You've got that red fire

that I want on my tongue

you sculpt ponds

into orbs of dark light

and globes for the heads

of soothing scepters

you animate

the dining rooms

of the dead

with electric scars

and lay down

laminated aisles

for storms to flow in rows

and forms to find their vegetable matter

I dream of a dock

where dreams are finally fellated

in moonlight dream

like a lover of unmapped planets

dream with the yeast in my head

for the bread of my brain

hot bitch swollen

with the milk of my seed

drowning in daylight

drowning in the lightning script

of a metallic morning

drowning in the dreams of the damned

who sacrifice for a phantom

branches of space travel

are a tunnel of Christmas wreaths

and the trees on their wings are flying

when your desire brings my bones

to their desired end

staring upward into the infernal nexus

your beauty on stakes of rain

in the graveyard of my wars

a cabin for flowing water.

The butterfly's shadow

on a battered shade

scarves whipping in the air

around her in her flowering tresses

and flowered dresses

cracking the concrete walls

where she walks in twilight's fertile abandon

huntress of crushing songs

on golden paths that shine within

a magnolia orchard

the gnarled arms slowly spouting cones

that drop to her foot marked ground

and surrounding hallways of highway

for days of pain erased by her lips

prayers for her knees and hips

that I cast on a wailing wave.

She shakes

the veins between worlds

and the squirrels' tails

flying along the sides

of heaving rivers

she makes rabbits jump

electric shade

and the raided palace

erupt with healing paint

she makes the fences

bow and scrape.

Throngs in newsprint underwear

follow her down the pier

and into the dark water.

She has touched the sky

with colors like cracking ice,

made benches on bronze wings

fly up above

the trapped neighborhoods.

I sit on one that wobbles

through tortured knots of cloud

that push the quiet part

of heavy music

and melt the electric sword.

An ocean of leaves

opens up as I fall

past her mirth

and return to Earth.

Drag step elevated alleyways

a glitch in machine eyes

that leaves empurpled vertebrae licking life

boomerang journeys from a broken keychain

mouths grasping from beneath a conveyor belt

numb stacks of rubbery dolls

long bending poles of ancient light

wolf cubs tumbling a sun sacked valley

ghosts hand in hand on ice

blades hung from enveloping branches

lava crapped like candy

from a bank of alien clouds

five dragon tongues in one

our reaching DNA

pawing at the walls of this velvet matrix

that wraps the curtains in walls

and the walls in fire that has thoughts

green moon on the mushrooms and moss

fate gone to the river's branches

trees nude to the air that rends.

Wrapped in the result

of these barren days

I become an astral flower,

tides of orange paint

cover the staircase,

shadows of searching fingers

the spokes of enraptured wheels

formed from living water,

tubs of rotten wheat

that give birth to

a wounded slew of eyes,

the entropic mercy of rusted metal

planted in the camera's guts

a butterfly's blinking knives

the desert soaked in galactic color

a row of tribes

climbed cliffs of milk

to nuzzle roots

of the tongue tip mother,

laid out the breathing stones

with names and dried stripes

of bloody fur, the frames

of a desolate professor

unlearned by yearning rifts

between male and female.

There is a branch of heaven

reserved for certain redheads

a feather of melodic lunacy

that hovers eternally.

There are high crossbeams

that drip with blue and white birds.

Webs of light that broke

under the weight of gorgeous coal.

An octopus beak

lost in a chorus of wires

saddled with freaks

and thrashing for ancient fire.

Harmonies cracked

within their shells,

the split hairs

of whispering wires.

Skyscrapers bending like reeds

in the tumults and catacombs

of her hair,

spilling from starry clouds

and maps of blue thread
weaving mountains of dark matter

rose tinted sanctuaries of glass

her curvature of turned gardens

flightless wings in round pools.

Roads overflowing other roads,

a bamboo grid on fire

spurting names in milk,

the outlines of missing towns

sprouting ferns from a gap

in space time continuums,

the ground a wavy series of mouths

toward blue lit corn,

the brass lit sky

scratched by long crooked arms,

a glass cube where I eat my lunch

floating in oceans of hot wax

that is cooling fast.

As the sighing becomes

the traffic of worlds

as the bluejay's brain remains

slightly mysterious

as the pyramids of jelly

turn to horizon salt

you will be melting

a hot murmur

without a cage of ink

in the backroom's

camera circle

where the styrofoam cones wail

in the pulse from a portable speaker

so emptily reflecting glass walls

for fake wood limbs that crawl

a vibrating hallway

ten circuits deep

in a one circuit mind

your beauty for the sighted

and the blind

is seeping all through

nooks and crannies of a mountainside

where sleepers roll and divide

rings of earth to your phosphorous torso

your knees of crackling sacrifice

your browns and reds flayed by gray

between the shelves of a future life

kissing air like a knife

fluorescent tubes in obedient rows

tight spaceship boats

on the river of a ceiling

fronds that knelt between bags of flour

silver tongs and the bronze of the hour

as the breathing of torrid hulls

eclipses your monarch spring

and my wolfpack winter

you are the dissenting dawn.

Fires on a ragged shoreline

you and me in rain's creation

down to the very last vessels of our souls

slabs and cells of fallen light

catching oilbrush diamonds

fruits of death's ecstasy

shuddering the ponds misplaced

by the fisher crane's error,

bodies of water floating

exposed away from land

broadcasting webs of scum

fried monkeybars made

from cylindrical screens

bones weaned away from the night

where the groans grow

bright in yearning

and the churning cores

of eaten planets

cast vines through

an abstracted door.

We talked about kingdoms gone

to riot and blown

we talked about the beauty

of departed women

talked at the back bench

of an unplayed game

having given our all

to a satanic void

having given all our summers

to an unseen winter

Lord, have mercy on

the sick we have lost so many

but the blade prays too

and reflects the light

of the creator like

a can of raid.

A VISIT WITH WALT

I do not suffer

the hopeful vision

of Walt Whitman

but I carry his corpse

like a rose.

In the shadow of his beard

the homegrown grains

grow antlers and go crazy

in American ways.

Walt's children

are scattered,

his optimism

has left us baffled

and strange.

His rebirth

happens backwards

in my veins.

Open the astrological loins

of mapped and penetrated skies

let the molecules of ecstatic ruin

pour out like invisible coffee

into the claw marks of icy lanes

let the treble of uprooted forests

live in celestial fire.

Revisit the plastic cabins

with ribbons of rhythmic water

let the pawn become king

in his season of rust

and the crust of time rip like canvas

the black hole a bridal shower

sword's flow of telescope

strumming tender clouds

stems cut for flaming garlands

a kaleidoscope sun.

Our love-play would make

the gods jealous.

Your beauty is destroying me.

I worship the rainbow

from a dark organ.

I bury the ink and let it

fly off into the air.

Desks and chairs made

from female fur surround me.

Fires of poisoned glass

that paint a sea of flesh

with unyielding light.

I bolt my cot of bold

deep-seeded dreams

close to the ledge

and watch the fireflies

save us all.  The galactic

dream is ever reaching.

I can't fall.

Blood lamps

from the glory of the creator,

morsels of light that shine

from the depths and disintegrate

on the heights.

Teeth of a grain of sand

that holds no welcoming flavor.

But then she parts the parted waves

into multifaceted fragments

loosing lilac from glass

and velvet from denim

filling the shrines with spirit again

and the cups with fat

and the vats with slimmer

and longer and deeper vats

to the core of the Earth with a song

hot black thanksgiving.

She is the ball

bearings of the earth,

her pivot in the stars

is dispersing the blood of life

like light on clay pots,

she melts the fences

of my careful networks

and lets them speak in rivulets

of brass glow on the straw's

angles of an unknown mercy

all the sidewalks and hot roadsides

gathered into one feminine arm

pulsing with the jets of her smile,

her gaze to enlarge the saplings

cut down on some ragged doorstep

her card-carrying eclipse

piling up in fine

black roses and freckled hips.

DYSTOPIAN ELECTRON

Black vans stop and spill out

blood spattered furniture

from evaporated bodies

leaves fall flickering on

heaps of discarded beds

branches reach over fences

with alcoholic hope

winds drunk on a breeze's fancy,

eloped fragments of boiled light

shat with diamonds

down a raceway tonight.

Bright galleries, chrome

possessions, multilithic cities.

Man treasures

his attempts at permanence

but God sees value

in what has been broken.

In the vision of many rivers

in the redefinition of solitude

in the mineral waves of overlap

in the egg of sanctuary

born against oppression

in the capes of a comically noble satan

ripping like old theater curtains

I follow the heaps of her roiling hair

as it rips the beam of this freak reality circuit

I find a conduit between dreams

and fall into its dusty box of screws

I am sowing the bones of old lives

together with grudging harmony

I am watching the cliffs

and their stilled

blood gush of hills

work it out.

Far deep from the light of bodies

dungeon deep in my beat routine

I see the shadows of squirrels

pale passing across my long

rectangular windows

and the lank late days of summer

that lay there on the rug dying

echoes a sweet Spanish guitar

her hair nonpareil

the stone chancer

of bridges that slope and dive

is gambling his razor's edge

in a stone mirror

the bright shades part

financier part necromancer

wax twigs in a butterfly mask

some Joseph Cornell scenario

put a torch to my soul

from the cracked heavens

she was walking on docks

of gliding glory

in the chemical we call night

she was the panther in oil

moon that kept us up all night long

with a lady's promises

and a whore's kisses

black metal as the bandwidth

cutting saturnine time

bringing a mountain down

to a scrim of canvas

being the mountain brought down.