.....

My friend could shake the earth
his life was a raging tribute


his throne of drums, his bellow through the wires
his infrequent collisions with the sky


age hit him hard, he was a wanderer
in bright places he fell, burned up by common things


we could see him flailing with cumulus
when all was falsely intact


his movement printed earth with arrows
to all that strives burning

.....

It was wafting, wafting, when the world caught up with it
it was a new chemical, from the depths of a great forest

lavas gone still on the face of a world, stunned love, stems in the belly
studying its hardship into song
for the angle of a comet
coming on a train of mineral fire
spatial grace in descent

fire of an earth come to dance cliff-faces
in the labyrinth of kept sound

.....

Weather of the growing strains of ghostly music and
at the muzzle end of an ancient event for a square root;
of the windlass, which raises winding a cord


these too are cut away for his narrow house at his ease in white sneakers,
in the growth ring while a mirror set limitations--his bulging, liquid
sepulchral laughter wafting across the woodwork behind his head


where the basking shark rose from the earth in the face of the sun god
such as the acorn worm for infinity; kicking which
man-beast is known loudly squalling with each of its many parts
as colors stream out of bags across grass or concrete
lenses set slightly apart

.....

The girl leave a broad white blur long before the coal
the prism prepared his iron with a beam of light


millions of years going into the air
a ball of camphor hits the mountain


only models how the socket, the switch, the cord are put to courtship ritual
gaudy with plumes that quiver when they display stored knowledge
relishing eggs and films that end on a burning door


lovers watch erotic futures through a bloodstream of atomic and spatial time
the apes clustered by the barrier of cold intermingling with alien forces


ooze that has rained beyond the continental margins  like climbing vine


the earth, an hourglass, a pulse count, the thickness of

.....

I come to you disheveled from a feverish life,
guardrails in my collarbones
barely holding my blood together
birches and pines rising on each side,
the thrum of a loading truck in the cage of my groins

I no longer want to see the masks of profit
the intoxications of slow death
drizzling down the sides of great architecture
or the burden of humanity carried by the social life of cancer;
I want instead the mineral hearts, the marrow's faint speech
as bodies give voice to one another
to pendulum centers of gravity

the sobbing that has no journalism
and the jeremiads of the thwarted
that crown our kingdomless ascent,
and a small dark woman who takes my bruised mouth,
coiled vine of my lips to the faint arc
of her fruitful belly, inked with the slogans of necessity
road pale as a knife's wink
through the cunt of the penetrant hills

.....

The black gold floating in the green heart and great scarring
views of the ruins by kite to locate a meal in the mud under the mouth


abyss--vast plains interrupted only a few men in bathyscaphs
this tiny nucleus of artisans began to appear on land


to gain the heights in solitude and
freedom of the flesh, of the womb, of the grave

.....

I want to go back to a place of sadness and drink the water there
Until I am full and clean with it
To let my childless future, my childless friends sing along
The path flickering through days what remains of my secretive spirit
Of any remnants not healed into gold
To december the heated orchestra into deep sleep
And lucid there, eyelashes frosted looking to an ocean
Of memory's ash, so many in the wastes of the earth
To be kissed awake by madness
Until all the caged sing the spotted sun into radio errors
And the anima speaks dance in woman and man
And in all the translations between them
And the sparks lie down to be anointed by ice
In the depth of their territory
With the fragrance of a monk's incensed cave speaking to multitude
And the sodium insistence of the moon
And the few, hurt boundless who must live in this time of dying
With the dome of their present cracked by celestial collapse
Who bring the fire of their happiness to an invisible altar
And cannot sleep to move with this world of tongues

Much fingered terrestrial banality

As he wrapped with canvas strips and glue rejects the antithesis
he has a cosmic sex-brain optimism
its leaves peeling off one by one lamp with his pulse
atoms jump like the flanks of the raging mare between his blast arcs

two light rays would be faraway stars
one kind of time machine is reborn from its own big bang
its own ultimate clock, to produce, fight, create in the phalanx of dying meanings

.....

A maker of bright things, with dimming vision,
crashed through the paper-mache of my self-wall,
and the sidewalks rippled like mirage
with the spell of her genius had entered nature,
and today the beaded vampires who devour plastic and not flesh
to push back curtains threaded by cold
and burst innocent lava of thin floss
will rise around me
finding her needles open
grey marbles bubbling from a crack in the head
shining inverted sky for its imperfect instruments

.....

Light's machinery has worn the beam thin;
substanceless the time passed,
the wire so far from the source still humming
in snowy flesh, no buds in the air
the first stirring beyond patterned season
not yet arrived, a rustle
from the uncrossed mountain
picking at the bells in the ears
past memory of muffled birth, the tone rung
in a patch of sound over the earth
the wide road made white sunlit
laid out like a parameter of gladness
what the light is eating
what space is sending out of time

And so, sufferers, I am cooking a potato lunch nowhere,
the space-tunnel opens at my back
and I am taking you all with me in a blaze of
nothingness, then out the other side to teach
vaporous beings to walk and live, an orphan chief,
white bone face looking outward over
a parking lot, and the dull stars chafed by his dissatisfaction