The vigil vulture white nails rusting in a black man’s coffin in the 60 years inch held tight in the fist of a voluntary night holding its resignations of churches tight enough to tell you where the puberulent Gods keep their age safe from the warring hands of man
Word stuck in the throat of a wayward need bleeding blue blooded Gods on the slab-sided slab where the Indians tom tom the last feather from Wounded Knee and Sand Creek now kept as a safe keep in the buried forgetfulness weeping its lost words in the breath’s threshold
O nail in the throat of 1864 your characterized connection lies wounded by the over ever violent transitional plantation where the prescribed slavocracy will not die out of the black man’s living history
When the night ache to see its color kinship chained and shackled to the sugar machinery of the Santo Domingo night that sweeten the grave not yet old enough to be forgotten by the yet unborn who shall come to rage their discovered plot with an independent breath calling then to the fore front of the house of the negroid commissioned sun
The body agrees with me that the punishments of the breaking military busted on the isolated and sufficient liberation evidence of the stone sunlight is a free gift that we can not return to the wisdom that have built its house of banquet spread its knowledge before the consciousness of a curvilinear cowrie shall with 700 BC inserted skulls that once housed a reluctance hallucinogenic warm red
Time wounds all heeds on the face of the racial biological attitudes that go breeding out of control ten thousand babies of meaning to feel through till that one break upon a corner of the cross and it all comes back to you
The vestigial Godlike hemisphere is of a magician articulating a chaotic period of being out on bail out on a walking toward an incursions into the ready made important phenomena hung around the neck of a complexity dressed up in some knuckles of words moaning the denied being for itself
Development of again and again is a scar longing to be of some brotherhood’s function as regards the cyclic and gyres to the dominating obedience and private language of the Gods with their charred weapon
The post-hypnotic amnesia of the fragmented night the time lagged and sequencing its reminiscent of thoughts that have long lost control of the garden wall where religious in the neurological blanket spread over the presumption of the schizophrenic effect swallowed by the florid conclusion that wait on its own ending to be fulfilled
The universal stability of an eternal firmness is emphasizing it superficial playmate who indicate that the time of many Gods have come and gone under the wet fingers of chaotic civilization wounded by the auditory command of a broken down overpopulation people in the lock jawed and yet flamboyant living off itself
The sensory recognitions of mammals are caught and finished by the understanding of dying anxiety proposing that the catecholamines flowing in the blood of a brilliant solution that have penetrated and been seized by the debris where the errors and the immediate experience fight to be understood in the stabile dirt of the finger nails
In the slumbering ambush insolence and sometimes insolvable where there is no turning back from the narrow transparency of night in it’s’ air thin blackness
Everything is as strange as I seek the trees on dream it street love the wind in my mind and I am taken away to where the unfathomable rebirth of being free is varnished vaguely in your mind
I am that I am lastly written on the walls of the inner skull there is always room in the head for an insurrectionary rapids waiting to be lead against the companionships of an army of emotions all of which I fought against in vain to reach a knowable knowledge about the here and now
Be my last friend and let us go to the last distance and find the idealized animal behavior that betray us
The end is always just around the corner always out of sight beside the always goings heart beating in the chest of a jellyfish’s unstable violent and beautiful rhythm breathing an empty moaning of I Love the Sea
Flowers nailed to the coffin of an effect’s hiding place in the netherworld where the self of the self go destroying the moment of the great strength taken away as a homage to eternity the nails are rusting on the backside of the cross the penis of a wayward slave nailed in the town square
We are the glorious reasons the victories placed in the hearts of wicked devils that dwell in the slaughtered possession of a confusion spilled out across all the then that done now that we wish to do under the canopy of the quivering raven rallying in its circulating strength
You are as I said with your requiem of dazzled seascape intoxicated by the breath of the knife sharp sea that bark its ferocious commands below the brilliant bobbing screams of the candy maker’s son sinking so far away from his bridge the heart is in the hands of the cranes in the secret water’s consistency and the swollen wind pregnant with a fist full of the forbidden anger of Gods they go down by the cyclone’s breeding season they go down the smoked column strongbox with vengeful voices calling the virgin midnight to give up its self-assured thrust toward the primordial working water
The end is always near there but for fortune may go you or I the antagonism climate of escaped employment is the advocate of adolescent Gods when youth was their repressible glory passing over the unknown force of a guaranteed cityscape caught in a window of the wind
I remember the day that I wooed you it was a wounding never mention to happen when the destroying wrought evil entering the soul of a person can be done in an age of Gilgamesh why is your heart of stone why is your woeful heart hard why is your journey along the rocky and broken path where a mushroom of waltz is rearing up in its rotating around the dead leaves of a sorcerer’s rendezvous with a death’s trick odor blowing through the wind as a stone
I am old and settled into my soul it took a while to find the fit it took years strung out on earth’s astonishingly self-conscious common sense and a coming to grip with man’s bastard and backward tongue that have no day to celebration the birth of the earth by
Don’t cause me blind when the eyes have run out of time when the currents of a mortal gigantic curiosity is rotting on the cross of surgical strength do not call me to the triumphant nostalgia for everything reprehensible and innocence for I will only be disappointed by the scrupulous phosphorescence silent issuing from the original throat that cries out I am all that I can be on the honest judgment of the constellation
You are one of many but still you are one on the arch of the world none before none after none like you shall pass this way again leave your mark set in stone you are one in the brotherhood of a concentrated behavior of minority sexual preferences you are the inherence of the primitive civilization astonishing in its rejuvenating inventory of growth
What do you call yourself before the face of your personal Gods before the divine individuality hallucinating the dead voices of mute egg kept in the warmth of ammunition shoot off your rounds while the handle is an alcoholic response in need of your equilibrium go boldly to the tomb with your gentleness in tack the divine chiefs wake your victorious stand against your estate of enemies who can gain no power over you your distinguished and splendor self goes triumphantly pass the poets as Gods when the words came on their own accord and we thought that it was the Gods speaking the evidence of Veda
I have been taken in by an instance of spontaneous possession with its illegal traffic smuggled into the distorted despair on my breathing
I have lost my words to a strange name that brought about the immediate business on earth where time can not tell with its aphorism that don’t know how to give an apology each letter of my words are strung on the tip of a second counting the sudden fresh milk of a madwoman’s freedom smoldering on the motionless bomb that she keeps warm in the doorway of her homeless coat buttoned up to the dawning of a chilled winter morning
I want to kiss every leaf on the tree because I haven’t got a friend that can bring out of me the astonishing beauty of my pills of an empty sky filling the eyes as a roof against the funereal fires of stars with their secret life kept hidden by a distend cathedral’s sheltering sky where the Gods gather their counsel of the concuss to see who will be the first one to come down to earth and catch the scent of human sweating in the dark damp intermingled growth feeding off itself in a frizzy beneath the rot of leaves
I have lost my concern for myself I have given it over to another God whose discarded breath is an extraordinary efflorescence exemplifying the give and take complexities of the brilliant radically charged production toward making life
In Earth there is such wonder as to set the eyes on a wild visitation with bear feet conjure in the botched season where apparitions mounted on the tongue and dialect dungeon fills the hillside with perpendicularly musical screams crying out to the praising priests of planting found under the sun’s dominant domain all that the priests can muster of the nostalgia murderers who wish to slain the indestructible howling of the night is to keep them clear of the original sperm that swum toward the birth of man
Man is a fickle creature in his needs for waste the taking up of space the selling of night in spoon full man the infinite thoughts of man on earth the infinite pettiness of being one with time’s told undertow telling the flow of current that tumbled and turn its way with the triumphant breath
Man of the high cities and man of the low lands the last man’s man have yet to be born in the rumor of a flower in the absolute solstice silence that gives birth to the original sediment of the weight of blood
Are you the man who is sniffing out the tree of life the fragile inquisitor’s loyalty that take place in the exhumed hollow mirage kept for the keeping against a marvelous blue delirium let loose in the wild impulses red rallying cries that will push you over the edge of the intertwining steps leading down to the depth where the memory of doubt contemplate its own consistency
The art of painting with a tooth pick and speaking poems into a thimble tremor in the body of the last sacred hidden haunt where art is kept till its time to be brought into the light
The art of crossing the burden of an untied river art of harmonious necklace rusted around the conspiracies of corpses art of the incense of anger art of the insoluble custom of the blacks art of the courageous language of blood the absolute art of the shivering bondages escaping the muzzle of the high sea art of the assume essential Assyrian’s yearning in the flourishing private political distance art of the double brain’s livelihood caught in the facial expressions of the simmering volcano rolling down to the naked juice of the babbling sea art of the madman’s fertility that have gained the possession of the splendors hidden in the holy things of a lost moment art of the anointed righteous strength found in the faithful balance of the swamp’s hunger art of a putrefying musical implications flowering in the memories of the nostril art of the stubborn and swollen irresponsible torment of the life of the sun untouchable art of a smile caught in a deaf man’s laughter art of the nocturnal apparition of the immortal boredom of the shepherds of tomorrow crying out in the master wilderness where the nostalgic gravediggers are charting their progress by the melancholy convulsive complacencies of the tenderness of prostitution this self same art of words and paints and stones is the burning of the artist’s passion long held in the silent of the Gods it is their language undisturbed by the incredulous suffering insistence foliage of their knowable souls that must have their say in a world where the whorls of money changers rule the roost of the greenback landscape
