On a ledge full of flowers

looking over little kingdoms drowning

brain pans filled with candy

rails that slither for haunted towns

cracked lots sighing under folded wings.

If I went fetal on this rock

and excreted my eyes

still the presence of natural channels

would lead me home to outer space

and seal this manuscript in gathered guts

beneath glistening lacquer.

Chariots of wheat are

piled high with sleeping bodies.

Clouds of steel are gathered

on harsh electronic poles.

The stumps of fallen trees are waiting

the soil beneath the blooming leaves is waiting

doors in stone slide open

pouring lights from naked ballrooms

the skin's transparent tresses

waterfalls of blonde on bones.

ON THE LEAVES

Bend down and kiss the Earth, wench:

spread your genitals for me

and let me watch them glisten.

Let me fuck you in the rain

and stay close and deep inside,

bathing my whole seed-shoot

in your juices.

We can laugh on the leaves

and kiss afterward.  We can

roll around in them

and let them stick to our skin,

we can let leaves

be our clothing for a day.

ROSA

Diamond mind

how I wish I could

find you in your epic dreams

and resurrect you

take you to a place

of luminous cool

and heal your wounds

with light.

BIOLOGICAL TRASH WITH SOUL

Your fecal gods, your fecal lovers,

are coming to tear you up

and attach your fragments

to an endlessly crawling vine.

You will be dispersed

in conscious pieces,

watched by hateful, luminous eyes

that never stop staring

in fascinated disgust

at the mottled pieces of your hubris,

which was the only form

you chose to inhabit, so that now

this wreckage of your form shows

what it was actually worth: little chunks

of cosmically imprisoned meat

carried far by overwhelming forces.

NO SORROW

The angel of death

is the only one left.

Humanity is foul

inside and out.

They wander in the paths

of their worst fathers,

who abandoned them,

and still they follow

like the shades of anti-life

they really are.

Their footsteps kill.  And I

can only walk away from them

so far.  It's never far enough.

I won't worship this race.

I know my hideousness too well

to think I could do fundamentally better.

We think we pop the latch,

but we attach the fetters.

ALPHA THE ROOSTER

Keeper of the Coop

Little feather footed warrior,

little speck of heated red,

your plumage is bright again,

face down in your dish

on a nest of wood chips.

That raccoon that almost

tore your head off

left your beak battered

and your tongue swollen.

Food could barely catch your smell,

much less your taste.

You survived for a week

on the water that I used

to bathe your wounds

plus whatever I could pour

down your throat.

And you were thirsty.

One day you choked

and I turned you upside down,

pouring the water out of your little body.

You fluffed your neck feathers

and emitted two little croaks.

I tried to feed you figs,

I peeled them first,

I brought you a dish of fish

crushed into paste.  But by then

all that was left of you

was will and water.

So that in the end, in the morning

when your body was rigid with death,

there were few flies and no feces.

You were purified, clean,

ready for deep, rich sleep in the earth

where you defended your coop.

Oh my brave little bantam,

these forests will remember your fury

and your sterling cry.