Souls for centuries, they
tower to the sun upon the step
stones of conquered
civilizations.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Ravine
We throw it into the ravine
chicken shit cat shit lawn clippings
crosses ashes things that fester from
generation to generation, a red rusted
tractor, bones from famines past, bones
like taxes and tyranny.
The wind blows through here.
It purifies.
chicken shit cat shit lawn clippings
crosses ashes things that fester from
generation to generation, a red rusted
tractor, bones from famines past, bones
like taxes and tyranny.
The wind blows through here.
It purifies.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Jellyfish submarines
When the leftovers of focus
dwindle, we expire. City by city the lights
are consumed by longitudes and deluged
by distractions. Speak into your hand
with the one that severs. Each of us who
go to the mega cities, like lampposts seen
from the troposphere, like jellyfish submarines
who stumble through airport security with disposed
smiles and authorized liquids, we let down our
sails and drift through a revolving
door of lovers and loyalty cards.
dwindle, we expire. City by city the lights
are consumed by longitudes and deluged
by distractions. Speak into your hand
with the one that severs. Each of us who
go to the mega cities, like lampposts seen
from the troposphere, like jellyfish submarines
who stumble through airport security with disposed
smiles and authorized liquids, we let down our
sails and drift through a revolving
door of lovers and loyalty cards.
Strawberry samba
Portuguese man o' war
strawberry you have enough
satellites and karaoke machines to swoon
us in our sofas. You are a current of stings
poisoning the ages with high definition
reality behind the periscopes of cultural
revolution, bombing us from the periphery of focus
toward the puppet shadows of passing time. Lights
flicker through the film house. They eclipse into a golden
mean. And there is a samba from the strawberry
constellation where row boats drift through oval
windows into the accordion fires of the hinter
lands. She sings on her side cranking a broken turn
box as we dance like Russian dolls, one inside
another, through the mannequin
body of a thousand drawers.
strawberry you have enough
satellites and karaoke machines to swoon
us in our sofas. You are a current of stings
poisoning the ages with high definition
reality behind the periscopes of cultural
revolution, bombing us from the periphery of focus
toward the puppet shadows of passing time. Lights
flicker through the film house. They eclipse into a golden
mean. And there is a samba from the strawberry
constellation where row boats drift through oval
windows into the accordion fires of the hinter
lands. She sings on her side cranking a broken turn
box as we dance like Russian dolls, one inside
another, through the mannequin
body of a thousand drawers.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Nature incorporated
Technology will enslave humanity when reproducing
becomes a clinical procedure, when the natural family
has been separated into it's nuclear parts, and all
references to mother and father have been purged
from the rhetoric of education.
Elect man as they enemy of the Earth and he will proudly
walk into subjugation.
Plato, this is your world.
The architecture of generations has brained us with your corner
stone. I have an objection. Nature is not perfected but justice
marooned when the seeds of life are lawfully incorporated,
when the domesticated have become automated and finally
homogenized.
In Utopia there not peace but lasting death.
becomes a clinical procedure, when the natural family
has been separated into it's nuclear parts, and all
references to mother and father have been purged
from the rhetoric of education.
Elect man as they enemy of the Earth and he will proudly
walk into subjugation.
Plato, this is your world.
The architecture of generations has brained us with your corner
stone. I have an objection. Nature is not perfected but justice
marooned when the seeds of life are lawfully incorporated,
when the domesticated have become automated and finally
homogenized.
In Utopia there not peace but lasting death.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Green
I thought I would never
long for the days of barcodes and social
security numbers; it was such an innocent
time. Living came naturally; we lived for one
another. I was clothed in reflections, the
lure of years with it's celebrities and molotov
cocktails fashioned from the sacred
geometry of bubbles and revolutionary
Earth movements.
Our thoughts were trolled by
insurance companies and meter maids. The hello
thank you easy credit handshake
was slow deadly and neutral.
Given a choice of four answers
for every question including N/A. I'd
choose N/A N/A N/A every time
but it was no use.
The lights were fluorescent
dull and green.
long for the days of barcodes and social
security numbers; it was such an innocent
time. Living came naturally; we lived for one
another. I was clothed in reflections, the
lure of years with it's celebrities and molotov
cocktails fashioned from the sacred
geometry of bubbles and revolutionary
Earth movements.
Our thoughts were trolled by
insurance companies and meter maids. The hello
thank you easy credit handshake
was slow deadly and neutral.
Given a choice of four answers
for every question including N/A. I'd
choose N/A N/A N/A every time
but it was no use.
The lights were fluorescent
dull and green.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Fence Door
If this moment were a tunnel I would shape it into a horn
each note a pole shift in minute time
like the gold in peripheral heat lightening
revealing the wreckage of the most distant
and obtuse recordings of Beethoven you ever heard.
For every color gleaned from ancient poetry
there is a bell tower and stained glass chapel
built on an old angry hill
where the vengeful Gods of the old testament
have their symbols and endless
empire upon the Earth.
If this moment were the wind in October
it would find a loose fence door to possess with
violent spasms and vent the spleen
of the world through the darkest
holy wood.
each note a pole shift in minute time
like the gold in peripheral heat lightening
revealing the wreckage of the most distant
and obtuse recordings of Beethoven you ever heard.
For every color gleaned from ancient poetry
there is a bell tower and stained glass chapel
built on an old angry hill
where the vengeful Gods of the old testament
have their symbols and endless
empire upon the Earth.
If this moment were the wind in October
it would find a loose fence door to possess with
violent spasms and vent the spleen
of the world through the darkest
holy wood.
Microwave
I spend a second in your flair
like an intelligent animal
fascinated by chrome.
I change the channel; turn away;
turn on the microwave,
a sea of chemistry
moving between me
Beijing and the monster
movie clawing at my
heel.
The cat just ate a moth.
An animal crooned in the gorge.
The flow of instincts
is channeled down the
main wire blue line
crossing the red line
somewhere between a cell
phone tower and Starbucks.
I spend $3.95.
I spend my life in your
illusion,
distracted.
like an intelligent animal
fascinated by chrome.
I change the channel; turn away;
turn on the microwave,
a sea of chemistry
moving between me
Beijing and the monster
movie clawing at my
heel.
The cat just ate a moth.
An animal crooned in the gorge.
The flow of instincts
is channeled down the
main wire blue line
crossing the red line
somewhere between a cell
phone tower and Starbucks.
I spend $3.95.
I spend my life in your
illusion,
distracted.
Psychic Driving
To hell with the price of gas and street light cameras,
I'll pass right through towns like these, through
clusters of restaurant chains and convenience stores,
Going nowhere fast, no seat belt or insurance
with the abandon of someone of who's discovered
the parade of marketing strategies psychic
driving to the center of what motivates us basically.
A fractal glistens in the rear view mirror.
I swing by the Teriyaki House but it's been leveled.
In the parking lot graffiti on the dumpster
is strangely appealing with the wabisabi
decay of rain and bird shit.
A Miles Davis quote from the seventies
skips on the CD player.
I make my way through Vietnam Town,
cross the bridge, in and out of other cars,
into a residential neighborhood toward
the kid with a split level home, a beat box
and a prayer flag above his door.
I offer him a poem and he disintegrates
from the unkempt lawn.
Back down the driveway, exhaust, fresh road;
I head toward the amber horizon the ghost
of what transpired psychic driving
well into the night.
The CD skips
all night.
I'll pass right through towns like these, through
clusters of restaurant chains and convenience stores,
Going nowhere fast, no seat belt or insurance
with the abandon of someone of who's discovered
the parade of marketing strategies psychic
driving to the center of what motivates us basically.
A fractal glistens in the rear view mirror.
I swing by the Teriyaki House but it's been leveled.
In the parking lot graffiti on the dumpster
is strangely appealing with the wabisabi
decay of rain and bird shit.
A Miles Davis quote from the seventies
skips on the CD player.
I make my way through Vietnam Town,
cross the bridge, in and out of other cars,
into a residential neighborhood toward
the kid with a split level home, a beat box
and a prayer flag above his door.
I offer him a poem and he disintegrates
from the unkempt lawn.
Back down the driveway, exhaust, fresh road;
I head toward the amber horizon the ghost
of what transpired psychic driving
well into the night.
The CD skips
all night.
Awareness
Energy is not wasted
when time is perfectly crafted.
The custodian of time is death.
The depth of a moment
is infinitely divisible
While absolute.
when time is perfectly crafted.
The custodian of time is death.
The depth of a moment
is infinitely divisible
While absolute.
To Yolk a Rising Sun
There nightingale, purr a gentle gnarl
One last shrill to be shorn from
The loving recess of your breast,
A cockle's chamber of royal jelly
In the lavender pocket of your broth
There is a lark of becoming
Heathered by the dawn,
Where pass the pearls of starlight
Nightingale, spread your wings
An event horizon from where is feathered
Our cherished dove perched
Upon the broken harps of heaven
One last shrill to be shorn from
The loving recess of your breast,
A cockle's chamber of royal jelly
In the lavender pocket of your broth
There is a lark of becoming
Heathered by the dawn,
Where pass the pearls of starlight
Nightingale, spread your wings
An event horizon from where is feathered
Our cherished dove perched
Upon the broken harps of heaven
Improvisation 2
I am the child not the kid since a kid is baby goat. I offend the goats; these goats are easily offended. They are not offended; they are my words.
I remember as a child sitting upon tiny trees. I sit there eating wild berries. It's all there is. Tiny trees and berries.
I won't tell you about the hornets.
OK I remember: Here we have a long black snake taken from the brush and briars. Upon the road it's molested and teased by kids with sticks. This snake, furious, arches it's black back that glistens in the sun, and spits a mouth like cats.
These are my memories, my memories, as if from a tree they
drop rotten flowers; These words bloom and are quickly rotten.
Mommy please change the subject. Always she changes the subject and she goes on and on.
I tell you the stone walls of New England they go on and on. They are so lonely. They've survived long past the wooden shacks and barns that have with the years collapsed within their cellars.
I remember as a child sitting upon tiny trees. I sit there eating wild berries. It's all there is. Tiny trees and berries.
I won't tell you about the hornets.
OK I remember: Here we have a long black snake taken from the brush and briars. Upon the road it's molested and teased by kids with sticks. This snake, furious, arches it's black back that glistens in the sun, and spits a mouth like cats.
These are my memories, my memories, as if from a tree they
drop rotten flowers; These words bloom and are quickly rotten.
Mommy please change the subject. Always she changes the subject and she goes on and on.
I tell you the stone walls of New England they go on and on. They are so lonely. They've survived long past the wooden shacks and barns that have with the years collapsed within their cellars.
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