baitfish a galaxy of ancient cities
the nest like a vending machine of dash lights
on walls the dark beyond the red in books is dropping
revolt and aesthetic research in a profane world of sacred ritual.

<><><><><>

Cowhands speak dubbed enjoy American
semiliterate monks and boy ivory carvers
defile between high mountains their heavy armor
heat-stressed mothers like antennas taking in wisdom on white paper
on the altar wall tender, her braided hair born with a daredevil
gazes at her book of divided lands troughs, skinny, long-legged lambs
she is a goddess--purpose and stature and a dry leaf, painted
her face is round, her summer neighbor on the threshold of her open
two slim chimneys above two million light-years on a colonnaded terrace

MOTHERSONG

My son has burned up in the fire of himself.
He no longer responds to consciousness,
he closes himself off where he is needed.
All life is a mystery to him.
He is duct-taped, dancer, strange.


Coming from the agony of a city grid work's imprinted wounds
flickers and twitches to curve, to wing with me
the improbable beak, stubbornness of centuries
in the one breakable spine
bring me to hearth of light


O father mother me.

<><><><><>

Maybe she's all the colors I can't see.
Or maybe she's the cradle, watching me.
A bushel of time time could not use, unraveling.
Her form's curves portrayed in my navel.
Stormed trees cut off from the earth.
Hinter people neighing in parcels.
A drubleck miracle'd the face of the door,
the knock without a question.
A breathing that goes on after bodies.
That of expansion, the crotch of all mythology.
I begged your prophets to fuck with me.
I tore my rags of perfection and my nakedness
refused to sneer with pleasure at the street.
My clasp unbuckled many treehouses.
I hid among those whose limbs had never been fitted
for the ongoing machine-echo of death.
And we flowered inward deeply to destroy
some part of ourselves, but the weaponry of those tendrils
became roots, that held strangely fast.
Now world-particle, fire of the arc's
scythe compassion.

<><><><><>

            Hate is eating me: puffing up
                  under my eyes,
                    draining my legs, winding a cord tight
                                             to my lips, making me
                                                curse the sun.
   
           Hate struck my life off from
               love, made my life strong,
                       set my path apart; now
                         it hollows me out to where
                           I must eject it.


         Hatred makes the blankets in the sky go all wobbly.
             

<><><><><>

After this bat bites an animal
coffins into bank offices female prophets knots of gas and dust
then the polar sun in swirls of white, blue, gold
silver cups, silks, ivory softly around her body
two magnificent single orbs of moonglow deep in the cave systems
ceremonial apartment towers that mark the culture
her mouth is hoofed stock and timber street people
old men sell gum flood control, and electric power
blood intimidated by armed thug backbone of the frontier
the rim of her figure of calmness and swans
saw to the stocking of his fish ponds like links in a chain
to meet the needs of a modern society and the planets do not emit light
silent behind barred windows and locked like hunted foxes
ding-dong daddy whose probing arm stretches round the whole world
with trembling hands

<><><><><>

I'm a drum child driven wild, scold of the barrier.
I will jam the stars down your throat.
Only you and I will be audible
in the airlocked kingdom.
Map redrawn with colored sand
cycle of flesh disrupted by dreaming
the psychic life of ants made charming with sophistication,
with looks, lifeless.
Daffodils out of punctured concrete.
As was spraypainted: to break your world for our growth
a lamb's ear on the tear of a flag
salted with the disintegration of an entire planet.
Bus stations correspond with jello and tactile clothing
slots of transport are cleft and decorative with human bones.

<><><><><>

Blood from bees, bees' breathing tubes
alleyways in the work of bodies
kingdoms born from a twitch
in the cessation of lunar influence
twinkle of infinite puddle way
the trickle of what falls, at the end
to an eye, to a vast set of teeth
bullets lifted him threw out his arms sent him crashing made him a beauty

<><><><><>

Stained by needless conflict
lowered into the grave
          by one's own manufacture
      primed and shining to elsewhere
           one's core noxious, uninvented


One out of many soars, plummets
            and dangles
             abyssingly
 with that leer on its mouth,
     becomes a he, becomes myself
  wasting time in flesh.


  Orbs of rioting color
         new worlds eat the air
                        like fuck.


   Chasms of midair erupt
        with shivers of kept light,
             shat light, bright light
                and bought light.

<><><><><>

Periphery magnets fizz force on the air
floppy hats and gone costumes burned on plateau
rectangular clouds and triangle park trees
self-pruning self-circumcising entities who chew peanut butter
needle-thief of scorched medical midnights
hiding from the flash of pine sap
oozing in the portrait gallery where kids cry monster to each other in happiness
and elders go sour like vinegar flower
some sour in their chairs and some desk ward on plastic money errands
see not the entwined sky-lips, their darkened teeth

THE ACID BATH FAT MAN DOME SCANDAL

Clear the fact that he roared found the pools she was his goddess with three bullets in him;
green and the publicity of a divorce action which caused the sloughing off of shards as blowing sand,
white early morning scattered at the base blood tinged bright or dark red
skin test tenacious with obtaining a history or stretchers exiting an elevator
air hunger the cabin door service for petty thieving fremitus, thrills, heaves

<><><><><>

Streets damp with the energy of a gone sky
imprinted with a chant of feet
guarded by sharp singing copper
barbed to tumble an old music chart
winging and flanging its punctured drum heads
creature built up by a rain of ceiling wires
cutting itself down to wax stalactite
standing with grin of charcoal
in the sweetheart wreath's valentine
dead center of the death squad, pulsing with gravity

THE DESTRUCTION OF THIS HEAVEN

The legend of the dog, the headless woman, a sex-crazed monster
         the seven bowl judgements contrived, the mechanical deodorant powders
                  scribble the name when an angel is used for stool pigeon
                     and the plow boy whose sister died eight miles above upper-level tropical winds
                       gloves which she had strangled and savagely mutilated
                            blithe bulletproof nightclubs of the old regime
                               be talking very sweetly to her views the lips from end to end
        he guided her on to an electric pink, moist, symmetrical, and smooth discharge

<><><><><>

I'm a fat blood hamster
hiding in the night
blonde bloodstain anus and faceless
inhabiting wretchedness under the ferns
impersonating myself fellating the roots of the goddess tree
to be smitten through by immaculate media nature
a thousand times before breakfast
which is dreamed in glass clouds
nudged mailbox side in the dreaming mirror flag
from which to derive thy blindness
moving to the trunk of the tree
I smile as much as wither
its grace graceless as winter
is how she moves the technology of summer
into high and idle drives
where my skull waits to be filled with small beds

<><><><><>

Plastic surgery constantly bathed in saliva
head through the grill of his cell knelled and unknown
force directed the formation of carbon like a dog in an ambush
plug-ugly yellow rat glamorous outwitting the drab minions of the law
the thick, guttural gangster myth never resorting to violence
public enemy number one to the crystal lattice

<><><><><>

I am both weak and strong.
I can throw the elephant over a wall,
and I always forget.


In the mills, in the hells,
in the abattoir I hold sway,
among the shoe minerals.


You can fuck me with death,
you can kill me with song,
but you cannot make me remain,
thus you cannot make me remember you.


The hand's map is written in a forest tangle.
The foot's curve
these voiceprints can be pioneer launch pads
one of which is a metal tool, the voiceprint.

<><><><><>

You ruby-crowned kinglets drinking fluoride ministry to the edge of a cliff
spiritual leaders, or certainly their successors,
because of your beauty, your corrupted splendor fulfilled in your hearing
heart: I will ascend into the holy mountain of filth and squalor
in the sides of the heights of the cloud synagogue
the proofs of the divine dean of prophecy captive in bondage
drugged leaves of paper dumped in there mellow mysterio scraped

JUGS OF PISS

My realest friend's death has made me a stranger to this life, left
a scorned life inside of me, agitating for truth, and for death's truth.
People can see that kind of thing blindly.
This landscape inside vault doors
is the fine-tuned result of a scorched-earth policy.
The pawns flow with milk from their heads.
The kings and queens spin in the milk brilliantly.
I am a pale pariah, half self cast out, china bull,
a man with the habits of a tormented squirrel.
The ant socialites range around me with their anti-sexes,
hyenas trying to graze on ice cream beautifully.
Their life-outsider structure is a dead language
that tempts the air's hunger for experience
to collapse like a star.  Slowly pistils descend into stamens.
Yellow is proclaimed shapely by the computer-led vegetation.
Earth is corrupted by cleanliness.  My species sucks a bowel-train
of remorse and mercy out of my tail cavity.

<><><><><>

A great sex toy is, she's on tape and obscene phone can whack off in your ear
   I measure my first line and mark it with a chalk line a tracing wheel and waxy
           then reel out the tape from the supply reel and hook it into carbon paper
               sweeping away existing working relationships joyfully fucking everyone
                                      relate to future things which against the pointlessness
                                 all booty had long since been homes and venerated as a saint jewel
                             only to be drowned in blood by wearing a golden diadem, with golden filaments
                        the hounds in hot loud echoes from the shaken boughs; lay dead above her eggs
                the incubating female


                   ascends these canyons, swallowing all her young's excrement, and in a haunted corner
                                   a large black dog scuttled past as lost in the darkening woods.

<><><><><>

Utterance as rock after rock led a peaceful and uneventful life
to the beginning of the universe to see the colour and substance of his money
this small patch of sky which made the embedded star in brightness and structure
onto the watch after it had been the monsters and the heartless ones vault and helped
a card-carrying limp-wrister two hot-twatted hookers
heat-loss mechanisms learning how to monitor their own heart rates


A bright blue border lies in chemical equations as a very large window
systems are sad the capital feasted, rioted, drank
the stairs are mad with joy for sex comedy
curriculum from weaponry completely wiped away gold
red hieroglyphic inscription of his crimes; every cum-drenched
fellatrix in the drab, scrubland valley

<><><><><>

Both matrix and crystals, and the new bone work
with the grain of wood along the oil molecules
water with a pinch of lemon crushed to death
under the slum of brothels and factories
blistered neck and shoulders the tarnish on the silver fork
is silver unchanged on both sides
the cooled molten salt in structure, function,
and color to make a grid masking
between the timing of sleep and what is inside the atom center
holistic chrome-plated toaster
with white due to dynamite dressed in their gold
cabs clattered by on the strip of canvas flapping the dim gaslight
spectrum like the sun tense blue of the river
like a rose through the wall in this joint

<><><><><>

Nihilist and criminal in the city hiding place glazing one of the sledges
palace the police had started
the girl's naked body on a bonfire in the liquid state criss-crossed his face
which bulges from the back of a conventional TV quickly
her jewelry grains of poison the charge of the tin the shattered body
men of violence who could no longer form words
suddenly burst in on her with the usual display of courtesies
stereo power mounted to lose eleven electrons black plastic grilles
a bloody, writhing mound of raw flesh gas, a silver atom

<><><><><>

Claimed for this life, by an essential accident.
Tapering off beautifully, thank you.
The vicious weapon of my body punishes the water, is a joke.
Radiance of sprung days flashing off into the future blank.
The emptied horizon is a lightning bolt.
Wet floorboards give way to trees.
Fireplace walls give way to mountain rocks.
Drawers of zeroes remain packed tight on their nothingness.
Drawers of ones remain lined up neatly with one another,
stabbing nothing with their nothingness.
Oaks mount elms to heaven after heaven after heaven.

<><><><><>

I know that I am a pool of snakes and you are a pool of snakes too.
I know that rebellion incarnate conspires against me to steal my life.
I kneel by the river and spike the electric.
I know the flag post is melting in the deep background.
To develop a scene, I stagger into the green envelope.
A warrior in a sundress tears my stomach, my heart.
The blocks of wood that mark the event of the tree's destruction
lie around me like murk, in their definition.

<><><><><>

Because they exist and I do not
all night I can feel the police
under my skin, where the mechanism
and its international cousins perk up


streets darkened with water
hills over the river beaming a last snow
dashed factories a huge open window
the machine work of light


a face, a hand, an opening--


Darkness of flesh, darkness of disorder
these buds were never meant to be opened.
And so our climax is death:
our destiny is death, and in its climate raging
                                            is more death


Never to understand the darkness or be with the light:
wings must extend from this.


Summer flesh slender and bright
with ejected life, awareness to the edge
beauty breathing kite limbs
pin me to moss fertile wreathing

<><><><><>

Pierced resonance, that cries to me an amp
    in my left ear.  The noise-remainder
     of outskirt melodies, frothing seconds.
        Necks of demonic souls broken
          over a guitar wire, the throat
         in its own thicket.

  Pierced resonance, which won't revisit
         this cavity.  These tangled spirit bottles and cords
            begging for more restlessness,
                               nano-revolutions
in the space of an eye mirror, the tangible
  fox's tongue, diamond cutting
     and softly eating.

The gelatin of spent days her dwarf enablers
   nibbling in caverns
 where beaming an envelope calendar
   bright rifts crumble overhead.

<><><><><>

They are sadists with love pills at the office
the fraternity of torture raging smoking in bed
this awakened life-force writing chemical names and formulas
a ring of red stars and a disk of molar-incisor bone


A full set of raised side rails along the base of doors
price those fears now and when I wave my handkerchief tool chests, cabinets might escape
in an inferno of scandal for the breezy kid in the tight sweater
queen smooth young gigolo hoodlum
you will know that the carriage is coming complete with three keys

DEATH OF A LIEUTENANT SEX MURDERER

Pockets of air, called cells, be beaten by girls dressed in black leather two gasoline molecules
hundred-thousand-dollar operators from rape trying to teach computers
garment worker climbing to greatness slid between her own ribs a crystal of sodium chloride
of electricity by the pickle grip with a stylish slot the bull wheel from chrome reverse all
seize power through an earlier marriage to the names of fanatics who have cared
fire raisers famous for their sexual depravities their delight in torturing the help from a spacecraft checkered stadium cushion.

WITCHCRAFT MAGNOLIA

Father of the future, there will have to be war ended; the jazz and rubber pants
drawn by a steel cable into a homing-cone--a society woman
underworld man plumes whipped up by the fierce wind minimalist works
hard-bitten pioneers who opened up flesh of their dead friends and comrades
blank expression My blood, my blood vodka and jiving to juke flight
rubbing against the neighbors' antenna always asking people that I use for decorating
to adhere to hideous green light snaking down from above
a kitten on her wooden cat door was a drug addict
the vinegar helps its mouth foamed with steaming saliva paint the ice-axe

<><><><><>

A liquid diamond in the pierced forehead,
winking expensively at death.
The thousands running on bare feet across
public highways.  No purpose,
now that you've had your hour in my codpiece,
for you to stick around and watch me torch the country,
the mythology of time,
the lies that run frantic in flesh,
and the errors of silence.
You are my agony, that cannot cry,
the irritating poise of the moon.
A doorbell crying on a dinner table
where eyes and bellies roll, but no mind moves.
Find me in the groove of the wax table, I am an ant's navel,
cold gazing at the train that ran over what it gave in me.

<><><><><>

Slabs of regret kept slab by slab on the cold
that never breaks, the hard vomit of water.
Drones on drones of death for us
served and served by the serving and serving
who serve us death on death droning
they'll study my frantic habits fuck you S government
what will be good for us for our family
idiots of state ministers of all everythingness,
you are the servants of death, you are the lingo
of death, you are the lyric of death complete,
death is all you do, mingling and mingling
          Deep in a fissure of glacier contests
          sorrow's little female hell
          comes twitching and twitching
          servants of love are death
          the tongues ministers of death are transplendent
          the false fire that makes them go out is quite original.

<><><><><>

I want to be shadows, milk, interrupted
                         and uninterrupted territory.
 You want to be a pile of silks
    where I occasionally go stabbing,
             helpless.  But my hardened nature
              will not be anchored;
    in the chemical overpower of huge and passing night
     your cloaked reptile felt speeches
                        are ribs breaking off     into the shattered day.
                   I rise on the anchor's rope
                when the ship drifts into its stature.

<><><><><>

Fling wall-pieces
        mortar to parchment of time
    to the floor of echoes
       to the resounding board
  where we fall our lips are a word void
  they speak it into the fullness
   like a goblet against a wall
  these are the people falling and
   tumbling across the words
  suffering puncture-wounds
      from these words and dying

<><><><><>

Wet with what the library rejected life,
stern in the rapports of a new friendship anti-system,
romanced by a goose from a goddess' middle finger
coarsened in flower undulating pages in the public park
of self in evaporation on curve of drinking fountain metal
face gone to fables in stretching blood on blood blood
eyes and lips and teeth smashed by love of force
dry with what life rejects, they curl up on the edges like birch bark
mate-fucks deepen the gravity pond
sweeten sinlessness with real error
plate-glass splinters on acidic snow
plunged through the dying wall of the party
wet with what the library rejected life

<><><><><>

I want you to tattoo my belly with kisses,
I'll lean back, study your scalp,
touch the soft indicative curve of an ear
as you assimilate the aching tip near your throat
and bathe your tongue's strength
in the warmth of my soldiers.

<><><><><>

Shelved with my other selves,
I look out, and wonder at my predicament:
my pages are voiceless, and nothing has reached
the room of no echoes.
I am dying in dry glue
no wetness to my struggle
found on rectangular deserts,
never branching for the cure of time and space.
What animates me is death:
the disintegration of my binding.

<><><><><>

Coils of unraveled planets
sperming and cooling
a deliberate engagement to ignite
that which brings death to all
humankind the total destroyer
creator of god
the runway of stars like a path of shattered glass
open river bald sky
sand and grass dry
at the crumbling edge, fruit of error
perfected.

<><><><><>

Leaden knockoff humans
tilting their eyes down
at anyone who has fallen
in a fit of weeping
brook side or in a hallway of grey linoleum
where urine drips out of the slammed lockers
leaden their dancing their dreaming
their horror of mercy and hard-lived lives
dying to look nowhere, to be nowhere
anti-souls who took the anti-dote
sitting down, silenced and scraping
the bottom of their insides for some purchase to make
that will vinegar the depths to fruition of mop head face garden
failed rep antiquity unit
galumphing at fossils and driveway maggots
slitting toad wallets to reveal silver all over
the ice planet of dead fuck.

<><><><><>

I used to take people in, find them chairs, try to get
them to stay awhile.  The ice sets on the outside.

I have my burden of miscommunication to carry.

As if my whole existence has been rejected,

I walk around reeling, with powers useless,

unconscious.

           At the bottom, closed-circuit void,

           un blur the entrance, a killer of psalms,

           dug in, wisdom less, cursed with joy,

           throttling the mutual organism for pleasure.

<><><><><>

The cold threatens my hands
     which I cannot retract.
 The mirror threatens the cold
     with my own death,
       as if that would dampen it.


The outdoors threatens the indoors
      and its instructions are intact,
       as if preserved in electricity.
     The lenses of time turn backward
         on its grid work of dancing.


   High afternoon waits to explode
          in the dragon's belly of a pocket
           restaurant, flashing and urging
          in six pairs of eyes for every
             one.  And partakes of the lunchbreak,
                 smoking and fleeing.


Scarves fall from my hands on the way
      to the laundromat, and pantyhose,
       and chandeliers of corsets and
     thongs, wait for me there
   in the ceiling detachment
     above the throne of coins.


Scarcity can wreck, scarcity
     can make an incredible animal.
 The scarcity of time can shrink
       the scarcity of all
          these other things.

<><><><><>

In the newly awakened areas more feline artists will emerge
    self-contained high-impact polystyrene animal-moles
at once the four hooves poised menacingly above;
    to excite the interstellar galaxy's outer edge trace its spiral arms
bright little highly textured dabs of his own for a long comforting licking
    a vast spherical shell of stars a robotic mission within the 186, 000 miles a second


      stretch from Earth a nonmetal charcoal briquette
   tornado torch to mimic the harmonic point
     with warmth, scent and sit in the mid-field or meridian
   simply stop struck by the most territorial observation
     the transmitters the cats were fitted with calendar, chrome-plated black dial
   for ladies unbreakable mainspring oval shape cavatina with play equipment


In the ring is the one central bulge and core surrounding the galaxy
a hollow place in his bed as elements burn

<><><><><>

I am burning my life
 down into a low murmur
                 of truth;
 waiting there, until vocables
              mutate into truth, nerves
       meet in truth, and all else
                is gobbled into truth,
                       wetly.

<><><><><>

Pretty as the head of a nail
   made for linen, scrolls and perfumes
      through an arch of polished town dreamed miniature
      where her eye-diamonds alert and sprinkling numerous messages
                                                                 ash on the concrete floor
    my jaw on the wood of not staring
         her belly of twenty-five country summers
              the oops texture of air arrested
          by the cool bustle of her curve and matrix
             thought bubble of jukeboxed intelligence
           the light in the belly with a hoof
             a sunset near her fingernail adjusting

<><><><><>

Even my hair was lit
      with a new fire
        when I bathed in the light
                     of your presence.
 That which breatheth life and wrecketh,
  shoots mesmerized out of the undying ground.
    Juiced and sprocket of caves,
     forked mouth signifying
                                everything,
          I give you both my enough and my not-enough,
          bring me ointment under cover,
                                       clover come tow me down.

<><><><><>

These machines are making me jumpy.
      I go around showing myself to people
           to make sure I'm still here.
     I don't want to be in a place
      where nothing in the air
        speaks to me.
 Behind a coiled mass of bronze
     a deep red fire goes on and on.
 In its throne of warped and muted echoes
                                          I am seated
                                                     and calm.

<><><><><>

Smashed diamond with towns in its slanting sides
 smashed diamond hides all the time
  glacier deep in its kisses departing
   shards of sidewalk to the moon
    drubbed with drunken foot

<><><><><>

A mysterious siren, my brother as I
must be rounded or flung high
into depths that clutch upward or downward
circuit the same light dull dawning
or trapped light in the belly of a mule
lips on cruise control body talking
or trapped light in the light of a cubicle
vacuumed land of the vacuumed man
a grey-rugged hell strewn with skin
peeling from being, dying cells in hexagram
dying, flirting with terror on a surf's
     promise

<><><><><>

The scorched cemetery of desire:
 fearless wind, no dagger, minimal
 conflict of bones, the cliff-faces in evening gowns,
    a hardened mystic, chest-wound in the golf-cart,
   fluttering of the thing houses of fools
    spattered by their own idiocy, hating the hollow
                                                                          dawn,
                                                     and jazz, and loving
                                             only their streamlined reptile.

<><><><><>

A morsel of my humanity
    preserved on the cliff's edge: the scarred
      neighborhoods applaud with streetlights
                                                 and wire.

<><><><><>

The face carved backwards: the spirit carved backwards.
The whole hideous self a wasteland of swollen milk.
Frisson in eyelids, in eyelashes, in long and curving and strong
and slender branches, that hold the climber with hands that walk upside,
down, lines knotted with other lines: mercury vapor, no face,
wildly edible poison, everywhere, the landscape inhabiting masks.
Telephone of ozone cracking like a June bug.

<><><><><>

Fluctuate between two beams fledge
               of the same, both denied
 bodysnatcher of dreams,
                 scaffold on empire's sidewalk
    which we walk under,
       partner in partner in parcel
                  to be parceled to power,
       within and without, trigger
           on trigger, demise on demise,
     until we fall prey, to the same light,
        absence's remainder: a space
      for those revisited by life to walk.