Heavy metal zen glaze

encased in globes of perfect frenzy

a xylophone of file drawers

a ceiling's interlocking teeth

transparent flesh revealed

in mirror panels

when the roads are quiet I rejoice

though they brought me to this island

in their fury of production

I was pissed into a dawn of milk

the demon of these ruins

trying to be reborn in secret

for infinite eyes to see

A dead end life to decorate

a drawer that opens under the ribcage

with reels of brightly colored wire

and hot split valentines

with winking sightless eyes

cracked angel hands holding a live bat

letting its lightweight bones and soft skin

struggle to fly for the caves again

a library of tattered script

rows of long tables each with only one chair

and huge rugs pregnant with incense

of perfumed psilocybin

fragrant at midnight and

fading in the morning sun

all powered by bicycle pedals

caught spirit moving shadow tons.

I saw division: now I see commonality.

We are all warped.  The fabric is listening.

Storms are in aquarium tanks tonight.

The moonlit ground is bright

as a rainless cloud.

The tree lined paths by the river's edge

host naked ghosts.

A blade swims like a drone

in these sleepy currents.

Shrines of waxen salt rock

epiphanies meeting steel

altar's cradle a pool of eggs

all speckled with the sunlight's dregs.

I see you in an alley between towers

drinking vapors from the air that has no name

painted naked on a brick platform

or riding on a velvet flag

you are the hard beauty

of underground things that rise

shrine's jewel of the hot cave hunter

that comes out in a cartoon waterfall

from broken rock and dripping seams

of wrecked projector screens

wet paths of dancing bones

that careen to thrones of ink

swamps frozen in the light that sinks.

Spikes of kissing fiber

on the chemical shelf

penetrating softly in a spiral staircase

orbs of thoughtful movement

in a parking garage

were left on the back brain burner

for glowing streets of lint

to be landed on in mothlike tandem

our antennas intertwined

and sending letters in powder

boxes of light gashed fingernail movies

I'm stuck on the ceiling

with these drone machines

trying to drop kitten style on your desk

watching the cardboard craters

that turn around the blood of your head

Lucid in a lava rain

a tree of brains

a sword shaped spaceship lit

by dancing nudes

in long bulbous windows

platforms of the damned

in bright hot garb

floating fangs in denture glasses

the angelic transcendence

of total ghouls

through syringe like chambers

into the veins of a dying

intestinal god

and a clearing with transparent pools

right through the fiction of the planet

where each wincing raindrop

can think while it falls

of a light beam birth canal

adorned in rancid chains.

I will rise as a red headed demon

from all the burning bushes

left behind by business as usual

in a visionary trance of inheritance

gift of avatars denied

reclaimed in orgasmic deity

I will gobble your dying society

and shit it out in unfolding architecture

while my body turns to a torn velvet glove

bridges of spinal light are forming

hot links above your cold abyss

my chaos has hands and feet that are unseen

this life performed in little corridors

will be exposed to space

and blades of tentacled eyes

carnal as the stars and wanting more

from your plasticene soil

and your stadiums of empty howls

a hammer of frozen seeds is turning

to make contact with your womb of many walls

sprouting many splendored halls

in octopus patterns

this rejected slattern is the mother

of your reborn world

to push you out into the roads of the void

that exist as raging playful strings

and the strength of all unspoken things.

THE ENDLESS SEQUEL

This is the freest prison

mankind has ever created.

Now celebrate, at gunpoint.

Don't worry, the gun's not loaded.

Your anxiety makes us uncomfortable.

We want you to worship the symbol.

The symbol of the gun,

that merely suggests a bullet,

this demands your adherence.

We don't talk about the real thing here.

Show strength and self-control.

We demand that you be joyful.

Our sacrifice necessitates your agreement.

Don't grovel!  That's embarrassing.

Your obedience must be voluntary.

It must be so voluntary

that your servitude

remains invisible.

Dark blue blades tear cotton sky

paths of metal flickering crawl

up hills that ate water for days

while I slept upright like a scarecrow

find me a fence to crash into spiritually

put me on wheels in a basket

let me find that criminal dream again

that I've been lacking like a leaf detached

from the sinning tree

I know all the functional charades

of the usual traffic

I know all about your implanted scars

your body of skulls

long daisy chain limbs

from the touchless future of fucking

I see the frame of your soul

is gold with hints of fractured purple

I see the end of all things is gathering

like flowers in a bed of dead flowers

all gone from the siren's bleached crow call.

Your beauty is gone

from these biblical bullshit aisles

gone from the icicles

that hang from nowhere

and the sweat of the dead

hangers dangling with ghostly clothes

the poles of old structures

glistening in rain bombs

while the windows tilt like aching wings

to throw off lightning sap

here is a bowl of burnished whale bone

here are the shadows painted

on the artificial light

here is a handle of mysterious silver

connected to nothing and

handed off to nobody at all

here is the knife it once had

playing the rib of my ribs

like an electronic drum set

I'm unalive as liquid granite

walking iron torn tar

swollen for your flashing curves

in playful transit

dancing in a cube of glass

through vacuumed layers of the time trap

sweet pollen past the dumpsters

that know my name.

She is small and dark furred

pert as a diamond tongue

counts vegetables instead of money

opening the gothic hinges

hidden in wooden drawers

paths of light pour out

of her limbs at rest

on the couch in break room bardo

where I'm floating on a thousand fanwaves

watching her drink black sugar

doors of heat are popping

like flower petals fed to the cinema

she likes to open up the portal

to the central nerve

feathers hold a miniature museum

rotating on a sweet dish in her magic head.

My ribs are tendrils around her form

her hair claws all my entrails in the dark

we bathe in the oil

that pools in a ruined cathedral

the wastes of bitter light

that crackles over dusty fissures

in an uneven floor

tang of the crushed plant's rooted fiber

powder of a parcel of ancient leaves

pentagrams of yarn on fake flesh

compartments in a maze that never ends

she answers back from ice

that is always waiting

answers back from acres

of polished, shining wood

in a crown of spouts that shows

the trickle of inverted fountains

glowing cursed in holographic marble

the strength of her ingenious wound.

Jets of eyeballs emitting steam

slabs of frozen fat

displaying prostrate beauties

chords of hot grid magnetizing particles

the walks of ghostly men alone

on beaches of metallic dust.

Labyrinthine gardens

rising from a well of screams.

No barriers in time, and no mere echo.

Stone crosses on the bottom of a pond.

My frog suit itching like a telepathic fire.

The hands that rise from wire bitten clay.

The altar's toys of seed and egg.

The God that begs.

My clay is fertile with torment

shoots of glowing fiber separate my veins

stringed instruments on swinging chains

this ledge is a chink in some vast spine

we look out upon public gelatin

electrodes burst with thinking feeling flowers

desks of granite bind the dock to an erupted floor

mouths talking through masks underwater

eyes lost in musky clouds of ink

in the disrupted fabric

my lovemaking bonds

are hooks in the cellwork

fangs erupting from the rings of mirth

An obelisk of frozen jelly

surrounds me and crowds my judgement.

It blurs the rays of light

that I want to be destroyed by.

It opens up the exit door within.

In dreams forced by motionless disgust

I walk through cities of alphabet air

time waves clouded by the human tongue

wearing an ant's head helmet

frame coated with transparent spandex

watching the machinery that rhymes with death

prisons flying an elusive flag.

Some dragon tooth horizon

a cloud of silken layers appearing to swim

but only floating

concrete paths of blonde blood

forging iridescent arks.

The tick's head buried in my ribs,

the knob turning.  Doors churning

from explosions underwater,

surfacing near a head of clay.

Gravestones of neon tarot

a crackle of wires away.

The glass castle seethes

with gaseous pressure.

The sulfur hoses spray

at fluctuating souls.

Paths grow from the basement

of a groaning blueprint

in raw straight lines.

My spirit drifting through the pines

has a club antenna.

This mercury mouth is milking

the seventh firmament's

array of undersides.

The ground rides.

The groundhog halfway down the hill

staring from a rock

hoping I don't notice.

Rivers through the moss descend

the earth is not a clenching hand

he waits until I walk away

to enter his burrow.

Lightning won't find him there

I'll go up on a hill to eat it

and climb the fire past the construct

made by wasteful thoughts

to an unmade castle

where the quiet part gets loud.

In the gaps punched by sacred memory

games of spirits without end

a sand grain mirror.

Webs have been tried

and branches flung from roots

mornings inside out

through bottomless nights

to gut my wrestling angel.

These roads will make a crescent

in their tangle

zones alert for just one healing word

where the unkept swerves.

Fireflies are in my veins

these ponds are fingernails of God

the bones emerge at twilight

and the blood writes

tracks are beaten through the jungle heart

my cells are nursed on metal

rails that run away from conscious sense

and into devouring stratosphere

beggars walk in rows upon the shore

where I unfold paper circles

faces linked by chains of lunar stone

are sent to hovercraft museums

clouds of taffy drip toxic fluff

that sizzles on wooden highways

I'm the carbine of some visionary arm

that's going nowhere.

Dragged across the bubbling universes

by a sleigh of demonic fire

dosed with human meanings

sick from it like a beaten dog

roaming these poisoned hills

in search of duck meat

watching dead fruit

rain from the trees.

Stuck in a pearl frame

forehead filled with ebony fangs

born to drink the sour light

from leaning lamps

along an abandoned highway.

The eye in a ring

atop a furry pyramid floating

souls departed from this world

projecting glossy lines

on all the fish scales of a lost design.

She came out of the ground to drink blood.

She links bodies with a crayon marker.

Sheets of time disrupted

close around her like seductive water.

The lime sky is paused for reflection.

The brown sinkholes open like pores.

Her veins roar.

I am in a screen

scratched by strange fingernails.

I am trying to watch her tail.

The flightless birds are taking off

like smoke.  Gravity's gone.

I am not a mover of pieces or

a moving piece.  She is the buttons

on an artificial cliff I climb.

The mourners and their pistons drive.

A secret nest in the hills

where I get my thrills

in the time of the yellow moon

in the bleary air flowing heavenward

over the mushroom laden fields

across overgrown stone fences

strewn with thorn necklaces

branches lost in the machinery of light

when I was on an iceberg longing

for a shore to crash on

pronged forks knew this would be my fate

the meat of joy I lavished

with my craven spirit

looking for a keyhole in the high rocks

we are the ghosts of western civilization

bones on a diving board

dust drunk on gasoline

evaporating forward

DEEP AS THE GASH

I respect extreme experience, I respect soul.

I can't understand excessive cleanliness,

I don't see the appeal.  Maybe I only

relate to addicts, to those enslaved

by insane pleasures.  I must be one of them.

They must be here to stretch and strain

my consciousness, we must be here to be

slingshotted into the cosmos.

I am still the evil boy who wants more.

I still seek the shocking fullness of the void.

My companions, they have wandered away,

they must be doing the same.

The game plays everyone:

we want to get played hard.

We are not those who seek

the fuckless side of God.

The real crown waits beneath

the royal fraud.  The silence talks.

Rain taps on the drum skin

sweat taps on the brain skin

phallic apartment towers rise

like windowed cobras

teeming with topless beauties

scales of sunbeam fragments

sliding slowly down the mask of fate

my desk is a chip caged from a glacier

the tip of my tongue has teeth that keep

biting my fingernails

my blood rests in a dead volcano

a diving board protrudes from my skeleton

my paperweight bronze heart is the size

of the planet's soul.

MALAMBRUNO

I'll enchant you bitches

with vines of death

that create pleasure,

take on the names

that have been imprecations,

and wear these costumes

in the sated blue

of late wet quiet streets,

filled with plants and meat

I am your profane sermonizer,

sowing fire in the blood

that waves from craven parades.

On tombs I paint with clay

and make refined sadistic engravings,

you will drink these muddy paths

and the stream they run beside

to be the throat that rides.

Educated by dissection

formed on wings of insensate steel

to be the anchor's wheel.

Places of misery deep in my soul

floating in memory's gravy

surfacing shiny like tin

a swamp of tires turning over

a singing memo from destroyed lands

peaks enchained with nightmarish lights

pits of giant lice crawling on fire

stacks of money to sleep on

corridors alive with a flying serpent

seams of ancient paths sown under rock

finding my errant bloodstream

cooking in a lunar pot

this wart filled pock marked vessel

shoplifted from the high angelic shelf.

Headgear of chrome tongues

that whisper hatreds in soothing forms

pretty quills that hook

unwilling flesh back into false existence

dancing on a heated plate

that shines with gold.

Nooses dangling from hand carved rafters

decorative with ribbons and

the trickles of collapsing names.

Sediment of days crushed

treated as a sacred powder

laid in lines upon a rotten monument's

sick rings of concrete ooze.

Robotic bloodhounds sniffing

plastic coated ground

a throne of feces emerging on fetid stone.

Grease moving on vague plaques

of civic terror

worship of antique teeth

caught leering from a fossil's frozen mouth.

Veiled ornament of vacant crowds

drifting skyward on a kite of womb skin

jewel of inspected acres

rising on strings of steel.

Electrode cables prick my sleep

I float on silk leaves

under the smoke of an attacked harbor

this circuitry deserves its rope of wounds

convulsions wrought in space

the colors of departed air

a park bench on a meteor

the shade beneath

the strength of a straw hat

and then not even that.

The fabric bulges up above

a steaming cemetery

loaded with the letters of dead tribes

and sucking stars

pulling at the oils of the lard

pooling in a tidy dish

for some emperor to drink away

the sleep of death in money's empty rays.

Oblivion my last elusive beauty

with the curvature of many bonus earths

feeding mouths are printed on the castle

draining all the offshoots of the curse.

The magnolia tree is still

alive, with nine visible

blossoms.  This sight of earth

is from my father's bones.

Plastic wrapped halls open

between growing stalks.

Webs of wire

dangle dancing images

above the neon campsites.

This flowing valley is observed

from an emerging rock.

Old leaves are scattered in wax

on the resin of a fresh carved path.

Waterfalls crashing like the laughter

of happy women.  Of a commons

where the well washes

rows of tired faces with buckets

of cool purple light.

The black hole's window

is in gold lace on the cusp of space.

A chair of rest smokes gently

with gone green hereafter.

The sky can't breathe

and the clouds can't think

wreathed skeletons arrive and sink.

The ceiling fan turns

in a golden lamp of light.

A thick cat purrs on my lap.

He lives in irritable error

til he settles in and vibrates.

His evil is the wound from which

the laughter of the ages pours.

We need mischief.

Hell's abyss is heaven's risk.

There is no escape from

the stone in the middle

of the head, the stone

in the middle of the head.

Cats love violent acquisition,

they seek out dangerous play.

The engines roar a mile away.

Hills are swollen tongues of land

under tar.  The stars are far.

They're tangled in my nerves.

This tangled web

of horrible connections

is the pain that I deserve.

I'll turn it into a cloak.

It'll turn me into a pound of butter.

In the fields, in the fields

left open by the dying

you can hear the sacred fiends mutter.

We have whole civilizations inside us.

Full of beings, who want to know souls.

Ledge cafes cackling at liquid train cars.

Aisles in rock pulsing deep red light.

Towers with attaching bridges

roads through jeweled caves

teacups heavy as warheads

glued to glossy sex drenched floors

the fan blades of breathing systems

cutting off strange yearning limbs.

Engines with kaleidoscopic sinkholes

pulling sight through ecstasy of pipes

to land on grains of this robotic sand

combed by sad sword fingers

bronze heat of massive praying mantis.

Aching forth with infinite content,

mating fiber optic ooze.

Sprung from this cathedral meat

a tongue of truth lost deep

in labyrinthine ruse.

The wings that fold over horizons

the venom that soaked my brain

cool paths winding next to a hot river

sparks touching embryonic webs

a wheel that's melting bone

in heavenly metallic rafters

the list of names that are gone

tattooed on my tattered flesh

I watch the bridge twinkle

with gliding lamps

feel roads intertwining under me

to produce a last afterbirth

gone from angelic flesh

and the bite of sweet syringe teeth

caged in an envelope of weightless water

waiting for the razor threads

to catch a blown unfrozen demigod

and split him from the crown of earth

and then waiting for nothing

with open hands to catch a hard mirage

in a closed garage.

LENTICULAR CLOUDS AND NECKLACE HOUSES

Gears cranking with colored feathers,

rubber mountains pocked with

oily pools of real swamp grass

and dancing naked electric dolls,

paths traced through resistant air

by sinewy lightning, floating mounds

of machine dung, the kissing of

spray painted nuclear warheads.

Symmetries broken by a smiling baby,

tall audio speakers thrumming

with demonic joy.  Lice of the red forest

that thrives, fangs of molten light lucky

to decorate the sensitivities

of rising antennas.

Tinfoil sheep on a wolf's fur hillside,

dead eyes tracking

what the living cannot see

waves lapping what has ceased to be.

KNIGHT ERRANT SERPENTINE

Faithful to the strange dreams of the west,

its outcast loves and fertile failures,

chill paths and renegade heat

intertwined in orgasmic horror.

Anomalies with flaming tongues

landing on a bright scum lily pad.

Fresh buds of antique voodoo,

spells cast on sunken wood

with sentient blood.

The tendrils fall through space

to reproduce black holes,

pouring mortal glory through

the new immortal mind.

I'm riding the only one that rides,

the queen of irrepressible tarot.

The armored anti-saint of the last

visible bow, her last

invisible arrow.

The strange ways of suffering times

ash of bones on a shore that fades

the light that sweeps like a wind

closets packed with grimy dollars

colors streaking from the mouths

of lightning-struck pipes

the seams of pain-stitched images

fountain-formed people laughing

I find the tape of conversations

tied around a field of nodding daffodils

rippling from the branches

of a bent orchard

this acid cake of yearning land

the rivers of my rivers that are hands

horns picking the apples

bird bones on trays of china

left behind on a squirming map

as the landscapes flap.

The queen is hiding in the red

behind the red behind the white

hiding in the light of my sunset spoons

knitting renegade blood vessels

left behind on ancient stone

in maps of forested labyrinths

and the torment of gorgeous creatures

melted scales that bring love back to life

with a wincing gash.

She is walking over dams

watching active water,

seeing the animals that carry me

and the rogue moon

of luminous moss,

caught up in my teething culture.

Desire is her grid of dreams

but not her conqueror,

the flying ships don't dent

her slick dark glasses

or her hyacinth mood.

And it takes me past the reeds

played by amphibian masters,

past the ass-prints and

the tit-prints she has left

on wailing walls, far past

the living buildings and

their courtyard halls.

I am where her venom falls.

The couches float like coins

in a strong whirlpool, they'll settle soon.

The bedclothes make a palpitating tomb.

The crown of frozen blood

evaporates at a touch, foggy tar

flows down swelling hills

of a restless earth.

Blankets are alive on grass

the voice of smitten soil

twitches its hairy masks

and tables polished with vinegar,

the severed eyes in a river

still afloat reflecting sadness

from the ones cut awake

to bleed slowly in carpeted halls,

stems dripping on departing floors

in the house of artificial lords.

With the tongue of a demon cursed

and hands that are heavy

with a hard heart crushed

by the architecture of sad circumstance,

fences raised with flowering vine

and moats of cleansed water

glowing like liquid metal

links of ever flowing chains

that spring loose from botched existence,

firmament of mirror stars

where my features are a misfire

and the cultures of man fall away

into the realm of unfertilized shadow

and the wings of a trash can spray

decorative ooze on the honored tombs,

under the birth of zombie classes

and the howl of sad parties

clinking glasses in the core

of an expanding prison,

voiced by wires

and disintegrating paradigms

a nipple of barren stone

shaped by desperate lips

mistress of inverted nonexistence

dealing diamond schisms

to the catacombs of once paused pistons.

I took acid that turned me into a cat.

But not really a cat--consciousness

searching mirrors to be seen

from inside a cat's image.

This is a poem about death disguised

as a poem about transformation.

There are no poems about death.

Thoughts occur to me in the form

of other people's bodies.

I build a dome and then rise over it.

I strip off all the names

and put them on again backwards.

I am glued to this stool of bones

with my strings of subtle war

vibrating in a chord of joy.

I am not a toy of time, or history's bitch.

I can switch off.  I ride the spirit

like a catching glitch.  I take the light

bouncing from graves to be a sublime sign.

There is no plan for mine

and the shadow of the skin's outline

holds libraries that rave and rave

for the whiskers that were never shaved.

Arabesques of cloud don't lick

the moon with their many tongues.

She doesn't float, she isn't free.

In a metal dream

the tendrils curl around her

like a ring's clasp.

I home in like the brain of a wasp.

The automatic windows wake me up.

The moon reflected in a greasy cup.

I never drank the dregs.

She isn't female, she doesn't give

a fuck.  The symphony of cymbals

falls down many colliding walls.

The gilded glory without milk

or blood.  Terraced cities gleaming

paved layers and then laminated layers

rising like reptilian minds.

Arrows find me like many

electronic messages

at the pillar of discarded saints.

Lunar lending is a sun that paints.

The muck and brine of heaven

a kaleidoscope of skies

tar paths steaming

through the ways of green earth

two skeletons in leather seats

strapped into the melting timeline

rails flashing over long bronze curtains of dirt

tufts of blossoming embattled flowers

the chaos of the seeds unsown

and the pain of ignition

surf of ink eclipsing cells of need

I sit on hot cement and watch

a rotating doorway

moths fluttering on dusty glass

the suitclothed gathering

with barely animated blood

sipping alkaline airfresh nintendo

immortal pillars falling on the rape divine

and the thoughts of stony slopes of pine.

I've been blasted through the tunnel

with the long lights overhead

I drank rum in the concrete belly

and jumped from the viaduct on high

hoping to keep pace with the brightest waterfall

watching the stories all go

silent as colored sand

and all of my works were wrapped

in evaporating skin

and all of the cups I poured

for smiling ladies

ran down the walkway

where my spirit now resides

it's a graveyard auditorium overlook

that rides in steel spectator seats

and sad impotent looking

but the sun is a seed cracking

and roads of lava intertwine like tongues

and then like tangled brine

exits flashing in a final sign

and the valley's mine.

The gates of gauze

in a beam of purple light

a boomerang of knives

that reflects in returning eyes

kingdoms of salt towers

fractured by a breeze of dreaming bones

aloft in taut machinery

all drunk on the mouths in their foreheads

peaks lost in propeller speech

betraying boiled blood

what wings of water surfaced

from that burnished lake

below the burning battle that became

a vampiric myth

beseeched by souls of molten caverns

to fly through zones without mercy

the way the births of angel's curses

take a blistered course.

Empty lots hold unimpeded light

ferns flutter at the outskirts

of paved earth and pale antennae

nets shimmering in wounded air

breasts pouring from a tall

flatscreen sky

amused lips laughing in infinity

the strings of the ax that tugs

through flesh like milk

the killer's kiss of antimatter ceilings

doors drifting from a dispersing ship

each thoughtful fragment taught

inert metallic resistance

stems caught in the machinery of time

and blooming from such painless

undistracted heat

ten thousand petals

from a rotten clump of wheat

in a clay hand

a void moon sifting

through the sun's demands.

The narratives have all run out,

the light plays in many directions.

The torments of a god

split into slick pieces

and ornamental garbage.

Lines going wavy at the hem

of a great silence, that stretches

yawning through the veil of emptiness

to a field of fertile stars

fallen on blue soil

far past the manmade zones

of territorial ooze.

I shrink into the smallest molecule

and lay down naked on the pages

of a honored book.

The letters cook my guts

and my bones fall out.

Horizons pour gold and sauerkraut

onto the plate of my grave.

My tongue grows longer

than these high electrical wires.

It burrows through the earth

then out into the home of space.

The tick and the moth

in the toilet bowl

the wounds they cause in matter

before the swirl descends

a labyrinth in a lion's mouth

screens blaring over selected highways

southern ruts erupting to the frigid north

the fruits of many canyons

in their tentacled sheen

places of dreaming rest

that undulate like oceans

leaves of a stained map

gathering in darkly gleaming piles

eyes of the night that have

an inner light like nuclear arms

spirits that haunt a certain architecture

bone tables holding granite wings

above the pipes that sing.

The glorious tree

is dropping its appendages.

The trunk soars into space

shedding bark of parchment paper

leaving twigs like tortured jewels

on the turning ground.

There's a portal halfway up

pushing light from the other side of death.

There's a torn vessel

within the strange vehicle

that breathes for uncaptured soul.

Fired past the sun, growing

branches again, roots outlined

across rancid moons, giant

planets of lifelessness

caressed by its crooked orbit

offering no settlement, no

orchard of companions

to the supernatural night

or the rings of many clustered dawns.

Only blood can produce life.

This mangled carcass still wants more.

In the overlapping skies

of twin planetary landscapes,

in the dying of the clocks

that monitor their own death,

in the gently lapping waves

of molten metal,

in the sanctuary ripped and strafed

I no longer sit to wait for anyone.

The drummers and their puppet prancers

have all moved on to another square.

Lines run outward until they wrap around

the bulb of a cracked dawn.

The roads are freed of meaning

at the sea.  Far off in fog,

under the spell of an uncanny distance,

minerals go to work on human minds

and the suicide of this

counterfeit chronology is decided.

Fountains running for a ghostly inhabitant.

Lunar utensils enmeshed in thinking vertebrae.

Balloon strings letting go of a weightless hand.

I feel the joy of Satan

as I search the dumpster for beauties.

A convex sky is blinking at me.

Far up, in the creamless depths,

there must be a strange wheel turning.

I'm a soldier in nobody's army

turning to salute the scalding sun.

The chain of days goes

further and further.

I am with it in the hook

that breaks rugged stone.

The web of roots is dredged up

from under this pale blue skin

of dry tar.  Earth is deeper than air

and wilder.  I am her demon

of many ages, some swampland singer.

I'm the deity's forgotten finger

watching trash of time.

A lifeform that angelically erases itself

is hovering above the bent and weathered trees

investing seeds of flame

in tiny unknown particles

flapping in the dark microscopic

parallelogram of intertwined tongues

shores tapped by oily hooves

beneath its dreamed escape

from grim activated bodies

and their placards wet

with diabolic phlegm

eyes lost to the event

and gone from the essence.

On a pomegranate picnic

with a friendly ghost

cracking red cells into dishes

that disintegrate in the sun

and the blanket spreads like sand

over pine needle carpets

and oil splattered clearings

where the suffering green

is a touch of inward fire

clouds of plastic bags

rub along our backs

we crawl to read the clay

in fertile ditches

and the peels fall away

from daylit sculpture

lichens glowing on the shepherd's

wall of stone

and the shepherd's gone.

BASEMENT DWELLER

My crypt of painted figures

and forbidden epiphanies

souls bereft of destiny

limbs breaking in a waterfall of light

the lowest deck of mutilated time

shadow of unknown sacrifice

orb shackled to a weary spine

that knows the green blood

of many flowers

ripping through the craters

with a fissure hand.

Ethereal growth

of disembodied desire

clawing back from a fallen moon

buried here in a plaster womb.

There is a mercy cast

from these unreal windows

constructed on the lining of a cave

where angels don't behave

and mortal flesh ascends in baskets

flags of a fallen dome

where silence has a wand to ask it.

On this moon bright southern night

the sky is blown open for me to fly through

magnolia leaves rustle in their shine

on the brine of the earth and its dreams

under the fiction of my floating feet

and the shine is deadly as a storm

fiends that roam in the approach to silence

feel it shatter their veins

and freeze the mercury in their kneecaps

my pentagram princess

rides the wall of dawn

in a shawl of dark matter

and a wig of forgery in tatters

watching me obey the tides of blood

with slug like eyes in my skin disguise

I'm playing with the virtues of the dead

and the vices of the living

the statues are kidding

and grime has become stone

my projections and I walk alone.

Strings trilling in the canopy of fire

roads threading like

veins to swampland's pain

caves radiant in rows

in wind stroked hillsides

cemetery gardens rising

in a cojoined coil

above the end of stricken toil

chains of dictation swinging

from these icicles of thought

that found a rushing body

dancing on the roots that writhe

in a fretless tide.

I don't like context or meaning

I like shapes and colors

suggestive forms sliding

over the barriers between worlds

but maps are needed to find honey

the cage is many beveled octagons

of organized voices

linked in an ascending chain

red misted clouds of alphabet time

the reach of sleep stretches

to touch the ocean floor of a galactic pan

a vast lair of being like a scriptural napkin

in the middle of a pile of napkins

or maybe somewhere off to the side of genesis

with the kisses of a girl's name

a key to my story would be so futile

it is now in many rooms and many layers

thank God for the meaninglessness of life

for its lack of destination

and the flair of its shared chairs

leaning to the exit's a palatial house

I want to escape through a curtain of acid

to dry caves of gold framed polished emeralds

like reptilian eyes, lakefront cabins with porches

overlooking biological storms

and abandoned golf courses underwater,

corroding into coral basins

symphonies kissing a commercial sky

feathered costumes that call in the snakes

the cotton hands of swift ethereal machinery

taking turns with our octopus soul

in the germ of a cooling light

afloat beneath the dangling planets

and long lost stars

to sleep on the grains of the dark

and come awake before an electronic door

watching brick floors fade

in mercury and water

and cells move morphing in sad ladders

red knowledge in roving screens

dead to the centuries

aloft on wings of deathly temporal power

this terminal hour.

A searing white hot flame

from the grave, accompanied by money.

You're selling yourself to yourself,

and even you aren't buying it.

The mirror is a shit stain

glimmering in the underwear

of your robotic God,

where you dwell in metallic folds

with your hologram friends.

In the real world there's nothing left.

No dream of reality to return to.

Your box is fucked, you built it.

Climb into it anyway and begin

the sleep of death.

Let the fronds of mutated plants

poke at you on the way in.

From the world of disease

you left behind, from a

suicide bomb of raunchy exuberance.

It's hard to talk when your whole body is

filled with liquid shit.  Fucking drown in it.

SKOMOROKH

I walked into a timeless landscape

looking for drugs.

I'll flip onstage all night

to keep the light coming

out of my ribcage.

I'll eat coins

and turn them into flowers.

People gather like fences of meat

to watch me prancing.

Strings pop in the fancy abattoir.

The gap between me and the audience

is a moat full of guts.

Rainbows attach the edges

through a ceiling of stained glass.

Doorways open to blank space

in the upper corners.

My blood is laughing

at its cage of shit

the basement floor reverberates

with the root of many feeding engines

and the dragon is a plastic tool.

Fierce letters printed on wilting skin,

a glaze of blood to polish timber

and take down the skies,

hands clasped on the disc

of an airport dining table,

zones of ordered paint

rushing sentient space,

I can't talk, I must stare

into the voidless yawn that crackles,

I must know its unforced embrace

where the parched ground heals

and wounds with wetness,

bridges cross the chasm's

multicolored light,

my delicious torment redeems

the tragedy of my elders,

I see wings in shit, the corpus

emblazoned with frauds

that have become genetic,

the stones go quiet

in their slow decay,

the water wades into me,

I am a sea invaded

by this unwelcome body,

the eye is all, the poles of vision

are making shapes from a hell

of elaborate echoes,

the sun cools on waning rye

my wallet is a folded leaf

that holds a supernatural seal,

the gash of a gone root waits

my feet are numb to finding

the sleep of mercy ends in ecstatic birth.

QUIXOTIC

All my life I'll just be a fool.

I'll fuck it up, probably on purpose.

Murders will happen because of me

but I'll never be there.  This

is the paranoid eye that searches

only for a certain frog.

This is our earthly home,

that leaks and screams.

I am absent from the rituals

of birth and death, my attention

is elsewhere.  The obsessive

carving of reality must take place.

The gift I don't deserve

must be shredded into

shimmering fragments.

Man must survive on the salt

of dead ideas.  This skin

is a kind of armor I put on,

and it doesn't work.

This cactus tongue

is milky as a neon pen.

The frame falls off

from the jagged landscape.

I am aligned with the dying god,

with the ones of this world.

There is no other seeking.

Luminescent curlicues unfurl

on a cold horizon.

They are not straight, they tremble

like frozen lashes.

The way the blankets heave,

the dome of space has opened up,

a voice without language is calling,

calling.

Tentacles of ephemeral fluff

retreating from the light of hate

shores of naked angels on plastic sand

shadows loving under tentscapes

of plaster branches

wasp wings moving over marble sheen

Vines from death

reaching over abandoned racetracks

flowers of a raging bulb

that knows the grip of soil

worms flicking the beginning

of angel wings in blood gravy

long tubes of light that linger

in dead halls

a walking spine

that flounders like a sleeping dancer

the stench of millennia

all gone from a long bone bridge

the flanks of passing ships

alive with tangled circuits

their cycles winding closer

to the sanctum of the pilot clown

one pyramid of clear glass

under fiber optic oceans

bioluminescence simulated

by a dragging hand

The reins of spirit snapping

in the furrows of galactic night

where orbs are born from burning mercy

rails of a vaporous train

rivers of electric mud

scorched thorns in arabesque of longing

smashed maps of many lamps

ghosts limping over dream-born mattresses

chains leaking from a ruptured iron cloud

that the seamstress of these wastes allowed.

The vein that goes all the way down

bronze light of divine tentacles

faint bubbles of broken speech

seeping into space

from a cave of pearl rapture

purple pentagram neon eyes

and pinball paddle thighs

the mask pierced by handcuff capture

heartbeat's colored panels turning

lane to prismatic lane.

Cocooned within the wreckage

with these laughing scars,

past loves revealed as psychosis,

quartz walls around remembered parties,

treadmills of omega

scriptures written in unyielding steel

somewhere in an active cloud system

the poison knife is tracking electricity

walls go up like wings to ride

the wind of death to rumors of a different life

untangled into grim surrender

cloves of purple rent from gray

stacked flowers of concrete

on caving plaster.

The culture of zombies

is now complete.  Look around you

at all the repeating heads.

Their precious politics, their brave religions

are all gone, and they don't know it.

The wheel descends a strange

rotating spire.  Sparks are tossed

like flares into the granary.

I kneel in the dark

and protect my drums.

I take up the feather dress

of the once departed

forever to return.

I chant like a beggar in my last

clean linen.

What was it that the ring

of mindless eyes told you to do?

How did you get so good

at walking sightless?

I no longer scream these questions.

A new kind of amusement

trickles through from the divine.

The horns of a goat grow

from unbitten flesh.

The mesh of souls

is upon me now

I can see them without their smiles.

Leather wings cover up the miles.

The surface of infinity is

rounded and soft.

There is a home for consciousness

in all that's lost to this fleeting moment

known by its rotting fruits.

But only flesh can satisfy the dead

flesh and its tired morsels

painting adult playgrounds

and their chain door handles

with the traffic of a deeper red.

I'm in a place where

there are no fathers

and blue light just crawls

up the walls

the realm of the egg

in radiant smoke waves

the cliffs I climb

on the inside of a wheel

the fences grab at space

with their granulated screens

the dancers whip ribbons

and raise daggers of black glass

against a sourdough moon

wet paths web their way down

to a citadel of glue

each step sprayed with rock dust

for the myths that must implode

among melted pillars

forced air for a swinging hammer

ravines between the strands

of a statue's hair.

In the offices of the damned

I am a blooming flower

against a red wall with many tendrils

sucking dew through sterile windows

brushed by shiny shadows

under tubes of trapped light

thin layers of plastic diamonds.

Egg circuits sending signals

on some quiet upper floor

these chains of yearning

aisles of scarred squares

the prices of life and death

glowing stillness on a silk glove.

The heel-marks there

pressed back from some fine orb

blood fallen, sinking in

not carried by the wind

sun torn by hooks that spring

from rotting flesh

a nest that sighs and strangles

in the fizz of smashed words

paths of fire mark the stone sides

climbing to unborn heaven

the wrecked ghost has a marble shine

his slumber on the snow is strange

these clouds of wire remember

their dreams were

of an order without change

but I am the ax shattered

into arrowheads

as if the shaft mattered

light breaking from a shadow's prison range

In the cast of wind carved bone

that brought a skin sail

with tortured eyes

to the brink of this fecund abyss

in a map of lilac

the womb heaped with ashen echoes

has stretched its catch tubes

under twisted bridges

pinning me to streams of dripping berries

thorny tongues of eternal lungs

flagging soil from ethereal space

the soul that's taken root

in this desire

winding water with fire

in a maze of smoke stained glass

colored coils of a sweetly sleeping dragon

veined catacombs digesting time

bronze corridors of blood like lime

this ligature of lips and vine

orgasmic death's deceiver

bent fingers on a harp of living gold

Roads flaring over baked hills,

clouds reaching with translucent leaves,

cemetery rivers choked and churning,

blue blades painted on

bright red doors.

Songs drowned in the depths

of machinery,

rooms in which we sang

now rented to unmoving strangers,

eyes staring in a dark

we never knew.

Mountains climbed by my

childhood body

now far from me

as the bottoms of teeming oceans

winds cut by rock

whose curvature maps the sun.

Painted faces peel off

on the surface of

a bioluminescent river

coursing through conversant

rocks and mud

machinery of ancient calendars

owl eyes in mercury

the hatchet thrown in a fit of rage

circling like a boomerang.

Stars torn by flecks of falling space

the oval frames of one way doors

opening galactic tongues

for dancing mortal blood

a throne of ice on some Las Vegas stage

a glitter cage for gnashing fangs

and wet bone breaking eggs

divinity of dregs and ruts of gold

floating kiosk where the spine is sold

to magic formulas

cold vials of guts with angel

wings branching from turbulent labels

to translucent floors

feathered archways where

the acid pours

black wind on twisted letters

a moon of bedsheets

and a valley in knots

before a red torch

scum oceans sliding over

persistent boulders.

Blades of light cross ruddy canyons

filled with sexual information

and the crumpled wicks

of past days floating

in the stream of death

that they have fueled

and that now discards them

blazing and pointing

to a holographic cavern

coagulating in dark matter and filled

with the dashing and unreal

unmasked imposters in an age of masks

slime filling their flasks

with the spiceless gleam

of our cowardly blood

as the deity chews gum

and wears velvet gloves

cuffs chained to an infant above.

Ink sores on the balcony

eyes watching that already know

soul's fecund octagon in neon raving

with labyrinthine lines

that inch like signs

that nothing's reaching

amber solitudes in paused rain

the fronds and cracking arcs

of geometrically linked geodesic cemeteries

long kisses in a serpentine embrace.

The poisons of earth

and the poisons of man

I drink from a goblet

made from my own clay

the sick tree is still blossoming

I watch the rivers of the sky

tug and move across the immaterial

mountain peaks are crackling with fire

down here in a pocket pool

between stones and slender birches

I am bathing nude as a bird

in the finery of my nimbus

a cyclops with the semblance of a vulva

watches me over these hazy hills

I let the reel run unlike time

a mind within many minds

is painting on walls of waitresses

the sun is stuck in honey

and it can't get out

lend a paycheck to this yielded body

watch the fangs of light retract

into a mist of souls, all desire

decoded by the bark

that falls like paper on water

a dock of iron stretches

over the land to a plush

furred rubber chamber

where sight resides in snakes

that neither linger or labor

the fungal reek emerging later

than the blood and dirt

the wire skirt of droning cicada

beam of lilac on a screen of dying

saviors of a straw man's prayer

for vacancy's exploding neighbor

in the harbor of the fertile dark.

Vacuum sealed souls

in their carefully curated worlds,

masks finer than any skin

legs on stilts longer than any

living architecture, jewels laid

deep in self-made wounds,

wings furling with a fabric

of burnt blood

the seeds of a corrupting flood.

With wisps of imperturbable metal

my raft of pulsing fungus

arrives on time

sprouting screens of old movies

and lactating vines of plastic

bundled around red bulbs of light

snake heads of rising steam

split boards glued to a larger beam

nailed into a slab of twilight

with luminous pegs

pierced eyes on piercing blades

the waving of a peacock flame.

Days have huge cubbyhole shelves

towering over the expanse

of their rising and setting high beams

hot wired lamps in hot wet compartments

bubblegum bulbs that burst like galaxies

out of a nullifying light

from the swallowed womb

made to walk a thin shoreline

eating snails from fallen bark

until the fanged fish come

to fight with my bones

in the vast skull where gunslingers

talk over aimed muzzles

and fire spills like milk

over a pale horizon

these ragged kisses are the shrapnel

of some long departed world

hurled from the shell that was hurled

and strangely wanting

frame glinting from around the painted hole

submerging with its chain of souls.

The sky is vast and violent and

my bones are a chicken's death

I see the possums climbing trees

before and after flying fences

and bouncing trash cans

their eyes are beady and unperturbed

and mine should be too.

Talent is a way to spend time

not some transcendent insight

no epiphany will save you

you have to eat shit and die

like everyone else.

Shapes come out of the dark with radiant form

veins drawn to the height of electric wires

I see hellfire crawling over me like meat

I see the roads dragged by painted corpses

I see rancid thugs digging

with diamond studded shovels

and the tents of steel with proud windows

framing holographic kings

the howling deception of history.

I am a bent hysteric

tapping a twig in my blood

to mark a blank sail

with the harm that stars and soil

have done to me

these trails of healing loneliness

that lead to everything true.

Richness of spirit is smashed

on these waves of shit

but the orb of eyes at rest

rises to drift godlike over all

and sends down myriad mute

dancing messengers

dogs of warless lightning

leashes lashed to hands of fog

bones flying on velvet webs

alone in a creaking town

I see the rubber dome slide over

crackling machinery of stars

behind the milky screen

bricks rotating in spiral torsos

headless beauties poised in antiquity

flags of silk in wind that toils

projected from the dark interior

of a horned atomic angel

dice bouncing in the alleys

where the music surged in painted ways

those fire escape days.

Leviathan drowned in a bathtub

purple vines encasing the old fortress

where stones become reptilian crawlers

gardens gash order with order

liquid walls are open to the sky

in courtyards where the sight of extra stars

blooms backbrain on an air plateau

I'm a torn goner

under the many skins I have worn out

this hand grenade heart is ready

beauties glide bars of frozen light

to my hands that are shackled

to their willing strings

I sing what the sirens give me

bronze arrows ejaculate wombs

palm trees with metal tentacles

the skull is a symbol of consciousness

no longer taking part

I was a rag thrown

into a polisher's bucket

I thought the world was immortal

and my life the key

such thoughts a rag can think

and while I am swirled around

in waxy suds

and taken on a tour of the stars

on the sides of my bucket

weight is descending to dance

on my disintegrating fibers

so let it be music

let it be the crest of a careless day

let it be a swing that wraps

around the pole

without losing its passenger

a caught criminal with fancy

spiritual ideas

shrugging off the storm-carved mountains

and the senseless sun

lips laughing at the center of nothing

Paving stones on bones of rye

nonsense rhymes that never die

the soft spot in machinery's vortex

polyrhythms that live

in reconstructed spine

paths flowing in cool lines across

a landscape of hyacinth madness

strewn with milky violins

fire circles on the vacant hulls

of fallen intergalactic ships

diabolical angelic prancing

in the eyes that vines grow

under magical duress

a pyramid's cone peak

up ahead in the land

of weightless harbors

five fingers from the sun

in a frigid harness

light's miles of unseen matter

hurt blood in a vise grip

plastic antler standing tall

at the entrance of a seamless hall.

Slashed lungs latching

onto a twisted heart

strangling the blood

with stale escaping air

long ruts bisecting ornate houses

with a miracle of mud,

with wings of white leather,

dressing rooms with shelves

of china masks

gutted by laser light, jagged glass

pushing at plastic shields,

void clashing with mechanical aspiration,

huge wheels of human bone and teeth

finally at rest.

Splinters of smashed armor

fumes of evaporating blood

from beyond oblivion

the rim of a cracked plate

glinting from an open door

knives hanging in rows

from the night's horizon

logs floating downstream

with the features of laughter

to the rings of a distorted place.

Solitude with cards of steel

pipes twisting the suckled headpiece

a beast driven out of the dark by winter

with a scrap of light torn on his face

giving passage to the bleeding of the air

flowing over orbs atremble and

the levitating slabs of distinguished sleep

unknown sisters and brothers of a lost root

cliffs winking with cherry couches

bones collecting on their cushions with jewels

all wrecked wings of a single body

stem raking an embroidery of scales

for a flower that failed.

Red threads of light

through gray clouds flashing

sockets pouring snakes of stone

forked tongues of a giant eyelash

planets push volcanic lakes

docks running over fragmented miles

oceans of sand that glow like oily fur

and the wind wrapped in unseen wings

the plinths of exposed foundations

scraped bare by an emptied

annihilating mind

capped poison sending filaments

of frenzied gold

in ransacked water

bubbling hallucinated tools.

Dusty arrows

lose their patina in bitter air,

flying over scented aisles.

As they land in green sod

they tremble til they're living bones,

their feathers become eagle wings

that unfurl dropping juniper berries.

A pressure washed porcelain demon

walks furrows of crushed bramble

across the bird song of ancient woods,

planets overlapping like discs of molasses

gashes deep in stone sleep

the trickle of inky pebbles

catching electric reflection

bronze heat of eager faces

awaiting the machinery of day.

The star within the star

pours its red milk of fire.

Shores recede from bathers

who are making love, their light

enters the water.

I see a whole ancient temple

at the bottom of my coffee cup.

It is not yet in ruins,

cornices shine like daggers,

altars in front of circular thrones

conjure faint electricity,

a blue fog wraps around

my crown of paper reborn as metal.

Soil is sweetened with feverish seed,

dripping from a dark valentine

skin jeweled by honeysuckle

and bronzed by a lunar beam.

The trees blown back rattle

like tinfoil and ripple like cream.

The map of happenings

is silent and distilled

inactive as an unobserved electron

all the roots in one fallen petal.

I walk back and forth

in a house of ice

trembling at the blades

of electrode rays

that come through the floorboards

casting all my dreams

upon the wall

taking me to ships

that cross the caverns of the earth

the soul speaks in old books

lost in the rhythm

of a classic record

all the tombs are turned inside out

a voice flies up like a flag

above the colored waves of sand

above the sheets of metallic paint

the ghost of my bones is in

these harvested hills

nestled in their question mark green

around their wearying waters

what flourish do we bring

to the dance floor of all erased rails

black lights on a blood blue door.

Curves of light breaking

on my body,

lifting me into the realm

of the remembered dead.

A sidewalk paved straight

through a celestial sky,

birds of sound without bodies

scattered from the throat of God.

To where the blade is speech,

and me in acid rain

the lonely remainder, bereft

of all companions in the glow

that our kind make of night.

What happened to my grace, my

sweetness, my love of people?

They were lost to a field of bones.

Lost to the glint of pearls before swine,

to a hot burglar within my blood,

to aisles laden with mirage

the shine of disinfected substance.

Drifting in mercury letters,

cursed by black sand

on the back of a battered dove.

Beads of worn ivory teeth

trickling over sheet mail gloves

and the milking of barren guts.

Glaze of daylight like a fist

above the green waters.

Vinyl moon above a cliff curve

all the fire this tongue deserves

poured down through nets

of hot galactic nerve

through piercing seeds and eggs of rain

veins dancing with a chill

sublime monstrosity

decked out in prophylactic frills.

I am always drawn into darkness

always with the diseased and dying

in their decay,

staggered by foggy lights from beyond

our far-off outskirts.

All agonized things with claws,

all feathered blades that turn,

long neon hallways

where an unfamiliar muse

goes looking backward,

docks of dashed boats and jagged

tongues of broken pottery

reels of time lashed

to a revolving door,

cracked souls that sing to the ceiling

of their common tomb.

What was I chasing through kingdoms of spirals

shimmering walls of glass that sing

lip-struck edges of stacked pages

canyons of metallic string in coiled rows

kisses that cracked paint

the flicker of electric eels

ticking from the buckets of the damned

and the rags that refine a highway

all resolved into a lucid shell.

Black soda in a fractured room

day dim through painted windows

I see the sea-scraped bubbles of light

that are aloft in evidence

I sweep myself away

with a redheaded eye

when all the deaths have not killed me

I will not be able to find

the chamber of solitude

having vomited my reptilian mask

on the silk-screened mountains

out of control through solar shafts

that bisect a circular door

and eject a worm god

allegiance to the ember

of a winning fraud

and a blade of restoring mercy

cuboid temples

to the dancing days of an electrode

frocked by a praying mantis strobe

the glory of souls that sail alone

hot playlist in a flying car

the grid's pulsating neon

void of sound

for a hot tub moment

marooned against these

puritan millennia, this sweetly waning

mirror of days.

Slabs of agony from past lives

all landing on the reconfigured vessel,

soap bubble eye of body

staring through the arrows of rain

in a flashing force field

scanning panes of light

sharpening bladed hands.

The light at the end of the tunnel

is a cemetery.  Rails of granite

run like a tape recorder.

The warmth over death

is a miracle.

Marble benches mirror

my falling bones.

Somebody's features laughing

are trapped within it,

the network formed

by leaning branches

is alive at work.

I love the smell of burning plastic in the morning.

The ridge glints with gold, it is not imaginary.

Beauties conceal themselves

in the fortress cliff face,

it goes deeper.

Caves lick at the earth with molten mouths

swallowing histories and armor

mystery strengthened by the horror of time.

My story lost in the overlapping

entanglements of man,

under a million distorted tales.

And for the beauty

for the chiming harmony

of all these discordant things

an eel nestled in an inkpot

webs of light bursting

from an old tobacco urn

the wineglass tipped empty

on a brick hearth

with no lips or fire left

metal rainbows from a bone cage

shelves of magnetic mercury

soul's layers lingering in place

yet wavering at the call

of a deeper fall.

A drop of blood blooming on ruin.

Five fingers for the torn

hand that counts down.

Ripples in the rock

that will not yield.

Ways left behind on earth

that carve through space.

Years growing deep and strange

porous with dreamlike exits

photos of italic wind

articulate without bones

moving in a lack of lungs and teeth

the taste of rails that guide the morning

and swords of plastic joke

that choke the night

cells weeping in another life

tongues brushing dusty stone

afloat on solid darkness

a peacock's fan of beds

and tousled heads

arrived along electric lines.

Looking back

over the list of my footprints

I see machine fragments,

long red threads tied

to radiant black arrows,

bones carrying obscure script,

photo book shaking in the robot hands

of this crooked cast-off piano,

tables talking to paper-draped walls,

knobs winding multicolored wires,

plastic sheets of numbers

that were zig zag souls

coalescing in these ragged rolls

moon's laser through a window of iron

glass gone to the tar of bronze

glaze ejected from high strung vapor

raging pine sap past the love of junk

and the maze above.

Whitman's barbaric yawp

was a prophecy of rock n roll

I step out through glass doors

scanning all the rooftops

and the hilltops

tapping all the keys that lead

to an isolated stairway

ascending gelatinous clouds

and the sparks flying upward

of a raw subway

and I am the battered

blue dawn rising

creaking through

rotten mountainous throats

with zinc lined whorish

trumpets of healing

America, sit on my face

sing me your foolish song

for a rascal's taking

violet blushes like curtains down

to the frail apex of every town

rolling tar and daffodil tongue

my singular soil.

In the beginning was the image.

The word followed some time later,

and the word was not God,

and the word was not with God.

The word was man's,

and he put his stamp on everything.

Names can be a kind of refinement,

but now we are possessed by names

and nobody can find reality.

Things and creatures are

saddled with names, but they

are not the names themselves.

It helps to know this.

It hurts to know this.

Our genocide is in our names,

it rides on our interpretation.

Words do not define, they can only

at best caress meaning.

The fabric of existence stretches over my grave

like fiber optic cobweb.

Blood yearns for mercy

from these violated particles

that make up a churning sky

and build an envelope of linked blades.

The illusion of a limitless source,

of a divine ground for physical being,

is in my cosmic underwear

and nucleic core.  Confusion

of beauty with goodness

hangs a noose adorned with flowers

above the howling void.

Even your aching spirit

has been formed into an android.

You look upon the surface of my eyes

with the secondhand anxiety

of a dying god.

I am your fear of reflection

turned into madness.

I'm in the earth, I'm in the earth

vomiting blue light from parched

amphibian vessels.

I'm the coffin of the things

you never saw.

Cracked sky steaming on painted gravestones

barefoot walking in a suit of wet leaves

bars of moving shadows

licking over her recumbent form

streambeds of frozen chalk

crossed by prints of ragged shoes

high arches of razor thin silver

glinting shore to shore.

The shroud of breaking roots

that hover around in pieces.

Threads ascending with a bloody lisp

into a ruptured sky.

Bone bridges shining with borrowed light

across a seething purple canyon.

Eyes that never saw the soil

impaled on plastic.

I am older than your gods.

At the source of this wrenching poesy,

at the crux of crossing astral trains,

in the swarm of spirits

showing their astral teeth,

I simply drink from a deeper well.

Your civilization has accomplished much,

but when it ends my voice will go on,

and yours will not.

A weapon for artists,

distilled in the soul

and passed through ages

like a dreaming dream,

this knowledge of temporal flux

smashed open continually by beauty

unaligned.

The sparkling void

a bottomless cup

an hour with wings

and the rest of the day buried

fire surfing on fire

rods of gold bent low by the river

curtains of glass

reacting to a dream of speech

tongues and their drum of the infinite

echoes framed by new flesh

lines of energetic penetration

writing from beneath the soil

a knife's blade and its curse of neon

bars preserving an imprisoned soul

the clench of blood that never answers bone

time and its peak outside eternity

the rages of a sucking vault

links of the milk train lagging

springing into notes of their own

above the sacred cloud.

On the cusp of a great new kingdom

drunk on purple vapor

in the piss-back of the garage that's rocking

long fingers of sight sprint flashing

through a planet-wide forest

crooked bones jigging on a rope of raw space

ruts where Venus lowers her gun of grace

and takes the powdered wig of fate

stars commence around a rotating stain

gray gashes give a blue sign

wheels torn from a remembered pine

the freedom strings had in breaking

never matched the flash of the golden chain.

Lonely American Edward Hopper shadows

bright porch pockets of light

suffused into divine compartments

and silently staring eyes

riding the raging tide that speaks

of many metals

rails that reach under hills and

passionate mountains

laundromats churning turning over time

tickling its starlit belly

putting its raw epiphany

up high on a neon crucifix

sand that glitters on a reckless tongue

machines that breathe

hot air from rigid gills

tendrils to tap electric groaning

enamel pails thatched thick

with piled silver nails

rusted hammer heads

on notched broom handles

cream stacks of cheesecake layers

reamed horizon's bloody gleam.

I walked on empty roads with music

pummeling my head, the

psychedelic patterns of ejected eggs

the sound of rivers I have never seen,

the ground tucked into a folding hole,

the halls of far gone New Hampshire,

a blue gash in the fading gray,

the bell yields, the oars give

a low transparent lick,

the street bulbs pulse

to a roaming beat,

the horns of light kiss,

horizons are shuffled by pale meat,

tubers cross with poison souls,

bronze water speaks,

afflicted families rise from dust,

the cost is a wailing call.

A shell of broken human soul,

a quiet sighing animal, a song,

a torch to watch the hours by

while darkness surges with necessity,

the drums are touched by rain,

the quaking veins are joined on canvas,

joyous tongues arrive with stinging sleet,

the stone winks, I derive from

ancient spirits who incite my awe,

the giant climax of unfolded skies

pours down riveted artificial hills,

the genius of these sad days

remains untouchable and true,

you who have wounded me have also

lifted me up, I care for the midnight teeth

of spanked alien spawn,

the fissure of a granite wall

siphons black red blood,

the sun cools, the moon bursts

into feathers of magnetic dust,

the wheel purrs with living salt,

the names of souls are called,

the bodies fall away

from remembered laughter,

the incompletion is the arc's way home.

The spreading egg of solar system

untying brain from bloodless speculation,

cool units of abstract sound

colliding with floating ears,

the afro of the sun

frying my ectoplasm of echoes,

shorelines touched by lipstick fire

washing over fallen gravestones

and tongues of moss,

frost handled by seeking rays,

stone benches for dreaming bones,

bleached oars left along the vine

of some solitary voyage,

open pathways to the blue hum

of electrically evolving stars

the feather weight of worlds

and all their dancing girls.

U.S.A.

America: once a slave ship,

always a slave ship.

I write your obituary,

motherfucker.

Fuck you into the dust

from which you came.

Abomination of metastasized ambitions,

the fiend with a thousand arms.

Fuck your corny religion,

your stupid songs.

You came too late

and you stayed too long.

New humane angles

in the expanded prison.

New portholes into hell

for pastors and other leaders

to jack off into.

You have made my bone marrow

into a disgusting fucking cartoon.

You have raped my soul

with your lewd, repetitious chanting.

Your advertisements are your reality,

but not in the way you think.

Your crude, drooling vampirism

defines you.

Stay the fuck away from my altar.

Your offerings are putrid,

your prizes are beneath

a poisoned animal's shit.

I live my life as an imaginary being.

Let the gray light fill the room

and paint the corners with waking sleep.

Let the birds gather around

seed-stirred puddles, let the mysterious

chemicals of life rise from around metallic roots,

zones beneath neon giving birth to painted fruit.

May the morning without alarm

bloom over smoky balconies

in the river of a new bohemia,

even in lanes of glass gliding

past my staring eyes in stasis

we do this in remembrance of battered maps

improved with intricate bundles

of ink that the divine fumbled

and gave back to dark matter waterfall

words like limbs are signaling

tongue's heat to the silent veil

nine planets in the path of a snail.

The spider walks my brain

with icicle limbs.

The ground swims.

Stalks go up with descending

bark of leaves, seeds of a different

shadow.  The cryptic nature

of crows, the scent of

burning leather.

Steel wheels on a velvet landscape

long vacant fences.

Turns in gardened alleys that

open up into the sky.

New light on the old burdens,

gathered sparrows following

the uninterrupted omega,

coffins talking to scattered coins,

mercenary soundwaves,

sciences of sex

encouraging torpedoes and bronze

fortresses of stacked meat,

pallets lavished with enchantresses

unruly silence

black clouded word.

Long teeth dripping from a meek mouth

living sinews desperate on concrete

rivers siphoned up into a spaceship

the shapes of sculptured shit

lactating in unmixed paint.

Forked entities with no heads

the scum of painted highways

grid walls of bisected insects

flesh blasted from broadcasting wheels

a cloud of floating skulls

wafting through an open galaxy

as the particles of hot divine substance

are flushed through ungrateful channels

and sprayed upon an ornate clock.