If Ars Poetica
Then stop dreaming of freeways

what is a poem? a spot of time.
no. a speck of hallucination.
I bury it in warm earth like
clumps of white fat to cure.

this station of meaning hangs
on a wall like mirrors, but watch
how images fade out when
you wipe dust off the words.

folded construction paper
cuts like a cleaver in Barbie's hand.
some people use the tools
they have available to them.

an army of marching bears
interrupted the postwar deluge.
they ate our cottage cheese
and cake but wouldn't touch the gin.

what is a spot of time? ageless,
breath takes time out for death.
spot me this one time for experience.
bears and Barbie asking for my autograph.

clarify, clarify. every beat screams
louder than the last beat,
you haven't mentioned what
you opened your mouth for.

try not to make this maudlin.
would you remember?
quality, value, perspective, vocabulary.
what's memory good for?

show don't point. that's how
the internet comes on. if I point
to the internet, does it boil up
thin soup out of novels and orgasm?

not on box-store shelves. marginalia
no longer welcome at the borders
of your country. some people use
their hands to make things incredible.

household names break the heart
of itinerant spiders. no spinning
for the beast that gurgles and purrs
with passion. nobody at the mall this afternoon.

candidate for DUI and hit n run:
did you answer all the questions
we sent in the mail? it's important
before you wash your feet in sandy water.

freaking with a tamale behind the wheel.
with Mexican you don't imagine that they'll
tie you down and run you over so bad.
wind from down south hot, like pepper hot.

a swiss cheese with numbers
printed in black on its skin,
told me enough to warm the house
even in deepest winter. dairy knows.

the watering hole is artificially colored.
why are the only images available
what you see for sale on television?
old prophets don't get out much.

“shit-blind with boredom,” I wrote
in an e-mail to a friend. the open form
sounds good as long as it's cranked
loud enough. they watch me.

smelly fish eye today. how paranoid
you have to be to write your name
on the bathroom floor? that cherry
pie was artificially flavored.

our salad forks are all pointing to the exit.
everything on television is artificially
enhanced using technology.
they keep finding more pictures.

she asked, “if Blake takes, what goes on
with the elder missionaries in the Amazon?
nobody speaks their language of gospel
and the fact is, there's nobody there at all.”

sinners are brave, but they have no time
to be saved. elbow grease for the rattle
snake, Prismacolor pencils at lunch
for gourmet animalistic study.

raga cycles on the superhighway again.
about as much good as an advance
on the destruction of western civilization.
hasn't the poem become a dry roadbed?

hemorrhaging of a star leaves enough
image for the eye to drink and then sleep.
what did the four-line stanza ever do
for you? when are the guests coming home?

Let's Play

Monologica

A-What's that?
B-Over here?
A-There…
B-I can’t see…
C-Over there?
D-I can’t…
E-See?
F-Yes…
G-At all?
H-Some…some…
I-Over here, look this way.
J-Away from there?
K-Over there.
L-Here?
M-There, here…there the same…
N-Oh.
O-Yes…
P- The same?
Q-As there…yes…identical, the same.
R- There or here, the same…yes?
S- Absolutely…identical…
T- The same, then…?
U-Yes…
V- Yes…
W-Oh…
X- See?
          (Anacin et Vivarin)

o my liver,
how I have dreamed
of this day!

break



Begbenches

Mercurochrome knees scabbed on beg-benches, the night father ran the Buick into the lamppost, father’s eyes caved into the manse of his forehead, eyebrows twilled into moth’s breath.

Sophie

The Ecstasy of St. Theresa's gay personal ad


the Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear

page 34-40




Go your way to where primordial speech spoken of the owner Gods personal Gods admonitory Gods parental Gods pompous Gods of fierce heroes familiar with the lamentations of emotional inhibitions hero of the hostile curiosity that will have peace on its own terms go to the invention of the ghost-soul entering the body of a newborn infant’s embodiment of the psyche of life and living dead the first God of the hallucinated voices of the ordinary past is preparing the heaven for our arrival into the being of speaking idols with their bliss of certainty fighting the beginning of their end when the last is cast they must go the way of all the holy figurine that once peopled the small walls of man they are forgiven their promises of heaven when we pray away their love from above the word wing that we sing to them the pace of prayers that we make in the haste of city living the chase for material goods in the half-way house of our longing the copse of our past pursue us when the pain of the rain is still in the chill cut and strain on the skin of the air the breath of our fears can not find its death can not find the preferred passing of our sins of being human on the deck of our lily neck that wreck the whorled ear that can not hear the dumb eloquent that surrender in the double dark meaning of our dreaming warmed-up and hollowed out of the skin of our midnight visions silent and some times ruthless in its depiction of the resentment that we harbor the tendencies of obscure memories set free to piece together the endless possibilities of what was seen in the complicated waking hours of our silence thinking silence stumped upon at the rest of the language of poetry the half fool half visionary poet in his attempt to create a beauty in an indifference world where the envy and anxiety of the poet for mass support strikes out against the ones he love the poet wishes to save us all by saving himself he will gladly take the fall handle the ball call from his lonely wooden tower to all about the heroic struggle that it takes to defeat the dullness of human relationship base on getting money but he too must fix a price on his works sale you his wisdom by the book that he is redeemed as a distinct individual escaping the dilemma of mythic salvation he seeks to remake the state of mass society paralyzed by the financial chock chains roped drawn and quartered rusting around our necks the half visionary fuel his quest the half fool reset the net in which he seeks to catch the faces of men set free

Go your way pass the epileptic schizophrenic deju vu of rerun T.V. where lying commercial comes first nature to the commerce’s mind behind it all behind the skin is the lore of yore that was begun when the sun was a younger God when the sun wore the slow flight of a monard butterfly when the past persistency of its light was done in by the light of the boob tube’s glow in the night light of the moon cast me fast to its tune near or far mine the cries that despise the psychological pining of the Gods lost in the wilderness of man’s history there in the air that gleam and stream by the melodiousness of the sea its sing song rhythm that dwell in the swell of motion in the ancient relationship between man and Gods that fight against each other by the one sided nature of prayers the interceptor of the Gods can not intercede with their unbending rod of holy speech their dead rules is out of tune with the working of the modern world but still they hard hold fast till the last side of pride as a bride that provide her mate with half their weight with all the cultivation of TV time sold down to the very secretes second while the wayward feet in the TV streets awake the replies of the skies to gaze with a daze the sight of the maze that night TV makes of the sight the myth making television wish to sell you a bill of goods if it could it would sell you the second coming as the sequel to the first blockbuster featuring the blond hair Christ played by the narrow-looking features good-looking athletic body fit for the big stream where the holy desolation escape the collapsed encircling wisdom spoken in the ear TV language is seldom wild it is cut and trimmed to sight motion and sounds TV language dose not linger long by twenty-four hours selling sounds it quickly passes on sell me happiness in a 12 oz bottle of dish washing liquid sell me freedom in the form of a fast car sell me silly its selling never done never quite fulfilled of it self in greasing the machines that infiltrate our dream the whorled noise of machines their ferocious horror to maim their unending combustion and consumption that make a metallic desert of the world we are their mindful keepers as they keep us in the lusty luxuries of a simplified life without worry for the machines shall save us from the mundane drudgery of the every day they shall give our lives new meanings that allow us time to find the meaning of self we are the machines keepers for foul or fair they are our common companion of us born where we keep our creation laid bear before the bar raised to its highest legal level the music of their hum is worshiped like the second coming coming on in a riot of pistons and gears and tendency drive throw-off brackets folder cams steel knurled and helix gears grinning out the glorious goods of a throw away society we are their God-like maker creator of the greater good that they may entertain us serve us down to the replacement part their loyalty is unquestionable they do as they are told to the breaking point they can not rebel or tell us where to go they make of our house a home they tie us to them till one can not exist without the other a codependences like child to mother which is which is yet to be discover the machines are our lover they took us to the moon they break to soon they fill the room they are marooned in the rust belt the old and useless pile of metal rusting in the brick factory over grown with weeds the metal dead thing that we did not clean before our passing into the new and the improved machines are replaceable like men who have outlived their usefulness to the society that once employed them let loose to rot in the shadows of an upgrade we treat them with the same disdain be you old man or old machine your days are numbered


Go to the narratization of the soul dear psyche of breath of bones of blood in an age where God have moved far off into the selective heaven of one God who keep his company tight by the metaphysical essences of the silence of the Gods caught like exhausted animals refugees from the edge of the advancing cities where the cries of the wilderness witness the waits of workable wars that are waged in an age of innocent in no sense of the word God is playing hoodlum with Jacob sealing the door of the Ark witnessing to the flight of Cain and Abel walking the garden of Eden with Adam both caught in the unconsciousness of their own nakedness one within the singularity of nature a situation that could not last with man’s curio curiosity curling round the nature of things his current belief in his separation from nature when he is no better then cursed meat caught between the teeth of living our lives while all the wise there is something of the divinity in him something of the cold of a congestion confession as St. Augustine abandoning rhetoric confess the tree that escapes through the fingers confess through the vigil held by a reptile offering the knowledge of consciousness in the form of an luminous apple eaten in the bamboo thicket confess the untamed bird of prey that knows the meaning of meat the wave of words that the preacher preach the swell and sweep sweet eddying nature of the life of everything where the sacred water omniscient in its reincarnated beat bump bouncy by the daily prophesy of prayers in the pitiless savage of a sorcerer’s germination the worshipers of Satan the light bringer the first revolutionary of the winged set who lives in man along side his God where in the divinity of things they are one and the same fighting for your spirit and flesh your soul alone can contort confined conjure and control the demons and saints that knows when the spirit and flesh are weak when they are fired up to fulfill your wanting waiting needs weary and worried about the body of the shadows of your being when the sky has become a swamp full of tenderness when the naked inquest is nailed to an answer when the scenery of the sun raising is encrusted with the thoughts of dying in the distant transparency of the narrow threshold armored hour full of death once removed by the rain stoked and soaked sand the hands of telling time is caught in a seed that sleeps its growth silently in the world’s face of learning laughter loudly long across the pregnant sea’s lunation in the seductive banality that is life animal grace is guided by the glue that guide the gilled gluttonness of a golden cage where the keen awareness of the self must come to knows that it must escape must excite the soul and escalate the escapade the escapism from the routine the mundane that gnaw on the essence of modern man identified by the knowing name citizens a belonging to a way of acting in accorded with the make-work masses we the people we to the popular piety we that conspired for the first time to be the placated public the interlocking of our lives turning on the axle of the status quo that keep us static in our quotidian duty

The Alliance