<><><><><>

     In the death cell, by waters insisted
its leather hand guard worn and frayed from this dull earth
                  the abandoned oar the lined face of the prophet
       white plumes and streaks in a glide path the sacred resin called copal
                out of the roof garden to railroad and coke magnate
                  a virile almost animal type buried by the ejecta


                        a cage for his sparrows and canaries which he called a comet

<><><><><>

The abyss opens into a gel of grey subterranean light.
The other abysses melt a crust accordingly.
The universe is flatscreen, voluminous, lost.
The times had in the universe are unsalvageable.
Celebrations implode unquenched
fire crawls floor after floor
all are both thirsty and dead.
Tables go crooked with weight what's fed to them
mouths are universe-large coughing and eating all
shrunk of stars language bent and mangled throughout the body.

<><><><><>

I can alter time with my fist.
I was the first used car salesman.
I masturbated first the gorilla and then the alligator.
I fire porcelain jelly on all the inhabitants.
The excitement of nerves over a wide landscape.
The screens distended with awful laughter.
A red drop in the dark credits
a standing army of praying mantises
engine over the hilltop
staring multifaceted glaring
the turbulence of things imprisoned
leering to fury out, fracture solved
with heart of laughter paradox vagina.
The stack of dead mules with a live bronze wig.
A parable made of sauce.
Fucked status.  An anchovy imprinted with
boot-heel lines at the foot of a war monument, all
crying its whole name in daggers.

<><><><><>

Violet, is a part of the spectrum
on the stone rim of the spring trough
through the air of another world to the peak of a shingled roof
no swamps, no oil
filth revolving before my eyes
through the thin frame walls of the houses sun slanted down into the shadows
tubercled underflesh was stained rust
the tattered remains of the baitfish a galaxy of ancient cities
the nest like a vending machine of dash lights
on walls the dark beyond the red in books is dropping
revolt and aesthetic research in a profane world of sacred ritual.

<><><><><>

Cowhands speak dubbed enjoy American
semiliterate monks and boy ivory carvers
defile between high mountains their heavy armor
heat-stressed mothers like antennas taking in wisdom on white paper
on the altar wall tender, her braided hair born with a daredevil
gazes at her book of divided lands troughs, skinny, long-legged lambs
she is a goddess--purpose and stature and a dry leaf, painted
her face is round, her summer neighbor on the threshold of her open
two slim chimneys above two million light-years on a colonnaded terrace

MOTHERSONG

My son has burned up in the fire of himself.
He no longer responds to consciousness,
he closes himself off where he is needed.
All life is a mystery to him.
He is duct-taped, dancer, strange.


Coming from the agony of a city grid work's imprinted wounds
flickers and twitches to curve, to wing with me
the improbable beak, stubbornness of centuries
in the one breakable spine
bring me to hearth of light


O father mother me.

<><><><><>

Maybe she's all the colors I can't see.
Or maybe she's the cradle, watching me.
A bushel of time time could not use, unraveling.
Her form's curves portrayed in my navel.
Stormed trees cut off from the earth.
Hinter people neighing in parcels.
A drubleck miracle'd the face of the door,
the knock without a question.
A breathing that goes on after bodies.
That of expansion, the crotch of all mythology.
I begged your prophets to fuck with me.
I tore my rags of perfection and my nakedness
refused to sneer with pleasure at the street.
My clasp unbuckled many treehouses.
I hid among those whose limbs had never been fitted
for the ongoing machine-echo of death.
And we flowered inward deeply to destroy
some part of ourselves, but the weaponry of those tendrils
became roots, that held strangely fast.
Now world-particle, fire of the arc's
scythe compassion.

<><><><><>

            Hate is eating me: puffing up
                  under my eyes,
                    draining my legs, winding a cord tight
                                             to my lips, making me
                                                curse the sun.
   
           Hate struck my life off from
               love, made my life strong,
                       set my path apart; now
                         it hollows me out to where
                           I must eject it.


         Hatred makes the blankets in the sky go all wobbly.
             

<><><><><>

After this bat bites an animal
coffins into bank offices female prophets knots of gas and dust
then the polar sun in swirls of white, blue, gold
silver cups, silks, ivory softly around her body
two magnificent single orbs of moonglow deep in the cave systems
ceremonial apartment towers that mark the culture
her mouth is hoofed stock and timber street people
old men sell gum flood control, and electric power
blood intimidated by armed thug backbone of the frontier
the rim of her figure of calmness and swans
saw to the stocking of his fish ponds like links in a chain
to meet the needs of a modern society and the planets do not emit light
silent behind barred windows and locked like hunted foxes
ding-dong daddy whose probing arm stretches round the whole world
with trembling hands

<><><><><>

I'm a drum child driven wild, scold of the barrier.
I will jam the stars down your throat.
Only you and I will be audible
in the airlocked kingdom.
Map redrawn with colored sand
cycle of flesh disrupted by dreaming
the psychic life of ants made charming with sophistication,
with looks, lifeless.
Daffodils out of punctured concrete.
As was spraypainted: to break your world for our growth
a lamb's ear on the tear of a flag
salted with the disintegration of an entire planet.
Bus stations correspond with jello and tactile clothing
slots of transport are cleft and decorative with human bones.

<><><><><>

Blood from bees, bees' breathing tubes
alleyways in the work of bodies
kingdoms born from a twitch
in the cessation of lunar influence
twinkle of infinite puddle way
the trickle of what falls, at the end
to an eye, to a vast set of teeth
bullets lifted him threw out his arms sent him crashing made him a beauty

<><><><><>

Stained by needless conflict
lowered into the grave
          by one's own manufacture
      primed and shining to elsewhere
           one's core noxious, uninvented


One out of many soars, plummets
            and dangles
             abyssingly
 with that leer on its mouth,
     becomes a he, becomes myself
  wasting time in flesh.


  Orbs of rioting color
         new worlds eat the air
                        like fuck.


   Chasms of midair erupt
        with shivers of kept light,
             shat light, bright light
                and bought light.

<><><><><>

Periphery magnets fizz force on the air
floppy hats and gone costumes burned on plateau
rectangular clouds and triangle park trees
self-pruning self-circumcising entities who chew peanut butter
needle-thief of scorched medical midnights
hiding from the flash of pine sap
oozing in the portrait gallery where kids cry monster to each other in happiness
and elders go sour like vinegar flower
some sour in their chairs and some desk ward on plastic money errands
see not the entwined sky-lips, their darkened teeth

THE ACID BATH FAT MAN DOME SCANDAL

Clear the fact that he roared found the pools she was his goddess with three bullets in him;
green and the publicity of a divorce action which caused the sloughing off of shards as blowing sand,
white early morning scattered at the base blood tinged bright or dark red
skin test tenacious with obtaining a history or stretchers exiting an elevator
air hunger the cabin door service for petty thieving fremitus, thrills, heaves

<><><><><>

Streets damp with the energy of a gone sky
imprinted with a chant of feet
guarded by sharp singing copper
barbed to tumble an old music chart
winging and flanging its punctured drum heads
creature built up by a rain of ceiling wires
cutting itself down to wax stalactite
standing with grin of charcoal
in the sweetheart wreath's valentine
dead center of the death squad, pulsing with gravity

THE DESTRUCTION OF THIS HEAVEN

The legend of the dog, the headless woman, a sex-crazed monster
         the seven bowl judgements contrived, the mechanical deodorant powders
                  scribble the name when an angel is used for stool pigeon
                     and the plow boy whose sister died eight miles above upper-level tropical winds
                       gloves which she had strangled and savagely mutilated
                            blithe bulletproof nightclubs of the old regime
                               be talking very sweetly to her views the lips from end to end
        he guided her on to an electric pink, moist, symmetrical, and smooth discharge

<><><><><>

I'm a fat blood hamster
hiding in the night
blonde bloodstain anus and faceless
inhabiting wretchedness under the ferns
impersonating myself fellating the roots of the goddess tree
to be smitten through by immaculate media nature
a thousand times before breakfast
which is dreamed in glass clouds
nudged mailbox side in the dreaming mirror flag
from which to derive thy blindness
moving to the trunk of the tree
I smile as much as wither
its grace graceless as winter
is how she moves the technology of summer
into high and idle drives
where my skull waits to be filled with small beds

<><><><><>

Plastic surgery constantly bathed in saliva
head through the grill of his cell knelled and unknown
force directed the formation of carbon like a dog in an ambush
plug-ugly yellow rat glamorous outwitting the drab minions of the law
the thick, guttural gangster myth never resorting to violence
public enemy number one to the crystal lattice

<><><><><>

I am both weak and strong.
I can throw the elephant over a wall,
and I always forget.


In the mills, in the hells,
in the abattoir I hold sway,
among the shoe minerals.


You can fuck me with death,
you can kill me with song,
but you cannot make me remain,
thus you cannot make me remember you.


The hand's map is written in a forest tangle.
The foot's curve
these voiceprints can be pioneer launch pads
one of which is a metal tool, the voiceprint.