<><><><><>

Mad mudslinger father of the finger whose mud and rubble walls are seldom painted
lamb coat which was blood-stained for each invited soul
miniature armor specially made for him, their painted doors and their sacred diamond
hold no more meaning than the name
and painted green iguana saints ride shotgun on the mud flaps
to their sanctuaries.

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The granite woman and the putty man stood over him with his legs apart with an axe
New Orleans was crushed and broken by those tell-tale traces
our shuddering limo in the ear of the dead one
the bones in a clean white cloth with red soil
banana leviathan punches on the radio to paint flowers on the tombs
the power of the black hand will paint the sacred cities back to life
the pebbled banks, the brilliant bolts await the pyramid; the mother of blue water

<><><><><>

Endless day, on which I mostly
looked for my frightened cat.
In stairwell deep closets of gauze stacks,
with a small blue cigarette lighter,
between work shifts
while in a high-ceilinged room
happy people ate my family.

<><><><><>

Love with fierce abandon within the spired cities and domed pumping stations
disarmed and disrobed written in golden sword and scales
forced to live by its foreign wits in nautical clocks
rotting meat which nowhere touches the planet, entirely independent of preexisting life.

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Tribes drop from the sky fragments of darkness measured correctly

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Curbstone cum filled gnatcatcher
slate and copybook under his pillow, crowned and anointed
a pair of women's panties and holy mother, father
the use of a computerized charting system reflects the nursing process
to space, and the radioactivity inside any world
branch to branch of a sycamore on six giant mushrooms that form a kitten
her black lace garters of events; the souls with prayers and new paint
hammock and gray-green henequen before the flowers crack
like the creatures from the bitter water

<><><><><>

In the dictionary of dead names
they perished your whole alphabet
in the library of silence they ate your heartbreak
and benefited from it greatly
they learned and learned your beautiful errors
admired the tenor of your disobedience
got real complicated with your insides
daffodil grenades for skull eyes
poise of shoulders bare under torn
leaves for rain to slip through in watery shards
and smack my secret beaver in the torso,
where I vomit hunger
and in blood of confession
furnish my incomplete body

<><><><><>

The wounds of soldiers are imprinted
on me.  I am not like them.
I must stay behind to take
advice from women, then plot
with twitching hands a clear head
to transport parks that peak in the eyes
past the police, to soar without breaking
and without leaving the ground
sparkle, without winking out
to be climbed in splendor for ages
as the jeweled owls and the breasts and eyes of women
shimmer on its surface and feed
the hands of the climber
while telephone elephant ears
swivel from carts at the top
painted and wobbling in track magnetism
roadfish anointed to bellow soundless
roadfish anointed on this roof to point back to the ocean
roadfish who is a non-wanderer
because the whole world keeps wandering through him
staked to the wall, no longer gasping
roadfish, of plastic eyes, is still
roadfish of your intestinal territory
king of the hour of your lips
when you speak through his unrecruited soul.

<><><><><>

Fallen into all the backbone of color
to fly on wavelengths that crash
into satellite disc walls
hollowed out by the sun to kiss
with burnt lips the tabernacle pussy
the crux of furtive being
and the wings of the butterfly
that eat at the eyes.

<><><><><>

Fogged hour that I cannot find
my way back to.
Schism in my skin, to be resolved
mostly without me.
Hour of restlessness that could not
be resolved, yet quelled itself
in darkness.
Days of fury boiled down
to a soup of bones.

<><><><><>

Scientific codes, sports and game rituals and wavy lines, beetles,
bumblebees and birds--a wide variety of mechanical artifacts
to leave the planet and escape death as a fantastic dash to the handcart boy
perched in the back on deckchairs used for carrying pigs

The ash will become fuel, the sun will be triggered forever
a winning streak in a casino there a frenzied pulling of strings
an old rusty green infinite hierarchy of universes
nested within one another with light that has circumnavigated

<><><><><>

From the forepaw of the mother
the frightened end of the father
daisies dragging the day up
through a mound of sewage
sky circles that shrink planetariums
and sharks gasping away from water
a cuboid soul, six eyes in place of each one
seeing little more

From the light that burdens
the neighborhood with its own falsity
cracks houseboards lengthwise
crosses from path to path
touching hives and thickets of mad minds
devising and escaping fangs
that span galaxies with their violence
a household of murder students
blossoming with many bright accessories that speak
more delicately than the human

<><><><><>

Let the hate wash over you, I say to myself,
let it make you a stronger man.
For the choir has melted,
the preacher's face turned to a dull ham
and the crowd dead: all are turned
to the dying of dying things.

It falls dynamite rainbow-like
through a long glass chimney
to blow through undergrounds and peaks
I feel the hairpiece of eternity
refused fall off my head

perishing, perishing body,
unamused by illusion, slyly
fucking a hole in the fabric of the hidden air.
Eternity's terrorist radio shredding all that is fertile,
the land dark for ages
and the emergent poets with axes,
hacking all their fellow humans to pieces for freedom
breathing their essence like season tickets.

I deal with the world like a man reacting to a tragedy.
I myself am a tragedy in my skin and know it.
Because I have nothing to hide of myself, beware,
I have nothing to hide of you whatsoever.
I take the mind from your preciousness
and I set it on fire.
Let you bathe in the fury of your own putrescence.
His genitals cropped, his muscles bulging:
I watch this man in his own hall of hand-mirrors,
encountering all, sympathizing with all,
turning away none.

<><><><><>

     In the death cell, by waters insisted
its leather hand guard worn and frayed from this dull earth
                  the abandoned oar the lined face of the prophet
       white plumes and streaks in a glide path the sacred resin called copal
                out of the roof garden to railroad and coke magnate
                  a virile almost animal type buried by the ejecta


                        a cage for his sparrows and canaries which he called a comet

<><><><><>

The abyss opens into a gel of grey subterranean light.
The other abysses melt a crust accordingly.
The universe is flatscreen, voluminous, lost.
The times had in the universe are unsalvageable.
Celebrations implode unquenched
fire crawls floor after floor
all are both thirsty and dead.
Tables go crooked with weight what's fed to them
mouths are universe-large coughing and eating all
shrunk of stars language bent and mangled throughout the body.

<><><><><>

I can alter time with my fist.
I was the first used car salesman.
I masturbated first the gorilla and then the alligator.
I fire porcelain jelly on all the inhabitants.
The excitement of nerves over a wide landscape.
The screens distended with awful laughter.
A red drop in the dark credits
a standing army of praying mantises
engine over the hilltop
staring multifaceted glaring
the turbulence of things imprisoned
leering to fury out, fracture solved
with heart of laughter paradox vagina.
The stack of dead mules with a live bronze wig.
A parable made of sauce.
Fucked status.  An anchovy imprinted with
boot-heel lines at the foot of a war monument, all
crying its whole name in daggers.

<><><><><>

Violet, is a part of the spectrum
on the stone rim of the spring trough
through the air of another world to the peak of a shingled roof
no swamps, no oil
filth revolving before my eyes
through the thin frame walls of the houses sun slanted down into the shadows
tubercled underflesh was stained rust
the tattered remains of the baitfish a galaxy of ancient cities
the nest like a vending machine of dash lights
on walls the dark beyond the red in books is dropping
revolt and aesthetic research in a profane world of sacred ritual.

<><><><><>

Cowhands speak dubbed enjoy American
semiliterate monks and boy ivory carvers
defile between high mountains their heavy armor
heat-stressed mothers like antennas taking in wisdom on white paper
on the altar wall tender, her braided hair born with a daredevil
gazes at her book of divided lands troughs, skinny, long-legged lambs
she is a goddess--purpose and stature and a dry leaf, painted
her face is round, her summer neighbor on the threshold of her open
two slim chimneys above two million light-years on a colonnaded terrace

MOTHERSONG

My son has burned up in the fire of himself.
He no longer responds to consciousness,
he closes himself off where he is needed.
All life is a mystery to him.
He is duct-taped, dancer, strange.


Coming from the agony of a city grid work's imprinted wounds
flickers and twitches to curve, to wing with me
the improbable beak, stubbornness of centuries
in the one breakable spine
bring me to hearth of light


O father mother me.

<><><><><>

Maybe she's all the colors I can't see.
Or maybe she's the cradle, watching me.
A bushel of time time could not use, unraveling.
Her form's curves portrayed in my navel.
Stormed trees cut off from the earth.
Hinter people neighing in parcels.
A drubleck miracle'd the face of the door,
the knock without a question.
A breathing that goes on after bodies.
That of expansion, the crotch of all mythology.
I begged your prophets to fuck with me.
I tore my rags of perfection and my nakedness
refused to sneer with pleasure at the street.
My clasp unbuckled many treehouses.
I hid among those whose limbs had never been fitted
for the ongoing machine-echo of death.
And we flowered inward deeply to destroy
some part of ourselves, but the weaponry of those tendrils
became roots, that held strangely fast.
Now world-particle, fire of the arc's
scythe compassion.