The red mouth of this night

is a tunnel in my train car room

it takes my tongue from the air

and the lines from my hands

it takes the songs I made with certain ladies

it takes the plaid fields

seen from retired buses

and the trunk of a solitary tree,

leaving a black halo

above the bare granite spot

that pools with many automatic questions

now that the roots are gone

and the twilight is a silent Earth

buttock hills bathed in lunar fire

Paradoxes rain from the powdery

white and blue evening sky,

the claws of you and I dancing

drip with ruddy spiritual blood.

I'm Ty Cobb, mean as hell

and won't put up with any shit.

Tap dancers on the roof

are shooting a music video,

I get intrigued.  I live

in a long lasso, torn

by distant stars.  I'm the frog man

going to Mars.  You're the seller

of empty space.

Put up a shell of shackled tendrils

over the square pond

and the knuckles of the moon

that come too soon on a blue rail

bones lost in circumstantial hail

and the belly of a hilltop,

tones wheezing to be heard

in the chemical herd

and the shine of a goldenrod clearing

the chains of a mirror

the shames of a lettered sword

these cocktails while the dragon snores.

Latto, Ice Spice, Sukihana, Glorilla.

I love my bitches, the meaner the better.

Fuck Drake and Kendrick Lamar,

I want a street poetess

to shake her booty in my face

and tell what will be the way,

the word, the verb

she carries like a noun

in pink spandex.

Put the hex on those whiny

self-obsessed brothers,

take me shining into your tribe,

brown gates of Eden broken and

resold to my older soul

where these goddesses have

hooks like braille

and my ear's a sail on their

bright red tongues.

All I have to do is exhale,

and my criminal soul

will finally reach the earth.

Tall wooden flowers

with lightbulb heads

attest to the miracle.

Metallic seeds have been

sown here in the clay

of congealed blood,

sonic buzz of a circular flood,

trains veining the skin

of the battered concrete globe,

eye-slits of the immortal arch

that spans the river's theater park

and makes my vertebrae a tuning fork

of pronged ambitious futures.

Lungs light up like bags of gold

cornices and their spoon-curved

corners, shapely in western wind

bright blueprint's gash of blooming zones

from my fetal warming through

to my phantom bones.

Hatred makes the plumes bloom

out of the rock, hatred lights up

the sky with hot celestial blood,

hatred sows the necessary seed

for the curse of love.

The sting of hatred makes beauty possible,

its tongue-thorns of internal tearing

make an armor of lightweight gold.

Stacks of singing coin

tower over its emergence,

coin and its paper of underwear

surging like a glassy sea

between the dungeon walls of love

that hatred liberates from above.

I am the ectoplasm

that brings you into life with gifts

but I also drink your blood

to even it up

you are a jewel in the snow

of northern reaches

that skidded to get there

over flat rooftops glazed

with industrial paint

cliff's edges beaded

with melted simulacrum trees

lakes frozen in volcano mouths

wings of a fertile mechanism

that birth fresh triplet wings from each tip

mercury's music in a singing dish for cell division

my own form inverted in a mirror slab

calling all the dogs of the land.

Masks that flash

fake diamonds and feathers

spilling blood colored flowers

zones previously unknown on Earth

long tendrils from eroded letters

suppurating on distorted stone

where are my chains in velvet

where is my orchid mouth

the thread that stitches bricks together

trailing over a volcano's lips

in a chariot of digitized energy

in the heart of the electromagnet storm

cups of gold holding

bright imitative liquid

pulsating forms that seed

the twilight with a cold sunrise

taut radiance of slashed and unreal walls

my dark twin at the helm

of soft unfolding hallways

monstrous angelic architectural sex.

These crumbled lives

are spread in rain

gashed hearts leak battery acid

through the dictionary veins

acres of terminology

that surround the body

sky pulsing like a fake wood grain

exposed to rancid heat

meat river for the beauty that eats

and is redeemed between

the borders of the gilded frame.

The lace of nests

that cluster in the ribs

of a radiant bridge

is blood polymer

headed for the vast

transforming wormhole

to be sprayed in webs

and unforgiving machine arms

contrasted by a fleshly pale guitar

and phallic scimitar

time's intricate altar

made of unholy metal

escape from automatic dreams

the oars of toy ships

scraping bowls that turn to crimson lips

in the hour's last butane gasp

bright thorns of clitoral tongues

vast iron mazes ranked in tons

on ground so softly heaving

freed land of false angels leaving

unreluctant hooves.

The celestial vampires

in their darkening shrines

funneling a rope of space

through fractured time

writing on the ice that mirrors light

with string fingers

and fiber optic eyes

drinking from the lamps

of bioluminescent jelly

savoring the scum of ruddy roots

that fish the abyss hereafter

hacking at a fabric's flash

that never wanes or wavers long

the crushing octagonal song.

The return of magic

is a desperate business.

Let's masturbate the blood,

its every cell.

Paint the inner spiral

of the seashell

with an astral tongue.

Let the kitten colors run.

The sun rests in its fire

on the seventh wall.

Snakes coiling make a ragged

mess of their shed skin.

The soil reaches peaks

of cool vibration

in the rows of rain.

The love of life

is a tooth of pain

buried in the groaning grain.

The lights of the skeleton

have gone out.

The shadow still stands

like a blade of iron

with branches.

A smooth stone

rests in my hand.

I will break

the ice around my soul

by not throwing it.

Fences glint from the outskirts,

the wilderness is coming closer.

The fortress I left behind

is a ball of wet paper

caught up in a crooked wire.

The ledge sweats underneath

my ticking frame.

The cliff's drop tells me

I'm a dragon's tongue,

watching from outside

the airtight windows.

The tinsel of roads

is a rope of roaches.

Its net catches thoughtless dreams,

the bones of the hopeless.

The cave that paints my mouth

the moons of my many seeds

the runner that wrote this.

Paths part in the bud

and fornicate with the aftermath.

The staff without a flag

punctuates the desert.

Waters gather in the cloak of the ground

and sing to hell.  A numb claw clenches

the clapper of a ringing bell.

Roads that climb across the valley

washed by rivers, scrubbed clean

by the grains of blind bodies

as ornamented trees rise

from a broken spine

and painted tongues lash

from painted faces

I follow the web of water

suspended in the wake

of a fleeing sun

the carrier of ropes that run

up to their cranking pulley

with a robot's face and fish teeth

the glint of a barbed wire wreath.

I am from the winter.

I ignite the curves

of astral lakes

as I ascend throughout

the worlds.

Black holes break upon

my wingless wonder.

Dawns come and go beneath

no overhang.  I open like a lung

before a rain of dead matter

then cough it out as a spray

of gray moths.  Their patterns

iridescent take on many shades

one orifice of galaxies arrayed.