Tribes in separate cages

all sharing the fate of wanderers

whose journey is never done.

They blow up their own homes.

They smash their toys

into cubes of plastic death.

A little light escapes their grip

and they chase it frantically.

It hovers over the hills

and winks like a laughing god.

TO AMERICA

You are the Beast,

hatred of life in form.

Your tentacles

are electronic death.

You rape all your children.

You make life an obscene cartoon

for discarded adults.

Your robots fuck paint cans.

You would castrate the sun.

You will melt the moon

into an energy drink.

Inhuman entity, may you choke

on the poison you feed us.

May it swell your cancerous heart,

may it burst your lungs

like an explosion of shit.

May you suffocate on the filth

inside your own blood.

I'm leaving purple footprints

on the cemetery walls

nailing letters to the totem poles

aloft in pink chains

serving landscape with the blessing

of acidic piss

peacock parrot

learning how to miss.

Fill the gunboat with painted females

and let's go.  Spray avenues

with sparks of raw confetti

as we roll through tar

down into the water.

The surf rides under time

our shrieking bitches make the signs

of many mutating Edens.

We fired the cartoon police

and spread the leeches on concrete

for suns to bathe the earth

now this one's gone.

Pull up the anchor's teeth

and dance with slime

sex drowned within

the oil of many worlds

this one's not mine.

THE SIGNAL MOUNTAIN SEED TAPES

The valley folds over a prisoner

makes him a treasured cave

moss moistens the jewels

with glowing green surroundings

painted hunters drink from horns

of stored and sacred water

spiced with all the ruins of our time.

The skull is scoured clean by wine

prepared for scrolls divine

gleaming whitely to the black expanse

of infinite celestial ass.

VIGNETTE

I listen to Rakim, God's voice

verbatim.  He fills my zen

with the mercy waiting.

I turn the embers

and refracture shelves of time,

feel the earth becoming my goddess,

filling my orbs with soil.

I turn green tea red

in rain revealed by sunlight.

Diego Rivera eats a dark watermelon

on my doorstep, wedge by wedge,

grins at my plans for revolution.

"I am", he says, "something

of an anarchist."

We talk about women.

Their fits, their delights,

their smells, the ways

of all their passages.

Their primacy, their power.

Our lives always linked

with their shadows,

our virtue spoiled by hunger

but the beauty of our greed,

and how they loved it

when it was theirs alone.

"We couldn't be kept.  Street dogs,

not house dogs.  Let's go and visit

my friend Mike Tyson."

May the data pools be smelted

by the human spirit burning

in the shackles of this handmade hell

let the cuckoos of an

endless morning dwell.