PILTDOWN LUCY AND THE SOCIETY OF THE ROSY CROSS

The warm climate design and energy philosophies
tick slowly in the silence unto their planned house
the frostbitten folk of great fall dimensions swirl
snow, split-rail pines sag lordly
ermine capes krack hem around the mountain country fart
the sky fills with the grey cotton wipe to feed
and the smell is as palpable as simmerin cattle
whip cream mysteries of ecstatic religious experience
cold blueberry soup
one tablespoon pinch of salt
sugar

Thrill eye
(that's me)
your flung flower
pacing a road you glazed and ran
and fell hard on
bathing in blasted worlds
the dust of scattered men
pine blanket bingo
the blue tar of sacked hills.

Reddening piles of twilight rags
the low gleam of arid stairwells
circling rafters and high beams
hands dash on a balcony railing
overlooking the kingdom
smoking and thinking time
arcs over these hallways
time
demands our hold on one another
increase like leaves.

Ghosts are in my life,
some do more than whisper
and some are falling,
rooms are vacant
with their wired voices,
they are threatening death
with its gripless grasp,

some love my mailbox
and some love my involuntary headset,
some recognize my yielding fade
some see the remaining spasm,
sometimes I use their whole alphabet on me
like a wound being scratched,
sometimes I need their silence
like a worldwide bomb.

Seashores lagging to the tide that feels them
harmonies half sunken in a field of brass knobs
under the net gone flying
in the sky that permed and quilted
their unfolding through metal
clasp on clasp and carbon on irritating carbon
tracks on a fading wheel
braided wheat in the ruts
as it climbs space and tattoos a bleeding dragon;
witless lashing, fiery breath
on the fish man's trash can:
the burning of mystical flesh
from its instrument's mouth.

Green helicopters
lowering netted soil,
layered moss
waves of earth
daffodils trampled in paper;

trunks in lacquered yardsides
pushing corners into painted alleyways
crooked high places
tilted hats and eyes under the wind upended
in delicate shivers of glass
and stubbed-on bottlecaps

foot-treads laced in frozen mud
sky scraping blades
high tops and antennas
all growling at the untouched moon.

The beast of gulls peripheral grazing,
hollow leaves for the genus of flowers
paper-whites; late bloomer, human by my big graflex camera,
I snowshoed to a winderness telephone booth locking antlers far out
(without frightening the majesty of him, turn the lamb around)
light changed the wilds and I
golden eagle diving directly
a fine ram at the rim
these feathered travelers of some hope
a corridor of cottonwoods parklands and prairies
beyond the lake a snow of mallards
a footstool of aspen-covered bluff
from the stubble of wheat
heralding the coming of the female
their first adventure

The great spirits are going,
going with a handshake mirror,
going with an abyss in the heart
or a screaming error,
going with a poisoned collar,
a hanging neck that is
the mark of death,

The great spirits are coming,
coming with a valued remorseful wail,
coming with a punched-up glossolalia,
dropping change and paper to a swift bucket,
with a slithering gown red
that holds the circuitry of origin
in the building of an accident world.

Octaves pouring out of the ground,
symmetry in motion,
destabilized text spilling
from the top of a smashed head:
acres of rot in the core
of a baby plum tree's trunk,
shivering and seeming near,
fogged in a thicket of alphabets
hugging my boots
and their precious mud to my chest,

fully out-maneuvered
by an unmoving thing,
both inside and outside of me:
engulfed by islands,
their breakage and surf and invitations,
boat landings for an infamous
and naked ass,
the flat and ragged stone
under the water
singing to familiar feet.

Fetching the long path
from the thaw
scampering blood vessel
lumpen poet returning
from the aching woods
holding a wishbone twig
and a pants-sized thatch of moss
having stumbled to glory,
having heaved and won a grey goatee,
a staff for dowsing
and declaring spaces named,
his fondest error

Horns make a hollow trunk
burrowed halls and paint spaces
belts bright and dim operators
tilling borrowed soil; his teeth
a mask of time and tobacco
only the wit's eye
that looks from the clouds
glinting sight
he said he would be with moisture

Taking out the stick to mark
a cornered goal, a blue chalk
mark above each eyebrow,
sorting mushroom tops and stems
you sit in sweatpants and jersey smoking
the lichens of an old stone wall.

TO HYDE ARGON AND HELIUM PARK

Muskoxen and lemmings
cherry bombs and roman candles
in the arms of spiral galaxies
the bricks and ivy of the ruined church twilight
ivory blossoms tipped with brown body of women

our sex is so deplorable that it is our duty to break the government
the blues of a sky shades of grey technologists
dark foliage greens, dark tones; same way the loom follows its weaving
gamblers, pollsters and atoms from these skylights their power reversed,
a small aperture and large f-number very solar in clotheslines,

numerals for numbers; designs in the studio where gentle breezes
are converted to depth depth depth of field, letters for unknown numbers;
the buckshot patterns on royal road to geometry
that astronaut mathematics should carry crackers
their organs of sense and perception throughout the universe, however different
the springboard for a pinhead dry in a few short hours.

Long skinny windows
like gills in the halls
of the big time art building
parasitic whales
inking like darkfish
wall to wall swilling
bouncing eyes and hips
struggling to the reflective wheels
and being churned under
for suds that bear their name
furious shanks and railway tracks
slicked and loaded
with a reeling heart
where the icicles drip
dark brown rock walls
and the headphones rasp
and the mind falls out
of its fast circuit
dripping current and lashing hard
against the lips of a balcony
where our saviorette sits
drinking a cigarette.

Over smashed clusters
vagrant families, rootless trunks
lying by the girders of a fallen system;
hollow rods with faint flowers
packed into the travels of the breastbone
building steam in my long legs
to walk over wires
and oily dishes' thumb-sized swirling;
cat's paw split in a bent-over eye
quick heaps of falling water
at the ends of huddled halls
sun in the cracks of a grated wall
piercing the poet's vest
with a varied keyhole.

Skies on tap with falling dials
snowbank sprayed with black steam
bamboo trunks through the ribs
of a singing man
blonde days in the blade fan
wagging an entire body like a tail
stacked cushions of appearance
on a sagging house
foundation sounding grit in teeth
a smoldering wilderness in one good eye
the belly and the collar
each a dish scrubbed once too much
fins of a weapon face sprouting
feathered jewels
on the carpet of the beard's rug.

Doors in the backhand slap
lid's inertia of white motion
yellow dipped supermoon
over the dome of death
yanking highways
out of the obnoxious sky
planting dagger seeds
in a sea of soil
flag's metaphysical flesh
ain't worth shit.

Posts on the way to ascending cloud
with a love of violent spirits,
and they with me dancing
and raving fake light,
and the evil of them beauty,
and my own evil beautiful as a jewel,
and the water pulsing in the middle planet,
and the others pulling.

Dead sea deserts bloom
somber grey rock that makes the vast drying forms
churning up fallen retreats for men and women
the earth with a layer of child-birth beds
the post of lady-in-waiting police
were drawn up on two rainy seasons
ridges over their eyes blossom
and frozen flowers of every shape
and gardens of stone parasols
their bones claim that a swimmer is safe
as long as he stays under the ancient tales
the animals, small, burrowing creatures
may go through life without drinking water;
the wind-harsh, soilless terrain shaped by lack of rain
the land of the sun bare lands
sequinned are innumerable stars.

My malevolent insignia
crowds the baby borders
brights lichens to paint posts
boffing stumps with mushroom hollows
bicycle wheels on long-throated roads
humming past pots burst in soil and roots
pillars of sensation, big tails of slim-led
boring regulated traffic, sun bursts's digital slime
and the platform aftermath:
vines on the porch steps
calling to brine and steaming mornings;
licking hailstones tiny as text
from a pocket gravestone.

Arms and armor gorge
sweet-water lakes and streams, the springs and underground hunger-strike
water tables layer on layer who thereupon picked me
the soil into rock curiosity
the frail leaf mouldered to anchor in the outer harbor
our women went forth to war to the god of property
I refused to go with the men police
we steamed the white star tender
one woman from a food driven into lungs
the enforcing of the infamous law
two huge grey warships transformed into furies
two women, spray drenched dashed across speechless
conveying me, the general public.

Fielded by mitts of thieves
in a golden tallboy:
tossed by the rain
heavy into bowing trees, a painter
crusty fingertips clutching dugout steps
listening to a heated shower;
the stripes of a visionary
experience in the emergency light;
stem on fire for a rose canvas
bleeding vacant air.

Stillness in the belly of the noon
like a knife in water.
She swan hands,
tugging apron canvas
stretched across a dim wall
back-plated in fake flower wires
snagging the undergrowth of mildew rugs
ripping and breathing.

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.

Fingers tipped in blue
teeth pink crested violet worms
girders of rock sprayed snow
long rubber worlds to anti-gravity in
bitch pussy perched in the hallway's glove bottom
bone castles sleeping on hidden mats
dreams fanging out like holy spirit flame
from infant heads gone white
high floors they steam with spinning discs
on desiccated sticks
mouth grey with fog
and the forked tongue's eyes.

Under the shrink wrapped dawn,
among the totems of racist love,
trying for an untainted coil,
over snow trod alien by chains
long leaves in the view screen of the planet earth
tendrils cross her eyepiece and her sweet cavern talking
drawers stacked on meat and flaming cannot
take from the stream of capacious love over her errors
rhythms and unrhyming life
strutting seas on stilts that bag land
and her fearless hands in an aisle of shocked shacks
pine scented thumbs and positioned rocks twined together
in goat beard ropes and egg belts
in the neighborhood of landed stars and parched earths
being god of zones and laser light trafficking
curlicues of revolutionary meaning
in the spokes of a pizza shelf
or the slicer's sleeping wound
selling butt to the iron-hard moon.

My furnace is clean
with wallpaper of baby prints
square brick tunnels in my item head
ready for runway spilloff
and the lips broken from stasis
barriers of human trinkets have
bars of glass running vacant script
smoking forefront of a magazine stand
grates shined and lipstick chalked
a murder turned to symphony of sex
turned backward time
in a slurry of orbits.

Blood molecules whipped
through the tunnel of space
flecks on my mask
brighter than eyes from dispatched lives
long ships inhabiting the skin stretched over bright miles
planets in cloaks of hunters
game projecting gorgeous rays of death
over the hot breathing hills
heaving streams in steaming emission
bath melting time that has brought them there
lives gripped like the hilt of a sword
by histories that have assigned victims and executioners
with the strength of fading roles
whose empty future is their power
the speed a murdered landscape offers
the beauty of speed and passion for power without love
perfection of power to hide its need
in manners that scrape green away for grey
in clothing that assaults the cleanliness of the void
through the ridges of trees
and the power of water to swerve
the countenance of satisfaction
held up upon a severed head.

Sword the width of torso
already passed through
the rectum above frog legs,
bent ribs stabbing popped eyes
blade splitting throat and shoulders
senses flicked away like beetle shells
antennae on metal's reflected wire
bone clunking blade
heart's a burst berry
slipping its peel
lungs little flappers
smashed colors that leak long stems
into the uncaring earth.

Long lanes of blood eggs
for rubber hands and eyes
serrated light in webs gleaming cut ribs
slick floors spraying rainbow teeth
wheels punching earth with a thread
spoke fingers and split nail pussies
office equipment of the spine
tapping buttons with blades
lenses the skull taps cars with
speeding death in a hand's grip
pools of slime that were his sight
frying on the rooftops of empire.

A molten fist wrapped in wings of glue
brick tracers and skin poking arms
reaching over a hill's spine in a willow loop
brambles on fences of knives
armchairs of foam fists
eyes scanning from a stuck window
knuckles through the earth
pout lips from the crack of a rock
the hinge in lava
pulleys on a fire wheel
a featherless acre.

THE SLOWPOKE WINGS OVER THE MOUNTAIN

My stick floats autumn with golden horns
jaws low to the ground and an opaque center, the opposite of herds
red fruit glacial debris along intersecting networks of chasm luck
positions of elongated shape around the crater Copernicus
tablespoon meteorites would have struck the moon quadrant of the garden; onions grow

Cubes cracking at the corners
give leaking light to fiber optic engines
that curve breath, move bloodless flesh
to a multi-sided dome,
tap glue into the nostrils
of a dancing corpse,
and reassemble when
their width has met
their blades with molten congruence
through the hanging dark,
through the stone fence
shorn wool blows up against
and all the split rivers
of the heart that's torn
by the land it has become.

At boiling pinnacle
what happens to everyone
effects me,
like a cancer going,
like an empty laugh
and I keep the noise
to a normal level,
shrinking the parameters
I was meant to shatter
with a wince inside
that builds a hollow cage
where a bird is
swinging without a swing
and without a snare
singing guess what

Shackles of sand invisibly held
glint and bulb
on the hot lava pool
where the eyes bend
and pores open to the flip
of a paintbrush.

Salty ass beaver by the sweetened shore
punks along smoking pill after pill
wires cross the wooden belly
paint drains the esophagus
wheat stabs a club limb open
light after light leaves the closed fist
a brick is a pair of hearts.

I scalpel the hilltops touched
by my spirit octopus,
lipstick gun shaped twigs in shopping carts
beards and panties gathered together by kerchiefs
on the waffle wires where we roll and clutch
down the hillside shadowed by dancing fortresses
mutually negating kisses that bodies freeze to stick on
high torsos gripped by legs and sex lashed chrome
the buttocks of fame the wooden flask of the unmapped wood
the wonder of fifteen to seven
lobsters fucking in harness
while money honey sculpts in signs and lacking water
the gathering and lawgiving evolved
with their little water pistols set on stun
I part the clouds and put the clouds back
my magnet leash does not deny the waterglass;
I lay my blade on wrapped butter
and lap bread like a dog.

Dim set eyes in a long corridor of light
blanked by wide looks
they don't dare glance back at
frames that wink at oncoming cars
the gilt-edged sword of the tongue
moving and moving
clumps of labial clouds
over the sparkling trailer park
where I run in from broken woods
for handmade structures that glint to my limbs
seething sinews of invisible strength
the heartache of gains in blood
sternly deposited
and the howling inside that
history does not express
failing to wander.

Sky's a bright dangler
blood bird on a thick wire
frigid eyes in an empty hangar
chains painted daisy heart yellow
the ribcage squeeze of a compacted train
doors shooting open like lice
the torch on such a pretty brain
strips of history in color slashed and slapped side by side
edges agitating to slip through the last cracks of a sealed world
noisily sculpted beauties sneaking looks at the drain
to be sent under valleys in the piss of the enemy
and arrive in the blanket of their own tongue
friends of dust and stone on a raging shore,
speed-needle wiping the sun
with a ship of long branches.

A long thin jawbone filled with nails
white boards stained by the sap of the sun
wide black lenses on wet cement
thick trunks forked and rooted in the earth
a dragon of erasers with paintbrush fins
rolling like a tumbleweed to a Persian rug eye
the thrum of a happy cat
in a world of falling water and bright beams

IDEAL

The sky remains alive with June
the rose-pink sun dips for a little while
in the valley of concrete kisses I am
child of the sphincter that showed me out
doused with chemical lights and dancing wet
coming over the high roads with a skeletal friend
filled with all the voices that have left me bored
smitten in the high forehead
by the incomprehensible woods
run through the oval between glowing hills
over the tar tongues licking steel rails
over the rubbing alcohol porches'
launchpad of the potato gun
circuits in sleep under blood red sheets
swerving and looping river faces
bodies down the mind drain
signed by grey pens in growing ink.

Filed down to a bone heart
on which the little molecules of glass
keep dancing.

Eyes in a hood of sculpted steel
peering to the comma of a cave's mouth.

Walls of hard earned life that are
slats in a collapsing mansion
explosions touching rubber limbs
the roots of prosthetics scorched
by the lungs of the larger financial animal.

Two sticks of wincing brain
fizzling embers with unmeant kisses.

And a shit-hog wallowing
in his destabilized crucifix
lashing the magnet to his necktie
whose pull recites the numbers of death
from a tower of mouths flung down,

the dissected ancestor
in a field of forced bellies
gleaming.

Milk on a sun dial
trickling a broken circle
palm-lines imprinted in sand
coins with nicked edges
turning in chipped eyes.

Wheelbarrow fire crashing on tumbled grass.
Fern-tops and wasp bodies
sharp ovals linked by faint flesh
rumps on turning leather
skeleton leaves blown from the gemstone
frozen to the water of life
winged slave of the air.

The tilted doorway of a sea cave
belches oars in and out
on obscured blood.
Foam dyed by essence
painting rock with spoiled DNA.

Runway off the end of a tongue
tracks multiplying tracks
to the bulb's wall of prisoner sky
a pill brain shoots out of the skull's multitudes
many floors of glass where half-eaten eggs burn
through the plates
pipes crammed with bundled meat
filling pans with blood jelly and white styrofoam light

Sister rain with her gum drops painted on cans
headphones flower-born from barb wire
toilet paper hearts of unreached hands
aching for the worm of the galaxy
harm's lips with a snipped lactaid
the children of a bandaged bone.

Graphs of teeth and pink flesh,
glimpses through a great wheel of pure disorder,
swords on marble floors for the caged hands,
sidewalks salted with wishbones,
trees billowing like water salad,
trenches of the dirty sea
buried in a licorice twist,
peaks of snow capped with the blood
of a king child,
sprouts from the outer dimension
tapping remixed I'm.

The brush's handle
broken between fallen walls,
a mind still painting.
Bricks soft at the corners
like the teeth of a beaten god.
In and out of porous borders
to retrieve the handle,
scratch the duct of the forebrow's eye,
popping in the grasp
of a dissatisfied priestess.
Oil blossoming on sharpened stone
in the dusk-beaten womb
of the last hour.  Frightened eyes
learning their enemies
adding dances
to the battle in a dusty mirror.
Frenzies from the core of the earth
making the pipes sing
to their broken apex.
Languishing weapons of sex
in the furnace of abandoned loves.
Countertops swivelling
on lands of wheat stock
and fertilized tar.
Bamboo shoots
sanding sockets of turning skulls
that have seen their ecstasy
plop to earth from the arse
of a disenchanted giant
whose ribs are the slaves
of biologic hate--
a fan of knives
leaking belts of blood
on the shackles of an empty covenant.

Broken-backed stoopers
painting the bridge's undergrowth
with the spit from their mouths
that flows with many shades
from behind the gums,
from the deep beneath the jaw
dig these color capsules
out with their blood,
to artfully smear the river
of concrete death and blockage
crushing past their path.

Dog food hills
doused in fire water
big green out of the hot blue earth
blades of dinosaur tongue slabs
neck-gap flossed by veins that are flying bats
barb wire teeth in cocoa butter
sunsets frilled with poisonous gills
a card signed by a severed arm on lingerie pulleys
coat hangers of frozen dust
roses of glass on the furnace gun
the hand grip of godlike forces
descending limply in water.

Pills of sealed pine
nudging lunar eyes over the ski slope
lodges packed in wind and gobbling tar
huge cans of what the field gave sealed in tin
the lingering of a hand on the ax
pathways furrowed with limp receipts
temples sculpted in craft of shadow
coins tugging strings shot through their muted faces
high roofs for the bare feet of prostituted prophets
grass mats in an oil slick
sweating from the warfare of their dim ideas
hills bulging with ice cream cannons
mated tassels struggling loose from a heap of seed pods
long lines of wire smoking on the fertilized mountains
satellite towers thatched with abrupt branches.

WHEEL, BICYCLE, AND AIRPLANE GAIA

Panties, stockings, bras--globes of Earthlike worlds
the rings that circle a gas giant a curving crescent of light
labyrinths that looked like branching antlers of the stag-horns
the vivid green band of palms and the metal was crumbly with rust
beneath polar ice and large mouths lined with a goddess hominid
a popular disc-jockey soars, groans, swings, sings, solos
in beards, babies, and beehive hairdos
on the fence between the mechanical and
nothing but a dead-black rectangle.

THE BUILDING OF AUTUMN MOUNTAINS IN THE BEGINNING GOLD

Folded hills that mist over as dough hits tables
gloved to roll day's flour and bamboo
I remember all my lost bitches fondly
log cabins wild in the dawning of high new england
caves crackling open to the hang glider's mind
fingers bobbing over cups of moss
earthen boulders burying a shopfront
thumbprint nickels that identify the sun
floors of aching vagrant music
blanket wrapped ribs and dim eyes
pool's hurricane of leaves and apples
swirling fiber optic forehead's brush
twinkling on ancient photos
seeds in the net that holds untapped
the scum of an untouched hand.

Stillborn beauties
heat-slapped
on the hearth of a radiant fire
speaker wire wrapped around the mustache slab
yelping hollow and tall
losing limbs in bags of blood
losing face in the bellowing air
stitched on granite eye-cubes
talking to a crooked letter
billowing streamside bushes that track the air
with plant knowledge and overcome the trees
the buckwild servant of laughter
slapped on the ass and running naked far;
stones on the lids that have passed
rivers through the eons under rivers
whip curling around the lips that kiss death.

Falling paths that scrape the canyon without claws
streamers of bent wheat tempting the wind
rivers of ruinous poisoned concrete
swallowing rabbits and goldenrod
steam in the vents of a broken godhead
swirling pots of alchemical death
chewing up the chainlink
graffiti hands pinched under a bridge
that emits a bubble gum smell
given by hot torches that spray
the black onto grey,
and the eyes out of the current
that have seen their prey in the mirror
and lay down their arms
on unbroken glass.

The ledge stabbed with chairs
cracking in glued air
planks drifting in mud eyes
the diamond of the anus
on the third forehead
rubber wheels drummed
by the bumping of severed arms
in their inner circuit,
cliff pouring with crawling bodies
that have tasted the filth
of an incomplete death,
split cedars grinning with hate
from a monkey crack.

The arch stretched by a bubble's mask
the universal gate turned to a doghouse
the cosmic turd lowered into a brain pain
that grinds its paint for blade-filled brushes
cutting dances into walls for rhythmic falls
that move dust like light
from the vacant mouth's
tongue of crushed eyes.

Through the escaping nets of trees
the unhinged doors turn like screws
to deposit eyes where the blind body sat
on rock wall's moss ridges of mineral rising
like weed through bones
the linked fingers of hooked hands
pulling magnet's taffy of blood
down to roots for the pine climbers
always ascending and falling veins
waves of pattern'd air over a cracked hive
elevators hiss through crumbling soil
a kiss opens two halves of wheat
and the sky dumps light.

Grey tips of incandescent surging,
a continent of sponge purging its underbelly
with planetary light,
roots from broken shafts
of hologrammed soil,
ring rain of the exploded earth
painting dirt in hot ribbons--

revved-up water boiling and eating,
highways mushrooming into volcanic deserts,
signposts stuck through the farting belly of man,
flowers of penile skin meeting the all-american cheese grater,
dripping onto the steel belly of a belted woman
follicles of the sky's torn birth
firing the oil of crushed nerves
through her shitted hair.

The panes of the waning staircase
fading in a far field
fog and brambles
bloody cushion the fallen body
the longest branch
eats hands and mouths
glass holds the body
and sends through its transparencies
a shot-up apple
long linoleum floors where a water cup has fallen
and viscera flows
hampers of folded rye
and the food of reptiles
languishing on the end of a sword
to store up a frockless dancer
and spill pants on the runway
she has slashed and planted.

In the burning lands,
cradling the failure of the body,
plumes dancing on the oiled horizon,
wood standing that the hands of death haven't reached,
maggots coiled in the footprints that have filled with cowardly blood,
rotten eyes slit by falling bark,
angles of ripped hair exploding from a mountain peak
at the end of a field's length
rolled by steel and steam
mating with dark water,
green stalks shivering through
the stigmata of a dead hand.

The blazing insights that cleave
one from another, could they be made
to unite?

No.

Slopes pushing lips of mud
the river pursues its canyon.
Boat's tail snipped without blood,
houses whirling on the tips of fingers,
a cricket on the nose of every witness,
a crackling in the sex and vortex
that is insectoid, troubling the oars--
rivulet after rivulet of android brains
clotting the pipeline with
reptilian thought's traction--
handhold on the suction cup,
stadium size upside down.
The eyes of a hanging dummy
shot with eternal recognition.

Pastures glazed with the honey of blood.
Screens stuck to bush branches
wobbling in a light bath.
Roads from the eagle's head
cascading in helmets and ferns
invisibly with black tar.

Dumpsters hosed by propeller hands
sunshine rust made fit for living.
Lampshade eyes hovering to scan
the nude favorites.
Trees crumpled like paper
salt packets on a wide grey
cafeteria table.

Severed legs bumping
like special effect snakes
on the aisle's water.
And the blinking numbers and quotes
that no longer mean anything but the unanswerable
question of all that once did.

Shafts of pathway breaking the night.
Human toys lost in the woods glowing.
Logging roads blocked by dead machines and live bodies.
Plows passing that have scraped bone.
The weaponry in rolled-up eyes
increasing its gushing glue
minute by second.

Even for the thrill of safety,
I don't want to live under a man-made sky.
These skating apparitions and slanting trees
will join me in the highways of the whirlpool
trading flesh for my impact crater's child,
wild of luxuries that have left their mark.

Goat body in yarn
eyes fringed with hooks
shorelines painted with animal heat,
seagull's belly held in the hand like a banana,
nets of wind holding back a universal tongue,
trapped in the mutating sneer
of a form submerged too long in its bath of birth,
acids of vitamin-drenched juice
in the buds of a flaring reptilian ear,
he listens to the sirens he will eat
when their peach figs capture him.

Woman of long cloth and hidden archways,
smiting my walk with eyes,
torching the bridges sadness brought
to this bright veiled island,
swimming the sky with untangled wires,
pulling the drum skins tight and resonant
before leaving the partial exit
of my sorry head, with a tongue
tied tight to the roof of my mouth
and a wound no longer gaping
sewn up in arabesque.

My mouth turned
into a blood ukulele.
Streets of country beauty
strafed by metals
of a fallen city.
Materials climbing the air
that had yet to taste
a human lung.
And the fettered kisses
of a crashed cab
in a twilight of black red wine
and pebbles crushed by thumbs.

Ladyslippers
turning the vagrant's forehead
pink and eyelike
stems and bulbs that
tremble to catapult
in the hot earth cold
needles on the rib's vein
that rainbows between
broke-down houses
engine torn on a stone walk
the smoking ears of
a body-walked head
whose thoughts are shot through
frame beautifully used
tagged pirate silk
pouring through the gates alone
with the shadows of dead
used friends all around him.

The slugs come up to the sugarbowl
to see if there's anything left.
I'm sleeping in a rancid hallway
frowning at the flicker over a blanket
when the nubile crackers roll in.
They remove the vacuums
and electric cords, chattering
like disrupted birds.
Their bulbs are all over
the eyelids I keep down.
The see through ceilings lower the sun
on to the greased napkins
and paper lids, our naked limbs.
And all the lights turn to paper reps.

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.