Death of their era through hatch or open eaves
bone rasps and the staccato clatter sporting wings of vivid bug repellent
to backstrap looms, one end newborn, the fledgling house must be fed
blood spattered on incense is set against villains of weather and wildlife
to curl into the blue heavens, beckoning the rich green of new life
smoke-blackened color-washed village of faith the cycle of sustaining corn
royal artist-scribe setting about his sacred uproar
the low lament of the gods and their cosmic spiderweb
throb of a great wooden drum and passports by flashlight gaps in the rusted-out floor
severed heads, torn fingernails, land is sad and faded
the vanquished are dragged by their hair from the chaos in the female realm

Along the plazas and avenues
there were clusters of closely placed upright poles

conical types and a few low,
curving antipatterns that convey his eyes,
almost as if he's waiting for a face

in the bright falling curls caribou land's brave settlers
necropolis of a golden empire
their rituals in the sunken court disappeared from history

I see myself old as fuck, a twig
wrung dry by a young man's game.
Smelled in a corridor of life's wishes,
thought through the labyrinth of implanted hearts,
brought on an illegal feeling through glass walls
to the thickly rooted, thinly vaunted
superstructure of human animal
feeling, the cube of lungs building
on mid-air.

Dry as a baby, pawing the current
for rumors of hot life and super-heated life.
The grief of the trees is the grief of my bones.
The grief of the elves is the grief of the giants.
The grief of myth is a fist, and the grief of DNA
is a pang in the galaxy's work of ribs.
All things will be seen through, laser-lit
because they cannot remain flush.
The thrush tugs with beak at a wing-pit
in its staircase of feathers.
The spring of tigers will not come.
But one will come, and one, and one,
and one.

Making smooth silvery lines on the red to Nike and lance mountain
sliding his tail at the apex
as both flashy dandy and sober think     van Gogh as a Buddhist monk
gilded I waived all my rights and revered by the plain people above sea level
a waterfront with ships from whitewood furniture, the shelves of glorious copper dome
velvet on a gray satin ground profusely decorated as Christ, Rembrandt, a bohemian outcast
an obedient, faceless servant of a dogmatic establishment class bourgeois to
                                                                  core self--or, as we would say today, narcissistic

                                     articulating a sense

I will suck vegetables of the earth
and rain terror from the strength of my bowels.
On the opulent interiors of the gilded age
I will make my song to the electricity of unstoppable worms.
And the gilt frame will come alive
with the totality of my fuck-error.
A highway of sadness out of the bowed trees
stronger than the blown reeds of the river stream

PESKEOMSKUT POEM

I hate the voices of these bitches.
The dope's shroud moving with him, as he talks.
The cat's vain back
as she struts her limited gambit, back and forth.
And every motherfucker eating his own shit,
tell him to hate this place too, on his own terms.
The beauty of earth, suck on it.

The beauty of the rotted blood, suck on it.
And I will proclaim and sing the true name of this land
until the sky swells to meet this place
and the wrath of blood desecrated runs
with all its names alive in the corridors of power.

And if anyone should disrespect,
even in the silence of their mind,
the true name and charter of this place,
my poet's curse will follow them into dark hallways
where their family photos warp with secret error
and dark hairs spill out of their nostrils
like the beards of the living numb.

Drained canals glint of reserved water
below tadpole and minnows' plain
shelved up on rifted soil
drying banks offer up the sun on surprised shoots,
weeds of flower sodomize the moon's reflection
in the bent dim of afternoon.

Not only from the waffle iron sky
but also from the leaks there, in the stern lining;
sun-cracks that speak to the eyes through a shattered terrace:
a wrecked place with pastels to sip toffee,
see brawn whistle and lie down.