Ill, Illusory

The Young Bloods sing their figmented blues
On the streets that lay like made beds
And their voices blow like a gale
Reaping the flowers of Space and new territory -beyond.
It opes hollow hearts and parts lips anew gossamer.

Look at these children,
Open wide and screaming throat smiles,
Millions of misfortune, bantam Americans
Dream in the day while their bodies
Mourn dead energy.

We are One, Look Closer, One is We

There is more to a tree
Than the dark grains of wood.
There is a dark age of rings
Hiding foliage in the womb.
And sand, little lustering opiates
Of the desert groan and howl
Building false monuments
Like angels without an altar.

Sour Wine Envies the Thick Wit of Blood

Another day becomes night in the Opium den.
There goes the sun- drunk
I've seen it rise and fall
From lethargy to life,
and back again.
Tis' but a black light buzzing my skin
into the most sodden pallor.
And on the tabaret, une bouteille de vin
Sinks into my muscles
How gently they sleep on the bone now, weaklings.

I have heard that under my breast
Lay hard roses in full bloom
And a tyrian haze at the cheek.
And when the vin soaks in,
Sardonic chasms teem my brain.
For I braid the voices of a dulcimer
Into the sky, a ministry made of sunbeams
Shaking the lustful harp like hands of savages
And stones, opal stones remove themselves from nature
to be the bridge for the crossing Gods in you.

In Mihiragula's Mana

Earth be still enough to hear thine heart
skip slick like a stone upon a spring.
Observe the frightful imbalance
of ones own personal fever.
In days of snowfall atop a high den,
one can not even hear its' cold flakes
knead into the ground- invisible yeast.
Take mercy from the constant buzz that holds
like a cloak calming the night, with velvet shoulders.
Until street lamps like halos ring...

Tis' a clarion bright and blown
revealing the secrets of Sages
sitting between the corridors.
What do they reveal through high minds?
Ave Maria!
Not of female form, but of a divine sphere
and the lamda of all that was,
and remains as is.
Moronic Madre,
Mary of Maroetic Lake, revive!
We will find time in your resurrection.
We've quenched our bones with blood yet
we are still going deaf, we are going blind.

There will soon come a time when
the mana of my verse
will derobe even the God Al mightiest
and trail like the ivory screams of elephants
entrancing the White Hun.

Portraiture of a Coast

I was triumphant in my wandering
as a tool outside the shed
I layed under the skeleton sun
and rusted into lead.
I bestowed you my hands
like some souvenir
we wrote the words
of things unheard
and like a surplus
of Texas hay
I felt you in my bones.

You were born under
a wounded moon
some low month like july
you stood tall
with scraped up knees
starry from the falls
and like your moon
you remain wounded
like a beneficent sailor lost
and searching for the call.

These days I see life
through a scope
all the faces, so close up
all the people, small.
I was feeling once
and I was fickle twice
and I saw freedom
in the eyes of my father,
a ghost.
He faded into sinless laughs
by lips of calabash
parting like parched stalks
on a lonesome farmer's coast.

Written on a Playboy, May 1988

For a romantic in the cold,
there is only solitude and self-pity
harrowing in the body, hesitantly
pulling downward never painlessly,
in a cue dawdling always behind me.
At the top of the staircase,
all of the air in a square,
square, square, square
the cries echo corners and
you can not help but desire the bottom.
I do not want to fall but my eyes,
they have an impulsive love affair
with angles and air-
To give my fruitless carton
of a body some Freedom
from the ferocity of tomorrow.

The tenor of all the noised voices
dangling me on strings
this way, upways, no, no-ways.
Friends there is no room for your hospitals.
I will not fit into your hungry hands.
I live in fear.
I wish to be afraid of something real
like a loose mutt or a killer.
As a child I would pinch myself
to redirect the pain.
For there is no difference between
the past and now.
You are everything you were,
romantic or not.

I am still under the covers
with my nails digging
the tops of my hands.
And further still,
breathing the air feels
like a climb up the stairs.

Alas, Alack, FIN!

It is a dry spell, this lost love.

In the operandi of letting go
you are plagued with a
reverie that has dismissed
its judgements, its manners,
its debts to its own consummation.
This recollection of what has been
is but a severed sentiment
unable to see with the sun
in its eyes, unable to feel
even under the fullest of moons
and surrealist eclipses.
Even if Time weren't
some sculpture we climb,
the past would be inborn numb
like sleep walkers cradled
by their soft steps
tussling like babies utterly
unable to grapple the stretch.

The brooding memoriam
would be crippled to beg
for an ending unlike this.
What is to fear most about such ends?
I do not recall birth
but I will bask in the gallantry of my death.
If I could remain suspended
in the moment of my heart's ease,
I would wield the Albatross
infinitely, with fire
in the palms of my hands.

Alas, such bloodless flames
Alack, the bloodless end.