Hot scythes lassoed by weaving waves

roads in the winding sea

drifting like buried logs,

halls and red lights jutting out

from collapsed immensities

in a bulb of universal semen;

liquids cracking at the whip of tongues

flickering over the fire-drowned biosphere

tying knots in a sheet's wide sail

that has glued the continents

to spines bent, and currents of death

that live in the living blood

with notepad finger,

an eye's split brush,

a fever in sliming paths,

a seated lightyear,

and a god-shaped toad.

I have buried men like gods
dressed in the rags of the state,
my fiery way
in the throat of things to come,
beautiful women robbed
of beauty and sense,

and cried eternal things
from their bouncing parlors
and burnt kitchens
gave my blood and inner workings
to their bliss and their brooding,
the corners of daylight
meshed with magma on a drifting floor

my body all, my friendly circuits
lashing lacquered wounds,
I stand in my shop of all people moving
color's vapor to part acid,
and I stand unwillingly
with the despised poor,
with those mercurial
who pills sent over the mountains
to beg bread,

sweeping my wings like arms
with the emptiness of spiritual power
I drag down your weary hearts
from peaks of lovelessness
bring you close to the floods of earth
and crush you in.

Brass fountains in silver rain
grooves that glint through an arrow's path
strings of unreachable daylight
shared from eye to eye
hollow antler to blood antler
the wax hand of falling bark
imprinted on steam dirt
a cylinder of smoking leaves
the baby button finger
creases numbered in tabs.

Golden age on the work of wind split
white wicker graces abandoned, the crumbling house has a pink cup
springs back to a gentle touch who is at the head of all the hospitals
who said putty, purple, red, the tin of stuff very simply
light cast by her cloak grown into a huge red mushroom
the fog parcels of the station lamp
carefully unmold, let cool on a cake
and be double-flowered

Landscape of long wings
flexing in broken soil;
cloth stretched over hot rocks
in the yawn of a blown-up sun
square teeth of graveyards
dripping with fat and mottled beer
gums of rooted brine
the mated peckers of fallen trunks
grooves in the curving claw
stream's wrath of broken land plates
chutes of glued leaves
hands of healing fire
in a breezy chair.

Light prison treatment of Plato
on the forest floor of the moon
the search for planet X on celluloid depth
the shadows of the system move in stately bodies
treading a carpet of gold...
68 women, lying in order decked out
a rubber leaf of star formation
an indirect number of planets.

Eight worlds
in one head's
aching seven;
cascades of tumult
and tumult of cascades,
brother after brother fresh
out of the diametric waterfall
slugging me, alerting me to my blood,
my fight with his path,
his need to heal me,
across sawed-off trunks
and marks of searing wall
tongues of fire that dash glossolalia
with hot pepper,
secret freestyles by a fire camp,
mystique resolved in outer essence,
after eons of inner tug,
still a smooth pig devil
with bisected eye,
a flailing translator and hot help
from a kicked basket
of shotgun leaves
across a tomb's mouth
and a southern tee vee
pussahasee calling
eight worlds resolved
in the aching seven
with or without a head
stirring the sun of suns
with a sanctified wooden spoon.

Figures in salted haze
abandoning fingernails and eyelashes
skulls and ruddy jewels
on the water of forgetfulness and shrimp;
eyes dazzled on their painted oars
rowing home to the city of high glass
in a furry cabinet;
taking the curtain's breath
in the smite of a blackberry mouth
fences opening goblets and eels,
blank paper peppered on a dangling rock arm
signed in pounding fists
through the galley of a ship's death polka deck
toilet paper feet and its wounded kitchenette
gushing action-movie red
into the mouth of the shark husband
and his head wrap of fresh leaves
cracking an ember gavel
of her notched spine
and her ceiling knife gambit
and her wife's handkerchief.

Deep and bland seas
full of floating machines
and mousy haircut heads;
drifting on a screen of electronic error
that has taken grip of the sun
the shrinking heart of things
glued to a shattered window
blood map trickling the cracks
unbowed by the bucking genius of death
body of a faint ship controlled by a feeling stick
the peacock in a glass hour
strutting the pendulum.

Expanded pebbles
a town spilling out of each one.

A pilot of grandeur he does not believe
soon his haircut will fall into his brains
oceans come to his hands
slippery mounds of heaving nothing
canvasses wet with the crash
wire baskets at the edge of a lengthy room
pouring their knowledge of blood stripes
into his skull cracked air.

Golden tips of
dead clouds that
will not fall
hands that claw in sleep
long windows
viewed from a bucket of steam
over many fallen suns
and many empty milk bottles
porch boards pine needles
and a wig of leaves
eyes lit by the promise of the past
in the darkness mushroomed and wavering
another coffee roll
another banana peel
another day another act that
will not be nailed down
another defeat walking in sorrow's body
another stacked shelf that
gives weight to the angles
golden tips of dead clouds that will not fall.

Tasted by the breaking planet,
a skull of pebbles spilled on watery fire,
bed springs in each ear,
tongue slimmed and forking,
paper hands stuck to wet stone,
stomach weighted with sodden feathers,
lungs to butterfly wings
singed and puffing cloudy glass
blood velvet glued to a time piece
sunny metals on an aching hand.

Bodies crammed into my head
with hyphenated tags,
split gazes
and leveled guns
in their frozen hands,
the G.I. of a sexual counter-assault,
mermaid cells with poison bristles
and weaponized soap,
microbe tap-dancing princesses
under my fingernails,
carts of steaming water
that slap the waves.

Propped up on a long grave rock
my face in my eyes,
bristles in my beak
that the sun has dried and whitened,
long tubes of sight
going into the moss green ground,
long clouds fingering over
that pierced territory
where wolf babies glisten and
lick paws to face inside a snail shell.

Rolled across straw slats
naked and painted,
pools of water from the seventh heel,
strands of wire glue from a writing torch,
circle of birch around a bird's nest,
cinnamon haze peeled from the naked eye
for a frame of knuckles
geyser from the pond rim's center
glory of the slime heart.

Anointed with a cave's drip,
wet radiant stone
tapped by tiny fibers of laser shot
cracked seams of the planetary forehead
dripping with ships
beetle-backs and twitching antennae
ditches folding berries and eyes
the juice of the soil
filling jaws and teeth with brain
surging hands on the curved plank's belly
the lunar pocket with a photo sun
blade melting insignia
slit claws in a cat's eye
stalactite arm
fists punishing the ceiling for the floor.

Highways fired through the meteor field
bouncing good looking people fighting
on the ripped slipstream of time
in clothes that can't be cut
for the helpless in laughter.

The twistedness of flesh
walking faint projections
high hills with electronic towers
the naked bodies of millions
crawl up and down
smearing each other's senses
with precision blindness
oiled lengths of ladder rungs
scratched by poison eyelids
and fire-mapped fingertips
printed on the theory of the body.