Pillars belching out

of the swamp muck,

erected by rising earth

through slime.

Moths frozen to the underside

of a sticky cave mouth:

a bed of rags

laid out like wings for two.

Chains and their chime amplifiers

streams laced together by froth

steam fingers reaching overboard

the slanting floor of a cheap cafe.

Windows filled with the painted

metaphysical.  Forms racing

that have no heart

but in my hand of hands

cresting hills like restful water

hermetic mirages that use

the sun for a shade and my one

dim set of ribs as a hat

for shackled dreams.

Under the steel bed's head

the reach is infinite

miraculous fauna

of upside down walks

gold spoon spit taped

to a basement ceiling

creased link where the palace is planned

for a limitless land.

These years have changed me,

I'm a cartoon wolf on a far wall.

Amplitudes pass me dressing,

undoing the windows,

pushing the lamp's lid up to Saturn

where it cushions like

a sunless photogene

in a smoky lounge.

The microphone is melted into sand.

Long arrays of flowers wilted

under broad leafed paths

decks and their transparent layers

floors flashing with gold pants

and alcoholic blitzes,

none but the one finetuned past ash

and into the spirit

peacock engravings

carried under an orange sky.

I drank fire and pissed paint,

my satanic essence covered the landscape.

Parties opened up like butterfly wounds

to care for my thistle coated anchors.

My lasso of many tongues

coated lepers with healing vapors.

I conquered asteroids

and called them moons, conquered moons

and called them planets, conquered planets

and called them my fragrant stars.

Now an inverted wizard

on a solitary swing set

I watch fortress walls of dead faith

rain through fractured skies

like flakes of plaster.

No need to fight this world,

or prove anything to it.

The croaks of toads, the rascal's wrath

of irritable crows, lightens the tones

of my drum, my rhythms bend the grass

and light up the abandoned architecture.

My life is a live boat

shaped like an oar,

and the old gods snore.

Fungal foundations that swell

at the feet of these wild chimera

bright specks upon galactic skin

blades whirling in red

pomegranate mouths.

Drums fill sacrificial tunnels

under the cities that are damned with masks

webs of melted plastic faces

shelves blinking with hollow light

that is the road to outer space fragmented

within the splay of dark material fingers

faint orbs of ethereal transport

penetrating vagrant birth.

The dance of bone paint

on dusty acres

marble chapel ceilings

stretching over the caves that crawl.

The movie is running like a greased gear

known characters emerge

to a changed soundtrack

scenes like many panes of glass

something has been twisted out of sequence

light stabs through the holes in the mirror

effects fade from a botched life

wet bones fall to the floor

the prickle of inexplicit echoes

grows in a triangulating room

these operated icons and their unsure smiles

the strange mercy of hasty death scenes

my cracked cells are speaking

to these trapped dancers

their gestures flail

at language that cannot keep up

the facade is a womb

where rails run in circles

credits roll over a sideways rain

and the kiss of greats is gone.

Raced by ghosts

to an oscillating tank

through the secret clefts

of many facile forests

to the dank heart of

the deeply thrumming woods

where parrots clack

and the whips of ageless bodies

crack like spines,

caverns burning with eternal savor

under cloudy storms of cedar and pine

for the walking blind.

Run weightless on the bows

of willing birches,

watch flying orbs bend air

for primal circuitry

unleashed in rediscovered dawn,

ride to my witch queen

and see if there is a blessing,

a balm kissed many times

to heal the map of murdered lifetimes

twitching in the bushes of the damned,

glitter tossed on pock marked

half paved soil, stark feathers

of besieged being

in the crush of tideless pawns.

Water circles fists of water

in the force-field fence

vortexes of colliding mutant flesh

leave eggshells touched by rain

on super-fed grass, pulsating

in enhanced sun.  Colors razor their way

through circuit board garden walls.

The planets teem with waterfalls.

Concave rocks express the chalk and coal

painted over with plastic spray

to hold divine graffiti.

With an insect eyed girl

who dances like a scimitar

I am cutting clouds of gel

into pert triangles

and selling them from

a faux granite kiosk.

Books of prophetic code

soft wigs of secondhand hair

fall from hidden baggage carriers.

On the purple thresholds

of gassy street drains

genetic material crawls

flirtatiously through

discarded crossword puzzles

scattered in the concrete dew.

O green womb

O tinder of multiple flowers

carved swamp

with steaming ragged angles

cloud tangle of guitars

like an airship moving overhead

shadowing this keyboard body

bone shrine for hectic or magnetic

or majestic birds

stone foot

brought out of mud with nine mouths

net's nest of curling tentacles

horned eyes dribbling down

a blood burned pillar

dirt pounded round a wandering sun

what singing lopsided wagon

what chiming metallic buggy

could carry your wares

to the molten heart?

I am a torn arm with barnacled

elbow and forearm guards

padded with script,

reheated and cooled colors

from the yolk of my being

redeemed on playful blades

that wave like Floridian fronds

in an afternoon of bronze

night's nest of a double moon

in a curling spoon.

If I was a firefly on the floor

remaining lit in death

like a sugar skull

maybe I could ride

the horizon line

like a cellular fragment

or an astral jewel

without being cut.

Shelves of colored light go by

above the rolling carts of fiber optics

flags of mindless velvet

drawers filled with lunar teeth

slide out of painted clocks.

I am a slice of renegade godhead

and a mundane scrap

the circuitry of ocean floors

through a screen

of blanked out newsprint

one filter for the sun

that will burn down.

I'm a town of mannequins

around a whirling center

I'm an empty town.

I smell stinkbugs and sulfur

in the southern wind

I smell lavender and lilac

and delicious sin

snakes of light fill up my ears

and slither in my bones

the archways groan

with interdimensional heat

near the pit of my last awakening

big doors flick like tongues

the metal of consciousness creaks

blood pounds in diamond chandeliers

the rind of my fruitful life

is black and bright

facing angelic swords

I beat heaven down

to a pot and pan campfire

and simmer with a red eyed woman

lazily transcending all computed spheres

and scarred cliff faces

drifting with bird shapes of mercury

deliberately down a dead end tunnel

with the last draft of rejected script

in the garden of my hands

and the garden of my ribs

fond gash where my liver speaks

with a gesture like lava.

Docks go out like tentacles

from a wooden island,

flesh flows from a metal planet

to conquer grassy stars,

throats of canyons radiant with silt

blow flutes of interstellar passage

the crescents of emerging orbs

scan with burning sight

vast plasticine oceans,

the chains of being rattle like drums

and seethe like releasing scales,

my perch pivots on penetrative stone,

my guts flower over descending steel,

the ground flakes, pondside benches

upend like dominoes on a thick blanket

and turn to gather moss

under an anti-gravity faucet

the pillows of gathered leaves toss

throughout a dance of thinking blades

and punctuated bones teem

with resistant veins.

God keeps writing books in space

God grew from a magic seed to start the universe

God is very plain in extravagant wrapping paper

God's pen smells like a dog

His eyes are the eyes of a cat

God fucks, the moon is too small for him

But he likes to vacation on Venus

God has not gotten bored of himself

God's artistry of particles

surrounds him with sinuous pretzels of

snakelike celestial activity

He is ceaselessly entertained

by his motion which is thought itself

bound to light's beginnings

and without stagnation

God has finally gotten bored of politics

He is bending the architecture of Hell

with little whispers

God is keeping track of time

by always breaking out of time,

God has a secret that he keeps like a slave

voluntarily,

God writes like roots on stone

but the roots don't die

God is all the imagined rooms

inside the suggestions of the recipe.

God has flamed out

against the bars of his cell

He likes to test himself

in the zones of limitation

Bearded with the healing fire that seals

the breach between the sexes

God is the only real hermaphrodite

and the only one with a holy cause

God is a cousin of Isaac Asimov

He parties with Greeks, he leaves early

to find his suffering tribe in the desert

God yearns for the unknowable

He conceives a vegetable world

and then drenches it in vagrant sperm

God is the symphony within behind

the static in all uninhabited

frequencies of radio

God hollows out

the eggplant of consciousness

with a touchless laser tool.

Kudzu towers organic

from the green green vine

of the swamp line

my blue body rises

from the brown water

and I reclaim it

canals fly past like treadmills

I'm a dancing pillar of salt

the roads lash through me

with electric demons

each mask is another

smiling face

that I offer to the fallen

southern goddesses

sweet claws

touching summer fabric

tits clad in t shirt albums

that I listened to in high school

and I still play

rock n roll, glorious gospel

of deep inner darkness

Satan's joy is a thinking hardon

lank universal language

rising to scrape sky

the true beat

twisting at the thrift store.

Shipping docks for burning souls,

snapped flowers spouting paint

from broken stems to trickle down

flying sidewalks

threads on the clock

broadcast a song like speaking veins

through refrigerated halls

white light stripes on sliding doors

the symphony rides bleached air

and bulging canvas

blue glass with red blotches

and dots of yellow

the cemetery ceiling and wide

pulsating chairs.

Barrels of blood

for the senescent empire.

Give more to the ghost that shrieks.

Give more until all feeling gives out.

It's not your heart that's wanted.

Numbers above the soul

all day long.

Clean the filth

help the scarecrow stand.

Just participate in the blasphemy of life

without emphasis.

No villainy is needed.

No special talent required.

Help the wheels turn

over little bones

we believe in a forgiving God.

Put the condiments

on the featured feces.

Make the yeast shine

in the yawning wound.

Believe the smiling balloon.

Understand that the windsock

has a plan.

Your special identity is welcome here.

Sign under the flag.

Absence is an infinite flower.

Spirits have more body

than these dancing fools.

The talk of the living runs thin

while the dead talk pools.

Out back behind the curtains,

in the factory of shadows

where some accumulated substance

oozes like the milk of life

and the vastness of dark matter

over some seeming thing,

I lean in my suspended trousers

to hear bells without clappers

in a wind that rings.

In a wind that moves and moves

on some eternal circuit,

taking no history with it,

taking no order of numbers

or embankment of watching eyes,

taking no revealed skies.

Taking no ribbons of vapor

taking no light that dies

in its fretless tide.

My body is a rope between

two wet worlds

that crickets hop over.

Sinks gush in half-open kitchens,

I suck the grass pounded flat

under the scythe of artificial light,

feeding on the grease of discarded morsels,

jostled by meaty souls

as they pass from trash to trash

through plastic transparent hallways,

dumping foggy water

into evaporating channels,

carved by dead words

and indistinct actions,

erupted by a solar tongue.

The rift is mine, the radiant cursed

miles between rejected fragments,

disoriented vegetable shells

floating over heated rivers,

aurora borealis stung by devil sperm

and hung with amphibian fingers,

all mutants hatched in a dumpster's corner,

cleansed by such orbit-less moons,

are palpitating with me now.

Goddess of painted concrete rise like flesh

from the sad grid man has made

from the depths of spiritual death

raise your cartoon hammers

from the seams of these stricken swamps

colliding over dams and wreaths

laid down on floating doorsteps

where I kneel pierced by your fingers

like some gnostic Christ with a hardon

drift over the pizza parlors

sprouting art deco steeples

and sweating elevators

let the radiant cords be planted

in the murk

to cut graves that blink like candy

fill the tongue of this frozen juggernaut

with healing fire

nourish the landing pads with ferns and roses

let me be your key again

as the screens flash drastic mercy

with a chain of ink, with the locket

on your cinematic underwear

let the electromagnetic ships

nudge through the bioluminescent shore.

Birth is death, and death is a star.

The swallowed earth is melting down

her prison bars.  The ground

regurgitates the blood of the lost.

Dogmas die in dust

and the impossible body rises.

Crescents traced on red clay

create chiming swing sets,

silver playgrounds for the elderly,

who slide on space.  The soil hesitates,

the stone is a bouquet of knives.

Chains rattle like a song

sheathed in rivers of burning oil.

Bark peeling from the forests of childhood

becomes scrolls in a cave.

The masses climb over the dying light

like ants.  The fated architecture of the web

splits like a windshield, like the scars

on a white cliff, like the soul

of a dying island.

I will force the singularity of man

through an unripe grape, the green

of the robotically assembled state.

In the bent birches of an unsigned cathedral

I will wear the barbed wire robes

of the outcast priest, and hold

the cutting shell that gathers these last seeds.

The dawn of my betrayal is the succor of life,

the pillars that shake their viny veins

are pushing the bridge

into the fading cushions of the sky,

the burial grounds carved by mossy rivers

are sparkling with spiritual fire,

the rocks heave like sweating lungs,

the wires of propagandized existence

are trembling to snap,

I walk the dead streets in a live erotic trance,

pagan, sensual and cruel

in this Christian and liberal nation

I am alone, the roots bend like frozen taffy

and then break like elastic,

what has been stolen

is given back by broken temples,

the strands of sweet divine life

are repaired by renegades,

the spice burns,

the mouth of hell is bringing

heavenly scrolls to a holographic boil.

A vast brain stained with equations

sending erotic offshoots

into resistant earth

fruits cracking and streaming

in the eyes that float above bearded clouds

net catching rubbery thoughts

spewed fresh from an ozone mouth

bones landing on straw in the backyard

inked by the blood of the moon

and the venom coated fence posts

erected in a violet haze.

Branches and vines that dance

in ecstatic pain

to be taken to fortress basements

and piped through a song

to the sun that is a sacrifice

to the rims of dying skies

and the goblet that licks in cursive

irreplaceable eyelids

sweet lashes of ethereal steel.