Against the wall of sand

in conscious sleep,

in the place of dead fathers,

in the dreams of

the rose-tinted womb,

within the flesh-lit ghost

roaming endless shelves,

hands prowling through

the cryptic instruments of unseen fate,

with a signature and a vessel,

blades doubled and securely bonded,

strings roaring in the purple valley

by the peaks of crashed wings

flooded towers of glass and steel

the laughing of a crooked mouth

in some free-form south,

angelic horns in seas of silk

red eyes aloft a velvet pause

of lightspeed armchair

where the ear bones are fiber optic

and the vast shell purrs

scarred bright by dying scripture

a watery cave

the tongues of a fecund grave.

Beauty of beauties, you touch me

from the deep expanse of time.

Here you are between the sidewalks

and the restaurants,

here you are smiling, a fragment

blossomed of all that's come and gone.

Vines carry me up the wall

to your glowing window,

the hands of clocks tremble

in place as you move

in the gown of your birth,

as the earth gives up its cinnamon

and its licorice sticks

I come to find you on a fine boned wind,

on the structure of unseen things

I am coming for a final kiss.

I'm stuck, I'm stuck, I'm stuck.

Time whirls around me

like a dancer's gaze.

I'm in the haze of echoes

that are lost, I pay

for all the drowned minutes.

Caves blooming

inside a ragged mountain

are all for me, I drink

from the split moss.

The spring of tangled water

is alive in undirected violence.

The rock is not departed

from these slippery paths.

The sand far

from the tide that lashes

lands in letters

that are never planned.

The ax head moves

without its wand of glass.

The wrath of stasis

is a frozen summer's catch.

I am the mouth of jeweled cases,

the trash eating to become clean.

I am the thread of order derived

from all chaos, the spiritual

extinction of math.

My dying is the dome unformed

lit up in a flash.

Your cheeks, your eyes,

your smile of mischief.

You are radiance and rippling light,

the glint on a dark tide.

Jade born of sinking avenues,

the hope of frayed and reborn things,

electric current over

the deer-trampled pastures,

pure water in the shell,

a tap on the quiet doorstep.

How I long to taste you,

how I long to drink from your beauty.

Let me go under your spell

as my last desperate trick,

snuff me out in your life of songs

to surface with cojoined flame,

let me be the cactus in your flashing pot,

your tendril in this desert

where I scheme like a madman

to be your one possessed

and shuddering fool.

Let me kiss your thighs

while the fireflies float and fall.

A cool sky programmed with ancient voices.

Nurseries of vine-grown brains

encased in whispering plastic.

Paths for the lucky losers

massaging feet that tread to the abyss

marks of activated shoes

on deep red soil.

Seams of light tormented

crackle at the concrete surface

spelling their bent graffiti

on wounded pillars

as the bridge creaks

like a baked piano's lid.

Wings of a color absorbent glider

crashing into sensate glass

staring at robot beauty

heartless legion with complex threads.

Machinery of soul eclipsed

by a ring of beds.

The sunsets are falling apart on me

thorned vines rip open the netherworld

frozen tubes of honey protrude

sweet melting chains

in the demonic background I see

quiet fingers readjusting a nervous thread

coins thick with wax

and the arrows that attack

a dancing burden

eyes that cut the ice

to half circles and bent triangles

all reflecting the beauty of a battered piano

platforms of singing gas

tongue threaded milk leaking microphone

wet shoes of seeking grass

crawling over bones of bats

From an attic I smoked and

watched the town die

I let the strings of sabotaged fog

escape my fingers

watched the glitter of shattered mica

adorn the separating roads

from its mad mother the mountain

quaking caves and beads of dust

struck by the dust light

in the wounded inner dome

of the planetarium

alone in fields of seats slanted back

bones dangled by electrical cords

animated by the restlessness

of rubber skies and windowsills

dripping with hot sugar

fields of broken space and vacated places,

no swimmers now, chairs twisted

on the concrete dock and cracked

raft alone on frost

where the smokers lost keys and danced

and the eggs came in from the water

to be free from mechanical eyes

in the depth's churning

chased across man's pressurized land

and returned to a purple lining

as the multiple queen of wings

and redesigned things

crashes my snoring heart

into a cross-thatched corner

staring over the combed hair

of lawns when the comb is gone

and dawn is the hinge

of some recklessness

flicked the threshold's lips

where a chimney writes

the birds in streams

and even the corpse dreams.

Stunned in the passageway,

rug fibers on bare feet

head lit up in an abandoned workplace

the silver racks move past

from ghostly hands to ghostly hands

they cross crude rivers of gold

the path is lined with

choruses of spaghetti

slithering to the two eyed night

one dark handed painter

giving glitter to clouded daylight

and peacock outskirts to the rain's door

stairwells blooming in the eagle scan

of left behind winter

fiddled electric landmarks

in the crucial dawn

where her ribbon was the only one

and the rocks cried out from

her honey running

bright racks in a fishpaint lane.

STEVE

Til the essence dissolves the time in a fine acid

He records the days of the dying

He has a scar from after birth

He sighs huddled in the hallway

following thought after thought

into some dark canyon

of the mind that is not articulated,

he stares into the realms of what's gone

the windows are wide blank rectangles

in the summer storm.

We watched the active shadows

tear all the curtains down,

we cleaned the hell's corner campus.

Angled in gray spaces

by the length of lengthening

American autonomy,

spun in a tall whippoorwill's call

for the pull of studs

in the laser boy's stomach.  We're

watching the TV.  The TV is

watching itself on TV, the TV is

watching itself watch us.

Waterfalls of light from

thrift store doorways,

the corners of the dream scraped

bare by dreaming claws,

lines of sand on shelves

where pages stood,

a sail of flesh torn wide

above a raging spirit

diving to inhabit the depths,

taking on the fertile magic

of encrusted wrecks,

a beaten nude on sand arena floors,

thinking of an egg in a whirlpool,

thinking of a golden frame

with cracked glass,

thinking of a cardboard error

and a corrected bone,

thinking of so many drowned

lives in radiant plastic

all alone.

Woman of the earth, come for me.

Make me at home in your smile.

Let these meteors be

mistaken for stars, let all

the fortune cookies open.

Let the little scrolls fall out

on a savage highway stilled

in a moment of pre-dawn sleep,

let the little fetters roll.

Make a satin bow sing

at both ends, let your skin sweat

like a simmering bowl.

Give me the silk paths

of a suffering twilight,

let the pools rebound

with tortured alphabets,

let the dancing bones assemble

in a lit hangar, for a craft

that comes and is repaired

in the clefts and little valleys

of your trickling hair.

Let the snare recline

and snooze in its ooze

of echoes.  Let the little bands

play around a cliff

of raging violins.  Make the latch

knock at the geometric haze

and the angels laze on polished maple.

May your thighs detect

a radiant series in my fork

of resurgent tongues, may

the meat sunrise come.

Allow the flag's retreat

from stems and spirals

of a liquid landscape,

shape with your dancing hands

my lurking and immediate brand,

all the glues holding laser-scarred

sand, emit your chain of eggs

where my hearth is waiting

with a trail of ice leading

to crammed cases and

a salvaged piano's bright

wedge of breathing land.

JADA OF WENDY'S

Block hips with a feverish smile

thick and pretty, beautiful form

enveloping the skyline.

The sidewalk is a river

under your womb.

Your friend with the green smoke

is drifting away on it.

You are present as the woman of earth,

rich and deep Gaia, mother of caresses

and rare cutting blades.

Your shade is a glow.

Your glass of hours is a window

I'm into.

The universe spreads.

The stars collapse and shine.

Her hair is as long as

her whole back and more.

I am a toy of the gods, a blonde

plaything.  I can't say anything.

MEDUSAN SHADE

In a grid of yellow lights she knelt alone

departing from me in a hot gray anomaly

desperate swamps of massed hands

grasping after her dark haired whirlwind

I cut them all off with a thorn handled sword

and blinked at the clear new water

a couch was melting on the shore

a spirit of glass corners was walking

in the fractured steam

I took the flash of light's imprint

to a cave of suckling geodes

file cabinet drawers began protruding

from irregular stone walls

my bed's in the peak of a cone's pinprick

glimpse of knotted purple sky

her sash is a train I can't roll off of

to tumble into grassy trenches

and shake away the acidic clasp

of her dyed fingernails in my

creature of a spine

I watch as the crushed snakes leave the road

through rot or the scan

of some mesmerizing saucer

and they all depart

until the staff in the desert

is upright stripped and bare

I play the divine blueprint's copied record

with the screw of some lost nautilus

I burn the candles and her scent

escapes my rising nerves

the marble bench where I sat

is broken through to the earth

porches of the damned resound

with strange laughter

I am a cipher in a wheel of ass

the last loverboy of the hurricane's

lips gone higher

BURNING INK

Poles reverse in foreheads that were mine

the chiming dance of many previous bodies

swirling a palm leaf's sexy blade in ash

smeared to be washed away

on written stone.  These secrets seep in

seamlessly to bone.

I am the virus in my own system.

Plates wobble on the sticks around

my pillar of blood.  The obelisk

between my ribs has a rabid circuit.

Electrified chain link fences

undulate in my latest sunglasses.

Life is the chalk stick of raging dreams:

the cut tornado is organized.  The entrance

to the storm disrupts the storm

kissed imperceptively.  The eels

of my burned irises have swum

on a wordless plan.  The rivulets

of pained rivers flow down

the sown seams of my hands.

Skeletons prance my roof-ridge

grinning sand for the bashed

servant of light I will never be.

This shield of programmed ants

is all I need.  The seed turns

in the exit's cancelled breed.

My ghosts can breathe.

BLUE LIGHT

I float across the yard like smoke.

The perfumed satin trees are at my back.

Three suns are circling the stressed planet,

a fourth is on its way like a thrown raid.

And everywhere blue light, blue light

through the masks and keyholes

of this generative stranger's house,

blue light as I fall to my knees

on a white bearskin rug,

staring at the shutters that flash

my name in a spellbound code.

The horses, the horses, the horses.

Snarling through the vortex

like a snake not bound by time

carving the wheat field, hissing past

the walls of oiled stone.

At the well's mouth in a lunar haze

a lichen coated tongue mocks

this disembodied water from gone faces

the glaze of consciousness is on a maze

of birth outside the reasons for that birth,

a miracle of mirth in rhyme

blue light from necessary slime.

ATLANTIS PRIME

From the fearsome darkening forest,

from a busted tent flap and a poison pen,

from the avalanche of dead deeds

gathering in juniper

next to the recorded funeral,

from the shit stains in the Bible

from the beauty of empty skyscrapers

from the veins let out of the failing body

from the radiation that spreads

like ferns and lace

over frozen farms and laughing

holographic ballerinas,

from the war paint become permanent

on the wreckage of my soul,

from the tongue of savage life

investigating a fresh fissure,

from the barricades of salt

peppered with burnt sperm and eggs

of the last survivors,

from the braids of steel

on a ship of glass caged light

that blinks back at a sentient sun

when the thunder has pissed the bed

at the end of articulate lightning,

when the cords draw tight

on mere rhetoric's ashen throat

from the womb of alien dreams

I will slide down the blade smiling,

sketching the cave of ink-black seed

on your emptied face

with the sorrow of one who is laughing,

watching the grates of steam pour metallic air

into the lungs of the underworld,

watching it gather there

in clumps of ethereal bramble

in a land without atmosphere,

seeing the kiss above a vacant plateau

lose its bodies of destiny

and its sanctified plans,

losing its assembled meaning

and its cool invading afterlife,

losing its curse words and the blind

faith alleys that shoot out from

its diseased blueprint

like the bones of falsely animated wings,

from all that whistles strangely under the ocean

and bristles in a cloud of decaying thoughts,

from the existence that singes the exit

I sing of an American world.