My body's been absorbing bug fragments,

lumps of alcoholic psychosis,

ghosts of dead friends,

diseases of queens that I'm

honored to have as one of the last

fallen princes of the sexual revolution,

thank you ladies, spirit's

growing finally to tow

this physical fragment along...

I used to think of Allen Ginsberg,

now I think of Gary Snyder,

maybe I should study those

notebooks on nature.

But the two in one

could be this creature.

It needn't be either/or,

and Ginsberg assents.

We're all getting fucked

in our tents.

I see a duck chasing a butterfly.

I see many lessons in the grass.

The butterfly bounces

off the duck's round beak

and escapes.  She is dark,

beautifully dark as the duck is blonde,

with a bright check mark

on each wing.

The duck is briefly disappointed,

but she pecks at the earth

to find something new.

The butterfly finds the upper tier

of a fig tree's branches.

She does not brag, she does not

need to brag.

The birds beneath the bridge become

a whirlpool in a concrete well.

The sun is torn by vines

that never stop growing.

The machine sky is cracked

by fire and water.  Numbers drip

from a frenzied calculator.

The pressure of swollen galaxies

up against solidifying darkness.

Cemeteries celebrate outside

the shops and silent stadiums.

The forests growl and rumble

drinking rivers into rooted depths.

Torn cloth of the infinite

give up your dressing gown

spirit braids between worlds.

THREE SWAMPMAIDS

After a torrential rain

my favorite swampmaids

find me in my deep backyard

smoking near the steaming forest

correcting a political essay.

I pass the joint and slide

the notebook under a tent flap,

they tease my fine abstracted state

and pull my dick out of my pants

to resume their entertainment.

Swamptessa, Tychia and Bloodteeth

come to me for poetry,

the sport that men provide

and the milk that makes children.

We beat the long grasses down

to curving strands

in the twilight of my worldly errands.

LETTER TO ODYSSEUS

O father, what a mess

has accumulated in your absence.

Your house is filled with drunks

and thieves, all seeking to stain

my inheritance.  I grow stronger

in their midst, studying their

weak spots, which are many,

but still I cannot string your bow.

At night the women curse

the weakness of the men,

their cruelty and their decadence:

soon they come to curse all men.

But when the morning comes,

and tears have run dry, they cry

for the return of the king.

May my strength grow faster

than the chaos grows.

May my mother, may your queen,

hold the line of rancid would-be suitors

back as long as she can.  I will not

fight in haste: I will fight as planned.

But your return would topple

all these hollow men.

WESTERN LOVE

Avalanches lick the microphone

strings are touched by

an array of careful arteries

guiding muscle and bone along

ethereal blueprints

flags flap when souls arrive

the salute is fangs from a tongue

my dream warrior lies moaning

with a flute wet with oil

pumping between her legs

I electrocute my fingers

with a sparking bass

the symmetry of walls

collapses down

much longer corridors

the exits form one hollow in the sky

with the power of successful thieves

we walk stained and naked

through a screaming ballpark

in our fetal essence we were

made to dance like this, with a fatal kiss.

I fell from a cloud of gnats

into a golden rod patch.

My ephemeral flesh appears

to be pierced in many places.

Stalks extend toward

the curve of the sky

the blood on them is pink,

and not deep red, I must

be almost gone already...

It is good to see the tousled

golden brushes on these

hundred hollow threads

that send me home

to the heart that spawned

this bright magnetic glade

and its teeth alive in dawning shade.