Lady fingers and

red grey hot tongues,

mushroom vents beneath

these fungal trees,

a deer's path down

berry stricken arrows,

cotton tail and spots

staring from a highway

shoulder.

Soup of rain and leaves

to hide a silver basin

and deep white

molten belly.

Gutters mulching

for the fumes

of jungle teeth.

A copper bright torn ring

of the soul erupting in flesh,

the oily runway

time's collision with light

sweet overflowing reversal,

shot shells of angel thread

third eye frowning in a mirror,

pierced and photo fried

box cars of garden snakes

crushed sideways

by a fuming python

circumcised stone

collapsing lesser sight.

When the vats of hot spent love

overturn the springtime

viscera spreading

on the wood chip dashed plateaus,

an egg radiant

mountain top horizon

splitting fountain limbs

to smoke wheelbarrows,

a scorched hen finds

a fence top section cooling

wraps the pipe with claws.

For the numbness of work,

made round by these hills,

smiling limbless dough,

a shrinking head-heavy animal,

one teething wound

of brain stem salad,

tiles pounded into the tree

that lays down at dawn.

Wings from the spitting vertebrae

that rose from a frozen abyss

he had poured out from many faces

in a dream above the winter

attics crossing raw sunbeams

bones poached from celestial skin

of intersected vats

and curved metallic smiles

bright cells chipped with broken glaciers

bedroom sliding in the shotgun's eye

a hurricane of laces

one cuboid snarl

Days when I sang with a lady

on a salty rug, recording tape

stretched out all around us.

And no bright document,

no heaving empire, could make up

for what we made and lost

there on the wheel of roads.

The wings that made it turn

were held in interlaced veins.

The brains in glass, that bloom

from raging dust, are

stationed there.

Our forces were

aligned to slap the waves

into paving color.  And bend the rods

that follow the breath of the earth

to its piercing core.

I have a mark on my tongue

from the highest God.

Wings that lift these towers

through the planes of ultraviolet smoke.

Skulls of articulate oil

threading pretzel oceans

with a train of internal fire.

Stones in the sanctuary of death

vomiting reeds and flowers.

The blackmail of the birth canal

and its graveyard of vines and cries.

Moss on the arm of an aircraft

spelling out my crucified name.

Rabbit tongue blood threads

driving through

the under space darkness

globes of ink

merging through the bone cave

that opens in ethereal lava

stone broken in the moldy wrapping paper

crackling over bent time

shape shifting rooms

upside down beds

featherweight playgrounds

riding on a chain of intelligent lakes.

A precipice of mold

with a peak of chrome.

Is the wound that drives me

drying up?  Will the open windows

bark at the sealed sky?

Is there is a silence

in unbroken stone?

Where the grass bends to print the earth

and bodies have departed

astral fangs and cavernous vapors

race around the pulse

of medicinal trunks.

Their cutting leaves

fly from the blotch of blood

they've left in Rorschach grandeur

on the page of a parking lot.

On a barren hill

where the turkey blood flows

into a purple vein

of the cracked tar's mirror to the sun

that blinks its gravel eyes

the vines glow on a swirling fence

a path dawns from the ripped soil

clay hands grasp a swinging hook

and follow the crumpled sky

through a drinking seam.

Blossoms bulge rancid

on broken glass

that guards a sunken fortress

cubes of a rotted chain

glisten stillness in the trap of lunar love.

A hill of windows

reflecting distant fires

nests that sparkle with wings of blood

beneath the sexed frames

of dancers in collision

and a smoking drive

fleshed file cabinets

stiff karaoke storms

steel drums like fingernails

emerging from a blanket of moss.

Gilt tongued muscle posters

shanked posterior divinity

the cut up fragments oozing

over blades of bone.

Time with its shield of mercury

riven by a raging sperm.

Revival in the glass bulb's bones

revival in the engine's catch of arrows

and the spirit's word

a valley of crushed cans

at the feet of a split volcano

glinting with regenerate eyes

where the sap sleeps on granite

and the pillowcase runs with electrode dreams

a diamond studded ribcage

a grin that walks the shops on wires

falling into sheafs of bright grey

plastic corn stalks

sponge mouth

where I dumped the mop water

and walked into a rectangle of light.

The snowdrift slammed

dirt plowed outlines

of all my past personas

line up with linked hands

like paper dolls without me as I fly

lurk beneath the branch where I recline

when I land among ghosts

in a suspended house

what grains will stand

on heaps of sap that light has skimmed

what letters fade and blades remain

to release the sleeping flesh

from regimented dreams

and staring ice

I watch the moving floors

drained and repainted

beneath an exploding moon

where dancers change bodies

and join replaced partners

in colors that unravel toward

a razor smile

to sit down under a watery anvil

releasing pages to these rivers of wind

with a wheel of bones.

Planes across my eyes

the vaginal vents

and innocence of shark mouths

stairs climbing mountain graves

the ancient skin's

invading wires.

Man in a marble cube

punching salted mirrors

wailing to the beat of orgasmic gunfire

spasm soaking the stairwell

elevators ascending in bubbles

the veins of bath torn eyes

where brown ferns wrap

morsels of pickled pork

and gravel gathers to shine

on oceanic tongues

my gold stick figure

lashed to an umbrella of clouds

As the frail God mirrors a conscious mammal

painted photos make the tributaries droop

toward their pineal center

as the embers of clustered pharmacies

ride on constructed wings

and souls trickle bricks beneath them

bones in cemetery frost

put on newspaper raincoats

to walk the computer land

the sun's remaining crescent

bends the pornographic glass

a spoon mouth's fiery spider

combs and rakes of a waiting vein.

When the gleaming bubbles part

and the celestial punctuation mark explodes

black walls veined with pink paint

spitting monument corners

the clay cloak of interlocking granite gears

all come to ripple in convergence

I step away to watch the sliding horizon

and my machine love with its many strings

sharing ancient webs and fractures

liquid masks exchanging factions

in a pool of cells.

Oil to unlock time

road's golden intestines

coil through the rented crash of space.

The wings of a valley

a thousand fighter's voices

in the veins of time

berries crushed on concrete funnels

running with bird brains

and ancient letters

the slap of a curling wave.

Trees plunging through crystal soil

jostling the net of stars

roots to crawl clouds

and hammers for wet walls

that gulp the ocean slime.

A knob from an idol's cracked skull

snake's head in depleted air

a road for forked tongues

moving over plastic heaving lava.

Tar with its branching antennae

covering the sordid earth.

FOR THE LIVING

I envy my dead friends

for being dead.

Those empty heads line up

to fill with light.

They ascend the only hilltops left

that I can't climb.

They depart from this

with a gassy hiss.

In the aisles of wanting,

the forced march of desire

I long to leave

the ones who haven't left.

In the masked airport

in the market of diminishment

I long to close my eyes

and open the wild.

Combing past the shop fronts

the weary terrain.

Seeing that the world and I

have parted company for good.

There is no door, no window,

no fertile escape.

Angel faces and angel hands

all turned to malevolent tar.

Skies yielding to the error of the ages

the barren light.

Yammering split screens

hung from their machinery of coin

bones in outer space.

There was a frozen tide

that lived above our heads

we feasted in its shadow.

Shielded in its wave

our hated morsels would escape

these melting mouths of meaning

scattered on vacant signs

an empty shine.