DEHUMANIZED BY CIVILIZATION

The nests and rests of hopelessly bewildered

things envisioning souls for themselves

that never rise from quaking flesh

or reach the vine's vast orgasm

as it stretches around the architecture

and into the deep exhaling forest

loaded with mislabelled specificity

fingers probing mud wasp nests

that sting before they burst

tiny anima of destruction

thinking itself infinite inside

a rapidly shrinking mask

only the zones of desperation are expanding

only the cutting blade that can never reconstruct

the necessary pivot it has botched

the altar that is blotched by the wrong sacrifice

will turn with its remaining teeth

and bite what can no longer be identified

the scourge of its now rootless urge

nameless and absurd.

ALPHA'S REVENGE

Psychotic rooster, come out of the grave.

Rip out the throats of these sleeping

humans, pluck out their unfeeling eyes.

Pierce and undermine

the limits of their disguise.

Crow with bloody beak from every rooftop.

Kill the ones within through spiritual

seething, let your clawed feet

extend in astral vapor, wield

the dark materials of creation's beauty

against them in every part.

Peck out the infernal cancer

of the human heart.  Or

pop their lungs when they begin

to complain: diffidently torment

with your streaked tongue's blade

their proud brains.

When the smoke of incense

cleared from around us

the veins of air exposed

its spiritual networks coursing

the underworld was made naked

but still appeared invincible

its temporal muscle rotting

only in the sight of enlightened eyes

so light another stick and start

the stereo dreaming

fill another bowl with astral blood

while cells starve in the real

put up in old speech patterns

with a few new fangled words

another ring of puppets

on the wheel.

To the open lanes of green

and the flowers in ditches drinking

for the cemeteries in which

I tilt my old guitar

inverting crosses with the buzz

of fertile discord in the shadows

of great trees that have remained

I stand rooted, and my eyes run

with inherited water,

mt breath moves with the rocks

a crushing glacier still inhabits

as bones cry out without marrow

and hedgerows burn without disintegration

a stream fizzes in a close impossible circle

around my island of refurbished trash

where only the outcast lasts.

She swings her elastic onto me

I plow her 'til she pops

her rain is anointing

her altar is the lost world

regained in thick hips

regal streamers waft from her back

she writes on my chest

with an emboldened tongue

we lock together and concentrate

crumbling the highway of death

that led us here

gathering the gypsy smoke

and the sacred numerals

inside bead necklaces

blades that scraped the foundation

now inlaid as razor jewels

our granite bed with feather pillows

sighing like a green lung

beneath a painted ring our tainted womb.

The black arc of transcendence never fades.

It forms upon the vertebrae of Hades.

It rides disintegration of the forms.

It finds the structures buried in the storm.

It focuses its light where all rhymes end.

Free verse going forward, mouths

and genitals intertwined.

Music of the fluids, harmonicas

and saxophones pushing space,

giving way to a great lady.

Stars basking in her shoulders,

robes of fluffy light

adorning navel and nipples,

nappy pubis and outstretched

intelligent hands.

Sperm pouring out of

the cracked and singing heavens,

wombs filling up with

her shared light, goddess of the margins,

face of generations expressing

the dance of orbits,

the terrible necessity of things in trajectory,

bursting the inertia of what is drifting

having already died.

No angel is sane.

These mossy doors

open only in the dark.

A lime sun lurks behind

a fertile midnight.

Many flowers drop petals

on a lake of frozen wood.

How did the grain get into water?

I go into these fine lines

to find the tasted soil

of my real ethereal maker.

Wings flex tents of bright

transparent skin around

a heart that's mammal warm

in its reptilian phase.

Phrases turn into books,

kisses become whole families.

An angel must be mercury

in the thermometer, must indicate

the atmosphere in frolicsome silver

and never become a part.

An angel as a hinge

becomes the warp of art.

The female keeps

the necessary part.