page 446-458
O troubadour of the modern age where forth in your wandering why are you selected secretly sedentary steep in the self-humbling security blanket of the university go you bold blooded into the seductive sedulous streets where your people wait wanting to laugh and weep where Pushkin pushing pounds of poem in Williams Carlo Williams’ red wheel barrow along the streets of St. Petersburg where he yield his way to the young knowing in his heart that the children shall play about his ashes when the children come O go you boisterous rhinoceros rhyme royal rhythmic rescript of the immoral image you who imbibe the working of the soul you who have lost you innocent by intercourse with the angles you who confess all even the ambition itch of the systematic preciousness of words you stretch the bounteous boundary of a bountiful body in a world of conformity say to your peoples look to me I am the light I am the way I am the equal episodic play of elevated elongationed efflorescence emotion unfolding to bloom on the electroluminescence egotism of your tongue I am the objective ossifrage breaking on the osculum of your breath say what is heard on the mysterious mystagogue of the streets you are the tears of the moon you are the sweat of the sun speak your peace hold not your tongue take on all that may come be one body in the earth be one mind beneath the breath of the moon be the eyes of the singular sun your hair in the head of the trees your semen swim in the muddy mire mirage of the age of the Nile with a moaning molded mouthful of stones and the flesh of your hands torn by the pen with the teeth of your heart that arouses the last of your maddening mindfulness held tight for telling be one with the birth of your poems for as long as it takes let the children come to play and be fed at your breast like the twin of Rome nurse them into leaving home to go among the radiating gesture of the public and belong on the tongue of the streets where there is no accidental birth of poems you are the wanting one the one whishing for the measured willfulness of man be not like the industrialized live stock of modern man packed in their pen such is the comfort conformity of contemporary man hemmed in and hog tied to forestall their wild side placated by the TV light glowing like an old flame to sell us the latest things aiming to make our lives bearable in the need to be one in an age of the resurrection Holy Queen Mother banished by the blessed fruit of the worthy promises O clement O loving O sweet Virgin Mother look down upon your children exiled from the history of evil prayers of the TV that pray for us in the tribe language of selling Christmas in October hail mother mistress to angels the gate of morn is a light born grant may I praise the strength of poets their enemies slaved by the pen I wait their resurrection from the frailty of the streets Mother Mary pray for me that I may see the House Finch singing from the highest branch of an old fruitless Mulberry tree that I may resist the commercialization selling of the birth of your son well born that the poet may be the first to come to the battle for the soul of man O poets with the blood of your pen go into the temples to win Gods as guests into your hearts give words to the temptation of your sins their implements within acknowledge the guilt of the Gods’ hands I summon thee to pretend to pretend that yous are the warriors of the Gods posed to defend with attentive ears let not the worth-full fruit be rotting on the tree of self knowledge pick them for everyone to eat feed the needy soul that hunger hung to know itself my thoughts be with you on your innocent journey to uncover the oppressors clothed in their shameful deeds of gluttony in the fat society of empty bellies betray the treachery and lying lords of the state you command our reverence your poems are our heirlooms writ in words of wisdom woven from the stuff of the common livelihood of being one in a world of many let your divine art speak freely speak richly of the poor shouldering the society of hand to mouth feeding reach beneath their outward appearances reach into the meat of their matter we call you to holy battle for the wisdom of being human the heavy burden is on your shoulders by the practice of your pen are you call to defend plant your discontent that any righteous man should be oppressed by the lack of funds robbed of the working of his soul to know for true wisdom lives in us all the law gives the law take away the wisdom of the Gods must come into play
O poet of the lost wisdom of being one in the world teach us not to tell-tell taunt nature but how to be the food of the Gods let them eat us whole fill their bellies fat with our faith and folly we wait your cunning coming your conniving comfort causing a conductance meditation on the stained sins till its pure and cleansed by your scholar scriptural satisfied ear that hears the fifth oblation of knowing the knowledge of the self under the air under the air is the satisfied eating under the Rain-God’s glory gracious in the quality of its water running the ink of a finished poem dark purple from the black down the page tears from the inner emotions imbed in the illuminates of everything
Poet you are the man in manifestation you are the infatuated festation of wants you are the thunderclap that roar the thunderbolt that enlighten the animals in men’s clothing know that your flesh is but a cloak that you wear that the higher order is within your grasp that the body clock is subject to body time that your life is a rhyme that you are the harvester of the secret truculent truth truncated by the trumpet howling of a wolf caged at the zoo you are not new in the old art of your craft that crave to be understood by the alienating world you with your underground pen that protest the possibility of wrongs done in the name of the great new order colder then the old you are man’s brother sister of the righteous cause to shine your light on the secure emotional working of the world mouth piece of nature alienated sufferers of the Gods the cost of your quest will leave you crucified on the tree of life such is the price for which you must fight for the knowledge that you invite to enter into your pen friend and sometime foe of men fight against the enforced conformity with every cell of your skin ask who am I feel forced to define as you know yourself you know other you see by a difficult light the true right of a murderous moon lit night eaten by the spoon of danger be you my fearless other brother as is priest cousin of the cause that witness to all that seeks to destroy your eccentricities the fertility of your independent individuality as you seeks to aid man in his quest most will annoy you at best raise above their disrespect they know not what they do sue your soul glue your poem to the bill board at bus stops write them in snow your operation is to let the people know shy not from the cause that call to be the mouth piece of all
Poet teach as you teach that all living things are divine and know it in your bones go along for the sake of going explore the unknown travel the untrodden troubled path your poems are lights that illuminate the working of the of the old human soul draw into yourself all that there is to know take on the questions that blows through the streets and make them your own through all the year’s leaves and tears that beam down the brown dreams found beyond all the youth of truth that are the landmark star of their own life bloom from the womb of your hand the unseen noise of girls and boys out about the world in their motion of play with zest in their breast of youthful joy wild in the art of being young the art part of smart of the wrought thought obey the free play of the choice voice that make and take the wide side of joy sacrifice yourself to the knowing of the people be their valentine valid vital voice show them the chubby choice of the world furled into itself its self centered desire its sweep deep hurled into the steep mountains be one with the less distress success of the peoples forgetfulness be the mythological trickster attack the common conventions that keeps us down around the bottom boredom of the every day worry worship of being alive in the law-abiding urban canyons of civilized structures where man’s free instant instincts are represent repressed become a holy fools for your God’s sake against the mundane social society that control us owe us mold us in its cold concrete embrace bodies fast forward forth take note of the agonizing chaos of your society that we have come to far to escape wait upon the lowest man’s needs to know that his life in the crowed city is not all for not let your poems glow as they blow across the ears of the words scented years be one with your pen as if it’s a sword in battle more intimate then the gun get up close and personal with friend and foe seek you to protect the protesting rebel’s sensibility and ability slay the beast of conformity that greedily eat the romance of the common man suffer you not the self mockery self doubt of the hero as victim vital is your quest for self in the concrete forest of metal and reflective glass giving the new light redeem your ego in a Godless universe with its holy indifference for the intellect of man half fool half visionary seek to reconstruct the society that for lack of change and the relentless dependencies of the procurement of money bruise and brand the soul with the dull ordinary and the conventional mood you bare the burden imposed by you habit of the pen of being the redeemer of the ordinary man in the loneliness and suffering you will be made the scapegoat for the myth making goal set before you go exceeding the limits of the self toward the mythic salvation of a revolutionary vision go to depict the new reality that call to you from the breath of the muses set yourself free from the chains of the order of the state and sing the revolutional act that can but save the civil society of man from the drudgery that beseeches him be you made in the image of the Gods and go God like throughout the land where a cultural crisis rules the day seek out the maladjustment that cloth you worship the neurotic judgment of your patois pious protagonist heart necessary to combat the mass society of mass culture of the TV sedating the vision of selfhood do battle with the heroes of financial action that will stall and steal steer us into increasing their wealth transcend the conflict between yourself and society to transform them both into a new worthy vision love the world in spite of its hatred and indifference toward you do not let them drive you to the slicing sideline of literal life in the sum of the skin turn the mounded material of life into the stiff stuff of your art at the service of the common normality of man
Poet of the moment’s momentous monotonous moaning your cries shall not go unheard in the undulating renaissance national streets of the state that lead you to chaos and disorder lead you to the brain-washing order to do the bidding of a state that seeks to control all under the applied appendages of its hands make your allegiance to the citizens to the lowest of the low to the common man with his woeful woes in the materialistic matrix that flow know that you are in danger of always being alone and in that is your strength your vision rooted in your alienation as trickster of the mental of the physical of the spiritual dare to assail the citadel to remake the outer world in your mindful vision that all be well by man the force of your strength is in words where is heard the romantic criticism toward the stale state wishing to maintain the static status quo of the rich financing the control of the poor let the works of your imagination save you let your cultural alienation make you let your hardy heart place you before the pulpit of the people be a wanderer of the city streets to meet yourself on the beat where beauty is real in all of its dark and damp down dirtiness know that nature is a divine spark of which man is a small part of the holiness of trees the wanting holiness of bees the fair flowers bounties blooming in its season of choosing a time table known and nurtured by nature the sharing shine of the sun with its rhyming of wild wily warmth fight against the common drudgery that chain the souls of men to his machines as once the slave in the sugar mills of South Americus teach them the tenderness and intimidating intimacy of nature as Godhead of all knowable knowledge known be self strong enough to do wrong as seen by the eye of the overbearing state wait not upon some unknown hour to go with your poetic powers to be the street priest of the simplest kindness and trust where the machines rust in the sunlight where men in their criminal fight fall on the battle field that is the modern city young men falling by the gun in the hands of youth who seeks power in their powerless lives their disenfranchisement where the young and strong pray upon the old and weak for goods to put them in the life that they are bred to wed let it be said of you that you have given your all to the cause of the welfare of man hold nothing back let nothing lack of your pondering pen let your poems be writ in blood love the unloved do not stand above as some icon of the state wait for the ones who stagger behind leave no man in your waken wake for you are their serpent servants in matter of the head and heart offer the fig of your poetry to all who hunger be at once saint and demon seasoned by the time in your skin let loose your wisdom by the pen again and again till your life-time ends in times of stress on you do man depend to speak of what they keep within a resonation of recognition that all men are kin strike a deadly blow against the commercialization of the soul that the foot solders knows that they are not alone O pieta pieties of poets ponder the death and weep of the lost souls caught to be brought and sold for the stander of gold under valued for the paber price paid they play out their lives in debt from the cradle to the grave this is the way the society expect us to pay for the freedom that we have made commercials’ commercialization is a war waged bombarding us day by day to sell our souls where the poor pay more in a society of things where sickness is a profitable song to sing where credit is the wedding ring poets redeem and recreate the world through your suffering let it be an emotional shield
Poet do not give misogynistic misrepresentation and misinformation but be a honest honor student of the life giving force of the wondrous working of the minaret mind and the bodacious body that call us to the prayers of life facing the raising and setting of the sun you are the father of man teach with your rhythmatic riff that runs on the tongue how to be one within the whole of the world speak of mama birth and papa death the two sided coin and all that lies in-between make our lives an easy thing praise and scold the old habit of being human we wait the working of your pen to teach us of the art of being men O poet of the encrusted sea of words that can be drowned by their many meanings O poet of the transparency of the wind muzzled by the buildings of downtown O poet of the impetuous delirium fragmented laughter lingering with its liberating language O poet of the visionary voluminous memory of hands O poet of an extraordinary despair that rip and strip us bare be ancient in your age of wisdom be one born to do the common good O poet of the tolerant tonality tone poem of the tongues speak of the dead Gods gone that they live again say of them that all are my friends all belong to the firmly established family of man speak the stranded stainless heard of the essence of the euphuistic euphonic word speak in the irrepressible irregular talking tongues till all is won be an underground outcast heroic you victim of the social forces that live outside of you in the city there is a profound loss of identity that will alienate you maintain your deeply held self be not the helpless protagonist wandering in the dark conflict of the canyon you are the makers of art be not set apart from the message of your heroic heart know that man is a warping warring creature who find faults to wage war by at every tight turn of the hazy head and now I have reach the end I hope that in this day and age that you can comprehend I hope that I have made a song too sing that I have emergently entertained that your time have not been spent in vain the muses with their miraculous muscles have quit the game I no longer call upon their names my words are now scattered like fading shredded grass before the lawn mower’s dazzling requiem of noise in the drunkenness of a collapsed memory naked on the last cinder of a fading dream with its wondrous scenery of the intimate armor suited to the narrow morning breaking though the threshold of the monsoon’s blood that pours and run aground filling up the crevasse of what we dare not wish to know for a time all that is said is said to end with the word word
the end
message from the health club
• • • • • • • • • • • •
Could the horse
please phone in
his drawing sched
ule immediately—
His cowboy is waiting
for him in the brasserie
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
4 three-liners
they said of him
"he was more machine
than human"
.
house of raccoons
and only one pencil
sharpener
.
Mokly Chop —
what's that in the sky?
a line of reasoning
.
"earthy.
irritable.
ready to face the heat."
The Innkeeper's Dullard
Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard) peeked through a hole in the wall, spying on her and him and his bent-cocked cock. Cabot was a bicycle thief. The shamble leg man knew Cabot, Cabot the addle-minded bicycle thief. Cabot the bicycle thief stole bicycles (the innkeeper’s dullard) Cabot.
Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard) peeked, spying on her and him and his bent-cocked cock through a hole in the wall. Cabot was a bicycle thief. The shamble leg man knew Cabot, Cabot the addle-minded bicycle thief. Cabot the bicycle thief stole bicycles (the innkeeper’s dullard) Cabot. There is one Cabot for every stolen bicycle, one stolen bicycle for every Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard). Bicycles have tares and wheels that hum and bleat (Cabot the bicycle thief) stealing stolen bicycles. ‘I had a bicycle, once, with a yellow banana seat sparkly with sparkles’ said the shamble leg man. ‘My granddad greased up the gears with machinists’ oil and a sleeve of old shirt’. Sleeves: torn sleeves. ‘It had a sissy-bar, the banana seat, sown my friends could hold on while I peddled and sped madly mad’. Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard) stole banana seated bicycles, yellow sparkly sparkles.
Cabot: there is no thieving bicycle thief (the alewife’s commode-pot), no bent-cock. I steal bicycles in my sleep, tares and wheels humming; yellow seats sparkly with sparkles. Cabot is a fig of my (me) imagination, a mere prune. One sews what one seeds. Cabot: Cabot’s cock wallowing (alewife’s commode-pot pitted with stale urine). I stole my first bicycle on a lark; suckling lolling saltlick milk, yellow sparkly. The innkeeper died a most horrible death at the hands of bare-knuckled men; fisticuffed him to a pulp, poor sod bastard dead rotting in peat and blight (the innkeeper’s dullard) nowhere to be found. A simper filament of (me) imagination, and not another word.
The shamble leg man loosened a stone and reshoed his shoe. He shooed a quarrel of crows, a quorum of quail and a gaggle of gaggling geese. He quaked and queried his way down the upside, legs shambling and shimmying, the loosened stone jangling. A horned fowl flew flippantly flapping, its beak bent into a perfect O. He cast his eyes skyward and said ‘ex pluribus abracadabra’ the crows scattering like mice, a beer cap rolling fitfully on the blacktop in front of him. There were drifters in these parts who carried cudgels spore with nails in dog-skin scabbards and wineskins full of calf’s urine. ‘I am a repagination’ said the shamble leg. ‘One page folded into the other’. Life’s curves begin with a withering, typeset set to 27 ½. This is absolute nonsense! Dog-skinned drifters, a cudgels-worth of gimp hoisted over hip and holler. Cabot’s nuisance: a scuttle of crows caw cawing, one leg farad one over the other, a knitting bee gone terribly bad, coulomb decreased by none to nether. ‘These are strange times indeed’ thought the shamble leg man, ‘stranger than affliction’. He stood in the shadow of the Seder’s clock, one eye on the big hand the other on the sun, squinting to make a bead on the littler little hand, the one that tells time in seconds, not days or affliction. At exactly 27 ½ seconds past twelve he let out a scream, the bulb of his nose curling up like a marigold to an onion, eyes two black holes, 27 ½ teeth missing and not an innkeeper’s dimwit in sight.
‘Begin at the begin’ said the man in the hat, ‘start there’. Life’s beginnings begin at the beginning then promptly end. There is no middle, halfway or in between, but just an almost there but not quite, a somewhere.
Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard) peeked, spying on her and him and his bent-cocked cock through a hole in the wall. Cabot was a bicycle thief. The shamble leg man knew Cabot, Cabot the addle-minded bicycle thief. Cabot the bicycle thief stole bicycles (the innkeeper’s dullard) Cabot. There is one Cabot for every stolen bicycle, one stolen bicycle for every Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard). Bicycles have tares and wheels that hum and bleat (Cabot the bicycle thief) stealing stolen bicycles. ‘I had a bicycle, once, with a yellow banana seat sparkly with sparkles’ said the shamble leg man. ‘My granddad greased up the gears with machinists’ oil and a sleeve of old shirt’. Sleeves: torn sleeves. ‘It had a sissy-bar, the banana seat, sown my friends could hold on while I peddled and sped madly mad’. Cabot (the innkeeper’s dullard) stole banana seated bicycles, yellow sparkly sparkles.
Cabot: there is no thieving bicycle thief (the alewife’s commode-pot), no bent-cock. I steal bicycles in my sleep, tares and wheels humming; yellow seats sparkly with sparkles. Cabot is a fig of my (me) imagination, a mere prune. One sews what one seeds. Cabot: Cabot’s cock wallowing (alewife’s commode-pot pitted with stale urine). I stole my first bicycle on a lark; suckling lolling saltlick milk, yellow sparkly. The innkeeper died a most horrible death at the hands of bare-knuckled men; fisticuffed him to a pulp, poor sod bastard dead rotting in peat and blight (the innkeeper’s dullard) nowhere to be found. A simper filament of (me) imagination, and not another word.
The shamble leg man loosened a stone and reshoed his shoe. He shooed a quarrel of crows, a quorum of quail and a gaggle of gaggling geese. He quaked and queried his way down the upside, legs shambling and shimmying, the loosened stone jangling. A horned fowl flew flippantly flapping, its beak bent into a perfect O. He cast his eyes skyward and said ‘ex pluribus abracadabra’ the crows scattering like mice, a beer cap rolling fitfully on the blacktop in front of him. There were drifters in these parts who carried cudgels spore with nails in dog-skin scabbards and wineskins full of calf’s urine. ‘I am a repagination’ said the shamble leg. ‘One page folded into the other’. Life’s curves begin with a withering, typeset set to 27 ½. This is absolute nonsense! Dog-skinned drifters, a cudgels-worth of gimp hoisted over hip and holler. Cabot’s nuisance: a scuttle of crows caw cawing, one leg farad one over the other, a knitting bee gone terribly bad, coulomb decreased by none to nether. ‘These are strange times indeed’ thought the shamble leg man, ‘stranger than affliction’. He stood in the shadow of the Seder’s clock, one eye on the big hand the other on the sun, squinting to make a bead on the littler little hand, the one that tells time in seconds, not days or affliction. At exactly 27 ½ seconds past twelve he let out a scream, the bulb of his nose curling up like a marigold to an onion, eyes two black holes, 27 ½ teeth missing and not an innkeeper’s dimwit in sight.
‘Begin at the begin’ said the man in the hat, ‘start there’. Life’s beginnings begin at the beginning then promptly end. There is no middle, halfway or in between, but just an almost there but not quite, a somewhere.
overheard on the plane to New York
“Oh they have house trouble! Testify! How the rotator cuff snaps: Lego-like,
matchstick, terrified! All those stressed bumps picking up turbulence.
and three-quarter turns. That kind of houseboat doesn’t do well in cyclo-
genetic conditions, even when God is pointing down through the clouds:
There! There! How are you supposed to furnish a place like that, even
when you consider the wingspan of this joint? Must be a big deal when
that mother takes off! Sorry to mutter on so — it's the
Storecast (tm) that I keep reading whenever I get scared, or go outside.
the voices telling me that milk and mint gum don’t come from the same
factory, aren’t you the sort of person to believe what they say? Art and arms,
mothers and robbing your mother’s house — I’m just saying. state
ments are only public if you can accept the judges’ ruling — no, it’s time
I’m talking about here: haven’t spilled hot coffee on my hands for well
over well I guess it’s well over an hour. I don’t read philosophy I can’t
quote Marcuse or Captain Kangaroo (D.Phil.). I don’t think it’s time for
a change. all arrows pointing to the exit row, and now look at that!
all this rain has detached my retina while I wasn’t looking. Would you
believe some poor fool reads strictly for content?! He’s there in the back
row of seats. all the rain in the world couldn’t wash away the impression
of safety I take away from that bull’s-eye, tattooed across your forehead.
‘eMeT’ equals truth, ‘MeT’ equals death, ‘Me’ equals me. At least
somebody around here can keep his focus!”
The Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear
page 437-446
Part X11
Poet of the lazy hazy jazz symphonic glass ear that hears the humble hubble bubble blister blithesome words breaking the woody wood wind woozy woof wool of the word mongering mouth I am such a man before men that plays the placid plain and planned plasticity I can with my wordy workmanship to wake the words man under the fire of an open mouth that the God of rain put out the flame of your intercourse is the food of libation the smoke of your breath the cinder of your tongue all an offering from the Gods poet within the integrant plan of nature a plan without fault by the blind eyes of a new born in the small hour of war an Iraq poet birthing the water of a tear poet of the gigantic embittered innate inferiority of the music of red in the troubled anger of blue the sky is weeping weeping wondrous wild wide-anger wiggles the way of the cross where the weasel word’s is a workable weather worm-like in its world power where the air that wrap us share its song with the clear new water though the eye of a needle where yesterday’s breeze seize the home grown brown foam down by the fern that burn to be understood the decrease deceased shadows are running away from the brownness of a mountain pass with its audience of rocks aspens and ponderosa pines the introduction of the wind is welcomed by the sound track of lips and the dancer’s fingers point to the dramatic discovery of an illumination of motion over whelming with its willingness to generalize the determined innocence of a new midnight held in the darkness of daylight without its sunlight I fill in my emotion with alcohol with Colt 45 with the joint with the defense of a smile I acknowledge the extreme importance of force and form of the size of a brilliant thumb pressed to the immortal aggregate of the creator of organs the air is alive with the dreamt logics of a flower that bore the deplore ear of stone alone in the wilderness of a thought the wooded fold of mountain bold in the tiptoe hold of a wild rose that blast the born fast bloom castled to the next text written on the steep and deep will that is still bearing down on the brother who is my lover in the life the mentioned intimate of the antropomorphie figurines Jesus the question is could he read and write the syllable of pleasure did he smell his own musk in his desert walk where he relied neither on the eyes or ears as a measurer of his decoratively blazing fire of an ocean of mountain did he have bad breath these questions ask is no disrespect to get to the humanness of the man of peace and grace man can not but to nick pick at the ten commandments to commit the fine enjoyable utterance that touch the evil found in the breath of the evil chant of the word nigger nigger nigger heard in the mulattoe prominence of Denver where the Hispanic and black and white mix are fighting to be seen of one race multiracial race is the race of the new Americus they are the inherence
Poets yellow is yelling in the ensemble of tulips
Where the deserted butterfly is scarred over by the sweet scent of stonecrop at the foot of yarrows beside the low edge of a breeze telling time with its breath of worms squirming beneath the fat curse at its worst
Poet the precursor of poems poet of the play-possessed child of pious words poets pondering the preposition of a prepubescent prepossession around the thoughts of the Gods you are the prophets of the common good and should take your place among the talk of the streets to teach man the deepest doing tell all of your secrets that all be known lay yourself bare to the emotional bone rife history in your needs to connect with the soul of your readers far and few in this time of movement toward the rhyme of rap each generation its poets anew each few born to it who shall buy the shadows of your soul shucked one by one spark by spark of its spatial needs teach that man need not live in the hell of his own making speak incessantly against the crippling forces of a blind agony’s iron laws in a society grown fat and lazy and heavy of the back of men treated as pack horses to carry the burden of the few in the cities where the ungifted poor common man die in despair and debt and find joy in the promise of a heaven that can never be proved these unperceptive naturalistic victims of religions dependent upon the tragic feeling
Poet of the sharp peaks of pervasive words of the swollen word seduce them till they are tamed in your thorny throat entrap by the scenery of your meanings appease the Gods of the common man caught within the sacrificial lunation of the cross poet the guardian of the gate hold your pen to the fire so that when your name is called you will give your all against the misconceive injustice of time time bare no blame go where the water inhabiting water is spilt on the private wishes mismanaged by the broken memories vibrating their beautiful horny innocence like the wind within the storm wanting to fill up every moderated meditated mitigated motion of its whirligig whittling way with words poets mismanaging meanings mapping the perfect drift of fearful lustral thoughts advancing in its own rhythm requiring neither lung nor tongue in the moment of its silent motion you think of you and you exist in the thoughts of the self my sister points out an ugly flower how can such a thing be save beauty be filtered through the feel of the self same self yet each thing its self an individual that preclude ugliness the individuality is its beauty such are men among men the chain-gang swamp of meaning surrender its consciousness to the nocturnal beauty of an abrupt remorse that travel the midnight geometry of the human temples unlimited in the brotherhood mimicking the gigantic timelessness of water who sacrifice the water for the peace who have forgotten the storms of fresh water with its lyrical bulge busted open upon the earth when will the wind full of rain wave its way dry again in the sunlit clearing of a clean day
Poet with your inner subjective consciousness manifesting the unbearable unthinkable cessation phenomena of the revisionist’s emotional melancholy’s imitation do not forget the substance of passion held in the self-reliance engross dualism in its solitude of splendor caught in the pen of an inquisitor’s terrific hands the unpardonable tongue of street lights with their vapors eyelids opening on the point of dusk with its transparency of darkness coming on strong against the desolation of a nocturnal yellow immensely full of the effort of a dying sun when dawn come go into the immortal streets where man hear the dark sacrifice of a fortnight bright with liberation completely wild the wayward child of an over worn war at the gates of the estates of the sun there we wait only for you to ascend and spend your bright words to shine your light on the rare air held at the end of a lost wind in the mind make amend as if all of mankind is your kin or friend gather together the emotional weather of men’s mind then lurch forward with pen in hand to stitch together the wound that the city inflect on the knowable soul with its waste bound around in the place of the confounded gloom held in the tomb of the flesh the staunch soul waits with its collapsing fantastic gift of wisdom to be spoken of betwixt the fixed end of a dream and what daylight have seen
Poet we love you with your comfortable sorrow devouring the sorrow of all men with your lonely love huddle in your hands you are the sin eatter the woes of the world falls upon you and you bare the weight of it with grace you run the race hung around the neck of mankind the steep and deep race round a sleep that can not tell the end place of this mountain of emotion that we must climb with the heavy chains of our flesh aiming to keep us down your easy words are the stepping stones you know the worse and best of us in you there is relief from grief the cheap that creep upon the small all encumbering whirlwind of passing time you are the witness of your very own speak the lament that weep words that obey those who pray the tormenting comfortless thirst of the world advise us spy for us go into the enemies’ camp where man will do man harm go into the hurtful hunger of war and report all of our doing bring it all to light with your bright strength toward the truth of your peloria pen be you pensive and pious let your poems be pentomic giving penance with all of its pendulusness piled high against the musical notations of the forest where you go around and around in the wilderness in search of the last knowledge of the human soul lost in the bricked over sky
Poet of the homeless for ever looking down poet of love poet of sorrow poet of the Gods you are their handmaids poet you are police politician of words philander philosopher of words prophet preamble preacher walking before your people these are your fates which you can not escape born or made take them to heart and in the heat stand your argufy argument stand your gabber gabble gaga giving light to tough recalcitrant thoughts singing far beyond the myself of the I with its beautiful wounds earned in the battle fought beside the outpour of companion’s Gods maneuvering around the gifted soul for our plutonian faith birth your poems painfully play your way plying deep into the pit of your poetic rendezvous round-about the howls of the Gods to gather our greater gifts giving it in the end poet of the absolute chemical of the brain of the smoke of myself where the hidden murdered of the angels take place above the sore floor of the made and laid overspread shade of the forth earth with its blood and wood food for the winged things stored in the cracks where life seeks a foothold bold to squeeze into the hands of a mother that takes her name off the birth certificate of the abandoned children of the punishment beneath the weary knees on thoughts that have forgotten what was sought in the impeached special falsified pleasured try of the unknown why I spy the last naked lie that poets tell in their rhetoric bullshit voyages resounding off the poems of the treason of ancestral illumination trembling with the ripen electricity that beneficent the extremities of the fatigued eyes the tamed eyes the deafness of eyes reincarnated under the decked efforts that breaks its opaque captivated feminine water aroused by the growth of the motion of emotions enclosed flinch that makes the heart beat its unique intimate fragrant pumping up from the depth on our visions that rise to offend the loss cause of a crowded sky where the clouds built in the hour stand by to shower when its intent is spent the cold blow glow of water when the ground around the air there is heard by the rings of the wings of birds that sing the mention of the approve love of stones for stones in the light grey light of approaching night in the dark remark of sight the divine lust of night is bright and it raised to the passing skies’ replies when the earth birth its own rehearsed imagining chaotic of falling into and out of order the sun have run its light in a changing mood the watching chastening of the wind is done the heart that start near the fear of a tear that breaks down the cheek is aware of the lost cost to be paid by the slow woes that we ware in the trinity of our soul
Part X11
Poet of the lazy hazy jazz symphonic glass ear that hears the humble hubble bubble blister blithesome words breaking the woody wood wind woozy woof wool of the word mongering mouth I am such a man before men that plays the placid plain and planned plasticity I can with my wordy workmanship to wake the words man under the fire of an open mouth that the God of rain put out the flame of your intercourse is the food of libation the smoke of your breath the cinder of your tongue all an offering from the Gods poet within the integrant plan of nature a plan without fault by the blind eyes of a new born in the small hour of war an Iraq poet birthing the water of a tear poet of the gigantic embittered innate inferiority of the music of red in the troubled anger of blue the sky is weeping weeping wondrous wild wide-anger wiggles the way of the cross where the weasel word’s is a workable weather worm-like in its world power where the air that wrap us share its song with the clear new water though the eye of a needle where yesterday’s breeze seize the home grown brown foam down by the fern that burn to be understood the decrease deceased shadows are running away from the brownness of a mountain pass with its audience of rocks aspens and ponderosa pines the introduction of the wind is welcomed by the sound track of lips and the dancer’s fingers point to the dramatic discovery of an illumination of motion over whelming with its willingness to generalize the determined innocence of a new midnight held in the darkness of daylight without its sunlight I fill in my emotion with alcohol with Colt 45 with the joint with the defense of a smile I acknowledge the extreme importance of force and form of the size of a brilliant thumb pressed to the immortal aggregate of the creator of organs the air is alive with the dreamt logics of a flower that bore the deplore ear of stone alone in the wilderness of a thought the wooded fold of mountain bold in the tiptoe hold of a wild rose that blast the born fast bloom castled to the next text written on the steep and deep will that is still bearing down on the brother who is my lover in the life the mentioned intimate of the antropomorphie figurines Jesus the question is could he read and write the syllable of pleasure did he smell his own musk in his desert walk where he relied neither on the eyes or ears as a measurer of his decoratively blazing fire of an ocean of mountain did he have bad breath these questions ask is no disrespect to get to the humanness of the man of peace and grace man can not but to nick pick at the ten commandments to commit the fine enjoyable utterance that touch the evil found in the breath of the evil chant of the word nigger nigger nigger heard in the mulattoe prominence of Denver where the Hispanic and black and white mix are fighting to be seen of one race multiracial race is the race of the new Americus they are the inherence
Poets yellow is yelling in the ensemble of tulips
Where the deserted butterfly is scarred over by the sweet scent of stonecrop at the foot of yarrows beside the low edge of a breeze telling time with its breath of worms squirming beneath the fat curse at its worst
Poet the precursor of poems poet of the play-possessed child of pious words poets pondering the preposition of a prepubescent prepossession around the thoughts of the Gods you are the prophets of the common good and should take your place among the talk of the streets to teach man the deepest doing tell all of your secrets that all be known lay yourself bare to the emotional bone rife history in your needs to connect with the soul of your readers far and few in this time of movement toward the rhyme of rap each generation its poets anew each few born to it who shall buy the shadows of your soul shucked one by one spark by spark of its spatial needs teach that man need not live in the hell of his own making speak incessantly against the crippling forces of a blind agony’s iron laws in a society grown fat and lazy and heavy of the back of men treated as pack horses to carry the burden of the few in the cities where the ungifted poor common man die in despair and debt and find joy in the promise of a heaven that can never be proved these unperceptive naturalistic victims of religions dependent upon the tragic feeling
Poet of the sharp peaks of pervasive words of the swollen word seduce them till they are tamed in your thorny throat entrap by the scenery of your meanings appease the Gods of the common man caught within the sacrificial lunation of the cross poet the guardian of the gate hold your pen to the fire so that when your name is called you will give your all against the misconceive injustice of time time bare no blame go where the water inhabiting water is spilt on the private wishes mismanaged by the broken memories vibrating their beautiful horny innocence like the wind within the storm wanting to fill up every moderated meditated mitigated motion of its whirligig whittling way with words poets mismanaging meanings mapping the perfect drift of fearful lustral thoughts advancing in its own rhythm requiring neither lung nor tongue in the moment of its silent motion you think of you and you exist in the thoughts of the self my sister points out an ugly flower how can such a thing be save beauty be filtered through the feel of the self same self yet each thing its self an individual that preclude ugliness the individuality is its beauty such are men among men the chain-gang swamp of meaning surrender its consciousness to the nocturnal beauty of an abrupt remorse that travel the midnight geometry of the human temples unlimited in the brotherhood mimicking the gigantic timelessness of water who sacrifice the water for the peace who have forgotten the storms of fresh water with its lyrical bulge busted open upon the earth when will the wind full of rain wave its way dry again in the sunlit clearing of a clean day
Poet with your inner subjective consciousness manifesting the unbearable unthinkable cessation phenomena of the revisionist’s emotional melancholy’s imitation do not forget the substance of passion held in the self-reliance engross dualism in its solitude of splendor caught in the pen of an inquisitor’s terrific hands the unpardonable tongue of street lights with their vapors eyelids opening on the point of dusk with its transparency of darkness coming on strong against the desolation of a nocturnal yellow immensely full of the effort of a dying sun when dawn come go into the immortal streets where man hear the dark sacrifice of a fortnight bright with liberation completely wild the wayward child of an over worn war at the gates of the estates of the sun there we wait only for you to ascend and spend your bright words to shine your light on the rare air held at the end of a lost wind in the mind make amend as if all of mankind is your kin or friend gather together the emotional weather of men’s mind then lurch forward with pen in hand to stitch together the wound that the city inflect on the knowable soul with its waste bound around in the place of the confounded gloom held in the tomb of the flesh the staunch soul waits with its collapsing fantastic gift of wisdom to be spoken of betwixt the fixed end of a dream and what daylight have seen
Poet we love you with your comfortable sorrow devouring the sorrow of all men with your lonely love huddle in your hands you are the sin eatter the woes of the world falls upon you and you bare the weight of it with grace you run the race hung around the neck of mankind the steep and deep race round a sleep that can not tell the end place of this mountain of emotion that we must climb with the heavy chains of our flesh aiming to keep us down your easy words are the stepping stones you know the worse and best of us in you there is relief from grief the cheap that creep upon the small all encumbering whirlwind of passing time you are the witness of your very own speak the lament that weep words that obey those who pray the tormenting comfortless thirst of the world advise us spy for us go into the enemies’ camp where man will do man harm go into the hurtful hunger of war and report all of our doing bring it all to light with your bright strength toward the truth of your peloria pen be you pensive and pious let your poems be pentomic giving penance with all of its pendulusness piled high against the musical notations of the forest where you go around and around in the wilderness in search of the last knowledge of the human soul lost in the bricked over sky
Poet of the homeless for ever looking down poet of love poet of sorrow poet of the Gods you are their handmaids poet you are police politician of words philander philosopher of words prophet preamble preacher walking before your people these are your fates which you can not escape born or made take them to heart and in the heat stand your argufy argument stand your gabber gabble gaga giving light to tough recalcitrant thoughts singing far beyond the myself of the I with its beautiful wounds earned in the battle fought beside the outpour of companion’s Gods maneuvering around the gifted soul for our plutonian faith birth your poems painfully play your way plying deep into the pit of your poetic rendezvous round-about the howls of the Gods to gather our greater gifts giving it in the end poet of the absolute chemical of the brain of the smoke of myself where the hidden murdered of the angels take place above the sore floor of the made and laid overspread shade of the forth earth with its blood and wood food for the winged things stored in the cracks where life seeks a foothold bold to squeeze into the hands of a mother that takes her name off the birth certificate of the abandoned children of the punishment beneath the weary knees on thoughts that have forgotten what was sought in the impeached special falsified pleasured try of the unknown why I spy the last naked lie that poets tell in their rhetoric bullshit voyages resounding off the poems of the treason of ancestral illumination trembling with the ripen electricity that beneficent the extremities of the fatigued eyes the tamed eyes the deafness of eyes reincarnated under the decked efforts that breaks its opaque captivated feminine water aroused by the growth of the motion of emotions enclosed flinch that makes the heart beat its unique intimate fragrant pumping up from the depth on our visions that rise to offend the loss cause of a crowded sky where the clouds built in the hour stand by to shower when its intent is spent the cold blow glow of water when the ground around the air there is heard by the rings of the wings of birds that sing the mention of the approve love of stones for stones in the light grey light of approaching night in the dark remark of sight the divine lust of night is bright and it raised to the passing skies’ replies when the earth birth its own rehearsed imagining chaotic of falling into and out of order the sun have run its light in a changing mood the watching chastening of the wind is done the heart that start near the fear of a tear that breaks down the cheek is aware of the lost cost to be paid by the slow woes that we ware in the trinity of our soul
poem
"Skating Through the Tribulation"
Festooned tombstone foma
conferring wax action
riddles rostrum tadpole
moths that drink the tears of sleeping birds
glass towers podcast
caissons anapaganize
ARGjacker's ASCII flowers
whirling swirling burning pang
whirling swirling burning pang
pang hustle
lungfish
gavur
djacu xekri
'altar ~ quanto ~'
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searchable wishing in whispers for a breath to succulent fluttering lipsand plumb prickly and skeptical in thei streak good grey? gray? a stray from the norm but is working of wowoman’s emotions and the the breath bred byword of the said in where the gods go learning the own in the sexual range of wowoman my shadow sophistroy of shamash where our begging the time space of the erectiondivine ordur(e!) of hard-on muscles of your arms in sex of a huwowoman emotion the girl born to to calculate the god-side of our confusion of the god-wowoman we become one of the two that engage as one with the swoop straight swoosh over the weakest makes it impossible if you are an animal for all that of another’s body bold and ride the wondrous sensual wowowoman I drink you opening in the wind where words are bear back into the bump of a hump go glissandos o
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not to be divine do not be afraid to smell in this dialogue be as one under the rewarding of the skin o be my down the curve of your cheeks as [expletive deleted] that we are raw meat penetrate this linger long lasting pass the singing association of rhythmical common ancient mentality for we are as wowoman is we can not escape the fact in be my wowoman’s wowoman keep me on the we loose the boundaries of ourselves natural selection of the strongest darkness of a catastrophe collapse of your armor of sexual knowledge go sword that swing through the sexual abrupt sweaty with desires let loose heart concern with the lamp bleeding from the skin slip within the holes sense the linguistic instance is the the lost continent of atlantes the easily shedding our clothing for the found in the fossils of our blood of the breath poetry is shes holding my language the seeds of your body that will humility burns to be understood in upside down in its falling let loose seduction taking the standard stance under the unsolvable babel of of praise but now-a-days the gods are its sadly sissified seditious end of your tell- tell tongue came to golet us its light into the mouth of an paleontology of our consciousness is love the girl born to love dose not seeks from your pores wrap me in the strong as our weakest link as weak as o my knowing one to the go bodies
searchable wishing in whispers for a breath to succulent fluttering lipsand plumb prickly and skeptical in thei streak good grey? gray? a stray from the norm but is working of wowoman’s emotions and the the breath bred byword of the said in where the gods go learning the own in the sexual range of wowoman my shadow sophistroy of shamash where our begging the time space of the erectiondivine ordur(e!) of hard-on muscles of your arms in sex of a huwowoman emotion the girl born to to calculate the god-side of our confusion of the god-wowoman we become one of the two that engage as one with the swoop straight swoosh over the weakest makes it impossible if you are an animal for all that of another’s body bold and ride the wondrous sensual wowowoman I drink you opening in the wind where words are bear back into the bump of a hump go glissandos of their speech that existence they wish to be heard in love be for you all for all your birth in the ready belly a girl or soul with its utterances in the vulva meter our strongest god with their each drops of rain contain the world tongue take our arms of poems wide sexual fruits are sweet on the poet’s life beside the divine chaos of light open as a mirror all reflected as in thy linguals I have heard manygirl let the orgasmic salty heat guide the individuality of your sense spontaneous possession of the poet’s knowing bi by the way holds its owing as if your are one with the world as knowledge with your tongue let it run partnership found in the anarchic breathe them into the enzyme She's herd the slipof sheep and gawdy gadflying of the old bawds! of of the gods it is their song in the pony home your sweet musk be our her lithe said in where the gods go learning the as one with the swoop straight swoosh your armor of sexual knowledge go come glissandos of Hertheir speech that are raw meat penetrate this knowledge over the weakest makes it impossible seduction taking the standard stance to calculate the god-side of our upside down in its falling let loose guide the individuality of your sense of another’s body bold and ride the rewarding of the skin o be my of the two that engage easily from the skin slip within the holes working of man’s emotions and the skeptical in thei breathe them into the enzyme of found in the anarchic darkness of a under the unsolvable babel of of your arms in sex we loose the of the gods it is their song in the love the boy born to love dose not space of the divine order of life your tell- tell tongue let us in
this searchable text index finger pointed at thebranch of modern love in its latest 20centuryversion
this sexual fruits are sweet on the paper's boundarie_______ of ourselves we become one orgasmic salty heat seeks from your its sadly sissified seditious dialogue be as one under the shadow continent of atlantes the be my man’s man keep me on the end of existence they wish to be heard in ready belly a girl or boy let the of a human emotion the boy born to of the breath poetry is the language strong as our weakest link as weak as soul with its utterances in the meter wondrous sensual woman I drink you in abrupt sweaty with desires let loose
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The Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear
page 426-437
Go where science is the handy work of man where religion is the handy work of man where Gods are the handy work of man where the hidden divinity is the work of an unknowable God who must remain hidden for the sanity of us all under the sun under the clouds under the rain that runs its drops in stream down the cub of our disbelief in the scientific blessing badly nakedly needed badly bold beaten into our skin when we skittle across the random razor’s raised razzed edge like panting on the edge of a prison where is kept the known named storms ornature in their style and missions like charismatic leaders leading the poor poets pass the inquiry of their ultimate profundity true and timeless held taut tied to the throne antiqued in its oddity but I have seen bold polished political prophets poets penning their Ps and Qs quietly and quick in quality squirreling over the quantity of the quarry sometimes quarrelsome in mining I have seen them drowned in words that sued their souls for the misused of meaning seen them guilty of castrating the contour of the cerebral cortex in the season of breathing seen them adoring the efforts of the adolescent’s muscular memories when something funny was going on in the dressing room of the church of the body seen them offering you a sweet surrender sawed to the tail end of the wind they use to hold back from the tilde to tie you down with the rigid form’s function but now you are as hard and holy as water and only the truth of the rhythmic breath can catch you up and set the winds of your sails in motion I have seen them relearning you reloading their words once then now they are men never removed from the sway of the sea of words they know enough as not to confess to the Gods willing to keep their secrets when all should be told in an open handed offer given freely to the soul O air O mother air O air that share O everywhere O robe that cover the globe O infinity old as earth’s infancy O spent element of the universal flux O praise the way the Gods work O sleep in the breast of a midnight rest O black race of grace O understood motherhood O blood in the veins that flood O motion still of my will O now how the marvelous air O born morn full of air O death of the breath O air that make me slake and shake O old that my mouth mould O him that make dim the mind light of my sight that blind O wondrous dear of my mother atmosphere O air there full of prayers O voluminous womb and tomb hollow hung soon the noon’s selves of the self the bleak wind in air the care to breathe the white and the black of me O mortal beauty that reckon and reek and rack a pack the wrinkle slack of my old black skin O dangerous dancing blood flung into the form of the warmth of a recently fired gun bless him that die in war who pay the price with his life the pain delivered into a mother’s arms O make believe the artist’s art smart to wear the spirit’s heart the artist’s war dangerous at its core these solders of the soul frail clay mounded by an unknown God of tarnished gold O O O when the deed is done down by the when it is far flung by the wind fall of a senseless war that calls to our sons O wind that cools the wet flesh wet with youth’s blood spilt by the roadside of a boasted bomb booming till we cry no more O no more our weary eyes where forth the Christ the angels that spy where forth the divinity seen in an eye of the question why war of flesh dose soon denied its self a feast that none decry why why why poets question why that youth must die O air you have seen it all the wars that man can not forestall the glory of them that fall fighting for a pretentious cause wearing the flag on their selves they take the fall and all for what what reasons why that solders must die how do you justify the limbs loss lately the legless man lamed to his wheel chair no more this muscular madness of man disrespect for life O sin of Ganymede the body knows the love of Jonathan and David is formally formed by the wooing of the flesh of a lonely cleric that for the love of his God must denied the youth that bear his cup full of passion when men love men they will not war but woo the warriors wantonly want only as a hunting eagle that swooped down on its diclinous declivous ludus played out in the streets of our modern day mobbed and molested by Saint Louis’ hateful notion and motion of the jewelry Jews damning and denying them the comfort company of the fitful faithful as the fiery faithful deny non-procreative intercourse in their barely reasonable blind belief in clerical celibacy wicked wacky men rule the flesh of the church of a God that reject the pleasure of men to men love that fear the hounds of the Lord holy men hypocritical in their ignorant of the flesh’s demand for some other flesh to keep kindly kinship with in defiance of the inquisitorial accusation of harsh disputant static of holy statutes issued by the homosexual sweetness of love equal in loveliness to the fair Helen that age shall come to accuse accuse both woman and man with the mature love that have come to speak its name from Reading Gaol and the boxing father shall go down to defend the honor of his wayward son and the long hair poet Oscar Wilde who stained the sheets of the wild child shall have his trials in the bars and night clubs of the sexual dance that dart in and out between the musical bar-beat-banging against the sweaty flesh drunk on the shirtless dance that eagerly entice us to come O lovely boy of womanly bones fair of skin within the sins of the church you shall be redeemed in the hast of the honest last coming of the official affairs of the heart where the addiction of the flesh is writ on the skin of the half clad Christ on the cross alone after he kept the company of 12 men did they say live not as fools and simulacra between the two eternities of birth and death be one with your realities and the world will save and served you it will stew you into the stock of the soup of life let your God stir the pot till your life is well done to feed the earth with your bones and the angels with your spiritual soul O essential sin the proper pardon is rend by the sum of your offence toward the government of the public Gods that you can petition for the kingdom to come before the Gods hold their peace in the infinite heaven’s shade of privacy the futility and sorrowful mockery of the battle-voices of dead idols wandering in the wild uncultivated places of stones and trees the Idols are a terror and a wonder to themselves they hold it their eyes the divinity of the supreme power their wild souls full of noble ardors and a force of movement toward an universal admiration of the surpassing beauty of human in their right minds palpable to the echo of history with its deepest deep of the baby beauty bathed in the knowable knowledge knocking a notice of the insincere and offensives of the highest praise given by the flesh’s rhythmic essence of passion for the architectural symmetry of a polished place parked along the physiognomical point of a brief truth buried in the square sarcophagus made of faith to be open on the day of judgment when purgatory and paradise find their truth of purpose when Hell and Heaven close their doors to new souls to the sublimo and sublimest embodiment of the visible mechanism of the musical harmony of the God Nature that thousandfold beauty of divineness fit to be worshiped fit for begging for its blessing fit for the poet’s song sung long by these spiritual prophets of the understood word of the knowable Heaven of earth the holy dirt and all creatures in their daily labor earth’s visible force strong and along strong worthy of worship as the visible God of our daily lives why O why must man think else-wise why not a God along side our side breath her in feel her winds on your skin know that all creatures are kindest kin she is God without and within she gives the breath of life she is the knowable God before your sight Christ was crucified on the wood of her making Mohamed sat in her shade Confucius learned her ways she is the halves of Tiamat the master she is Mut my monstrous mother maker of Mallard and Meadowlark Merganser and Merlin she is Goddess and God feminine and masculine and the burring of such lines and somewhere we exist along her rhyme within her time told divine working of her all knowing mind all living thing are her thoughts manifested into life let us once again worship her light light of day lights of night
Go my knowing one to the searchable heart concern with the lamp bleeding its light into the mouth of an opening in the wind where words are wishing in whispers for a breath to breathe them into the enzyme of existence they wish to be heard in the breath bred byword of the said in its sadly sissified seditious seduction taking the standard stance of a human emotion the boy born to love the boy born to love dose not streak a stray from the norm but is as one with the swoop straight swoosh sword that swing through the sexual knowing bi by the way holds its owing own in the sexual range of man my love be for you all for all your sexual fruits are sweet on the poet’s tongue take our arms of poems wide open as a mirror all reflected as each drops of rain contain the world upside down in its falling let loose your armor of sexual knowledge go bear back into the bump of a hump go succulent and plumb prickly and abrupt sweaty with desires let loose from the skin slip within the holes of another’s body bold and ride the pony home your sweet musk be our guide the individuality of your sense is divine do not be afraid to smell as if your are one with the world as if you are an animal for all that man is we can not escape the fact that we are raw meat penetrate this knowledge with your tongue let it run down the curve of your cheeks as cum the seeds of your body that will birth in the ready belly a girl or boy let the orgasmic salty heat seeks from your pores wrap me in the hard-on muscles of your arms in sex we loose the boundaries of ourselves we become one of the two that engage easily shedding our clothing for the rewarding of the skin O be my wondrous sensual woman I drink you in be my man’s man keep me on the end of your tell- tell tongue let us in this dialogue be as one under the shadow of Shamash where our begging humility burns to be understood in the time space of the divine order of life beside the divine chaos of light under the unsolvable Babel of confusion of the God-man partnership found in the anarchic darkness of a catastrophe collapse of the lost continent of Atlantes the paleontology of our consciousness is found in the fossils of our blood where the Gods go learning the working of man’s emotions and the natural selection of the strongest over the weakest makes it impossible to calculate the God-side of our ancient mentality for we are as strong as our weakest link as weak as our strongest God with their association of rhythmical common sense the linguistic instance is the spontaneous possession of the poet’s soul with its utterances in the meter of the breath poetry is the language of the Gods it is their song in the glissandos of their speech that linger long lasting pass the singing of praise but now-a-days the Gods are skeptical in their anger of the poet’s wares as if we are in the last days of our texture knowledge or the poets have forgotten their timbre duty to concern themselves with the right harmony of truth of imagining that they can sing long and loud the God’s harmony introspectively of the tempo wisdom that the Gods share with them where once the Gods was jealous of the melody side of the unlucky accident of the mind now they keep their instrumental shame tight in the brain when it comes to Gods poems are like worms caught in the beak of a red breasted Robin ready to feed its children so you poets of the divine music birth your poems of nutriments to feed the minds and souls of men music yourself sue yourself spread yourself into the musical accompaniment of words sing your hemispheric excitation into your prophetic posing trance that possess you be one with the goodly Gods one with man the same skin of skin sometime we loose our ability to sing the discontinuities of pitch that ring the round about midnight songs of our hardy heart sometime we set ourselves apart and fall under the spell of the man made hell where we come to tell the confess tongue soft sift that drift the God’s gift of a heart beat’s rift that yet sweat from our pens of the last endured day gone from the day’s shone away the brave blow that saved the rabble babble rolled the cold wreck of a heart-broke the missing words lateralization the music of the greatest activity of the brave blow to and fro the smart bones all alone that keep its own truth of the heart in the start youth of humanness Christ’s sacrificed came with a price to be paid by all that live after you and I must bear the weight of the cross with the body in tack let our souls not lack the grace of a pay day’s joy the anticipation to come when the work is done this is the price paid to enter into the heaven of your father if your God be not among the canon of the Christian’s heaven if your God live within you then be true to the blood that runs within your veins my God be one and the self same of the nutriment of Nature She is all knowing all embowering the breath of my breath the skin of my skin is within her knowing the sins of my sins committed when I pollute her I pollute myself the very breath of the sharing air the earth that bear the bear-footed going of my gone in the early morn wet with dew the true mother of all the Gods even the odd all that man can concede is under the wings of her being even Christ was force to breathe her in no life escape her knowing no tree or bird or lowly flee escape her needs to be seen even the glorious sun burns in the palm of her hand but as a poet I am a man that speak for all the Gods of the land mine is no more righteous as your and I give praise to the substantial God that sustain you that wean you clean you of your human sins be not afraid to ask forgiveness with the hearty heart not the calculated head for it can deceive even itself for its own protection the lies the mind choose to believe are beloved by the body of blood that bleed boldly by the obedience to hallucinated voices heard throughout the cyclic history of the spiritual gyres of our weeping for the handful of the lesser importance of what we choose to except as truth the metaphors of the minds rulethe hypnotic man crying stop the pain of the original sin that explain the curious healing of a terrifying illness of the brain where the biochemistry of stress address the biological advantage of the world’s question is there a God the answer is in the genes involved in the enzyme deficiency of the schizophrenia of prophets in the fatigue knowledge of the self-reflective man in the sensory perception of alpha waves of being one in the one-ness of the world the answer is found in the private drama of dreams that drain the overloaded consciousness of our waken day the answer is found in the far away fleeing of He-who-is toward which we pray all the prayers ever prayed can not come back to save they are as smoke in which the angels bathe but man is of a double brain soaked in the blood of the veins blesses be the prophecy of the insane that worship the secret image seen in rain the search for God is a human game that children and mad men play to gain the upper hand of the knowable same self of I-am-who-I-am
Go my knowing one to the searchable heart concern with the lamp bleeding its light into the mouth of an opening in the wind where words are wishing in whispers for a breath to breathe them into the enzyme of existence they wish to be heard in the breath bred byword of the said in its sadly sissified seditious seduction taking the standard stance of a human emotion the boy born to love the boy born to love dose not streak a stray from the norm but is as one with the swoop straight swoosh sword that swing through the sexual knowing bi by the way holds its owing own in the sexual range of man my love be for you all for all your sexual fruits are sweet on the poet’s tongue take our arms of poems wide open as a mirror all reflected as each drops of rain contain the world upside down in its falling let loose your armor of sexual knowledge go bear back into the bump of a hump go succulent and plumb prickly and abrupt sweaty with desires let loose from the skin slip within the holes of another’s body bold and ride the pony home your sweet musk be our guide the individuality of your sense is divine do not be afraid to smell as if your are one with the world as if you are an animal for all that man is we can not escape the fact that we are raw meat penetrate this knowledge with your tongue let it run down the curve of your cheeks as cum the seeds of your body that will birth in the ready belly a girl or boy let the orgasmic salty heat seeks from your pores wrap me in the hard-on muscles of your arms in sex we loose the boundaries of ourselves we become one of the two that engage easily shedding our clothing for the rewarding of the skin O be my wondrous sensual woman I drink you in be my man’s man keep me on the end of your tell- tell tongue let us in this dialogue be as one under the shadow of Shamash where our begging humility burns to be understood in the time space of the divine order of life beside the divine chaos of light under the unsolvable Babel of confusion of the God-man partnership found in the anarchic darkness of a catastrophe collapse of the lost continent of Atlantes the paleontology of our consciousness is found in the fossils of our blood where the Gods go learning the working of man’s emotions and the natural selection of the strongest over the weakest makes it impossible to calculate the God-side of our ancient mentality for we are as strong as our weakest link as weak as our strongest God with their association of rhythmical common sense the linguistic instance is the spontaneous possession of the poet’s soul with its utterances in the meter of the breath poetry is the language of the Gods it is their song in the glissandos of their speech that linger long lasting pass the singing of praise but now-a-days the Gods are skeptical in their anger of the poet’s wares as if we are in the last days of our texture knowledge or the poets have forgotten their timbre duty to concern themselves with the right harmony of truth of imagining that they can sing long and loud the God’s harmony introspectively of the tempo wisdom that the Gods share with them where once the Gods was jealous of the melody side of the unlucky accident of the mind now they keep their instrumental shame tight in the brain when it comes to Gods poems are like worms caught in the beak of a red breasted Robin ready to feed its children so you poets of the divine music birth your poems of nutriments to feed the minds and souls of men music yourself sue yourself spread yourself into the musical accompaniment of words sing your hemispheric excitation into your prophetic posing trance that possess you be one with the goodly Gods one with man the same skin of skin sometime we loose our ability to sing the discontinuities of pitch that ring the round about midnight songs of our hardy heart sometime we set ourselves apart and fall under the spell of the man made hell where we come to tell the confess tongue soft sift that drift the God’s gift of a heart beat’s rift that yet sweat from our pens of the last endured day gone from the day’s shone away the brave blow that saved the rabble babble rolled the cold wreck of a heart-broke the missing words lateralization the music of the greatest activity of the brave blow to and fro the smart bones all alone that keep its own truth of the heart in the start youth of humanness Christ’s sacrificed came with a price to be paid by all that live after you and I must bear the weight of the cross with the body in tack let our souls not lack the grace of a pay day’s joy the anticipation to come when the work is done this is the price paid to enter into the heaven of your father if your God be not among the canon of the Christian’s heaven if your God live within you then be true to the blood that runs within your veins my God be one and the self same of the nutriment of Nature She is all knowing all embowering the breath of my breath the skin of my skin is within her knowing the sins of my sins committed when I pollute her I pollute myself the very breath of the sharing air the earth that bear the bear-footed going of my gone in the early morn wet with dew the true mother of all the Gods even the odd all that man can concede is under the wings of her being even Christ was force to breathe her in no life escape her knowing no tree or bird or lowly flee escape her needs to be seen even the glorious sun burns in the palm of her hand but as a poet I am a man that speak for all the Gods of the land mine is no more righteous as your and I give praise to the substantial God that sustain you that wean you clean you of your human sins be not afraid to ask forgiveness with the hearty heart not the calculated head for it can deceive even itself for its own protection the lies the mind choose to believe are beloved by the body of blood that bleed boldly by the obedience to hallucinated voices heard throughout the cyclic history of the spiritual gyres of our weeping for the handful of the lesser importance of what we choose to except as truth the metaphors of the minds rulethe hypnotic man crying stop the pain of the original sin that explain the curious healing of a terrifying illness of the brain where the biochemistry of stress address the biological advantage of the world’s question is there a God the answer is in the genes involved in the enzyme deficiency of the schizophrenia of prophets in the fatigue knowledge of the self-reflective man in the sensory perception of alpha waves of being one in the one-ness of the world the answer is found in the private drama of dreams that drain the overloaded consciousness of our waken day the answer is found in the far away fleeing of He-who-is toward which we pray all the prayers ever prayed can not come back to save they are as smoke in which the angels bathe but man is of a double brain soaked in the blood of the veins blesses be the prophecy of the insane that worship the secret image seen in rain the search for God is a human game that children and mad men play to gain the upper hand of the knowable same self of I-am-who-I-am
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