Dashed against the molecular rainbow

that sweats, that has a jagged shadow

pools of circuitry sing back

from a tubular void

that holds its solace in a shark's tooth

and a painted cave

glistening through distance

inked by a laser gone

through many tidal rifts

and lowering a saxophone

one riff that continues to blow itself

at the bottom of a sinuous well

in the temper of evaporated blood

with the bones that call nobody

and the silence that is not a curse

dashed against the breathing whale

that glides across steel grains

dashed against her sweet sides

like a mute mite

like an eel in a puddle in a graveyard

curling and eating space

beneath reflected stars.

I get the shadow of the shade

I get the shavings of the blade

I get what is skimmed

from the drained pool

and yet the diamonds show up there

when the world has lost them all

O pierced and re-pierced sanctuary

O tomb for a used up tool

the features of the world

are mine at last

I dive into the glitch

with my last willing body,

a copy, a zone of glued-together tongues

sculpting necessary air,

the curve of all symmetries is

giving me a day off,

the singularity of my ice cream

is threaded for the taking

in a painting of the great

birth wound.

Yellow eyed spider moon

I see your cyclops presence above

the withering mountain treetops

and the desert spreads within my chest.

I have finished too many books,

met with too many enigmatic women.

I need the unknown like a blood

transfusion in these borrowed veins.

Will my tongue die, with my sinews

snap like so many chickens gone?

Not tonight.  Already the dawn drops

many figs in the grass.  Knives flash

next to oil stained cutting boards

in the light from churning fans.

Somebody must inhabit these lonely lanes,

somebody has to stay up late with the cat.

That dreamy bullet lost to all conjured guns

keeps flying without an impact.

It visits all the places I do not go

whips around the outlines of

what has been cut to last

in the twilight's cracks.

I am the caretaker of

all the divine filth that has

been poured through me,

dangling from a cliff-tendril's tongue

the broken pine needle islands and

the hard rock bank of the brook

come out from different stone, from all

vine-poured pavements

let your living song collapse like sleep

along the drained walkways

and the sleeping street.

Let microphones pour

from open-lit garages

in the scan of wide summer

gone to seed the clouds of fate

in a fairy dusted dawn

lion pawed facades of marble

giving lichens to the burning scar.

I am interlaced with

burning columns of cloud

thinking of Pierre Bonnard and Greg Devlin

of artists at their windowsills

savaging the landscape

their hourglass eyes

and their laser handguns

life has been drinking from me

I shape this putty

on a circuit board mattress

but still your pictures and words

come back to me in a storm

painters and poets

fierce brave souls of the night

play me a song like a powerline

show me your fencepost

and your drapes of gold

show me your open field

and your shades of shadow

make me entranced at the dress she wore

late at night with eyes shining

particles aloof on their points of needle

late at night would you let me

watch you wash the dishes

late at night would your souls come to help me

Greg Devlin and Pierre Bonnard

I hear the ground falling

I am kept alive in such strange hours

I am the horse's service and the gamble's keep

take time to enliven the chains

of this web all around me

I am sounding off on some gone color

I listen to heavy metal I have a glass ear

I crave my armchair

artists in need of night come back again

carry my hammock of leaves

and my whirlwind coffin

carry my tools of lead

through a rain that sees.

The white web is a turtle's shell

imprinted on the dark blue bowl

of sky, and of the myriad staring through

there are multitudes musicians of the conch

light receivers and stark

lightning bringers who thug through the dark

tunnels inebriated by red bulbs

lining the ceiling bricks and the tar's languor,

motherfuckers turned to ash

on the brink of a haircut,

hearts on islands that are brimming with

little shells.

Twisted streetlight poles

on the shores brought in by

artificial intelligence, untapped kisses

in the spirit of the new that rises

among the familiar.

Castles leaking purple dust,

framed in electric exterior.

Parking meters doing math,

plush psychic lives exposed

of the eye-sucked reflection's

treadmill of anointed images,

most to memory lost, the frosted apartment

laid in paint emits a combed error

the snake of windowsills and eaves

silk handkerchief lampshade

a shade of the gone noon drooling

on the glow of the oven

and the evening gone softly to ruin.

Forepaws of twilight

beside the battered fence

astride my sunken dreams

arisen in basement trances

the king of a cardboard box.

Swim in the air around me with breasts

and throats and thighs assembling

a beakless octopus; stem the blood that

you fanned to a flame in the flag of my ribs;

make fluidly crooked the wood

of our vivid water-fed skyscraper:

let the trumpet pipes shower

our spent longings with gelatin ideas:

let the opaque mastery of dreams

get lost in the singing cone.

I am the toy of your shell's magnetic pebble,

you tap the bruised skeleton back together

with a cloak of leaves above your abdomen:

I am a fishbowl galaxy

balanced as a monkey brain beneath

the slit in urban twilight's concrete bridge

that holds a web wrapped living nest

within a sphere of nippled boxes.

Send me the apple's crater

send me the smooth pit

furred in its axis

I am a melting crate

leaking paint from paper icons

I am the thrust of empire's fist

reflected in your burst of hips

bronze peacock telescoping time

through a cage of waves

through the screen-fed eyes of silent

train passengers, one sacred septic cry.

I am being blasted away

by the force fields of established entities,

I look around a leaking corner

for a well painted queen,

the gaps between neighborhoods heave,

the furrowed ditches come up

as crested hillsides,

the light is dew, the garlands

of braided doorways

rustle in space-penetrated air,

long passageways open through

a thousand alien houses,

the silver turns to gold, the gold goes

brown baked with a grayish tinge

like old beat up furniture upholstery,

my lips don't touch the one who is gone

even in the dreams of twilight

and depraved dawn,

the moss lined canals roar through

their bricks and concrete,

my cup of skull howls and holds

a slick eel, the bounds of reality corrode

in the salt that savors them,

the sun is pickled in a tank

of rotating garlic, only the wounds heal,

the gridwork of the calendar

is frescoed and fine

without words and numbers,

the grave sows a seed in eternity,

the ground of birth cools

in the lapping seepage

of waters that were gone

and did come back to bond.

Clouds trickle upward to starscape

to carve the land of dark material

free of all flesh, reins wander

from yielding hands in the amber glaze

of early autumn, posts of stone

surface from gray water

and pulse with salvific blood.

The war of the humanities

on the ballroom floor,

the bombs bursting in air,

the shame of last year

those glories are left behind forever.

Drums patter against the melted shingles

above the gut's deep tank,

the water molecules being sorted,

the aftermath of beautiful particles

being forcelessly torn apart,

and my limbs lifeless,

and my head on fire

let the country hills become

a woman's body,

let the nation

become a woman's body,

let the sound bring home to space

what has been missing from America

and break its void.

A high blue day has filtered down

to tickle my whiskers.

I am nestled in the maw

of a curled green scripture.

Death is part of the enchantment:

mysterious sleep that covers all.

Concrete canals are brightly lined

with sensitive moss

of many southern seasons,

stones trickle from a fractured core

in the irrigated wasteland.

Slabs of sculpted manmade lava

slope steeply beneath the bulbs and rails

of humming bridges and their tar tongues.

I am a road: I am going to the temporal town

that burns with celebration

in our last lights,

these foggy halos holding

full flowered mechanism

skin's map of the solar web

like an empire's fleet

wearing a blackberry gown.

Pillars belching out

of the swamp muck,

erected by rising earth

through slime.

Moths frozen to the underside

of a sticky cave mouth:

a bed of rags

laid out like wings for two.

Chains and their chime amplifiers

streams laced together by froth

steam fingers reaching overboard

the slanting floor of a cheap cafe.

Windows filled with the painted

metaphysical.  Forms racing

that have no heart

but in my hand of hands

cresting hills like restful water

hermetic mirages that use

the sun for a shade and my one

dim set of ribs as a hat

for shackled dreams.

Under the steel bed's head

the reach is infinite

miraculous fauna

of upside down walks

gold spoon spit taped

to a basement ceiling

creased link where the palace is planned

for a limitless land.

These years have changed me,

I'm a cartoon wolf on a far wall.

Amplitudes pass me dressing,

undoing the windows,

pushing the lamp's lid up to Saturn

where it cushions like

a sunless photogene

in a smoky lounge.

The microphone is melted into sand.

Long arrays of flowers wilted

under broad leafed paths

decks and their transparent layers

floors flashing with gold pants

and alcoholic blitzes,

none but the one finetuned past ash

and into the spirit

peacock engravings

carried under an orange sky.

I drank fire and pissed paint,

my satanic essence covered the landscape.

Parties opened up like butterfly wounds

to care for my thistle coated anchors.

My lasso of many tongues

coated lepers with healing vapors.

I conquered asteroids

and called them moons, conquered moons

and called them planets, conquered planets

and called them my fragrant stars.

Now an inverted wizard

on a solitary swing set

I watch fortress walls of dead faith

rain through fractured skies

like flakes of plaster.

No need to fight this world,

or prove anything to it.

The croaks of toads, the rascal's wrath

of irritable crows, lightens the tones

of my drum, my rhythms bend the grass

and light up the abandoned architecture.

My life is a live boat

shaped like an oar,

and the old gods snore.

Fungal foundations that swell

at the feet of these wild chimera

bright specks upon galactic skin

blades whirling in red

pomegranate mouths.

Drums fill sacrificial tunnels

under the cities that are damned with masks

webs of melted plastic faces

shelves blinking with hollow light

that is the road to outer space fragmented

within the splay of dark material fingers

faint orbs of ethereal transport

penetrating vagrant birth.

The dance of bone paint

on dusty acres

marble chapel ceilings

stretching over the caves that crawl.

The movie is running like a greased gear

known characters emerge

to a changed soundtrack

scenes like many panes of glass

something has been twisted out of sequence

light stabs through the holes in the mirror

effects fade from a botched life

wet bones fall to the floor

the prickle of inexplicit echoes

grows in a triangulating room

these operated icons and their unsure smiles

the strange mercy of hasty death scenes

my cracked cells are speaking

to these trapped dancers

their gestures flail

at language that cannot keep up

the facade is a womb

where rails run in circles

credits roll over a sideways rain

and the kiss of greats is gone.

Raced by ghosts

to an oscillating tank

through the secret clefts

of many facile forests

to the dank heart of

the deeply thrumming woods

where parrots clack

and the whips of ageless bodies

crack like spines,

caverns burning with eternal savor

under cloudy storms of cedar and pine

for the walking blind.

Run weightless on the bows

of willing birches,

watch flying orbs bend air

for primal circuitry

unleashed in rediscovered dawn,

ride to my witch queen

and see if there is a blessing,

a balm kissed many times

to heal the map of murdered lifetimes

twitching in the bushes of the damned,

glitter tossed on pock marked

half paved soil, stark feathers

of besieged being

in the crush of tideless pawns.

Water circles fists of water

in the force-field fence

vortexes of colliding mutant flesh

leave eggshells touched by rain

on super-fed grass, pulsating

in enhanced sun.  Colors razor their way

through circuit board garden walls.

The planets teem with waterfalls.

Concave rocks express the chalk and coal

painted over with plastic spray

to hold divine graffiti.

With an insect eyed girl

who dances like a scimitar

I am cutting clouds of gel

into pert triangles

and selling them from

a faux granite kiosk.

Books of prophetic code

soft wigs of secondhand hair

fall from hidden baggage carriers.

On the purple thresholds

of gassy street drains

genetic material crawls

flirtatiously through

discarded crossword puzzles

scattered in the concrete dew.

O green womb

O tinder of multiple flowers

carved swamp

with steaming ragged angles

cloud tangle of guitars

like an airship moving overhead

shadowing this keyboard body

bone shrine for hectic or magnetic

or majestic birds

stone foot

brought out of mud with nine mouths

net's nest of curling tentacles

horned eyes dribbling down

a blood burned pillar

dirt pounded round a wandering sun

what singing lopsided wagon

what chiming metallic buggy

could carry your wares

to the molten heart?

I am a torn arm with barnacled

elbow and forearm guards

padded with script,

reheated and cooled colors

from the yolk of my being

redeemed on playful blades

that wave like Floridian fronds

in an afternoon of bronze

night's nest of a double moon

in a curling spoon.

If I was a firefly on the floor

remaining lit in death

like a sugar skull

maybe I could ride

the horizon line

like a cellular fragment

or an astral jewel

without being cut.

Shelves of colored light go by

above the rolling carts of fiber optics

flags of mindless velvet

drawers filled with lunar teeth

slide out of painted clocks.

I am a slice of renegade godhead

and a mundane scrap

the circuitry of ocean floors

through a screen

of blanked out newsprint

one filter for the sun

that will burn down.

I'm a town of mannequins

around a whirling center

I'm an empty town.

I smell stinkbugs and sulfur

in the southern wind

I smell lavender and lilac

and delicious sin

snakes of light fill up my ears

and slither in my bones

the archways groan

with interdimensional heat

near the pit of my last awakening

big doors flick like tongues

the metal of consciousness creaks

blood pounds in diamond chandeliers

the rind of my fruitful life

is black and bright

facing angelic swords

I beat heaven down

to a pot and pan campfire

and simmer with a red eyed woman

lazily transcending all computed spheres

and scarred cliff faces

drifting with bird shapes of mercury

deliberately down a dead end tunnel

with the last draft of rejected script

in the garden of my hands

and the garden of my ribs

fond gash where my liver speaks

with a gesture like lava.

Docks go out like tentacles

from a wooden island,

flesh flows from a metal planet

to conquer grassy stars,

throats of canyons radiant with silt

blow flutes of interstellar passage

the crescents of emerging orbs

scan with burning sight

vast plasticine oceans,

the chains of being rattle like drums

and seethe like releasing scales,

my perch pivots on penetrative stone,

my guts flower over descending steel,

the ground flakes, pondside benches

upend like dominoes on a thick blanket

and turn to gather moss

under an anti-gravity faucet

the pillows of gathered leaves toss

throughout a dance of thinking blades

and punctuated bones teem

with resistant veins.

God keeps writing books in space

God grew from a magic seed to start the universe

God is very plain in extravagant wrapping paper

God's pen smells like a dog

His eyes are the eyes of a cat

God fucks, the moon is too small for him

But he likes to vacation on Venus

God has not gotten bored of himself

God's artistry of particles

surrounds him with sinuous pretzels of

snakelike celestial activity

He is ceaselessly entertained

by his motion which is thought itself

bound to light's beginnings

and without stagnation

God has finally gotten bored of politics

He is bending the architecture of Hell

with little whispers

God is keeping track of time

by always breaking out of time,

God has a secret that he keeps like a slave

voluntarily,

God writes like roots on stone

but the roots don't die

God is all the imagined rooms

inside the suggestions of the recipe.

God has flamed out

against the bars of his cell

He likes to test himself

in the zones of limitation

Bearded with the healing fire that seals

the breach between the sexes

God is the only real hermaphrodite

and the only one with a holy cause

God is a cousin of Isaac Asimov

He parties with Greeks, he leaves early

to find his suffering tribe in the desert

God yearns for the unknowable

He conceives a vegetable world

and then drenches it in vagrant sperm

God is the symphony within behind

the static in all uninhabited

frequencies of radio

God hollows out

the eggplant of consciousness

with a touchless laser tool.

Kudzu towers organic

from the green green vine

of the swamp line

my blue body rises

from the brown water

and I reclaim it

canals fly past like treadmills

I'm a dancing pillar of salt

the roads lash through me

with electric demons

each mask is another

smiling face

that I offer to the fallen

southern goddesses

sweet claws

touching summer fabric

tits clad in t shirt albums

that I listened to in high school

and I still play

rock n roll, glorious gospel

of deep inner darkness

Satan's joy is a thinking hardon

lank universal language

rising to scrape sky

the true beat

twisting at the thrift store.

Shipping docks for burning souls,

snapped flowers spouting paint

from broken stems to trickle down

flying sidewalks

threads on the clock

broadcast a song like speaking veins

through refrigerated halls

white light stripes on sliding doors

the symphony rides bleached air

and bulging canvas

blue glass with red blotches

and dots of yellow

the cemetery ceiling and wide

pulsating chairs.

Barrels of blood

for the senescent empire.

Give more to the ghost that shrieks.

Give more until all feeling gives out.

It's not your heart that's wanted.

Numbers above the soul

all day long.

Clean the filth

help the scarecrow stand.

Just participate in the blasphemy of life

without emphasis.

No villainy is needed.

No special talent required.

Help the wheels turn

over little bones

we believe in a forgiving God.

Put the condiments

on the featured feces.

Make the yeast shine

in the yawning wound.

Believe the smiling balloon.

Understand that the windsock

has a plan.

Your special identity is welcome here.

Sign under the flag.

Absence is an infinite flower.

Spirits have more body

than these dancing fools.

The talk of the living runs thin

while the dead talk pools.

Out back behind the curtains,

in the factory of shadows

where some accumulated substance

oozes like the milk of life

and the vastness of dark matter

over some seeming thing,

I lean in my suspended trousers

to hear bells without clappers

in a wind that rings.

In a wind that moves and moves

on some eternal circuit,

taking no history with it,

taking no order of numbers

or embankment of watching eyes,

taking no revealed skies.

Taking no ribbons of vapor

taking no light that dies

in its fretless tide.

My body is a rope between

two wet worlds

that crickets hop over.

Sinks gush in half-open kitchens,

I suck the grass pounded flat

under the scythe of artificial light,

feeding on the grease of discarded morsels,

jostled by meaty souls

as they pass from trash to trash

through plastic transparent hallways,

dumping foggy water

into evaporating channels,

carved by dead words

and indistinct actions,

erupted by a solar tongue.

The rift is mine, the radiant cursed

miles between rejected fragments,

disoriented vegetable shells

floating over heated rivers,

aurora borealis stung by devil sperm

and hung with amphibian fingers,

all mutants hatched in a dumpster's corner,

cleansed by such orbit-less moons,

are palpitating with me now.

Goddess of painted concrete rise like flesh

from the sad grid man has made

from the depths of spiritual death

raise your cartoon hammers

from the seams of these stricken swamps

colliding over dams and wreaths

laid down on floating doorsteps

where I kneel pierced by your fingers

like some gnostic Christ with a hardon

drift over the pizza parlors

sprouting art deco steeples

and sweating elevators

let the radiant cords be planted

in the murk

to cut graves that blink like candy

fill the tongue of this frozen juggernaut

with healing fire

nourish the landing pads with ferns and roses

let me be your key again

as the screens flash drastic mercy

with a chain of ink, with the locket

on your cinematic underwear

let the electromagnetic ships

nudge through the bioluminescent shore.

Birth is death, and death is a star.

The swallowed earth is melting down

her prison bars.  The ground

regurgitates the blood of the lost.

Dogmas die in dust

and the impossible body rises.

Crescents traced on red clay

create chiming swing sets,

silver playgrounds for the elderly,

who slide on space.  The soil hesitates,

the stone is a bouquet of knives.

Chains rattle like a song

sheathed in rivers of burning oil.

Bark peeling from the forests of childhood

becomes scrolls in a cave.

The masses climb over the dying light

like ants.  The fated architecture of the web

splits like a windshield, like the scars

on a white cliff, like the soul

of a dying island.

I will force the singularity of man

through an unripe grape, the green

of the robotically assembled state.

In the bent birches of an unsigned cathedral

I will wear the barbed wire robes

of the outcast priest, and hold

the cutting shell that gathers these last seeds.

The dawn of my betrayal is the succor of life,

the pillars that shake their viny veins

are pushing the bridge

into the fading cushions of the sky,

the burial grounds carved by mossy rivers

are sparkling with spiritual fire,

the rocks heave like sweating lungs,

the wires of propagandized existence

are trembling to snap,

I walk the dead streets in a live erotic trance,

pagan, sensual and cruel

in this Christian and liberal nation

I am alone, the roots bend like frozen taffy

and then break like elastic,

what has been stolen

is given back by broken temples,

the strands of sweet divine life

are repaired by renegades,

the spice burns,

the mouth of hell is bringing

heavenly scrolls to a holographic boil.

A vast brain stained with equations

sending erotic offshoots

into resistant earth

fruits cracking and streaming

in the eyes that float above bearded clouds

net catching rubbery thoughts

spewed fresh from an ozone mouth

bones landing on straw in the backyard

inked by the blood of the moon

and the venom coated fence posts

erected in a violet haze.

Branches and vines that dance

in ecstatic pain

to be taken to fortress basements

and piped through a song

to the sun that is a sacrifice

to the rims of dying skies

and the goblet that licks in cursive

irreplaceable eyelids

sweet lashes of ethereal steel.

I pedal my crimson wheels

around the gear-stuck calendars

watching webs tear

in the fabric of being

watching waiting rooms turn

into pockets of pocket treasures

and the desks of interplanetary study

turn to gems of dreams

feathers of flocks that were

supposed to happen here

erupting into twilight cones

squawks entering ethereal formation

among the chimneys of the actual life

chugging and wheezing with resin'd ribs

ready to be pecked by their descent

I give to the yawning gulf

my blood's devotion

and the ripped eyes of the night

that calls me home.

Blades of green that cross a microscope

get caught in my spokes

my pillow is a germ of ink

that blossomed into cotton

and flies over a map of steel.

A planet of black soil and bulging worms

scorched brown by sunlight

in the places where I picnic

alone, on a floating blanket.

Veils of steam girdle

mysterious dancing bodies,

in the parking lots

abandoned by motionless man

magnetized to granite homes

by a force-field's ban.

I am beamed down to observe

so little, in these hours stripped free

of all activity.  The windows teem

with ghosts of what went past

before the moments paralyzed at last

the cream of some frothing moon

brought deeper dreams to make us wander.

Now I walk the hourglass stained

by a kaleidoscopic garage,

by a light-burning engine and

a frail empire, flipping through

books of birds.  The guardrails

of empty roads are swaddled

in hair passionately left behind

by the wide-eyed staring blind

from a storm of trinkets that drank

their ragged veins and left me

pulsing in the outskirts with a stone tongue

and brambles in spheres to carry.

Maybe I'll wade out

into the blood pool

and open up my head.

Maybe I'll lay down upright

and turn into a butterfly.

Let the woods dance like rhymes,

let the fever come up through stone

with bladed limbs.

Maybe the carnival of bright wires

is my web of songs.

Maybe the fire contained

by mechanical lids

is the stuff of divine life.

Let the motors ululate

like fisher cats unseen

in the depths of a spectral night.

Let the keyboards be laced with skin

let the veins become codes

in the rain of unrelenting sight.

May the wings of this thing turn

toward the hearth of light.

Refreshed by the breeze

from the graveyard,

scraps of color that settle

on jagged concrete

caught in its fragile patterns

for a shattering moment

watching alkaline eyes

of battery acid

form into a naked body.

Shadows break into snakes

and crawl around the oxygen tanks.

Rust takes the mountainous highways

and the tunnels leading through

their waterfalls of oil.

Theaters of spider web

glisten in resonant pastures

where aluminum satellite dishes

crackle like punctured drums.

Towers of pasta texture

eclipse one another

as they glisten and fade

through the zombie footfalls

and the mind erasure of empty placards

in the next incoherent parade

fit as shit for flowers

fine as the death that leads it downward

weird as the breath that sprang it into hades.

The shrouded lasers

of autopilot spaceships

carve burnt symmetrical lines

for acid bath swimming pools

into the sleeping earth.

Grapes fall from a pyramid cloud

and are gobbled by a birth stricken orgy

nails are bitten back

on reptilian hands.

The mud wasp nests on my eyes

make a light wind whistle

for the frame that doesn't care

where the tongue goes to fly.

Streets wind like bright intestines

past the cemetery markets

in the heat of tainted stars

drunk serfdoms scratching pallid scars

on greasy glass

the vomit of a flashing screen

hot medicine for the dead

a dog skin bikini

stretched around her orbs of sand.

I don't miss the fantasy

of grand narratives.

I watch the river turtle

slide between some rocks

to hide himself

and I finally understand.

There is nothing to desire here

just some flashing scenery

ripples fascinating in the burn of death

the fevered ticking in the bones that dance

for battered flesh

and then it's gone for a song.

Zones of light constructed

square off against the snarl of storms

vines climb like rain

the bricks that know them not.

Billie sings so coyly

like a mockingbird concealed alone

in the swelling of a summer tree

some cancer of man has fallen

on lines of space like paint

I am stricken with a spell that fades

and the incense scented pages with a raging tell.

My soul winds like a snake

around the base

of the battered magnolia.

Its roots snipped from their tangle,

it might bloom in fullness again,

but the petals and the leaves

remain in white and shining green

still vibrant within the sun burnt

and withered branches.

They still spark

under many hollow stars

as I rise with limbs

and my forked tongue

infolds with singularity

to sing to the ripped hills

and walk upon the dead

scales that I've left

on the earth's remainder.

The evil kingdom is dying

but there will be more evil yet.

Man is unmade, clearly seen

to prefer suicide.  His little gods

have eaten him alive.

Spirits that rustle the bright bushes

clamor for a life apart

from this ritual of madness

gone on too long.

There will be no more songs

for this empire.  The new songs

will be oceanic songs.

Angel space with magic hands

comes not to me now.

I don't need the channels of light

that follow companions of laughter

I don't need the singing shrines.

Dawn brings a fist close

to harden my stomach

leaves and their moving worlds

in the careless breezes

are more than enough.

I don't look for eyes of understanding

in the shuttered cities

or the frightened towns.

That's over now.

Broken rivers are winding

winding to somewhere new

in the solitude of night.

Let the talkers of humanity

go to hell.  Let their speech

bubbles burst in radiant fire

as their guts slide down

the shaft of a solemn spear.

Absence is the beauty of the spheres.

If your rind pops, don't call me:

I hate your kind,

won't drink your juice again.

The daffodils cry without their core:

their petals fly with me,

I won't come back.

The hacked sun doesn't desire

her planets.  The ruined glare

casts crushed light

across disarray: pert rings

and gaseous bulbs

are disintegrated.

The real lines bend like bodies,

conceptual trash is gone:

your populist religion

and decaying politic

have only wasted time.

The colors of life behind

the veil of lies

run forward raping space,

spirals drip gorgeous turmoil

through the mute mouths

of deific corpses.

The lens cracks

under a needle's grain:

sad species beaten back

explode in outward arcs

blood paints the steerless dash

a pirated remainder

rises only in forsaken hands

with spires set in poison glands

the necessary demon stranger.

Long blades soaring over tender skies

from the wind of space,

from the ripped envelope

of anti-matter,

tricking a punctured globe,

red rivulets in clouds of grayish blue

spelling names of trapped circular gods,

the fatigued inertia of angels long fallen

to a stony earth,

rings moving from fecund eruptions

in the articulate core, sanctified fire

of lesser weapons melting,

bones talking that have no home

in desiccated cities

or barren countrysides

where material men have harvested all

and a song is lacking

that now returns in a sexed ball bearing,

in a sculpted seething

and a chandelier of knives that moves

to strip a starless dome.

I am unknown

like the light in the dust

unknown like all the sparks that

never descended to become

unknown like the pearl of hell

that none dare touch

tagged with scars by crooked arrows

turned into a twisted map

by the barbed wire of senseless minds

still licking the skies like a flying carpet

that nobody wants to ride

bleeding arabesques in eyeless space

writing like the spit of God

only on decaying tablets

unknown like the fire that resides

in the organs of all men

the fire that resides like second sight

and resisted to the last

breath of the angel of death

dripping uncaptured music

unknown like the mouth

that has the last word

dust dancing with the fury of the end.

Moss is growing on the arrowheads

that pierced when I fell through the earth

wires through the caves that grow with music

stabbing through the dark

cloaks of the bones that danced

flapping like flags

with some unknown insignias

ashes dropping on the shine of polished wood

the inner dome's alien letters

buzzing in cathedral stone

can't you see that I am stillborn

like a baby with no features

I can read the air because I do not breathe it

I can see the traffic is not coming back

because I never joined its attack on nothingness

oh sweet entropic lips

oh cool entropic limbs

feeding me the straw from nowhere

that is the last

dot of light from the blood past.

I worship the black metal sunrise

that pours down my throat

I watch the river rocks

danced by dervishes

take on a frenetic light

there are screens in the trees

billboards for every milky way planet's

circling moon

I see the proud southern honeys

with long braided hair

coming over the hills

with bayonets and waffle irons

I sit with my squirrel cheese burger

on an iron bench

and smile with all my teeth

just one last time

my heart's in a heron's wide wings

taking off from the stream

in the web of oxygen

where stars drool from a safe distance

his long beak is the tool of my eyes

ripping fish from time.

Honey dripping down the ragged rocks

is rain from an estranged heaven

locks of hair stuck to apple skin

branches in a cluster round a nest of hornets

caves of glue soaked soil

are mouths in an empty field

hallways into empty space

form from such falling stars

as smite the exit sign

like attacking planes

firing electronic rocks

orange peels and cylinders of lipstick

upon the speech-fed end of things

a sacred cigarette.

All gelatin slow motion air

and kissed by fiber optics

winged lions swipe at weightless mice

with glittering claws

dead things obey their artificial laws

singed angels of light on pause.

Orchards from fevered hands

pour out of the slits in the cosmos,

swimming pools of purple mutant blood

gather in the ice cube trays of concrete

encircled by rented souls.

Plastic trunks of scaly trees

cross windows of the lonely looking

over lots of neon hotels

where ships of machine crafted steel

painted by unconsciousness

reflect the agitated conglomerate eye.

The falling of a fleshy leaf that lands

on this electrocuted petroleum land

traces an escaping pattern

on my bony scraping hands.

Zones flex and curve like buttocks

the quaint demonic architecture

jumps and crashes.

I laugh where the intersecting blandness

makes a bolt of lightning

write like minnows on an ashen stand:

some underwater rock, some printed altar,

is the place where all my senses ran.

I take the dead snake skins

of my past lives and tie them together

across a golden road.

I watch the toads hop

out of the grass onto the steaming tar.

They encircle me with croak-song

and I am careful in my spinning dance.

Trees groan prettily behind swamp trenches

the honeysuckle smooths the breeze.

In my moon bruised incarnation

I take on the improbable shine

of the southern magnolia.

Nymphs with lovely psycho eyes

are coming to carry me away and

hurl me down on the painful pleasures

of a thistle bed.

They can have the magic

of my milky spine

they can sever my selfish head

and with pink thread sow it on again.

They can see if the hair on my body

moves like seaweed

in their bath of sacred potion

or the crimson of alchemical wind.

My tomb is a spaceship

cruising through gold channels

and silver streams,

wrapped in webs of lesser caverns

that snapped as it passed,

my body laced with psychedelic nails

meant for my coffin that was

a liquid pill, suspended from clouds

that carry grueling memories, the gone

shells of the man that I was.

Peacock skirts for the ghoul,

my dancing effigy, bronze eyes

and blue hair for blonde faces,

all sliding down a waterfall

of metal tongues.

Moss-cloaked rocks in the stream bed

where I dropped my house keys,

linen dolls in lines strung on dead

electric cords, slime on wires

leading back to scheduled days

that were mine and now

move no bones.

GNOSTIC BLUES

I dreamed of the wood

where my consciousness was born

and when I woke it was gone.

I walked the hideous roads of men

to find another forest

and when I found it walked around

but it was no dream.

I have become a painful bridge

between worlds that are pulling apart.

I will watch the ferns blow

on a beaver's dam

I will watch the gorgeous gleam

of the skyscrapers swaying in the distance.

I will walk back

to the home that is not a home

and see the beauty

of the man-made streets this time

knowing that none are absolved.

Life is a flaw that leads through error

to death, and I will believe

that death is a kind of music.

I will watch the ruddy tendrils climb up

from my hands and the hands

of my creator, knowing that it is a joke,

and I will not laugh.

Until I am unseen in the music,

until I am free from the frame

that was confined in time.

The sinews of brain in the visible leaf

agitate for life and decay

in the unsculpted music of the breeze

birds send their variable messages

I am lonely under the bridge

with my finger-worn instruments,

and the water of life,

though diseased, still flows.

Cries of revolt and conformity fly

overhead, splitting existence

into warring branches, all destined

for error and certain death, but

there is some quiet here,

in the low hum beneath the grind.

What I looked for in love

and religion and politics and wild parties

I found only in solitude:

only in art, in the inexplicable, only in

the inner hope that denies the outer shame.

Lines across the moon

sweet vines feed drumming hands

steam ropes encircle gardens

where the violent seeds explode

and are accepted by the cries of a guitar

to be written on shrines and altars

tattooed on bitten flanks and throats

encoded in the wounds of planets

encrypted in the scars of every star.

Web's fragile twine

big bang of infertile highways

love's ringing blade

that conquers all our days

and is the haze of an echo

dying painter's gasps

that do all they can.

Once in a dream of wider skies

I knew hills of needles

long dry from trees that were gone

and cones without seeds that crackled

with vibration of the last faint music

in the shade of a crooked concrete tower

escaped from the series of seismic ripples

my love and her electric memories

undressing on the sands above buried sidewalks

told me to rewind the lost tape and laughed

let's fly above the string where we sang

above the land of unprinted wars

where there is no flying

let's ride the burn of one

more fast eroding pattern

come drink the mist as if it was mosaic

unblast the desolate art of desolate hands.

NO AVATAR

These things are in my presage, and myself

Am part of them and know not; but in dreams

The gods are heavy on me, and all the fates

Shed fire across my eyelids mixed with night,

And burn me blind...

                                   -- Swinburne

Just as once I pecked at my

Promethean liver

and now I leave it alone

some day I will stop using these teeth

to scar my lips of sage

and sharpen them to bite the cord of time

just as I am the hermaphrodite

who remains in spirit and refuses

to manifest in flesh

so the saints of death make eternal war

on the demons of life

just as my father's name was Michael

and mine is Lucifer

Satan is getting tired of

the philistine archangel's knee on his neck

so I will rise bearded like bees on honey

to uppercut the clean shaven angel

toward his artificial heaven

and forged from fire rise from hell again

just as witches don't control the weather

and the pious pray

their prayers of impotent frustration

so I come like incense with the ax

that is my singing friend

in a cone of upside down light

I watch butterflies with plastic eyes

I rewire the hot bronze mystery

and collage around the core

of the symbols that are never at rest

I am the ass ridden by many messiahs

some think me mute but I am only eating

just as I stopped smoking

and now I rest in a photograph

of frozen fire

just as you got all the names wrong

I trick fate in many masks

to be born naked in distilled frenzy

drumming placenta and thriving in triplicate zen.

The flesh of dancing bones

distinguished by fire

finds a colorful cranny to die in

places organs that sing

on a counter-harmonic altar

and with a grin torn into the heart

falls down like a dead sex organ

into the infertile abyss.

Mountains cracked by steam

and reeking lava

fleeced of trees

and the flight of the living

invite the attachment

of Martian forests

amphibian eyes of cruel

elongated giants

grafted serpents

and the baby shit

of dying angels

wax teeth of encrusted books.

If one should turn with gentle eyes

to sweetly perceive the extent

of the homogenous terror

that one will be wasted away

not by a bomb or a crucifix

not by a series of guns

or a tightening noose

but by the limpness

of a sleeping herd.

To harden against it is to break

to surrender is to be suffocated

the way to ascension is blocked

by divine stupidity

this is the wrong world

and you are the wrong rebel

might as well eat tar in flake form

for breakfast cereal

might as well drink reptilian milk

for gasoline.

Orchids forcing through the eyes

the thrill of diabolical water

poison roots in poison soil

branches of elongated flesh

hissing with toothy hysteria

barren lands stricken

with diseased blood.

Slashed costumes of rancid cloth

birthing latex replicas

chains of rubber dolls bathed

in radiant liquid shit

repeating robot harmonies

in obedient recital

the rust of metal wings

peppering a planetary

volcanic throat.

Plastic idols melting into rings

of toxic flowers

ponds of mechanical piss

eating antique bones.

Cracked sky proclaims electricity

fronds gush from split stems

green sap of violent life

paths of radiant lava

curling malignant steam.

Figures pushed through mud

animated bronze and marble

peacock dresses flouncing

from the frolic of manic nymphs

on a dwarf god's limbs

the panic of dark blood in silver water

an altar of seductive steel.

Deep knotted brains of ice

drowning in baths of mercury

red ferns atremble

in vines like a raging river

sinews dancing for a death drunk moon.

Delirious days

fade into the kaleidoscopic spectrum

drums that waft like leaves

bikini snapping on beer fed blankets

wet stone blinking in a cloud brushed sun.

I lean back on a bench

to watch my ghost turn corners

the machine of a cruel afternoon

conveyor belt souls.

Light comes from broken places

to be corrupted

the stained cloth and the shadow

to carve out our melee

the blades of these fragments are enough

and as beauty comes forth from death

so my hours bloom.

My days are ghostly bulbs that float

through the pulsings of

thick veiled afternoons

in the tide of stones

I'm a turning utensil

in dreams of dripping light

I fly above painted roads

watching tunnels dug up

turn slow machine somersaults

men's bodies tied to churning clocks

and women folding chloroform cloths.

In the cracks between ransacked calendars,

in the pools left behind by receding darkness,

I trim hedges that hold fortress doors,

I pile up hordes of spirit-tongued vitamins,

I watch the fan blades articulate

unceasing circles, in tubs of zinc tubes

I rinse the blood of brakes

on dawn's awareness,

I swing the chains with vacant hooks

for all the puppets who are gone.

Branded by the brightest blades

goblet brain dripping with

nuclear paint on the patios

of smoke-linked cafes,

the lipstick-smeared kisses

on cracked brick porches,

high ladders with Buddhist banners

trailing off into the talk

of an abandoned night.

Vines crawling concrete canyons,

birds clacking in the iron ribs

of a snaking overpass

footsteps of the lonely

on an egg-stained cemetery ridge.

Trembling walls of painted grates

wherein the gnashing teeth make song

strings of fire and dripping tongues

lashing at the cloud-soaked sermons of grease

from bearded waifs with poor faces

eyes of solid red in turmoil's flesh

the flying bones and brain

of the distinctly human.

Spiral staircases into empty air

glint like frozen milk

and separate the thunder

of a great thaw

bright kisses of burning lips

upon marbled brows,

thin waves of the dying voices

that tried a caught raindrop

of spiritually illegal color,

faint droppings on the page that flipped

for the pulse of a glowing cellar

to grow throne shroom cathedrals

with vortexes spiced and leaded

the upthrust of breathing stones.

Dog face scowling

a grizzled walker

drops envelopes of burning

heavenly light

to anoint the winding tar

a denim dancer

in a globe of floating wheels

gears grinding that kiss the lips

of faded immortals

offshoots eating gravel

and spitting out pearls

guardrails sparking with satanic beauty

the flick of a frenzied painter's brush

the order of fractal chaos

bronze wings capturing the eye

a tail of poisonous mercy

head sown back on

fresh from the chopping block

bright tongues from the injured neck

developing backup singers

and hot electric singing axes

a tin of baked saliva

encrusted in an ancient mouth.

CHICO MALO

Forelock of a snake

guarding pineal prescience,

slabs of scriptural weight

farting ink through bright

fractured tectonic plates,

head covered with the blood

of hovering angels,

the support of terrible

reptilian columns

roaring underneath

his rattled bones.

Gas tank of the infinite

cut off and burning by a thread,

these helmets of misguided mercy

falling off like wool.

He licks the bridge with a long

recording tongue

and the glue of spit becomes

veined radiant insignia.

Satan represents courage,

cunning and genius.

Satan represents humanity,

the fountainhead of humanism.

Satan stands for revolution

against tyranny, against

meek mediocrity.

Satan stands for the sexy flame

set against the void.

His downside

is the downside of everything

imploding into raw space

like an ecstatic dancer.

His voice is the voice of Bob Dylan,

cawing into eternity.

His face is the face of Arthur Rimbaud,

James Baldwin, Garcia Lorca.

His face is the face of Abraham Lincoln

glinting from a fresh penny.

He wrote the Constitution

in the name of a distant God.

In the egg of an inspired twilight,

in all the amphibian details

of a looming fog.

Fur of light on heavy clouds

the power of the wind in harness

pushing me higher.

Poles linked by talking wires

running spirits from valley to valley

an alphabet of signs in water

sand in the fingerprints

glinting from contact

with so many lands.

Drums in radiant circles

heat that eats the rain

before it hits the ground

two nude encircled shadows.

Lanes of the never before

explored

opening many

vacant heavens and howling hells.

Deep sunrises yet to come

don't hover in the deep forest

Earth comes to them in space

by fertile movement

turning frost to disappearing tendrils

in the orbit that knows no vacancy

bright galaxies like rolling water

the paint of long dead stars.

In the shade of the eclipse

I gather my fallen arrows

and dip them in a river

of melted gold.

Cracks in the sleeve

of earthly daylight

pouring through

ancient space.

I drop my fork and spoon

my bones of ink

this body of vagrant water

ten tons of concrete runways

and the cloak of sweet grass

I wore while the days grew frantic

cells of time

departing webs of vibrant roads

through a rain of bright wet smoke

dust walker's

magnetic glasses.

Beads of blood

on fans of ruddy quills

attach to hairs of death

and then fly off

like unstable bullets.

Here in the orbit's

gray scorched basin

scrape me out with tongues

send me around

the acres of Saturn's rings

improbably take me home.

Stone wheels of the way that goes,

trees moaning on a crust of earth,

islands floating in hot blue air,

cream-puff islands with neon signs,

strings of light leading

to the heart of the ancient forest,

cloth stained from an interior world

drying in the ice of dawn.

Plastic cabins overturned

with an array of ribbons

coursing through violet roots.

Keys dangling from a torn branch

hinge of a half open door

from dusk to hurt yearning dusk.

Shelves of sky

with sherbert color

to be wasted upon,

glass flashing false memories

to a drainpipe altar,

lines of suggestive coal

tracing goddess outlines

on the straw mat of a primitive

with books in a wooden tower

and music in plastic flasks.

If the corpse of my father

could speak with a true tongue,

if the purple waves

of a schizoid December

could accumulate backwards

into dappled fall

and stone crown the ivory roots

of tall black flowers

to an everlasting pall

of womb song blue

each torch's comma flouncing

in a geometric void

each alloy of the night

solar flares that attach

to the radio suture

stitching tombs together

with a future tone for time alone

in ancient cherry

concrete claws would abound

in gilt framed mirrors

moon lit clamor of water

wound like spools of taffy

together on a branch

of suspended metallic rain.

Planks I walked to portals

radiant with hot

fringes of other worlds,

the eyes in these old feet

dazzled, the water

of these old eyes

twinkling with

infant hands.

Shining with

hard beaten grain,

stretching to the last rebirth

and bending back

to sun on dented homes

cool beds of fresh

kaleidoscopic lettuce.

I was born to be a demon,

I am always the bad one.

Lamps flicker in the lairs

that I pass as my shadow

interrupts the thought patterns

of the inhabitants.

What is this antiseptic cave

where I was born?  The ground

is an ooze from some

concrete underground,

the trees and their leaves of paper

jitter vividly like agitated souls.

Gold coils in my eyes, liquid gold

from the mouth of the deceiver.

God has given me a great immune system

to curse my enemies with,

I commence with my leathery spear

and my knives of stars.

Prostrate in a heaving ditch,

buried by a mound

of feathers and flowers.

Colored there by inks

that run and flick with

rumors of consciousness.

A pillow of rock

birthing urgent books

from a leather womb.

Blades from the shafts on target

ricocheting through dim

psychedelic wire.

Blues from an ancient death

reflected in mercury.

Shades of a violet hedge

rustling around a silent palace.

Risen from slug-kissed leaves,

filed in the sky's sheaf

of uncollected pages,

gone sailing on the journey

of a laughing wound.

Crescent furrowed with

luminous moss, vine crawling

gelatin bricks, palpitating

metallic walls.

Daffodil tongue

in the deep mouth

unburied for riotous summer,

stone teeth descending in erotic spirals

to the drain of a world's fond yellow fall.

Leagues of time

beneath the glinting

surface of deceptions

the brandy of air

and consciousness

has snared a singing wraith

carrying my features to a breach

in the dream's receding coral

blankets of reverberating liquid scrolls

singing praise of the vision's receivers,

joy passing from generation to generation,

high stacks of garden beds

floating in bone linked grills,

gray claws of light behind giving walls

sending plumes of many multiplying dolls

furred and painted with digital scrapings

from the cave's last wall.

Paths pouring out

of a spherical ship

that glimmers with the flank

of raw eternity

in its mirror wheels and gears,

dew-struck rubber

alive with seed of day,

lines of aging light

that go back to the engine's ring

of metallic steam.

Winged regiments in rank

melting through glass worlds,

sparks caught in distilled frenzy

by caress of the master's hand.

Roads reaching over high hillsides

the edges of green lined ditches

glinting under a raw pink sky

bones thinking and toiling

before many pages and in the midst

of many upturned carts

the signature of divine hair

turned to divine disorder

or suggesting an eternal shape

as the ferns and their elder oaks

reach from dayfall's astral fur

in a parched canyon, and in reaching

invite a flood of sweet ink,

flowerpots of gathered mud

and quills from moon-fed fields

that penetrate the veins

engines organizing eggs

a fog with pincer hands

enveloping dreamless lands.

Green heart beating in the gray shroud

of mid-winter forest,

charts and lines that speak

to my vertebrae,

hills multiplying in a sliding land

behind many awesome mountains,

cliffs talking to vines and water

frail branches of a love that's torn

growing strong in disintegrating daylight.

Fronds of the tongue that was buried

gathering like the tail of a male

peacock, scattered sections bleeding

through oily soil, beds in the valley

of flowers that have overflowed.

Plateaus capped by tar

lit softly in the dim yellow evening.

Windows gleaming radioactive steam

rails carving broad mountainsides

from thickets at the feet

to jagged pine peaks.

Nobody has ever stopped moving

in this hollow hell.

Bulbs glow from the pulse

of burning bones.

Voices flow like rolling coal

over the toilet bowls.

Butterflies quake in the reins

of an electric haze.

Smokestacks excrete black rainbows

on the bronze periphery.

Shallow cuts in the turf

broadcast an otherworldly mirror.

Reflections darken to transparency

between the evaporation

of days and nights.

The trees lean various ways:

conscious oxygen

learns the map of minds

and retracts its touch.

HYMN

Let the sun scratch my face

and let there be days of slumber

let me sleep on a long rag

at the threshold of the goddess

let the leaves fall on the fading scars

my feet leave on the earth

let waves lap like grain

at the air that gives them assistance

let there be decorative torpedoes

and suits to die in

with immaculate ease

let the machines make love

to melted bones

and the foam unicorn of alterable fate

be cast on the pool that pounds.

Let the deer continue their diadem walk

stars dying into space

limbs bracketed by blankets of fire

far past lunch and riveted

to infinite things

scraped bare for the life to come

ears rock n roll for the hand's potatoes

shale shading the moonstruck mountainside

with a masklike light.

Milk laden lands

frozen with ecstasy

neon posts uprooted in the rain

left flickering and crooked

in the paths of the inner flame

that drives the outskirts

embankments of moldy money

strewn with leather blankets

and scriptural underwear

the hosts of the prophetic gleam

bowel's music in ruined bookstalls

eroded landmark towers

in puddles of half melted coin

rescued by moss and bright

animated bones shining in salvaged paint

the crossing of rubbery staircases

under knots of tied up lightning

fissures that clench and ooze

with darkest honey

in the flanks of lost

and freshly fertile earth

the serpent of the skies

is a torn heart's mirth

and a soft train coming

with oceanic windows

and wheels of sexed medieval fire.

Lyrics of rock strips

and reefs of coral sharp as steel

cavernous rib cages

howling with the worthiness

of tarnished pleasures

the rust on a harp

twanging in twilight

while the astral corridors

across open prairies

resound with strange sneezes

and relinquish ashen wings

bricks multiply from cloud

to stained cloud

walkways

for the ascendant damned

who move between

sealed plastic offices

plucking strands of time

from vain contours

to reveal the icy light

two sets of lips in flight.

FOR COLIN MOMEYER

Two headless wonders

walking truncated roads.

Do you have a magic eraser

that writes, do you wear foam

shoes that sing?

Do the wires that cross your sky

bring you dreams abundant?

We will walk past

the clamor of many spirits

on planets of dust.

We will rush out

from ravished temples

to dangle from

the longest branch.

Oh lost companion,

oh absurd sculptor of the night,

whole sidewalks of conversation

will follow you home.

Ledges blink

with dripping living light

roots climb intersecting walls

bulbs and wires dance

in tender breezes

the void outlines

of long gone dancers

lungs of disappearing speakers

sliding out of living air

to dwell suspended in dark matter

a freak of wounded color

lacking butterfly haste

the big bang palpitating

agitated in a glass case.

Vines write on the walls

the caps and garments of prior lives

descending into glittering graves

emit sculpted steam

clench rot with heated rocks

blood painted flowers of charcoal

surface in placid eyes.

Ponds shimmer in concave plastic

pinks and blues in veils

of amphibian green

collecting channels of pulp,

short skirted books

through thinking water,

bright gloves for undiscovered bones

going limp on a dry threshold.

The rivulet between

moon shredded coral hills

resurrects lichen veins

and solitary gravestones

are gathered in a granite strain.

PROMETHEUS UNBOUND

I will wait in the nuclear vault

I will swim in the lake of fire

like printed letters coming after me

I will wait like mica in the rock

and I will wait like lava

at the core of all these consequences

running like mice

dragging down clairvoyant doors

seductive shadows adorned with necklaces

sanctuaries of the damned

dripping with concrete wounds.

At the dam's lever

where the forces twinkle

like shattered glass

let the ships pour through space like ass.

Pathways of shredded leaves

leading to a circular indent

brown glowing in the green earth.

A temple of glass

rising from cut rock

near the watery center

crystal after crystal in cracked rows

wind screaming through frozen chimes.

Forms leak

from these wounds in the landscape,

limbs flex like the belly of the sun

and turn into stringed instruments.

Tables piled high with vines

in a forest clearing.

Lonely voices wafting

out of cracks in trees.

Lover's outlines

floating where there was

no bronzed encounter,

figures dancing

floors a camera never traced.

I was hammered by a bright horizon

fleeced by a passing dream

having shined all the visible tables

having stood frozen to watch them shine

and sidewalks sliding and slithering

past crooked poles and small deserts

past lights wavering and cans tipped

toward little jungles that drink up

the leaking hacked containers

and the shapely ooze

I am alone in terrors

that are universe wide

neon framed from hubs

trembling in webs that never glisten

harps wafting whose pluck never ends

bone singing through a chain of heads

the scrubbed bus stop that never stops blinking

steep reservoir that churns with silent friends.

Sweet mystery of night, how I love you.

All territories open up within your grasp.

Shopfronts occlude with vaporous eyes,

roads going down to the ocean

guide the sinews of ecstasy

to a holy place.

Rock walls radiate moss like paint.

Channels in the dark light up

the deep insides.  The art

of commerce with eternity

blotted out to be born

a veil of twitching mouths

pronouncing serpentine sounds

the five hammers of a floating couch.

Crematoriums for the living

are in the oiled alleys

of clocked kitchens

the lips of angelic soil

and the bones of steam

that express divine speech

the feathered secrets of its calling

locked in tongues that roam

roots raging that have no home

diamonds forming in the twilight's foam.

Ice that curves

around the pulsing blood

of bodies forming,

clouds that reach

with sudden hands

into the glimmer

of empty lots,

lightning raging in circles

dropping hoops

and wilted flowers

on wounded walkways,

jagged steps

on crumbling ledges

all smoothed by a windy sash

and a scythe for clusters

bursting out of night

that have rainy faces,

bone paperweights and doorstops

collecting in the mansion of the dead.

Torn to ribbons that

articulate the storm,

tongues thrashing

in colorfully threaded air,

waterfalls in mirrors

that glide on silent wheels,

reflections living ten alternate lives

spiders dancing

driven mad by magnets,

the heart as an ancient tool.

Mysteries of undreamed worlds

emerging from the paths

leading into the last vast forest.

Lips of ebony and vine

speaking from the walls

that melt at dawn.

Patios crowded

with flashing rattled eyes

lonely memories of crowded spaces.

Leaves in tumult

blown from roots and branches,

each singer swooning

in the high bells

of different chords,

the way of the keys

extended past sense

and far past

meek infinity.

Bring me out on long liquid ropes

levitating over the nearest river,

shade of trees where we left a couch,

springs reverberant with rust

ticking down in a delicious rhythm,

moss cloaking the mugs that we dip

in the cleft of the rock,

sun sliding on the mercury

of immortal loves intertwined

on the raking current

the rain on ancient towers

pooling in rings and making

pigeons into doves.

Orchids in transparent beds of slime

rectangles of trapped sky

dripping with bronze lightning

runways of discarded wings

splashed with eggs

and lost to astral envelopes

ripped silver masks and wires

adorning a bulbous highway

velvet fumes of our last escape.

Abrim with sabotaged thoughts

I arrive on your doorstep as a hunger

spilling lilacs from my tongue

like slippery letters,

you a tablet of sky on fire

you are the bright layers of rock

brought out by the grind's polish

of many moons

flowing over the cloaked bodies

of many grand pianos

black daffodil of the finely carved

and silent graveyard

where I go to collect the hair

of my half-gone spirit and be wet

with dawn-hewn rivers

in the curtain of days

that ripple over melted sands

my soul in the hands

of your hands.

Orbs descend

with glowing

refurbished symbols

tentacles of light

that were left here

from the last

galactic meltdown.

You and I are

departed from all past lives

to live the fountain of the new

on leaking foundations.

Skeins of alphabetic mineral

made it our way,

were laid in healing webs

on sonic territory

and caught in flasks

that reflect languor.

Lids batting at the light

of a trashed moon,

yellow paths

on lichen-covered highways,

mushroom cliffs and shrouded pools,

tapestries of bright unbidden worlds

unfurling astral flags

that trick the surge of day

I am found in the far corners

of bathroom mirrors in unknown corridors

a shriek of besieged desire

escaping from the maps

webbed by ashen cathedrals

and gathering rocks for a running leap

over garden walls

my doppelgangers go down in thorns

while I play in the chartless clouds

between hypnotized towns

and the drowning in city wells

beauty's dew on my machine of painted leaves

and her seat of instrumental reeds

with eggs that stare like seeds

the hay made by decayed

undulating hours.

MEETING ON A MELTED DESERT

The spheres of unholy light

hold life aloft.

Limbs sinuous as snakes

hold it together.

Fences ablaze with electric shame

bones shaping snapshots

of the infinite liquid music

zones of moderate perfected cruelty

where it's wise to remain foolish.

Ice pools like letters on vacant paths.

The insignia of gravity's lust

imprinted on the dancers and the soil.

Networks of birch branches bound by steel

a horse of eyeless fire with a sleeping rider

hips as the twine of sunrise

murdering my silence and my fear of death.

Shrines of warped wood

kinks carved in cooperation

slender stories that rend the sky

the lightning that binds

and breaks the husk of time

frail opposites entwined

with the strength of water,

united in anarchic rhyme.

THE GOLDEN GOAT DISSOLVED

I eat my way through trash walls

and spit out my cousin silver,

perilously bright I am gobbled by

the dragon of every culture

a tea room in the interlinked

stomachs of the dead.

Wombs construct themselves

in chains of light coming out of me,

the lace geometry of my inverted forehead

is patterned on the involvement of birds

with the cosmosphere before my arms are weary

and she comes with a scythe of chrome.

Narratives of ice perched on crumbling salt

the floors she scratches with a sideways phase shift

folds and grounds all surrounding falls

shores breaking into heaven's halls

sights forbidden from the earth that calls.

SAMELIA BOUND

Diamond studded dancefloors

balanced on a web of skulls

the soft wind reverberating

between our stools on sticks of brass,

the turning eyes that watch

a congealed flame,

our messages are played

on the dim vibrating void

prolapsed between light's echoes

crescents darting in and out

from tear struck sight

the outstretched arms of silver

from a stark black pond

pooling bloodlike in an airport runway

and the letters of a hot tub's tiled walls

body of music floating on racks

and waves of reel-bound steam

earth's wide planks of bone soil

tide of multiplying wakes

where her mouth takes in the drowned

and symbols are the spirit's tools

snake's vision is hers to use

and the apple tree's trunk of wombs.

Gemstones staring through the wall of fate,

caves poured full with orgiastic spirits,

tongues of heart licking

the pieces of the walls that have fallen,

dark swath of space enveloping stars,

halls reaching beyond the reach

of all auditoriums, lights measuring

stalls of caged lightning

with a brighter blaze.

Springs pounding beneath the moss certitude,

twine lashing to their full alphabet of spines

combined.

Hills cut by the worm of dusk

rays that scythe flourishing

from the hot gold of some infinite bird

piercing orbs encamped in tendrils

bodiless comfort of deep space.

Eyes that swallow pouring mud

bone bridges of a dusty planet

cellos of stone

bowed by entombed

greatness of soul that fucks time.

Girders enwrapped in lilac

where bruised hands take lunch

glass reflecting oils of reproduction

cubbyhole kitchens blinking

like stunned searchlights

naked whispers that exist alone.

The tongue distilled of place

is also an astral highway

bright vaginal leaves bespeak

the names of the American rose.

Hills unfold through perilous oils

anomalies from the fumigated hallways

and the burning exit

him with his beams of dirty light

and her with the cut of her jeweled cavern

lichen covered twigs

and a mound of magnolia cones

coalescing in the glassy twilight,

harpooned on the orbit

of a foreign sun.

Ankhs of mud on pavement

sanctuary key to some other land

you and I trapped in cobweb labyrinths

of this reprinted and talkingly

embalmed world,

where the rut has salvaged

electricities for you to hurl.

I am of many minds.

I am a restaurant of the dead.

Feel me from a distance, hoard me

in the memories that haven't happened.

Trace on me enhancement unforetold.

Let the colors train a swift array of bones.

Let the trees of blue breath disrupt a pale sky

without a ripple or a sound.

In the place of ambiguity

plateaus swept clean as fresh glass

sit across from me.

Give us time to study each other

in the eddies that pass us by.

I am afraid of losing myself to fantasies

of enchantment,

I am afraid of rank possession

and the leech inside.

Bleed my milk, witch,

and ink the reed inside

the temple's walls.

Teach me my master side

as a variable dragon, show me the coals

arranged as touchless knives.