The high triangular office
caressed by lights,
inks of red blue and black
running in miles of transparent wires
to a hand's grip of jackhammer quills,
nine tails of broken bulbs,
a hillside collecting boots and celery stubs,
voices booming in caverns of mud,
acres of steam-rolled gloves,
the melted print of a day's work
spent carving molecules.

Long rings of disintegrated paper
going oval and figure eight
feet of oil and brow of encrusted stone
nucleic acid linked to a farmer's torch
the kernel's purple stirring under a yellow cap
pinched white, the drip's lid of vibratory particles
kissing the butts of sunken blades.

Cracked ridges
on the edge of the town's mouth
doors in snow
unfolding painted arrows
descending heels in canned space
microwave webs on a frying light
long mop trails painted water on marble glaze,
a whirlpool of dusted-off sparks,
strings and granules
filed in the seams of a spinning bucket
foam ceiling's electric drain
long crop rows of knee-high tables
paths whipping to smear windows
hot hoof-stains to train glass
the library's railroad
blinking by the mice of hands.

Slashing of town names town places
bashing a brick hole through
wipers on the dragonfly
scheming tender eyeing looking
with cultivated trashiness
at the trash gatherers.

Hearing the tank splash
under the stereo
the whipping of detached antennas.

The fronds erasing tribal words
generic words and words of forged humanity
tar paint trailing off into grass
religious words quarters of dollars
that are dead.

Slashing town names town places
seeing the outskirts through a fence
of goggled steel.

And breaking down into tears
at the designated area,
small shore of an eggy pond.

Nests dropping from their undergrowth
like buzzing eels.

Headphones catching the rasp
of the forest's woods
from an interstate wire.

Fingers of water from spilled flowers
on the ancient desk.

Trees rolling whole
as spokes in wheels,
coffee in the goblin's throat,
the dream of being the one
unclouded visionary, rescuer of all
worthy worlds, a mopper,
watcher of gears
hidden to task after task
pisser of motion-lit backwoods
caught rolling the red dice
into a wind tunnel
bellowing steel and wood
into tubing and pipes and wire.

Fourteen voices from
a visage ten decades wide.
Candles on the birdbath skull,
the rounded shoulder of a peacock hatchet
a flying heel,
a string of winged daggers,
masks of wool and dumb weather
whip-poor-will graces in the hummingbird shelves
holes in the prized paper
shitting its old thoughts
hymns to the rattled heart a hundred forty years
of wood and tablature
restored to grass,
the mountains leering.

We dreamed of runaways in emperor positions
slashing funds of juice
hand-patterns wielding glow sticks in empty air,
the hallowed mouths quacking.

Early hours with money and bright intoxication
in the evening dew
hunting lost equipment in the cone rain of fertile woods
clouds attached to phone towers like a flapping flag
a rainbow strangeness over the meat-stunned harbor
nets under glass of sucked-out
tunnels of water
eating an aphid smile.

Particle windows
flickering over a high bulb tower
carpet paths humming through deep-cut gardens
tracking lights around eyes in the land
brambles cleared from the silky flank,
the downy cartridge of smoke,
the dull wet capacity of the enemy.

Shingles raining on berries
jangling the frost on dark green leaves
pounding blue-veined fists
while the red sky quakes.

Black doves and banana peels
on the altar of a park fountain
an octopus man thumbing pennies
sheer and gambling spine-blades with trays
the pitter pat of rain attracted
sideways with a magnet iron.

Slammed up against the gelatin of the crowd
leaking anima
agony of the bent head
suffering solitude
in a row of prepared rivers.

Slain doorsmen gleaming
in a slurry film
on long marble
entrance room floors
before me
clutching a bell,
a dog's tail,
a whimper.

Moved into the sovereign area
of not giving a fuck.

Flinging power knee pads
bitch splittails on my porcelain finger
giving their intestinal tracts up to sperm.

And the sacred avenue lit
behind it all,
merrily winking and being
parked, arms of science
by music, tabletop
made bare for performance layers
the tape run out
in a crop scythed by
torn dresses.

Stamped in silver rain
where the brown edges are hanging on,
sidewalks longer than roads
towering above the trees.

Hulks of brick and wounded wood
glass entrances up against pink flesh.

Secretaries of photosynthetic shade
stuffing their mouths with big leaves
of inky daylight.

Old ships and bridges in dried-out suds
the pumping hearts of mouths in cliff-side plaques
tormented by water.

Fronds tracing the window
crack their roots.
Garden beds simmer and
come up like blocks.
Steaming walls of soil
blinking screens.
Backyards on a grid of sticks
rising like a cage from the earth.
Strips of cloudy vapor
sculpting frozen hands.
Yellow wax on the wounds
of a far-seeing face.

Potted lives
crawling their boundaries
like space-fed vines.
Sunglasses swallowing paint
and pouring concrete.
Stems in the orifice of the earth
making the sun wink
on a long-handled spoon.
Boiling skins and guts
writing cursive
on a leaning wall.

Apartment train cars
windows crammed with profiles and limbs
slinky necks and rattling knees
tracks pouring through town after town
never settling a city
in the diamond winking tar

flying linked through banks of snow
swatted by flying planet hands
mists of soaked sunlight and arching bones
long wooden shine on the surging floor
pink engines under the sink with green gloves
and the tangled hoses of transcended bodies

rent paid with blades and bullets
glued together in a looming island
floating overhead with its shadow tracking
desert rails and the milk of pricked cactuses
the script of trembling vinyl arms
apartment train cars

Charred banks of being,
ribs in the soil springing keys
harps with blueberry strings
long paths winking with holes and water
stalk shooting out of the ground
with green and pink buds
offering spikes of violent yellow flowers
to hands that are many and mine,
from swerves in air like water
and tender hooks snaking on flying wheels,
countenances in rock and barking miles
stuck to the life of wood and shingled tar
running electric wires to a sweet snatch
to be buried in sparks
and waffle mattresses,
wire hair.

Fried nocturnes into the deep night I don't find her
clothes flung on barbed wire to climb naked I don't find her
I push baths I move showered brushes
and bins of literate dust I'm getting tired of looking for her

moon syrup and salt flakes of banished skin
tarnished heels that map tables with scant wheat
spread legs and spread time and spread grin
the face of which is covering the earth in her reflections
where I am hiding in a leaf's tic
in a storm fallen through the basin of a park fountain
a bomb rusting through the walls of this antique cherry

plowing rings of sand the ripples of a thoughtful face
to a blade fresh from sharpening wheels
tapped like a tomb, like a mailbox
covering time for the wrong organ
circling a driveway with non-driveway tires
and pondering crushed soil with a hand of leather
on all the transparencies rolled down
blood dimming and dawning to be interred

through the spiral heart and the nexus gateway
where in our many we are one and not-one
sphincter and pressing orb
fluid brains and basking bodies
torn from the arc, become the arc
fledgling lips waxed in historical countenance
and rattled by the lack of it
bitches need like water.

Meat planks set up
in a neat array.
Beaming eyes
that have no focus.
Horizons vast
as these little hands.
Seaward looks
that return to shore
with a different squint.
Weeds over the eyes
of their captives.
Metal and wood
spanking glass.
Showers of sparks
that never land.
Hallways with infinite
supply of more hallways.
Slithering cords hugging
cropped mountain sides
and sifting rain.
Spines crushed through faces
by bulletproof canoes.
Tray after tray with feelings
by compartment served,
and no face responsive
and no body calling
over these vacant tables
where the breezes and lights
die so beautifully down,
and the vats of humming water
don't sign my name.

Wreaths of old neighborhoods
tangled with lit bulbs and dangling swingsets
mustache over the eyes
bright worlds in the dusk of thicket shade
seesaws on the sail's mast
a ship of pipes and pipe cleaners
airport paths stumbling through the body
key chains glinting in black mud
rocks winding higher in the hills
where their high walls tilt
to the ascension of shrooms and brown rabbits
wide rocks running with water
from broken moss and dripping caves
tape players built in to a red clay wall
blasting fog and pine needles
through the funnel of a team of bodies
a ditch of yellow roses
reflected in the plan of their eyes
the grid shanked by thorns before blossoms
ribbons at the bottom touchless tied
bells winking like the end of a computer's day.

Wrens ripped
from the surface of the earth
tar and partitioned benches
seaside eating castoff bread
my friend in drugs is scratching hard
nibbling the corner's edge of eternity,
with his grimace flashing insight
shorelines wrapped like ropes
around his throat and crying foul
at concrete walls bolts of lightning
repainted in the dragon's funhouse mouth
the exit through an ice cube
nests set on epoxy blobs
the ceiling of a popped world
there my virgin first car
wears a wig of leaves
brown as the ground of being
cones delicately darkening
bright lights bashed open
I'm a curling tongue on my knees
on the hearth she's breathing
through the tilt of a straw hat
stripped heels, ass pillows
and the throng of me channeling she
to the stuck garden of no shadowed moon
on beards of sparkling terra
skin twitching to shed antique
attitudes and the blues of the arches
that set us on world after world
I'm a napkin sun
she's a fog winking its way into silk
headwrap & mouth
on my parchment foreheard
my script determined she kisses.

Yards on each sprout
families playing without ground
in the steam familiar;
vines on aftermath screens
climbing and climbing cans
stacks and labels and grenades of beer
suspicious boss eyes
under the dome of my thought,
always some fuckin boss eyes
someday I'll snuff 'em out
and firecracker away
some dim morning sun's calling

yards on each sprout
a whole yard to each
yeasty blossom.

Particle fractoids
mussing giant follicles
plugged rain
parenthetically falling
the ledges catching
remains of the moon
lips tracking a picnic spill
and a jar of dark jewels

yards on each sprout
far and wide haircuts of bronze
and ebony glaze
shelves of bodies that will not fly
and many who'll pounce
skyward with no calling
unraveled under the clown orbit
of the called, boy following a bowling ball.

ANAL

The maw picks, and the thistle strikes
dawn is a cracked keg in the ringing of a grey living room
swaying canvas of roses and pig drawings
wire stem hedges and floating concrete shards
a deep armchair and a flask friend from a friend
furies in the bathtub and the tender rings explored
that had always been holding visions captive.

Under the eagle of light,
the mirror claws.
Gliding over its eyes,
the fire of distance closing.

The penciller crouched
on a calm blade of chair,
facing the expanse
with walls and doorways
up his sleeve, raining plaster.

Turning to the gasp of wings,
a blue shade brought to a point
of chalk made rubber,
a red line under a see-through mouth,

and a yellow line
under these winter months
on a whipped bed
where a pile of mated coats
opens cufflink doors.

Boundless terra
folded in the paths of deer candy
with a car key and a discarded shinguard,
love divided and hacked further
by spartan needs
swaggering dispatch of raw labels
grinding a slough for marbles;
marked space deep
outside earth's atmosphere,
yet with a flag on a long spear,
a volcano wreck in glass partitions,
a long but vacant gaze
searching the shells for tongues
and the towers for streaming furs
whipped aristocratic buttocks
and the smell of blood steam,
song script latched
in arabesque pen
around the dark ribs
of the water tank heart.

The ledge pours
green water and uneven furniture,
branches to break on
above webbed rocks,
bent birches and seedlings that stab,
blood from the lowest dip in the pool,
the crackle of a speaking ear.

Moss parts on the rock,
the stone clit is a prism
the sun gets stuck in,
to be evening, to rip liquid,
blow vine through hosiery,
ruffle the rags
on a peak encampment,
and circle the irregular dome
to drip sap from helicopter blades
into rivulet trays.

The bright electricity
of punctured rooms,
blades of delayed bodies
pushing air in parallelogram cubes,
setting a pointed star
of threshing floors,
the summit's flaking skin
a lidless eye pressed to red mica
in the hinge between worlds.

A platform of wrath from undersea,
the spilling claws and high-piled body shells,
lips stained together on a crying rock,
quartz mashed in granite eyes riding a flagpole
with no rope, on the prison shore
blooming with hyacinth chains,
long planks of men's faces and imaginary bars
gathered into a pile burned
down to an arm-breaking
paperweight.

Scales on the sky that have dragged
their dots and lines over the cum-stuck sand
to be draped in limousine gardens
where the guests lie stacked in uniforms,
greeting the under sky,
the stone's lid, the writing hammer
and the long sharp leaves of a shadow
without permission.

Blood-thick fingers stirring
in an upside-down glass.
Heavy heads breaking ornate necks.
Corridors that the stomach knows
in their numbered depth.

Sinkholes of rainbow gasoline
giving way to ink hearts,
a treeline sprinkled
with bottle caps and eyelashes,
the water punched and smoked
re-poured and poisoned
ultimately flowing over.

The black Madonnas among images of grace,
tying the ship to a whale heart
trigger in the clouds,
faces of grim beatitude channeling rain
and happy with the sun,
the ant hill salted with guns,
my twin mamas.

Stumped at the podium,
the drag line, the soup kitchen,
I wandered looking for my name.
I found it in burnt metal
at the back of a grocery store.
I propped it up on favorite icicles.
It fucked around with a readership.

Powdered memory, the king of a bucket of leaves.
Worshiped in refractory back circuits.
The prey of certain seeking conduits.
An armed looker making armed confessions,
the strength of his station
a portable rift that goes fishing.

Furs and fiery dosed coffee,
stacked against the thousand walls'
cartons of empty breakfast.
Taking another name,
with a bid-hand into the air,
I'll have that one, it's mine,
I will sear its framework
into these many minds.

Sludge and fist
and the joy of mercury
a ton factory for hollow brains
the holiness of slain dragons
consciousness captive to the host
lost in his loves and smash-ups
having out-run his mirror and remained

I will do away with this fossil nutbag
delicately for bronze-projected millennia
while he eats my cake helmet
and wraps my feet in seaweed
from his wet mineral drawer
pulling tags and salespeople aside
to make way to my heart

with a stretched letter of zero
a corked anatomy plug sheet
a monstrous cash flow involvement
hewing to the national murder
of the weak and hysterical
because their punishment
suits their central casting
and what central casting has selected
let nobody separate from destiny
let nobody unravel what destiny has afforded
let nobody ask and then what

Black frame variations
from within white flowers,
moving like gray ghosts,
my two mule binoculars
pick up the first flags of winter
only a few feet above
with a rush of sound,
a flock of nearly two hundred
signaling the cold thrushes to come.

Banks of majestic cottonwoods stand dressed like golden spires among the evergreens;
caps of snow timber and brush thickets resound with bird song;
stuffing themselves with berries to the point of saskatoon brush,
feeding on the dry bohemian waxwings
through the blood-red patch of eggs and fledglings done
craft and care taken in their building of a canyon to go
other of the tribe of the world.

Decorating the face with color, ripening the grass and splashing the leaves of the
mythical land: of Eden, California, an island
peopled by a swarthy, robust, passionate race of
women living manless chivalry and derring-do,
the past is also lovingly maintained.  The state is golden yet.

Among them all, only the rough timberline
on the mountains, the September larches stand
the first flocks of migrating sooty-gray coots showing up on the bigger lakes
with their sharp ivory-white beaks and beating

From nesting splitting the wind their way with short wing strokes
in diving they are element, graceful and astonishing--a joy of grace and power

For they are the biggest of all deer and move pure
blood stirring with the first
and small songbirds already gone.

High winding violin strings pluck pine
over the theater's web
dashing backwards on rubber screens
tying pigs' tails to an unfettered gate
a kaleidoscopic sock
dripping out of exhaust pipe
bent paths in skirts of washed-up gloves
tires molding land to a mound
of blood salamanders
tiny hooked spines and detached tails
the question mark of orange flesh
clinging to broken bark,
the diseased motor
of a dreaming tree.

With a light not my own
I pillaged my scarecrows,
they stood in a yielding rain.

Terrible glory of spent hours
hitting the wind, some heat
on the back of that beast's neck,
there he goes.

Chasing days over the cliff's lip
like grains of salt.

Along the ground
in a g-string
and feathered hood,
first body from
the core of the world,
making the sun and moon
see.

Criss crossed pines
on the fuming ground,
borders rubbing together
earth's gash clenching
wheels of rubber.

And the wayward path
loaded with golf balls,
pocked orbs stomped
under the root's emptiness
at every step.

A cold gun fired
inside the reaches,
tugged at by the webbing
of the mind,
trying to find the right
moment to erode,
the proper rift between waves
that draw deep
to lie down in.

Stone slab fallen on
what occurred to the heart,
to memory.

The circle's frozen water
and a bench surrounded by
no other benches
where he can sit with a sandwich
and wait,
for it to happen.

Embroidery of webbed and silken days
catching fire with the lust of one look.
Gridworks of little deliberate rivers laid out
for desire to crawl over
on hands and knees.

Airport Decembers where the phones
dangle like octopus.

A skate of fire's blade
over tumbling ice,
split trees nudging
through parted hair,
fern cliffs mushrooming
lichen'd lips, headboards
of rice paper breeze
fluttering over grass
mattresses, eels flickering
figure eights in mid air
with bodies of multiplied
eyeball, gravestones tapped
under the snow between
black piano keys,
mouth-searing scents
sketching notes
on the torn forest's
orchestra, a spring's cleft
spurting latex gloves,
a woman of water
holding shape in sunrise basins
where the lunar tug is lashed
to a leaning mast, the sword
of a fresh satellite
teeming with gnats of lightspeed
and gaining gods.

I am the hand of death
in a fringe of lace.
The tar mouth bubbling wheat
from a core of soap.
Icicles of bone's blood
shooting droplet hearts.
Muffs of steel
scratching eager arms.
Yards of mice in rows
crawling into a metallic light.
Years in rubber-wrapped parchment
aching for the lines of a studying palm.
Owl eyes in retreat
from an owl body.
Star pebbles eating
through the bucket sides.
And a foppish haircut
crawling stone and yeast
to drape what dreams regret.

Quill-tongue, rippling oil,
gripped and firing gel,
a withering depth without air,
forked into the orb,
ledgers on file from dust rings,
heaps that trickle dust and rubber,
curtains cloaking dead emanations,
stilted houses shaking like teeth,
gems in fertile and gleaming coat,
milk feeding powdered bristles
in a fighting glove.

A choked rainbow, a chipped glass,
a sink arm, a deep brown drain,
a path through marble floors,
a doorway's incubus, a glass wing,
the bramble heart in plastic rags,
cracked bead of a torn wooden eye,
post leaning on a sunken sword,
rib's necklace flung through lungs
riding blood's corners, a flecked watt,
an excreting light, a hallway's flesh,
the mailbox heat, bumped
shadow of a paper bird,
acrylics in knuckle creases
pricking cells for milk.

Big drum belly
long wet leaves

lit sand on high scaffolding floors
trembling poles and wreck

a shadow collapsing on glazed wheat
grasses melted and torn combed alive with attacking light
hand tissue hammocks and swaying cat tails

claws pawing the flank
of the blanked-out porch.

Longs roads matching rivers through the broken snow
turpentine hands to pick off the clenching leeches
sandals on the hands that slap asses and paint-marked trees
nest in the hair that her tears dried
little blue eggs cracking
to dribble light on the hairline
a cavern in the bent path
by the root-torn soil
sun-blood rivulets in a deep and swerving trunk
fallen to break lichens on sturdy rock
dusted by popped mushrooms
and the whittled beaks
of featherless birds.

You strummed my armchair
and told me that I was love,
took diamond dirt from claws
and made cookies,

pans with patterned octaves
showing heat in rings
to read a glass ceiling
and rain bulbs of grape light

your haircut on fire with grease
the indoor dew of early morning haze
and the neighborhoods
shocked through with purple light
and blinking crooked

your eyes on a heap of ten men
pouring through your window way
and knocked back by a voice-like door
the half-rotten mouth
snatching baritone's rusty perfection

from the strung-out air
together with coin-tossed glasses.

GREG

My brother, your works are all around me,
your name is alive in my house,
your kitchen dancing is partner
to my kitchen dancing,
your chair I inhabited sits
in the longest empty room with nobody smoking
and I live in your outline lagging
and I ride in your words of laughter
as I soar to greet you where your music is playing,
and you have your vitamins and your vegetables
your drink and your mat of paint dishes,
your jugs of substance gleaming
and your walls broadcasting a breast stroke,
footrest of finger-crumbled tobacco
and charcoal pastel.

Hungering for the vortex,
shoe tangled in a drift of honeycomb,
the half-melted throbbing
of a parked car.

Ice poles swarming with faces
the heat of cold's touch
protected in wax.

Bearded eyes lick
the crack in the windshield
puppeteering a lunchbox.
Canine claws fly off
the rounded fur
and wag tongues
in a traffic wall.

Hand breaking the antenna's root,
the animated mandate of heaven,
searching the black frost
and battered lid of the lion

Stripe-cleaned teeth
foam red carpet robe of exhaust
mirror of a numbered room
like a knife in an oven.

Tone perfect death
light on sauce
light breaking over the poles
tossed salad in overheated Eden
tasted the stereo and its voice
the walls and closets and alleys
in wood and cotton behind it
in computer legacy and hollow staircases
the lost animal of my infant work
batting its coiled eyelashes
on broken paper.

World wrapped in baggie clear plastic
waterfalls that all have tags
spouts spouting without flavor
and without meaning
runs that burn through fur
through homes of wood and tar
feathery holes of questionable light
meat missiles in the emptiness of man
destroying lands in a boomerang orbit.

Mystery of empty panels
the onlooker leaving painted days
to mark his step on a cliffside door
fronds of mercurial beard
sifting the window way
where he leans out over a milk can;

films of butt
playing under the eaves
blip within the wasp nest
dripping electrical fangs
meat face in a lunar cage.

Bright banks mushing his dark sword
the monument benches where he slept
and dead cars casting their last battery
all on a whim of his
biographies collapsing and rising
like tin wheat.

Lamblike roads
trim to the circuitry of trees
pacing the spring's cut
and arrangements of fallen rock
boughs to guard bicycle paths
and chain link arches
thorns in a foot-thick jacket
teeth wrenched by the stems of leaves
and wiping veins against the soft star;
through machete clouds
the recumbent ink
blinks to despoil the ripe curb
of the stopsign landscape.

Of the halt hands by hot hands grasped
ferreting over a flood of green bulbs,
bellowing under bridges
to dynamite a microphone cord
through the center of the earth
dry funk of the crunch bark falling open
the backs of beetles' dust,
crawling rings in a strip of glade.

Her mouth and scorching husk
brought me to the oval
slabbing me on beds
to poke high in the screams
too thick for the ceiling fan

make the egg squeak
springs scratch a graffiti floor
sprite's homing signal, nesting on the highway
stripes that force the air
where his hot rod swerves lipstick wheels
and happens to oil.

Ashen hand in ashen hand
paths on paths on paths on paths
vine-led swing sets and beer and long rocks
washed by lakes that never come up too far
to wade in and taste the naked apocalypse without wincing
the touch of the cold rim's water
a layer away

the cracks in the copper opaque
files of mica and fool's gold
split by a knife of silver
faint organism on wheels
staring out of an octopus tree
with a yarn-bundled heart
a bank account drained in the umbilical belly
hot lips to please the darkening picnic.

I built my antler
on a sledge of salt and ash,
watching it slide
into the hand-tray's air port,
watching it take off with and without me
over swingsets and boom boxes,
fished with in transcendent crannies
laced with milk white mice
expecting and expecting
the rim's planetary solvent to melt off,
like a wet glove,
like a fine mask,
like a funnel-full.

This potency pouring out on you
is the force of life squared,
carved to the arrowhead on your shoulders,
splitting fibers of life to their nest core,
pennies flat to thumbs
from the glued fountain.

On the mountain's long side
grey rock spreading like shadow,
in the voice of falling leaves
a footprint with a long shelf life,
tread of lunar light
reflected in bark and leather.

Dismembered highways
flashing flower stalks
whirlpool hands
crumbling whittled tar.

Cones on high alcoves
dripping chlorinated light.
Spaces where the heart
has no more body.

A fire in an upside down fountain.
Stairwells jutting out of empty land
damp cloth against fading sight
hot wings in a bed of
orange and yellow vapors of form.

Long limbs moving in liquid transparency
over the cake crushed
of rolled-up dusk
in a handbag
or kissing on a bent bridge
to brush her face off.

Plucked by a shivering cable
he leans on the pop of the voice
and smooths it back
without a drink.

Belonging to the desert
embroidered with the silk
of her gone ways.

Earth's mysterious twin
a man plants his seed until he is something of a gamble
perhaps an accident of history perhaps in methods of water
a cow leaning against a big government photographer
field after brown field, just black, black dirt in Union

Clubs on rabbit hunt mountain streams
dust masks listening to the end of the world
hollow leaves reap to eat the crucible

in the times between storms,
when the skies cleared and the winds
abated, the farmers and townspeople tried

there was just everyplace
after the big wind had gone.

Long stick-strewn paths
wheels broke and fertile soaring
wet pillars out of the earth
archways of fire and deathliness
walked firmly under
and I am the spirit that roves
over all these streets
documenting and guarding
tracks of time tampered with
a branch that's testing roots
a shadow rife with seeds and words
an empty cabinet waiting open
in streaks of see-through wall
and wailing water.

Halogen bulbs and busy scrubbers
foam hallways and slight auditoriums
opening from the belly a vast wing
rib cage airplane hangar
tongue bulbous, reeking white paint
the vending machine cast of a broken knee
coins speckling his spilt buddies.

The curving forms of emptiness
have flattened out.
High windows soak in the black night.
Nobody sings to the unsupported air.
I am holding a jock strap stuffed with milk
carefully to guard its fountain drain.
Chairs and tables spread their legs
in each other's crossfire.
Pianos muffled at the end forks
of lengthening halls.
Keys that clang the backs of wrists
and do not deposit the spine.

I am charging through the careful wreck
of a blanked-out library,
peeling a live receiver
from the buttons that nudge my spirit
on a declining wall.
And the cloudburst of glittered feathers
coming from a shot-out loudspeaker
is just for me.

The ones who marked me hate me,
their forms are tangling the fence
I've made on a high border,
foot soles slapping long subway steps,
eyes inked into a cracked foundation,
hat bands feathered low on their understanding kites,
scars laid out in plaster that have mapped their way,
back tattoos that replace a sky's chunk of spine
hook deep in the gelatin that is left
and the celestial weave.

Plastic bullets and glue pistols stored within the genetic cell
lights coming across the pasture of frost-shattered rock
anchored to a limy cup, flashing gold and silver like animals
the magic realm shelf covered with green stream beds
giant clams and water millions
a great pollen blown series to the female sperm
the equatorial convergence with rushing torrents
a sudden pour that roar down the parched canyons
bowl worn rocks and cracked deserts are not complete
cement lake flooring dims the sun; these are the great
edges of its hardness

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