Wednesday, July 29, 2015

<><><><><>

In full flight from reason,
the robin-faced man stood down
from a menacing picnic table,
running the irradiant waffles
of his stamped and molded form
spiraling to mechanania
slowing the eye in flesh
that cannot veer from its tomato-dark,
its darker than melon insides
and shivering cliff-side decline, emergent
in showers of earth from a bearded sand-pit,
the shaking of laser light
from a banished canyon.

Molten with hurt feathers
he repositioned himself
with the dustpan eyes of a goat
next to the superior water.
He grew with inner life until
the crests of cities blew loose
their crawling vines of oxygen's prize
as if with him in mind
then fell shuddering to rifts of pine bark,
gardening in the remains of his stomach mind.

<><><><><>

I could see on my wings traces of the ice black-throated blue,
many cisterns and rain-water catchments
current events which dominate society myths of multiple imagery,
myofilaments that slide past laterally to enter a pit with the fair hair, hard blue eyes
with a roar of wings to altars and appurtences of worship
nonliving, structural part of bone to a bedside of the sick under a bright light

THE AGING YARD

Bombarded into ferns
on infant backs, by imaginary
planes, to a place opened by
music that will never close,
seeking the trunk and lurch
toward death of an erotic
sadness, that eats up
summerday afternoons
with its atmosphere of wronged
desire.
I am tribal, these kids quote from
                                        a bible--
     thrummed as a song into their
         tyres, sung as a hymn only
           to broken trees, frenzied
            neighborhoods, and death
          by gold's seduction
  as the mountains slip in stature
    and the doctrine of the
     ocean takes over.

HIGHWAY CHAINS

The whip comes with candy here.
My own country treats me like
a stranger on every corner.
From a diamond of unharmed
sky, between shackled trees
wires that multiply
trials from human being to human being
a frolicking goddess hand
in madness of forced error
cloud by cloud and landscape by landscape
may lash us out of our sugar forever.

My whip came in with a huge
bronzed clover on the headboard.
I drove it into the harbor for a song.
Nothing happens here
even with a tragedy to usher
it in: factory sealed windows
and doors, heads glued
to a grid work of merciless ceiling,
inflexible material astonished to
be alive among the melting.

Down comes the immaterial whip
and all things are astonished,
smitten by pain of classified murder
into care for life, temporarily.
Fuck all their death my dawn
trouble from the beak of the eye
planetary-wide derangement.

Monday, July 20, 2015

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She is the colors of both life and death.
She leaves beautiful stains on the air.
Coming on the whole world,
from a small booth adjacent to the world.
And it is a pinprick.
And she is a star lit by extremes
of resistance, unwavering
in the telescoped airless.  Newly lipped
and ready with ducts of extracting vengeance,
she has her way.  And shrugs about it
while the waxworks expresses its melting disapproval
all around us.  Stunned by her peril, in
twos and threes we lie down to please her
in robes that do not hide our faces,
with an advantage, with a horde of ready blood,
ready to murder at a twitch
for a lunch hour of pornography
to lie down in her torso
where love is punished into love
and the dream transcribed on her
hides in a falling subway
where her hair is a salad of light
in the perishing door her walk her way
her nameless odor with a name.

<><><><><>

Dandelions over the treeless hilltop
beats from the boombox, baseball cards
in the cardboard, swing set calling,
segmented lives in the partitioned
madness, rented cartoon panels,
downstairs from the hill where iguanas
are not playing, igloos do not mirage
from the steamy ground, for no winter cradles
to long you back again, the red-faced
men are dead you are not wanted
in their unpainted kitchens or the blouses of
the ones they kiss good night in bad weather.

<><><><><>

I play drum like I'm
caulking a tub, deliberately
rounding out the bottom.
There are no corners.

I load a washing machine
with boots then stand back
and watch.  My frame listens
to my fascinated eyes, and my
fascinated anus thrums to the
plink of the quarters dropping
to reduce the prevailing void,
to reveal form with a jackhammer
and then lie down.

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

<><><><><>

We are wandering hunters under the sky or under a tree or in its
silken tent, candelabra, and a mechanical clock rainfall, coursing into rivulets
huge alluvial wagonloads of silver and gold the fancy hunterfolk
that the rest of the planets have their dress and throne unapposed

Monday, July 13, 2015

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A flower fell on a lemon tree
and scattered the tree where its own blossoms broke for a
thin skeleton to fly out bright with flame and paint
from a dilapidated hammock flung up by the fall of thousands
crush of trees and wash of stone
crunch of bones and cram of the famished pushing fur
through a web of rounded androids, catalogued as perfect transformers
in their own mirrors, river
of transparencies disrupted rectal dream of light ocular
dissonance of wrecked recital
tantrum in a photo piano booth
that is ashiver with old suns that died without hearing
commands or verses and thrust the greenest mountains up out
of their sight to reclaim cities whose blueprint bears their spines
as melting trains drift track to track, the speechmaker of music
immortal is immortal, mechanical is animal derived
through the struggle of mind to destroy matter, to bend
chapters into the center and descend to be deliriously
abandoned.

<><><><><>

The vast territories usually cave, leaving small devastated pockets
here and there to remind us of what most of us have not been,
what is caved in is most lost, therefore what is gained there
is a preciousness unto totality, it will worship the noon sky
with six long razors for a head eyes ablink in its length of moving blade
stung by passing transparencies of harm evermoving in the genius of our ways
the biodome of silence in reams of error
horse of flame unbound to strike emptiness
converse to the air of mottled
death that surrounds the flame and now is revealed to be
blank.

<><><><><>

Six wounds to get me out of Friday night,
six wounds in the elephant of my sinking consciousness,
the cabin fixed to mother, the airport open with barrenness,
trees and trees and trees on the way to hell
and trees and trees and trees on the way back to hell
feed on the beauty green the spread of the impossible
notched cliffs miss the rift dim highway suds,
manufacture of broad daylight in cemetery motor
core of death's achievement, torn paper skull
bronze files piled to the rafters and leaning
a record of silence tilted scrapingly up against
the last wall, cymbal of ice contracting time-flutter
rasp of a dying drum set the pale of a cool room
microphone warrior hungry for dark air man trumpet animal care
an animal caring for twilight a staring midget
and the one who admits he is fucked and goes to his homeless weather
the peak in the head leafy frostily reminds sun
the lapping dead froth of the swamp's half-road
effect, dying for the wobble of a thousand Adam's apples
gulping to the tune of private madness spurned
on high to low down the spectacle and bring wreck to the six wounds
of what the pig meant to the unremembering elephant
in my soul in my soul in my soul

<><><><><>

I am the bread that is broken
and I am the hands that are breaking the bread
unshared, the shivering ground is the lightning
the huge hands of cities and the horror of DNA
pulled towards death in this dimension
the music of the body in a cage of fool's devices
dance of pricked landscapes on a shifting grain
shaving surfaces from stars and glint of planets
draped in planet cum returning to orbit
in a haze of what matter once considered an error,
one everlasting orifice universe-led on a train of tumbling carrots
logs of corrugated pepper lips measuring one another end to end,
crease to mouth-crease stung and leaking the stuff of life
chicken foot and chicken eye the presence of man
in frightened feathers cluck buckawk shivering and stepping off
from the white rain of commas
crater of unbound thought
reset to enema

<><><><><>

Breast and belly moss-covered ruby-crowned king
seeking water, identical villages instantaneous photography wrested from the chaos
gold around the fane or the vast space of valleys and lakes
they came with their beaks full of worms the male brought a dragon
one call, after a wet August, a single, sweet, clear, flutelike note,
as in a second spring, and as singing sounds again and again everywhere

Monday, July 06, 2015

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Finally leveled in the body, ready to bring
weight of armor glinting against death,
form of life in an unliving shell,
descending and breaking further,
to still greater decibels of great force
still stones in space, the myth of
never descending

<><><><><>

My life is hate on a stick
a smile stitched onto a telephone pole
radiating envy of death.

<><><><><>

I am a changed blonde frog,
crawfish eyes on a turkey burger
in lofty pine-lit air, bulbed surroundings
singing for the chair in which I will never sit
threshold upon threshold the fathomed world closes
my realm is a stark tongue stuck
on warbler's peak out of reach
of the jailman, the clerk snailman
and the phallic brontosaur, my favorite.