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Go my wayward son giving brittle birth to the robustious right hands of Gods in their trustabillity that lone once again to hear the music of the poetic voices that once set them falling free to sing out of their hearts about human and divine things the glissandos of speech its scabrous salvation its self-contentment its pitch and its tone once it is heard it is gone once gone it linger not long in the shadowy meaning of its song O go my wayward son to the place where you once belong to the camouflage of the skin you my darker men my brothers in arms look toward the warmth of your sisters that wait upon the soon full moon her messenger you are the sun the gold she the moon silver both to make a whole and birth the willing born God of the corn the light well bright miracle that once swarm to the warm arms of a waiting mother you my brothers are charged with the upkeep of the young you are the sons of an ancient race long have you dwell on this face long your years to come be one with mother earth she have given you your color like no-other you are not mark no vagabond upon the earth that yield its fruits to the working of your hands thou shall not kill thy brother but witness to his high-minded sorrows be mindful of the matter that we are our brother’s keepers I to you and you to me within the isolated orgy of brotherhood that we seek this is the beautiful busting truth live pass your woes the cassation of your knowing of the imperishable knower you are what you perceive yourself to be in the extraordinary singularly self of one with your God made flesh attentive to nature that let life run root riot on the powerful frantic musical landscape of humanity life is always flamingly serious always humble burning itself into a delicious birth of an open chest with its crest of crossed bones and wealth it welcome all to fend for themselves it dare to storm the worthy world with a teeming thrill high in the heaven of the dirt of flesh and blood dancing with no shoes together with the wondrous seven heaven full of the living thrills and the past time left behind by the treasure of pleasure for itself the grandeur of life fight to excite the blood to do as the flesh was born to do it ooze the toil of soil that is never spent bent by the freshness of the newly born dreaming their new life alive the birds in their nests the bees in their hives the worms in the faithful earth the mosquitoes full of my blood the moths flying about the back yard night light the wild rabbits digging holes in the shade of the front yard the child that babble a book of poems the sperm swimming toward an egg all things life find worthy to take their space in the great soup cooked under the sun life runs in the vanity of your veins it waits to be undone by time a fate none can escape the sentimental breath lush to thrush itself to fling and wring to sing your life life is a brush toward death it is all about the servable survivor that carry on the successful genes that have master the riggers of itself like the on rush of a most beautiful Spring blooming young leaves out of an old tree the juice of Spring is everywhere to be seen from the look of low things to the highest of being on the wing the echoing beauty of weeds with their persistent persistency their richness racing to sweeten the earth of life the earth wanting no more then what it gives earth worthy of winning over man who think that he is superior that he is made in the image of a silence God that need man to speak for him when the holy image is all about it is nature herself that did bloom this egotistical creator of the invented heaven as if earth is not enough to hold the living soul this creature that feel threaten by his own death the wind with its skin of moisture man that feel that nature is at his beacon call to use as he wish to the decrement of all this greedy creature that consume more then his rightful share this creator of a jealous God well we know that nature is selfish and rightly so for she have many creatures within the skin of her valorous voluptuous body and the poets sing her exfoliating praise there where the bright light of the air is quite rare at night O lord lady I stroke the heart of an Oak in St. Louis town down by the Mississippi rolling its brown back bone alone its bank of Cottonwoods and Walnut that grows by nature’s will beside the river’s swill its winter waves saved by a frantic choke of ice the Mississippi watery ribbon is woven through the land to dump itself into the gulf of the crescent city the big easy where the Mississippi flows like liquid jazz be bopping broad siding the city bent around it river most beautiful everything about you is sweeping inspiring and I dip my hand into you as a prayer made of flesh and I am blessed by the your watery song lapping at the solemn memory of limestone buff now gone to homes this river runs like a serpent of divided thoughts tamed by dams and locks chopped into pieces to prove that man can not leave well enough alone
Go to where the milk of human kindness is spilled on the field of war where birds nurse their young and ants cross the body of the fallen war of displacement war of obtrusion war of land where blood-oil flow war of brutal rutting war of undulating muscles fit for fighting in the profoundly nameless magic of a pumping heart war of young against the war of the old war of the intoxicated birds drunk on the grapes fermenting on the vine of a magical space that have witness the invention of the wheel when the stone was rolled away from the tomb of an agglutinated incursion into the minute that have lost its future in the hissing and haste legendary moment spent by the open arms of the sun war of the needs of seeds war of the notecase full of the race card war of the fists that exists to do battle war of the flower caught in the hour of the stormy superstition suppurateion war strengthless weightless senseless war that is
Always young among the young that goes near here is the penmanship of war here the fight against the taking of a life the murderous nature of war wrap itself around a borrowed sorrow oppressed by the unrest that will praise thee spot not the will climb not the warring hill the past last of our war shall die out when the supply of youths are gone are done the slaughter of our sons and daughters must cease not increase the birth of peace found in the ground of men’s eyes focus on the bomb filled skies you must say all life is mine thus divine and still the last past blow of a second ago though our name be not the same know that as a rose in time drops its petal as the trees be of one breath with the air as the then men of the now how place their grace above the longing lasting love and the ghostly pain of disdain as the earth worm secretly wild in the earth as the fresh flesh flush with the breath of life as the lighting rod of God confessing to the night as the stress that trod the height as the host that boast of grace in the place of the pulpit and pews as the hands set asunder in the splendor wonder of thunder’s erotic rioted roar as this bless felt dealt to deliver the spring melt river that miss the shore I say to you all is not lost as the moon paint a face in the river as the sun is son of another as the sweat that rain hard down the face its salty flood drip a running pace under the heated breath of the sun and none comes to sheathe the warmth of the worst that burst sweet first storm of the tongue where men’s form is wrung out to dry on the antiquated cloth line of doing time in the wind driven air of a busy spring that sing in the still skill of growth all is not lost some flame their fair faint fame in the same dutiful dusty air of an old bleeding blessing delivered to the flowers with their wanting blasphemy beauty drowned in a sea of warm and cool colors that sweep their keep behind our eyes flowers can be unkind dark as a rock that knock its ride in a land slide the serrated seriated secret knowledge of flowers is kept in their color in the sweet omnipotent odor of their hours longing to entice their bereft life that soon die away to the fruit or seed head of new birth the flower under foot still smell as sweet their bruised brazed strength is radishes by bees buzzing the bountiful bloom bleeding and blistered blind and bloated with sweet odor of the kickshaw kind of kinfolk kissing the narcissism of a narcotic nascent knocking neural nerve words that need the strength of a seed broken beside the staggering stagnant water never absent of life the stagnant balance of breath’s unbending dreams mutilated by the contour of a scream that would if it could sing the fugitive violent insolent splatter of the spasmodic thought blown into the antique visible rhythms enchanted by the free giving breath of trees an ancient thing hail to all that breathe your breath is a blesses thing tied to the trees the glamorous give and talented take of nature forever inventing herself anew in the growth of a blade of grass in the urgency of falling rain in the immortal eye of the sun in the dead skin of the moon in the moving shadow of a tomb where the birds rest at noon in the wind tired from its blowing in the whale’s belly full of plankton and squids in the forbidden fornication of man to man love in the season of the sea in the common command anger of the Gods flank by the volcanic apparition of the surreal in the anarchistic disaster of a hurricane extinguished by the catastrophe aesthetices alphabet of stones thrown by the throat into the muscular music heard by transcribing ears that hears the passive receptive music playing its lubrificating activity strung along the cloth line of a sunny yet windy day
Go pass the Biled As Sudan that have lost its forest and lakes each tree plucked by the hands of the Cushite God each lake drunk by the thirty throat of an Nubian God till all that was left was the burning sand God that have forgotten it own numbing name under the burning hired hands of the sun God that look down upon the working of man and care not that all our doing is inferior in the great scope of things being things on earth God of the ever lasting blessing of the sun God of the trees that know thee God of the seas that throw thee Gods of the springing forward of the self-flattery spring the simmering slumber of the sweating summer the falling back raining leaves of fall and white land locked wonder of winter where the Gods goes rejoicing in the horizon’s triumphant shouts of joy the divine offering of the friends festivals of the Gods the coming forth into the inundated land of God coming forth from thy mother belly as a beatified being of Gods God of the regularity of the underworld where the dead with their right and truth that judge the entering into the waggishness of our weakness and the going out of our stridency of our strength burning in the lake of double fire where the serpent of mankind swallow its tail to tell that the circle of life has no end birth and death do not suffer the pains of the Gods that rule from the throne of double beauty lean and long they keel the wheel to endure the cares of man that drown them wash them away from the bones of a smart heart left along when the truth of youth brawling in the streets of a storm’s weathering the face of a place in the peace of the heart where in the corner there is a land traveled by the island of flame that burns open a distinguished passage established by the way of souls in our lives we know only all that we know the life long knolled knowledge fettered to our soul in the single-sighted vigorousness of language of a infant in the forgotten speech of tomorrow telling its sudden nostalgic memory found in the blonde pawn shop where the second coming waits upon the gravedigger to deliver the enlargement of their absent worm-eaten premeditations under the distance of the sun is to be found the complacencies of a convulsive monsoon of a triangle tenderness of prostitution accepting the coins of silence as payment for service given he disrobe with all the fragile beauty of the architect of an organic orchestration of an orchid he disrobe and violent silence flows from the sensitive intimacy of the blazing motion of his hands for the price paid he is a giving man his sensitive breast harnessed the air where the blood of the sunset rusting to the sea is stalled by the imprint of a river running alone side the self doubt of a virginal sleep that weep the catastrophic sabotage of the judgment of the wind the stone of his heart is alive with the bark of his legs and the moon of his eyes the river of his tongue the roots of his veins the blossom of his spermatic plexus the seeds of his sperms woo him again and again and again for a good time call 555-5555 he is alive within his promontory rolling into the strangler sea muzzled by its needs to be free in the hundred years of contemplating the weight of its bouncy when he weep cup your hands shut to contain the wreckage of his tears drink sea-deep the nakedness notice of the salty flagrant of the harmonies from his eyes then shall you spy the wisdom of the immense far away sky where life unknown knows of its own are we alone are we the highest life that nature can muster in all the bounties of existent poets scientists and priests the trinity must gather together to answer the indicative question of an emphatic excitement that hints at a pseudo-philosophical value of the pious modernity of knowing are we made in the metaphorical image of a rhetorical idea are we singular in our knowledge of the Gods are we plural apart of the paradoxical question of what accomplished life means to be the poet pose these question to be answered throughout the vivid ages that shall come to break the authoritative holy structurally scripture into the pleasure prejudices of an exceptional critical effort of the fragmented garrulous slippery slop of myth making
