1968 )( 2026

Catcalls of riotous looters,

the infection of belief systems

crashing on an all too human wall,

walking around the deportation camps

with Allen Ginsberg

weeping for trapped humanity,

hungry for more than the slippery grasp

of nebulous eyes, hungry for more

than the slogans of profiteers,

hungry for a third American Revolution,

hungry for the thirst of evolving soul.

GREG IN REPOSE

I see you in your armchair,

all transactions pending in heaven,

praising the searing

colors of Bonnard

in all their domestic gentility,

carving a bathtub of rain

out of the air,

stuck to a cross

of swatches and switches.

You tap your ashes on a Mingus CD,

brush them carefully into the trash,

straighten your chest,

listen to Pithecanthropus Erectus.

I am the darkness within,

the voice of the denied.

I am the furious ecstasy

borne upwards by all your hatreds.

Mine is the blood on your hands,

that has learned to speak.

I am the cancer of civilization

given divine status.  I am the menu

splattered with infant shit

as you make your decision.

The wellspring of life has dried up.

The dead rule now: they seek only

to punish the living.

Inspiration is gone

from these streets of automation.

The empire of bright lights

has gone down to sackcloth and ashes.

I mourn in a moldy fireplace,

gnawing at my rags for dirty moisture.

The smell of shit fills the museums.

The gas of senseless rage

blows through the libraries.

My body is an instrument

tuned perfectly against itself.

I can't help.

Swollen in the rift

collecting rain from other skies

cups and limbs

long desks of ice

lamp lit by the canyon's edge

tendons climbing jagged ridges

souls equipped with claws of bone

tender circles closing clover homes.

I am the son of my fathers

the men who threw down your false god

you puritan shellfish

mating with electrical firecrackers

I walk across the bleak land crying

pen trying to find my hand

I sleep face down on the soft banks of a black river

broken by the rocks that know my name.

Wheels are unloading

strange vessels in my mind

strings are brushed by skirts

far outside solitude

the tendrils of a goddess are connected

the earth shrieks with joy

The kingdom sleeps in shit tonight.

The brightest flowers bloom.

I play the pristine music of the ages

in my rotted room.