The key unlocked from the wood,
courts of sand and cig-stamped pottery,
inkwells near the drowned pages
clicking with frogs and bird limbs.

Carts of soaped cords, hallways
so long and bare they dissolve context,
and this America, and that America,
and the next, and the last.

Pine bristles lining the doorway's light,
waterslides tagged to concrete valleys,
empty rocking chairs on bush-grown basketball courts,
hands scarred from the rusting rim
inhabiting a sainthood of cruel filth
helmet tomahawk'd in a puddle
melted aircraft saddled on a bronze horse
clear gloved hands and penny eyes
vacuum soul for days.

Wand in wand
restlessly parading these pilloried streets,
hands on all doorknobs,
something jazzy, with flavor,
that got into an unpainted room
whirling with a can and a brush,
flat hands, poking tongue,
rebuked knuckles
stone flinting eye,
tubs of water
numbered like stars.

THRUSH CORE

Up on the wooden hilt
touching the sky's tin borders
with long antennae,
wilting toward the powerful chest
of the onlooker.

Pushed on a hurricane bed
over oceans of light
the buried blade deep in magenta caves
floors puffing dust plumes
eyes lined with gilt tape
fingers growing longer and longer
over the arms of the throne
breeding lightning bolts
for the walks of the onlooker.

Sight's paste chinning from the throats
of the onlooker who joins the flesh
the power of throttled cycles in churning leaves
he machine waves from a drifting frame.

One can only wait for him in rapid motion
the fullness of rhythm selfishly dancing,
to fall back on his frame is a rain of spikes.
He punishes a king with his mind.

Spikes of bone
stapled to a cliff's wound
schools smashed in a closing canyon
bleeding retrace the mouth
of the rock face,
climb long oars
on the paths light swept wide,
for the dawning teeth
trickling silt of brain
to the pile of tongues bitten off
belt rotating above gassy concrete,
figure eights painting eyes
vast as the cemetary's claw.

Iced off in my big chair.
Goddesses dancing in the street.
Sliced wool tumbling down a blue cape.
Feet banded together with rubber.
Their clothes coming off like cotton belts.
My necktie holding the tongue of my stabbed throat.
Closets bursting with wheat in swelling plastic.
Bitches sitting in hampers with crossed legs
tapped by the sky's milk.
Thick lenses that eat magnetic waves,
long hallways of tarp rustling toward the exit.

Nomads do not live an easy life.

Explorer found half-naked topped by hipped, shingled roofs
out of the sun's orange tint the mainlock door to the soil of a dead world
the entry of energy into the lobes that was blocked, predators and meat animals: my other self
Frey was the god of darkness and showers
and Freya light

Tresses of notville
who never ate the salad
sat in a room with high glass
thick ounces and a bounced computer
complaining her headgear
monocle on a screen
that blinks time through water
basement doors breaking
in the tug of webs
a projector crank
on the fangs of the old animal
a tank that won't blurt
while it drinks lead and butter
a bridge to the afterworld
paved in golden dirt.

The landscape where I frolicked is fading
into stone walls and fern hair
long blueberry ditches and stinkbug leaves
smarting on the buds of a tongue
long crooked waters that peek back
through the blade of a skate flash
or the rim of time transported sunglasses
droplets dangling at the whited-out bottom
of an inching frame.

Bodies dappled with rain bank
clashing in sunlight under the tin moon
mushroom ears and hair
stacked lenses of big screen eyes
and I'll be the janitor last to leave
when the lights and their voices go out
meanwhile the armchairs fight
in the streets where I used to chase females
drunk as paint, quite pleased
with the options available, and fuck
all you important people,
I'll stand over your graves while you jack off,
in a chorus of sickened flesh
pledging fruits to nowhere.

The human mask
still moves up and down
on my burned face
the voices of trees
occasionally speaking through it
the shoreline flickering on my mouth
corners turned and wrapping around me
but the cliff walls between mine and other minds
have steepened, are leaking hail
kitchenettes popping out of the sea
where we walked together on our broken lenses
across a linoleum sun
tossing eggs on leaves and laughing

ALC

A rolling head and a glass
a fallen shelf of stars.

CLOUDBERRY PICKER

Toxin are in the skin, liver, and ovaries, dazed at the wheel of the Dingman
there rose up his neuronic whip, stiffly elastic for the present plaza
robots caring for my home underground, as I support the vast platform
the synagogue of the emperor
this soft, happy rivalry

Supple curfews caress the flesh
these warming chains
berserk monopolies leaping cell to cell
having their fun with the beauty machine
parchment scattering desk after desk
with dust demands,
the sinew of a fragrant curtain,
lime after lime in jagged sodium,
spines of glue climbing a numb socket,
the engine's hood returned to the mouthpiece
a sputtering tree revealed to be a sagging sock
floor after floor soaked with ancient blood and shampoo
spiked linoleum of faces leering back through boiling water;
two eyes on a spit: a match of clouds whispering
their gust's last echo
firm as rain.

AND THE PHOTOGRAPH IS NOT A MACHINE

The computer says there's no atmosphere, luminous and bare
human fragment by artificial insemination from outer space
psychohistory of the galactic empire with a giant satellite
myths of humanity physically through emptiness a wrinkled teenager recalls
the sun about which the forbidden world revolves the powerful mosaic

by the new mechanical environment
this older environment was elevated

Nerves blown up by thought
feet scribbling on the sidewalk
heaps at the roadside that drip
with a light they can't catch
parties cashed out that have
left my body breathless
hands slapping acoustic wood
and dancing
slowly to the scorned outskirts
looks melting in the fire
of our engine-hitched existences,
strutting past grotesque panes of glass
revelers and their nostrils
broken pretzels to tie my shoes
long docks I walked that are
fished and faded
friends I've freaked out and fled on
because the vertigo in my veins
or the vast scene unmanageable
I'm not tired of the clouds
the unset stone or the pushing air
only in the kitchen-lit night
I smoke alone on one elbow
and wonder
why the wide net can't catch.

Flew from a bike to split my body
other half peeled off the pine
left me here with this sap face
short cloth on my stems
gears caught in a tear duct vat
got up from rubber with an ax
long clouds darkening heat
marble courtyards in mop soap
wheels sputtering spin in the dome's stomach
chains levitate centrifugal kisses that
long to hang on to chimney socket satellite
irises penciling screened-in torsos with magnets
veins of the eyes sticking like hair pasta
to a matchless glove.

Blood bones and skin repainted
brick prints in the palms of burnt hands
alleys of glass the gloss of wet bootprints
traces of hair on slab concrete
churning velvety rocks and deep reptile eyes
at the bulb of a forest bouquet'd
cut stalks drinking in a planetary vase
axis spinning bright burning dye
sprayed from the quake grown hands
rattling wrists on a barrow
dousing their silly string of light
with the pepper of flaking bark
umbrella shaped patches
of tree base shade
ferrets in cobweb and old paper feet
clamoring for quieter leaves.

THE CENTER OF THE MOSS WORLDS AWAY FROM THE DEAD PLANET

And so the world computer had been programmed with my own nudity
in the time of the mule galactic
to inscribe in the arc a factual magic for seizing a
behind, the whole rectangle of the portal itself, crowds or
fists, bellies, heads appeared in that order; it was all a speckled blur
featureless, lightless, unrelieved heap of rust technologies
that had once been water mains and power lines of bulldog opacity that
we have only meaningless figures but--we just have to find
the softly glowing keys of the computer the steady trend
his hands on the handmarks embracing woman
a large angle view of the Milky Way, a heap of powder.

ROBOTS ON LAUNCH ALERT

The furry alien rapped his new hand sank its claws across
seven hundred huge dishes, spaced condensers with strips of black cloth
the incomparable silver egg touch of the human skin
wrapped his hands around a thick sunflower a plastic patch on his neck
the sunflowers were taking convoluted shores and peaks
the woman seeing his blood on her mouth, wireheads grow warmer
rather than air they were inside a huge building.

Nights and weeks and summers
worshiping the female
watching bricks melting into the path
on the way to see them
power lines twitching with heat
on the way to see them
blood pumping with blood
respondency of life to life tonguing eating
these streamers of sense that
bind us together for awhile
while the pines lose branches
and the sheets under my cracked head
are lapped at more and more
slowly by water

In a high dome the frail life
burns its limbs off to be alone.
An egg in a tub, sending orders
through buried electrodes,
pulsing underlight
through the solitary water.
Body of car doors
drawn to a gummy center.
Blazing diamond eyes
in a  cartoon vortex,
beaming naked cells
into the worldwide
face of the enemy.
Satellites filling with pebbles
and female condoms.
Arrows that gravity returned
splattering bodies of floating paint.
Airways flung to the heart
of dying towns, the sheaths
of sliding missiles decorated
with ghetto graffiti,
an eyeless multitude cheering
to the sound of splintering bone.
Solitudes lost to man' sun in its casing,
histories melted down to hate's coherence,
print manufactured by blood
time's curtain split
by a doctored heel.