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.

THE DEITY

Even as I create I am disappearing.

I spend myself on a world that rarely cares.

Weighed down with sacks of cast-offs,

spinning them all into threads

of blood-streaked gold.

Folded realms that speak only to me,

faint spirits in poison dust,

avoiding the telescopes.

Ropes of ectoplasm jutting

from ecstatic wounds.

Slabs of some discarded frozen magma

tree rings in vampiric flesh

exposed by blades and spicy vapor

paths deep in the park

that riots past midnight

glint of hooves fleet as the wind

touched by the embers

long slate fields

with acres of evaporating water

branches fallen on a stage lit

imitation moon.

I was addicted to some climactic vision

but the truth is in the wearing away,

the wearing away.  Diminishment.

A popped boil of the species

and its centerless limbs.

Look away from the annihilating wall.

Believe the erasing banner.

Still the loneliness of death calls

not like a dog or a wolf

but like a descending dove diving

in hunger to coast the fertile surface

a prophet with a sealed tongue

driving veins through sand.

I'm thinking about Iggy Pop tapes

thinking about armchair sex

at the dawn window and the end of an era

as the bottle fell faintly

from a failing hand

and the upholstery of memory

tore for a spiritual riot,

a mist of light purging

mannered speech from hammered air.

I'm remembering a moss covered ditch

with blueberries on each side

and the buzzing night gone white

through afternoon with its presence

all arrayed too soon.

The weight of nut-strewn acres

gray light of the cloaked high sun

the bone is a dismal dynamo

hot blood pumping threads

through the earth

in synergistic coils

kinetic clay of ears

formed up from bedrock death

frame cashed of the outlaw giver

bringing seeds like grains of sand

new rain from an ancient hand.

I have been beaten down

into the roots of this place.

I rise when the sap rises.

The blades of furniture

that crowd the shaded floor

were carved by aching hands.

The severed noose I wear

becomes a sacrament.

The ribs open like a bird's wings

from my half butchered instrument.

The ground divided by my feet

has lips like a curling mountain.

I unfurl as a flag of kingdoms gone

and fall down to become a fountain.

They pass their demons to me

and I pass mine back to them.

Colors of delight and fire

fly between our crooked fingers

themes of spines adjusted

through unstructured fields of space.

Strategies of angels

falling through volcanic mouths.

Dice bouncing on the frozen bridge

that leads under the highest tower,

a laser focusing to burn.

The head gear in the grid

turning rust to oil

resembling the divine stem

trembling to meet a clay urn

with water's yearning.

The princess standing on a massive turd.

Frozen excrement expanding in the streets

as we decorate our footprints.

Mania sprayed from mechanical clouds

emerging as empty thought.

Manufactured inertia running out to nowhere

walls paved with corporate religious digitech

drowning in a sea of rotten eyes

that only look down.

Seek through the wrecked fast food cathedrals

the forgotten knowledge

of the first painter's cave

and spirit's pigmentation,

of the monk's beard and the witch's pussy

meeting to crush away

the hasty grids of the enforced unreal

and the shit feeders who sleep

in its cursed android embraces.

We are each other's nightmares.

Worse and worse sequels.

Tongues bitten off faintly tasting

each other in a curdled vat.

Belated reversion to corrupted norms

singing in a fried wire

untraceable ghosts

decaying flesh with fresh

identity cards.

Biological imprisonment

making a joke of the soul.

Let the gash stare back

at the regretful knife

allow the blood to play

on these painted floors.

May the cells rise like the snores

of sleeping gods

who die in bed

dryly choking.

Hollow vines grow through

my body screaming

skulls of glue and glitter

cardboard cut out shadows

set against a gigantic wall

blades dancing in a blueprint cloud

the height of branches reaching

ethereal green to gobble

the blood from an unspent sky

Calendar pages have tastebud eyes

each blank runway

to a hidden cracked horizon

spreads its tendrils in an ocean mirror

wires with words in coils

each heated cone in its embroidered forest

every glass warped box thicket

trembling high in snowcloud lace

each botched flesh stapled reminder

every tight foot printed cube.

Yards of elastic teeth,

frayed ropes of glitter painted tinsel

fences folded up in boxes

wells blinking underground

in the canvas of night

for eyes and tongues that seek

from the sight of sleep.

November's gone to the hacked marrow

of last December's last moon,

skies of raging ruin

for stacked mammals,

fireworks from garbage can mouths

in the furrows of a bankrupt south.

Patios adrift in orchards

searchlight cartoons, friends of an enemy,

stretching to meet the locus

of the divine locater,

willows gone to reeds

hewn ragged on the hollow breeze.

Petals fallen stick to tar

from a lilac massacre

a meteor of melting sugar

stacks of bent car frames

swaying squeaking in the backyard

shocked rings of radiant stones

around the rhythm of a planet whirlpool

Strangers of my life, all

floating downstream

from the echo's land

that launched bright blood creation,

bone's cloak of burning sex

If favorite alleyways could

cut up the night and prevent it

from ending, if pine needles

could negotiate with a shaken branch,

if puddles frozen could enter

my bedscape from a careless dream

Maybe the beams of sound

are ever reaching,

maybe the road will flick like a tail

away these dead skin cells

and crawling light

to a faster track inhaling zero,

hands that touch electric trails

come to make up a sand hero.

The solitude I used to seek

has filled with ghosts

the sculpted stone is a live animal

the ruin of the cones and pyramids

collects into an obelisk

one raging slab suspended

over the sucking world

paths flashing under interim stars

guardrails from the wooden heart.

I reject all your suggestions, machine.

Time strapped on the deck

made a fungus for my dreams,

we recorded our tapes

over and over

to drown the closeness

into muffled fantasia,

we watched the rivers like

baby fingers grow and grow

as the rank sun cascaded

the solemn repetition

of the roof tiles

and all the antennas

cried and cried

and all the neighborhood cliff faces

ran with raw ink

pipe-strained leakage of artificial snow

as the glass dome grows.

My Frida Kahlo coffee cup

is stained with turmeric,

on a rack of metal wheels

next to the Charlie Brown

pine tree

laced in lights and dying.

We live in the most magical time yet.

Fecundity of ephemera

wearing a nonetheless soul,

the tunnel's tiny hole

a diamond-bright insight.

This will be the year of the cosmic Christ,

drunk on drums and dancing:

of a Christ who fucks finally at twenty five,

changing the nature of the mission.

Study the insects who made nuclear fission.

Wind billowing is not

expressing itself.

Long panels of sanded wood

groan without pain,

a brain-hinge gives way in reaction.

The sky is eating shit.

Clouds make poor ribbons

around the poison sun.

I learn to love the breeze

that doesn't make the weather report.

I learn to bleed and die

quietly.

The beauty of Satan is beauty,

that's the beauty of Satan

beauty with no moral meaning

no directed plan, just energy flares

sent up by an unquiet spirit

who suspects he's a flake of God,

God without authority getting

bashed in the skull,

and all the better for it.

Look at the cunt of the growing forest

lacerated with exposure by the moon.

Make a death wait til the depth of noon.

My life of silhouettes

has been bombed by flesh

strings lashing disembodied tongues

the beginning of infinity

sparks through a car stereo

rope ladders rolling down aluminum walls

bone hoops and hinges

tight berries of electric blood.

The dark blue dome is overhead

with all its white scrawled songs

paths are sprawling and yarnlike

with overnight blossoms

hills rippling in the force of divine vision

the savage seed erupting again

for its turn of tar and steel

cables cast on an ethereal wheel.

The red mouth of this night

is a tunnel in my train car room

it takes my tongue from the air

and the lines from my hands

it takes the songs I made with certain ladies

it takes the plaid fields

seen from retired buses

and the trunk of a solitary tree,

leaving a black halo

above the bare granite spot

that pools with many automatic questions

now that the roots are gone

and the twilight is a silent Earth

buttock hills bathed in lunar fire

Paradoxes rain from the powdery

white and blue evening sky,

the claws of you and I dancing

drip with ruddy spiritual blood.

I'm Ty Cobb, mean as hell

and won't put up with any shit.

Tap dancers on the roof

are shooting a music video,

I get intrigued.  I live

in a long lasso, torn

by distant stars.  I'm the frog man

going to Mars.  You're the seller

of empty space.

Put up a shell of shackled tendrils

over the square pond

and the knuckles of the moon

that come too soon on a blue rail

bones lost in circumstantial hail

and the belly of a hilltop,

tones wheezing to be heard

in the chemical herd

and the shine of a goldenrod clearing

the chains of a mirror

the shames of a lettered sword

these cocktails while the dragon snores.

Latto, Ice Spice, Sukihana, Glorilla.

I love my bitches, the meaner the better.

Fuck Drake and Kendrick Lamar,

I want a street poetess

to shake her booty in my face

and tell what will be the way,

the word, the verb

she carries like a noun

in pink spandex.

Put the hex on those whiny

self-obsessed brothers,

take me shining into your tribe,

brown gates of Eden broken and

resold to my older soul

where these goddesses have

hooks like braille

and my ear's a sail on their

bright red tongues.

All I have to do is exhale,

and my criminal soul

will finally reach the earth.

Tall wooden flowers

with lightbulb heads

attest to the miracle.

Metallic seeds have been

sown here in the clay

of congealed blood,

sonic buzz of a circular flood,

trains veining the skin

of the battered concrete globe,

eye-slits of the immortal arch

that spans the river's theater park

and makes my vertebrae a tuning fork

of pronged ambitious futures.

Lungs light up like bags of gold

cornices and their spoon-curved

corners, shapely in western wind

bright blueprint's gash of blooming zones

from my fetal warming through

to my phantom bones.

Hatred makes the plumes bloom

out of the rock, hatred lights up

the sky with hot celestial blood,

hatred sows the necessary seed

for the curse of love.

The sting of hatred makes beauty possible,

its tongue-thorns of internal tearing

make an armor of lightweight gold.

Stacks of singing coin

tower over its emergence,

coin and its paper of underwear

surging like a glassy sea

between the dungeon walls of love

that hatred liberates from above.

I am the ectoplasm

that brings you into life with gifts

but I also drink your blood

to even it up

you are a jewel in the snow

of northern reaches

that skidded to get there

over flat rooftops glazed

with industrial paint

cliff's edges beaded

with melted simulacrum trees

lakes frozen in volcano mouths

wings of a fertile mechanism

that birth fresh triplet wings from each tip

mercury's music in a singing dish for cell division

my own form inverted in a mirror slab

calling all the dogs of the land.

Masks that flash

fake diamonds and feathers

spilling blood colored flowers

zones previously unknown on Earth

long tendrils from eroded letters

suppurating on distorted stone

where are my chains in velvet

where is my orchid mouth

the thread that stitches bricks together

trailing over a volcano's lips

in a chariot of digitized energy

in the heart of the electromagnet storm

cups of gold holding

bright imitative liquid

pulsating forms that seed

the twilight with a cold sunrise

taut radiance of slashed and unreal walls

my dark twin at the helm

of soft unfolding hallways

monstrous angelic architectural sex.

These crumbled lives

are spread in rain

gashed hearts leak battery acid

through the dictionary veins

acres of terminology

that surround the body

sky pulsing like a fake wood grain

exposed to rancid heat

meat river for the beauty that eats

and is redeemed between

the borders of the gilded frame.

The lace of nests

that cluster in the ribs

of a radiant bridge

is blood polymer

headed for the vast

transforming wormhole

to be sprayed in webs

and unforgiving machine arms

contrasted by a fleshly pale guitar

and phallic scimitar

time's intricate altar

made of unholy metal

escape from automatic dreams

the oars of toy ships

scraping bowls that turn to crimson lips

in the hour's last butane gasp

bright thorns of clitoral tongues

vast iron mazes ranked in tons

on ground so softly heaving

freed land of false angels leaving

unreluctant hooves.

The celestial vampires

in their darkening shrines

funneling a rope of space

through fractured time

writing on the ice that mirrors light

with string fingers

and fiber optic eyes

drinking from the lamps

of bioluminescent jelly

savoring the scum of ruddy roots

that fish the abyss hereafter

hacking at a fabric's flash

that never wanes or wavers long

the crushing octagonal song.

The return of magic

is a desperate business.

Let's masturbate the blood,

its every cell.

Paint the inner spiral

of the seashell

with an astral tongue.

Let the kitten colors run.

The sun rests in its fire

on the seventh wall.

Snakes coiling make a ragged

mess of their shed skin.

The soil reaches peaks

of cool vibration

in the rows of rain.

The love of life

is a tooth of pain

buried in the groaning grain.

The lights of the skeleton

have gone out.

The shadow still stands

like a blade of iron

with branches.

A smooth stone

rests in my hand.

I will break

the ice around my soul

by not throwing it.

Fences glint from the outskirts,

the wilderness is coming closer.

The fortress I left behind

is a ball of wet paper

caught up in a crooked wire.

The ledge sweats underneath

my ticking frame.

The cliff's drop tells me

I'm a dragon's tongue,

watching from outside

the airtight windows.

The tinsel of roads

is a rope of roaches.

Its net catches thoughtless dreams,

the bones of the hopeless.

The cave that paints my mouth

the moons of my many seeds

the runner that wrote this.

Paths part in the bud

and fornicate with the aftermath.

The staff without a flag

punctuates the desert.

Waters gather in the cloak of the ground

and sing to hell.  A numb claw clenches

the clapper of a ringing bell.

Roads that climb across the valley

washed by rivers, scrubbed clean

by the grains of blind bodies

as ornamented trees rise

from a broken spine

and painted tongues lash

from painted faces

I follow the web of water

suspended in the wake

of a fleeing sun

the carrier of ropes that run

up to their cranking pulley

with a robot's face and fish teeth

the glint of a barbed wire wreath.

I am from the winter.

I ignite the curves

of astral lakes

as I ascend throughout

the worlds.

Black holes break upon

my wingless wonder.

Dawns come and go beneath

no overhang.  I open like a lung

before a rain of dead matter

then cough it out as a spray

of gray moths.  Their patterns

iridescent take on many shades

one orifice of galaxies arrayed.

In the attic trying

to decipher the great book

he shot himself through the mattress,

traced in luminescence

from the neon signs.

There was no answer from the void,

no croak of hinges.

Dreams filtered through

the violation of consciousness,

the turbid mutation

of answered prayers.

I'm so glad to be beneath

the weight of your shit.

I see the platform cracking,

the glad green light.

The serpents are shedding maps,

the undergrowth prowls

with its own tongue foot.

Sanctuary is in

the severed umbilical.

Aisles cool with vacancy are

filing outward from

the buckled sun.

We could walk there

but we wouldn't.  We will

drip down the charcoal cliff face

like veins.  There will be

no lasting pain.

Flesh translated into steam

out on the shoreline

where the scarecrows lean

swerving lines that fly kites

under purple atmosphere

boundaries fleecing flowers

from the fabric hold

of cement fences

coal running from around the eyes

a manic fate designed.

Born to roam unholy Earth

from the time beginning,

in a ball of hair,

lost in the high

cemetery of the wind,

a bench of stone to sit up there,

somehow.

Growing to love the languor

of death on the prowl in suede

alert to the tongues of midnight

feeling their fade retract dreams

forms coalesce on the curtains.

Climbing hills that ripple

where the guardrails

are chains of gold

where the eye-holes

in the mask of clouds

are beautifully unoccupied

my life takes place between

two blood orange bookends

rolling roads of tar

among the vines and trees

my sacred light bulbs

and laughing skulls

change color in an instant

with my dancing blood

all alien mercies

far flung rejected loves

and rings of crooked rocks

adorn my frozen whirlpool

all the feathers of plastic birds

that the sun spat out in June

are living in December's moon.

In rags of daylight

I feel the strength of dead tribes

all alive in me.

The private glory

of the persecuted,

the lovely falls of every

one inevitable and great

thrillingly call out my name.

In the sanctum of the dark,

the shaken snapshot of another hour

passed walking

in long halls of outdoor space,

crucified in unison

with the many thousand things

humming, engines of milk tubes

and massive driveways abandoned

stones that once were marked

and now are worn.

Frustrated emanations from the crypt

long autumns in a frozen cone

watching orange fire descend

on the brown land

and lightning flow like bugs

over a screen made of melted sand

and the bees locked into the field's edge

by a blaze of activity

hands moving like brushes

and brushes moving like hands

a texture from another land.

Now the act of creation is suffered

I can only go on alone.

Circuits replicate at the borders,

clouds ripple that have no feeling.

The tumult of lights over dark-lit water

centuries in a second

bronze doorways in space

the haze around a burning eye.

Forty years pretending

to a be a human

this cocoon is thin

and translucent

I've been drinking

the sun and moon

from a cascading sky.

Even the invisible dogma is bullshit.

Fronds sinew in the free air,

clouds are merciless, ferns and fecal

deer marks, the yield of clay

multiplying in error, a steel wall.

I built myself a new soul

and already it's corroded

the bitches of mercy

have left me here

dramatic masks adorn

the faces of kinetic water

panes of clay with electronic antlers

broadcasting all the glories of the damned

to the vortex of an empty room.

The beautiful spawn of hate

with all its ornate detail

ravishing the suffocating world

of law and order

giving gray flesh pink lungs

ink tipped porcupine spines

protruding from the veil of flesh

fangs closing like a ribcage

around a sullen fecal heart

bones tap dancing

on a cement swollen piano lid

top hat gone with tortured breezes

provoked into an erratic storm

planetary rings of painted fingernails

swirling from its ashen fart.

The hot green trees

and the half moon

my bored blood thinking of

disappearing branches

metallic inlets where the river eats

stacked dinner plates

like slime on a slab of thin mints

these benches are spectral bones

the edges of dark waters

are lapping at ancient ground

like a stabbed tongue in a ring of oil

I am the guardian of ways

that no longer exist.

I no longer pretend

to be an angel

or a demon.  

My life has taken on

the contours of a man.

It's not enough: it doesn't

need to be.  In the shells

of our mortality

some resonance

still persists.

And it surfaces

on waves of flowerets

somewhere beyond

comprehension.

These rulers, these

sweet and blinded faces,

all are void in potential eternity,

sent evaporating through

the sculpted fossils

where the masks are

wan and lean:

and only the grave is green.

The stars are hard and cold

in orbs of self destroying light

I'm everybody's prisoner and nobody's son

I have no companions and I yield to nothing

the escapes are razor thin but infinitely deep

they shine through the cracks in everything

betrayed by flowers and concrete

to the soundless banks

of another bleached world

come feel me twilight

cast your cutting shadows

into my mindless skin

cardboard trunks are crashing

into the soundstage scenery

let's sing while we kill each other

with sightless apathy

let's carve out a metal cap

with flashing forcefields

in the wound that sleeps and sleeps.

Into the decaying belly

I drive beauty as a spike with sparks

to burn away the flakes

of long diseased organs

in loving, sublime incineration

where lonely pillars

shiver into gold.

Quiet paths made secret

by rushing rivers

nude runs that ended

under a deep black rainbow

feet scratched by jagged roots

faces stained by the half-grilled

ribcage of the sun.

Can you hear the purple sound

 of the pouring

the pouring of alchemical branches

from the sifted heart of man

can you hear the pouring

of a thousand resurrected things

gushing into existence

with a raving roar.

I know that I'm a fool of bone

and melting flesh

upon a small tower of shit

I laugh frequently at the ripping gears

at the glitter of machine teeth

I have nothing left to say to the grass

or the molecules of soil it springs from

what a joy to burn inside these rings of gas

these ribbons of bright planetary trouble

decorating a beautifully smeared sky

reflected on ruined waters

that I drink with an electric cup

in the meat slab light of sunrise

selling cobwebs to plastic shufflers

goblets of grease to paper passerby

and a necklace of bullets and rancid tampons

to yours truly

because I'm so fucking real

and so fucking great

Bright feathers can hold up

the crushing weight of oblivion.

Silken hair beheld

enlightens the tongue.

Cool waters of mercy

invade the poet's turmoil

and give the cosmic visage

an atomic leer.

A grill of white fire edged red

with a wormhole background

lurking in the lake mouth

of a blue guitar marooned

on a polished wooden floor

bones trickling with time's

little appetizers

clear tables of melted sand.

Spirit is the destroyer

of cultural illusions

and it rises

when one stops listening

to the voices of human beings

as if they were God.

Satan crucified

more beautiful than ever--

nightfall gleams with dark radiance

like a greasy tool.

Guitar strings letting go

the dust of moths

old loves departing

with their seasons--

the subtle flame

lasts like a granite floor.

With a stranger's guitar

and a bus-long six-seater automobile,

purple as the wind

that brought him there.

Odilon Redon eye hovering

under the neon convenience sockets.

Scraped by with a rose tattoo.

Painted the alleyways, secondhand swag.

Profile voodoo.  Tentacle

hovering over dark waters,

Discreet notation, delivered

at the radio station.

Tin foil skeletons

with hats for handles

tracks for a swift lightning.

With a stranger's guitar

and the plush owl curtains,

and the smooth stones

of an abandoned fishtank

and a sunset for hours.

There's a liquid tiger

in my mercury eyes

bones writing on rice paper screens

with arterial tongues

ghosts drifting between transparent shelves

selecting shapes from dying dancers

the glowing trash that spells an ancient name

wires that tell where the lungs are hiding

ponds of jellied vapor

that keep the key in the flashing fog

stripes lashing like the beams

of the last raw god

claws climbing the ship side

of painted gold that glides

and has its own pinnacle's whistle

a mouth of folded wings

dripping like a question mark

on these shores of uncertain mercy

roaring at the sulfurous film

and the lunar dancers

growling for the vacant halls

and a spirit thirsting to be thirsty

drinking from a radiant wound

I drink acid from the sky

don't mind meandering

so long as it leads

to the blood volcano

something has exaggerated

your walk and your wallet

floors are open ever after

in the shine of your far-cast eyes

masked monsters in need of error

storm the graffiti

all is waffle iron walls

protein screaming and rushing

the sun with a flag

When autumn is a spaceship

hovering through space-shot corridors

light doubling back on itself

on the outskirts of a dream

when the edges of the bedcurtain

flicker over the sweat

of a living concrete floor

and the poor flowers

of a half-hatched sanctuary

meld and flex and fall

dim closets opening outward

toward radiant star fuel

a hovering galactic anchor

slab swimming with belly of lichens

over the underwater fires

and prairies of gelation eggs

longs strands of conscious green ribbons

a mercury sun

the myriad tongues of one plunge

recording hyperspatial hereafter

Hours poured over me like sand

I looked for the reflection of a knife

to cut the rooted song out of my heart

my hands were swarmed with crawling grains

the rattled speakers drowned

I regained a moonstruck surface

bones withdrew around me

from the solid light

torn flowers from my ribs

keys opening forbidden drawers

in a distant room.

I swim uncertainly in the alien air

of a lifted curse, trying to throw off

the bedraggled phantom,

the facelessness of oceanic days

revealing no pulsing center.

Paths flicker in the breeding woods

I watch the tails of feminine spirits

beckoning the races

of the happily damned

the fullness of unbroken trances

fried orchids in a distant dance.

She is the queen of these

square avenues, full jewel

ornate in a map made

by the grayest drones, shining alone.

I lurk around the painted pavements,

hoping for the kiss of her honeypot,

under the froth of noise

hungry for her cool poise

hot with her reflection

on my soul of glass, her superb ass.

I want to sow new arches

on these old foundations,

watch hallucinated stone

bow over open courtyards,

a garden paused

in trembling tranquility

for the black doves of her feet

flowers showered on the dead street

music pulsing from captured cicadas.

She is the fount of sacred lips,

her name is shaded.

The lid of time yearns upward

like a wet curtain

from her screen of eyes

to scan my frame into the fire of days

flowing down the cloth of mountainsides

I drink from her smoky thighs

in the crossing of hawk shadows

like a healing wound

hatched bright beneath

a bubblegum umbrella.

The blue stem crashes through

the eighth angel of my mind

on a glazed rooftop, in an empty

coffee shop cleared for my dream,

ink blurred of the pages turning.

Kisses turned aside that turn

to soggy bricks and land

in a ragged wall.

All my renegade companions

are gone, the silk remainder

of a sowing machine ship

that plowed through the side

of the main road and

into the purple water

flickers in twilight and dawn

expressionless as a pawn

the departure is mostly invisible.

My claws on this cliff's dried root

reaching for dirt in air

my breath and the breath of the ages

just barely taking turns

as the old world melts into steam below

and dancing throngs are covered

in waves of red clay

with traces of iron

there's a cinema of bones

hysteria within the cloistered glow

of pipes pushing water

the cage that speaks with one voice

far from the feline choice

of nobody's passenger

memorizing wind and rain

the luxuries of chosen pain.

Cheap apartment jewels

chain links emerging

in the layers of red gas

descending Jupiter's robes

in an orb of entranced anti-gravity

playpens for the bones of outcast souls

soaring over vine-broken equipment

cells and their lust for water

pythons gulping eggs

where wet wings languish

lines gone jagged

on a quake broken highway

tar dripping way to land

retaken by trees

long lanes of dappled ground

evaporating speech

nights and their hunger

on sleep bag benches

scraped nights of a light bulb moon

This pale moth eaten planet

still has a few twilight sparks

the menacing threshold is a string that plays

with my rubber clad metallic skeleton

I will take Cloud Springs Road

through the bliss of hellfire

I am the snake on the stick

unfurled eternally

this mateless abandon is the painter's wheel

these seeds that glint like bullets

are a message unknown

the itchings of this vast and fractured womb

the bump of hills in a tiny mirror

heaps of gravel radiant in neglect

poles aslant above electric wreckage

the tongue erected from a sleeping tongue

a pearl of many seas

hacked veil flashing from world to world

seams bleeding screen printed fireworks

the blade's edge in a swarming iris

notching the umbilical spine

Bitter worm of consciousness

see the streetlight flowers

let go of the planet skin.

Ghostly vapors dancing

on a wooden glove

three stories high

stuck to a melted hill

chains of daylight and black

feathers of night gone.

Cartoon lips breathing

from the flicking of an ancient film

desk lamps ticking with tender mercy

of solitude's divine

and nameless wish alive

in long blue flame

the threads of an untouchable climb.

Summer is leaving me softly

gray clouds shattered by sun

are distilled in glass

five nets of oysters flying through the air

break on the prow of an iron dream

with rising portholes

crowned with frozen steam

overlooking a silk mattress

of cooling foam and flashing flowers

on the borders between teeming worlds

your singing mouth a chrism

where I go to be gently scarred

soft arms in a shark's tooth necklace

baptism in undeterred blood

wide shores of interlocking lights

moon shine on turtle shells

and pelts of deer

songs climb down the chasm

of these weapon walls

where the sacred oil falls

like hesitant water

unbound in your tumbleweed

of bending rhythm

may the basins of bright time

release and shine

autumn's height of departure

with a thimble on a crimson crest

tipping slightly over.

Grapes fresh from the vine

crushed against the frame

of days anointed by

a multitude of tongues,

fronds from the cliff of green

that elevates my vertebrae

through encircling black hair,

up through the clouds that speak

and the clouds

that become searching limbs,

wetness of days on the wane

that emit a twilight shimmer

by guardrails of some activating

words that are always missing

from the passage of wings

over lonely courtyards,

each of my ears is a bird skeleton,

I go to the ships of bronze

shifting interspatial tablets,

I go to the arms of her earth

who moved the broomsticks

and the waving hands,

I go to her turning over

buckets of clean linen

as I run in dreams,

I go to her tub of mercy

as an ancient spirit anxious

to shed the solitude of flesh

and wield her hands on me

like a waiting sign

and a flower from the howling grave.

Paths are carving through the coils

of deep wet woods

swamp's fever of vine flowers

reaching through metal fences

and floating bones

the cursive link

between times is formed

of melted gold among dancing blades

love made on a sandstone bridge

in wreaths of criminal twilight

for those who resist a common death

and ride a fiery saddle

through a lunar escape

the knuckles of deific fingers

popping like bombs

my hiding place of intertwining tendrils

emits a pained antenna

to a wrecked world where

one glowing siren

imperturbably cooks the air

with rivers and waterfalls of dark

dark hair and purifying stare.

If there are still mermaids singing,

if my feet will float above the ground

to take me to my ship of angles,

if the veins of leaves

blowing in a purple wind

will turn me into articulate smoke,

maybe the rocks will speak for themselves

and pour like concrete,

maybe rivulets of hot ink

will bisect the raging sun and suck me in,

maybe the ground will sin with me

against the dying day

and stringy devils live again

in my swooping songs.

Maybe the walls will blow like wands

and the museum of ice

become a lasting bronze.

Your beauty is heavenly.

Out here in the circling driveway,

I sweep up the shattered mirrors,

I long for your face behind

clear unbroken glass, the cruel

engines hum around us.

What do I know of heavenly beauty

in your feline form?  All I know

is a series of desperate dreams,

each with a succulent imprint

and a sweetly wounding name.

Let me in to your dipped darkness

and the brine of your planetary fulcrum

that men and mobiles and beaten buildings

fly past as your delicious orbit increases--

vivid daughter of earth, send me the days

of your smile and your strut

across foot-blessed floors.

Wild nights are gone

beneath a floodlit scene of funerals

for nameless dead dancing on film

I encounter empty fields

spilled popcorn on green grass

old fashioned techno music

in my rerun dreams

we ran from party to party

on crooked country roads

with neon platform islands

where our timely incantations

were repeated and understood

those times have been blown to hell now

and maybe they never happened

I was laughing on a sex drenched

fire escape walkway

black ladders pulled up from the street

like leather belts or some unseen photo reel

in those pictures I am dying in slow motion

I've got a notion the fireworks are all exploded

and I'm alone at the bar and the bar is abandoned 

deep in some night that never arrived

I pause to drink a flashing flask

of disappearing water

and write this on polished wood

that's going dull beneath the curling paper

Hills grow from the ripples of the earth

stems in a torn mouth

beckon to vivid clouds

for dark oceanic weeping and

pierced pillars with viaduct roots

radiating torn concert posters

myriad tongues of dirty mercy

the moss floors of flowing cool canals

sag to the curb and watch

cranes lifting elegant gutters

feel my poor fingers

on the length of your multiplying spine

sip the soda of eloquent corpses

distilled to the roil of their final songs

the river through the graveyard

is long with many turnings and

the glint of many fragrant metals

heat of somber lips where an eclipse

boils and runs

the sun drips radio error

two notes for a high-strung ton

this risen clump of rabbit bones

and reptilian dung

stretched wide with violin eyes

where the moon is a wire hanger

and a singing black hole is hung

Let the light frost of December

write its prayers into a higher ground,

may the empty heights

reflect the mirror of the heavens

clouds of blue and skies of yellow dust

the shine of an unshared park bench

rails of granite up against

the swollen pond's frozen beach

the reach of jagged paths

diamond eyed owls

in the hard fought woods

footprints of marble radiance

along the glowing green intertwined

of falling and rising trees

in sheaths of erotic moss

bright city's distant glaze

an ice bouquet of water torches

frayed rind of its light

on insistent gray

as the tracks to eternity fade

under the dome of days.