Borderline

Lookout Burial Mound

2006-09-28T14:18:00.002-07:00

When walking upon the mound of white stones
overloking the holy universal City of the Mind.
remembering to carry seven white quartz stones,
no other. Remembering that you, bone collector,
are a creature of bottomless desire and craving

And both good and evil
are in endless sppply
And evil is available
in endless supply
and great good
is available in endless supply

And so when gathering the marrow out of the skeletons,
remember, the heart will never be found for it is made
of flesh
and cannot be collected

For is all life is suffering,
all suffering comes from the root of desire,
and so then these old boes
out of evil since seeking all hearts
great desire
is at the suffring of evil,
marrow and the bones

Lookout Burial Mound

2006-09-28T14:18:00.001-07:00

When walking upon the mound of white stones
overlooking the holy universal City of the Mind.
remembering to carry seven white quartz stones,
no other. Remembering that you, bone collector,
are a creature of bottomless desire and craving

And both good and evil
are in endless sppply
And evil is available
in endless supply
and great good
is available in endless supply

And so when gathering the marrow out of the skeletons,
remember, the heart will never be found for it is made
of flesh
and cannot be collected

For if all life is suffering,
all suffering comes from the root of desire,
producing more life,
and so then these old bones
out of evil since seeking all hearts
with great desire
is at the suffering of evil,
marrow and the bones

Lookout Burial Mound, Phoenix

2006-09-28T14:18:00.000-07:00

When walking upon the mound of white stones
overlooking the holy universal City of the Mind.
remembering to carry seven white quartz stones,
no other. Remembering that you, bone collector,
are a creature of bottomless desire and craving

And both good and evil
are in endless sppply
And evil is available
in endless supply
and great good
is available in endless supply

And so when gathering the marrow out of the skeletons,
remember, the heart will never be found, for it is made
of flesh
and cannot be collected

For if all life is suffering,
all suffering comes from the root of desire,
and so then these old boes
out of evil since seeking all hearts
with great desire ...
is at the suffering of evil,
marrow and the bones

Storms Across America

2006-09-13T09:11:00.000-07:00

She leans into the sea
keening a song
from the Madonna vagina
of the deep as hailstones
ring white pins honed from Hawaii
and a tide of low pressure
rounds up upon the shore
of the Forty-Fifth parallel,
a crowny curtin of thorns

Unknowing from the unquiet
slumbers of lost ships
still melting in icy currents
below the surface,
the seagulls scatter
and defecate upon her:

Rise, O rise, storms across America
Your plastic passions await you
as cars stream in from the Orient
and gas passes through your ports
of entry, pleased, as they are
from the total penetration
of the perfect plan

Star of India, our captains
catch colds in the bowlegged
polarities of warm seas
and freezing skies
The sun, well-timed,
is a clock-face ticking,
hidden from our view

America, may the tilted jet stream
blow a gale of goth up your nose
May the ocean rise and plaster
a new continent where truth,
chased in the wind, wakes
the ghost dancers from
the Pacific to the Atlantic
before the living dead
can get out of bed

Shipwrecked sailors
found lost at sea
discovered homes
in their own faces,
in bindles of woody words
crushed to hand-length bits

After forty days of fire,
forty days of rain,
the northwesterly El Nino
sheared shanks of wind
off the Oregon coast,
then brought a low blow
to slap the soiled temples
of the City of Angels

Driftwood is piled fore desire
against sandy beach stumps
and stop gaps, infinite and wise:
Infinity stopped here for a day,
a deluge for the dead,
so I could admire
our wood chips,
our broken bones

A winter-long windshear
plucked the breath
from my pressurized lungs,
turning my fire to water.
I floated some, then burst,
mounted a floating oar
then sank into an orb
of sand

The sun, beyond the grey wail,
shaped a man inside here,
inside this calamity of clams;
one-part plastic,
one-part fishhook,
a bonney redwood mast,
a skull & crossbones flying,
walking the plank on dry land
without an anchor, who cares?

Setting of these banalities
of life aside, let me perscribble:
Glass floats on the beach,
I've found, and the ebb-tide
of the avenues are a roar
of trucks in the rain

On tuesdays, Great Food
is closed in a seaside town;
and what a tree lacks,
the wind whispers;
and loving couples
strand tennis shoes
on the frosty morning shores
as missiles are clicked
into load in the underground
caverns of Iran

Also this: The electric truth sheds
the oil slick skin off the CIA
and sickened seagulls
reel in the ninety mile winds
and Pennsylvania miners
with black lung bibles
defuse the threat
with another tragic
mind blast

The sun goes up
and Mercury goes
into retrograde
as our satellite's
telescopic echo fades
and techno-pop
becomes the sea
in which we wade

The camera's eye
is just a catch
for this cuckoo cluck house,
our mourning latch
and what is least
is that which lasts
as buzzard gulls sift
through black morning trash
and I try to unlearn
this noisy cache
of highway moms
speeding by bullet blasts
and taxi driver Thanatoss plants
look like gods in camouflage pants

Glass floats on the beach,
it's endless, at last!
The end is coming near
and it's coming here fast
It's time to drink
from the pirate's flask
and toast a tune
to all of that glass,
to the sun, the sky,
the nuclear smash,
the currents, the past,
the pounding surf,
the manic search
for meaning and gas,
the molten glow,
the melting snow,
the rivers that run
through those who know ...

Glass floats on the beach,
the ebb is endless,
it's here, at last

Jack, Jill, The Hill and What Tumbles After

2006-09-13T09:07:00.000-07:00

She opens her eyes
as the red glow
behind Chipeta Peak
shines for me

Dive into her bossom
Feel her warm breath
on top of my Hopi head
as light undresses
her mountain throne

Coffee, banana bread,
Telluride sangrael,
a musical bead in her bed

From afar, they are white-
capped pyramids of snow,
but these mountains
are not white at all --
they are not purple, either,
though majesty they define,
they are silver-shadowed
ribs and vertebrae,
blue stone mixed milky,
like a pearl that forgot
its roundness
Soft hollows next to
proud, broken peaks,
if whiteness means purity,
then where did the white go?

Look inside, my love, to your heart

Pointing proud and lusting up
at the belly of this paradise
A trickle of the senses
perhaps a frost-induced
hallucination

Is this what an echo looks like?
What happens when clouds
become solid?

Sweet purple pearls in a bed
afloat on dreams?

Dreams that take care
to trust
in the tossing seas
of love

Your embrace. Your trigger,
moist and alert.
In the moonlight, starlight,
your skin is alpinglow
as you sleep

Waiting for the last musket blast
to pour me out of the city
like a dry wine, aged, and restless
for drinking this desertscape,
unbecomes me quickly,
my vanity, the snow,
calls into blood
a fast pace, this tempo,
a slow burn, steadying the shifting
eddies of wind at my back,
by a mountain tree marked
and bonded to the land
through red drapes fillled
with hemoglobin, oxygen
and eros to a time
just around the bend

Sunset shoulders
across my back, a blow
peached rosy with violet
blue-seeded brightness
aflame with the glory
of the day as it passes
to bray at the moon
from afar

The sun sets in a skin
so vain, so knowing,
like the dark flowers
of sunset, in bloom,
closing to the tides
of right watchfulness
a gaze sets, too,
on her brow

The Sun Ra comes and goes,
the heart remains true

Song of songs,
Song of Solomon
He who by twin angel
cast the dice

The way of love
is the way of climbing
up the truer chambers
of the soul

The harvest of the spirit
looms like that moon

Mellow mountain,
music a melody
John Denver's yoddle
down the highway

Winter's western dreamtime
sings your name
Western dreamtime,
San Diego, Kansas,
Cleveland and Maine

Eastern star,
order of the Golden Dawn
These are the haunts
we're hunting down

Slow going,
by the window,
strength in tires
water over
the brotherland
Navajo beauty beings
along the golden path,
a snake in the water,
born in the earth,
a cool shuffle of cards,
a smile

Water born in the desert,
died again in a flutter
of ecstasies and denial

Come winter, snow rises
on the high country,
your country,
where your histories unfurl
like long flags
symbolic and won
through sacrifice

I am aged past knowing
upon the bride of a bold
new dawn, when my
circle of the night
wraps around our sleeping
cold lands

The perfect stasis
is the yearning of the years
In turning, the winter
comes to spring

Joy, a fountain, under ice,
waits for our warmth
to come

The sky, as interpreted
by Stevie Ray Vaughan,
says so

II

Birds, sounding their song,
in a tree by the city
center of consumer America,
where a cool breeze
winds through the corridors
sighing by shop windows
through which hundreds
and thousands of bodies pass,
eyes wide open, stoic, blank,
or perhaps they are shut blearily,
seeking a stimulant mind bath
to improve
the sense's perceptions

Density soars, like those birds,
on air

Late fall, light behind shades,
winter's unequal
is a desert season
when warmed light
fuses with the muse

Plato's power is temporary
but true

The information we seek
is within me,
within you

Baubles hanging from trees,
red, almost fluorescent dangling things
defying gravity, they wait
for a gust of wind,
to rise on a blanket of air
to vibrate with currents,
sound, undulating eddies,
defying pavement, flickering
in the twinkling ebb of the new
evening ...

The somber wail made me glad,
alive, at brightness, lingering
in the dark while the white-winged
angel hovers over the city,
the air currents
as comfortable to those
feathers as the land
we walk upon,
hot waters from beneath
the surface
to percolate
into a dream of you

The water is blue,
the sun, light red,
tinged in rosy glass,
orange blossom scents
in the open passages,
mingling with honeysuckle,
sickening sweetness,
absorbed essence into ether,
beyond time, in space, beyond
temporal, spatial coherence
to bring pollen to you, old bee,
signs of springtime,
in this winter of the desert,
which is more like fall
in Iowa, the sweet smoke
of life burning the eye

Can't keep me from feeling you

Intimacy inside this tree house
is just beginning

In justice, trust,
simple phantoms of light
cross these eyes, these nights,
when the Scorpio moon is full

She tires when the city closes in

The course womb of technological
chains sap the strength

The clock ticks off time
with Zen patience,
wild escape ...
One is for frame,
the other, wings

Doubts are just stars
passing in the sky

At these times
one must remember
to keep the eyes
focused on the ground,
the thing that doesn't move,
your own deceived dreams

The question of standing solid
is eternal
since the world is ever
in flux, and love, the binding
energy,
goes hand in hand
with being ever present:
The head resting on me,
the perfume of tender,
temporary embrace,
the lock on love
is breezy and free
to challenge the atoms

The space is sad and true,
the welling up in the poisoned eyes
is moisture misspent
in the fullest expression
of tossed trials of us

Within this scattering
of principle fact,
the flower
as the highest vibration
of perfection,
folds and dies

Then the rules
of unity are a secret,
leaving just reasons
and no role,
no well-beaten path,
no free will,
just heaviness, loneliness,
a vacant presence,
unwound by a mere moon
that's bigger than me,
bolder than you

Fatherless

How is it possible
William Blake
had no children?

How is it possible
I no longer miss
lost treasures?

How is it possible
I've come so far
but feel so short

How are Santa Claus
and Jesus Christ?
Only poets shape
religion now

Hiding Place

Beneath the stairs
the chair

On the steps to the stairs
cusps of dog hair,
hair of the dog

By necessity
the form follows function,
the words fill in as needed,
but why debate?

Sagittarian answers
anticipate Capricorn
doubts to follow,
and so the star chart
is sewn into the sky

She cooks a Martian meal
as acid rock rolls overhead
making a bead
toward a Spaniard sea,
rolling home, a teal green
reason to roam

The bowels, thrown out
of Promethean Safeway aisles
swim the the Hummers,
as a million bits of music
stop at the coast, suddenly

Betrayal of the Senses

Rehearsal night
wound up tight
Hiding from the light

She puts on a dreadful fight

Laughing till it's right
One moment in her light

The traffic trough
is thrown aloft
The tossing game
is in the wrist,
the choice, the gift,
the rift and lift

Sweet sensations bend
our insides, the morning
is a shadow wide
as the time creatures we are

Burned purple, burned into glories,
abounding with starlight,
dead as pearls, the shimmering
medleys of open space,
the snaky road, the river canyons,
the shifting sea

Get out of the children's way,
she cried, the hibiscus
blooming beneath the sun,
powered by the sun, seems
to be awake, but necklaced ladies
in the city street sweeper scene
roll on toes of lost dust, memories
of great barbecue bins
of baby blue ribs

We are the icy fires
of cigarette stares

Man with the Book
next to us just don't care

Come summer, maybe even before,
the creature comforts will become
barren, a lizard's breath
of contagious fumes
and furies

High heat, pressure, will rush
across this desert floor
and the ungainly winds
of the dust devil,
foul of feeling and terminal,
the terminous, the gate,
the gate through the imperfect
primrose path

Prometheus seeks the light,
then gasps for friends,
associates, who, for lack of
a better purpose,
shatter their wine glasses
and move on

To be lost in all of this glory
parts well with this story:
She's cross-legged in a chair,
in blue jeans, lost in a Valley
of pizza boxes, neon, tortolini
and light

-Ridgway, Colorado,
co-written with Jaimie Ondrea Dunn

My Parking Lot for Words (The Secret Life of Booksellers)

2006-09-13T08:59:00.002-07:00

Genius, dense as cobalt
resides here, breaking the glass
shattering fortgetfulness

Masters of accident and intention,
the labored conceits of high words
timed for ill effect, for pens
warmed up in hell, for swords
thrust in God’s eye, as the rivers
run thirsts for bloods,
mocking heroes, making
heroes of mockery

During the program,
the light goes through
Numbers one, zero, zero,
zero, Oh ...

I stay low beneath the sun
running a game in my head ...

Look short, lean on the high side
trust is a gap-toothed old friend
real or imagined as concrete blocks
on the walk rolling on to forever

Cheese steak, Philadelphia,
never liked the place, though
I’ve never been there, but in the long drawn out
portal of impairment there are those I’ve met
who taught me not to like the place

They were no morning doves, blasphemers
or cowards or other kinds I can relate,
mostly just commercial power dogs
blind to trees, my tears, my river
of grotesque memories to which
I fill in my familiar streets

Manic miss, the mourning missy mists
as the sun comes out as I learn
everything I have believed
since I was a child was inexact,
not exactly wrong, but incomplete,
a pyramid of obscenities,
between the brick and eye
I cannot delete

The older you get, they say,
the less you know
Orange blossoms die
in the drying sun

But you can ignite your morning sock
with a drink of chlorine to ignite
adrenal glories, borderline stories
since the gory truth of the matter
is I need scatterbrain automobiles
of desire to burn up the road
in order to get out of my own way

Progress is personal that way

Hip quirks of commerce, commerce
of caffeine, piped-in music to drain
into the ears, the mouth, the throat ...

Benjamin Franklin is dead. Capitalism is
fascism outside the box of the electorate
and all that remains for the taking
is democracies dropping dull
as the thirst for beer, cigs, cokes,
loads of little pills, drowning out
any chance of waking

The other day a storm came
and left puddles in the parking lot
and then some guys came by
and washed the water away

Six hundred miles of the Colorado River
snakes it’s way toward oblivion governed
by the rush toward disharmony

It rained that night and it was not enough
to feed the liberal arts retreat

I got robot leanings
I crave firm meanings
but I’m not a very good robot
and it gets me blue
though I’ve rediscovered my
A-dee-dee in your certainty,
your bricks and blocks,
your methods of narcotic
information, your great ideas
for getting lock-step
with the city scape,
your clean machine
your hearts of vogue
disclosure, opening through
my donut hole of despair

This is not enough
Somehow, I don’t end
up screaming out during
this naked lunch along
the narrow channel
you provide, narcissistic bastard
of bazillion rooms for an empty house

And now that Dan Brown has co-opted,
made corporate all disblief,
the endless cosmic paradise of history
is elusive as the facts of nature
we no longer need to disprove
as the physical universe
shelves the metaphsyical self,
and the shadow people squeeze
this lemon dry, leaving only
the seeds on the tarmac
for birds to eat up,
for birds who can only squak for answers,
birds to serve up the shallow
surface of a simmering deep dark well
that appears to be nothing but
a cast of inbreds gripping for power

Revolutionary monsters,
collectors of hebrew letters
chained up by white knights
who scoured the Holy Lands
for relevant ricches
for an everpresent dream

Yes, the world is replete with guitar stars
and assasins capable of spinning
schemes to make us feel better
then comes clever wordplay,
then comes prosaic pop,
then comes the heightening
of the humdrum, of novelty
of pathetic little stories,
wrought Beatleesque
as we test the business end
of this busted bus, for young bucks
worth singing of

If my brain is a factory
churning up dread, then I wish
I had a camera for those
brief moments of ecstasy
when I am the real me
reverent, at Fenway

Stephen King is multiplying
nightmares by the boxcar
and conservative talk show hosts
roam free on the pricey shelves
of liberty

How do I not wake
in tremors of fear?

The boatman loads
a gunny sack
The boatman is prolific
in waves and waves

The hearse is an alliterative
anticipation of the worst

Shakespeare drums up three sermons
based on new product by Paul Simon
Garfy yoddles, icons deconstruct

late in life, late in life
doling out snippets
for old yups
Great artifice
served up like
cold cuts
a generation so far
from their overrated riots
in the streets of the 1960s
they can barely crap over
the latest name-brand smash

Fortunately, Neil Young does
remember, a lonely man doesn’t
need him around anyhow
and each time I enter your aisles
the need diminishes for the media mad
toggles for what used to be
known as chaos, but now
is regarded as proof
the liberals were wrong

I know too much
I’m a stoneface
an Edward R. Murrow
without winking
can’t even drink rain,
quit drinking

The broadcast is leaking

City life is the poverty of seeing

Poor bleached white boy
on the sand, sinking

At night it’s different,
the open desert
(now that’s a funny one)
goes on notice as missing

Closed in, safe, hot burn
bags of bones
The bookstore is a parking lot
for words

And at night, body part theater
passes the time while my
little ark of verbs lie in wait
as a final sacrifice
for the final fire

I am cloud cutter,
a palace of clutter
sifting around for words
that, when I find them
die again

I am the sheet
that keeps us cool
your protected dark
is my sanctuary

I am the dim prize fighter,
clunked down dung, dumb in
memory, the asphalt gets
titled and I fall back
the hill to you

I have eyes that wear down
from wondering

A Poolside Chat with Winter Birds

2006-09-13T08:59:00.001-07:00

Four pigeons
by the whirlpool
coodling up chlorine

Flying life, safe as ginger
in a cabinet,
extrapolates lifespan

The wingspan
of swimming pool pigeons
is dependent upon supply,
depth and demand

It is to the good fortune
of the young chicks
that their short necks,
soft beaks, cannot
reach down to drink

Six poisened pigeons
find survival in the short-term
risk at the swimming pool lip

Later, they will plummet
to the floor of the concrete
cooridor

Anonymous slaughterers
break off with the wind,
bleached and careening

Deconstruction of Arizona

2006-09-13T08:59:00.000-07:00

Arizona, I don't recognize you anymore
Your creosote roots lie beneath
the perfect piles of McDonalds parking lots

Arizona, an inequal symmetry
of rubble piles collect
Ten thousand miles from here

Arizona, you are responsible ...
The middle-aged businessman
with expendable income
sweats for pleasure

Arizona, when can I stop sweating?
I swear in the heat like a pizza oven

Arizona, you are a car part store
but you got no glass to see through
and the beige collection
of air conditioned caves
is conditioned to respond
in all the right ways

The forests are in ashes
as the governor gapes
from a helicopter high

Arizona, I can find no fluid,
no friend, nor car phone to lean on
for company

By GPS, you can find me in the living room,
darkly lit, with rayolight flashing
bible black blurbs

Arizona, not even Ginsberg
would gripe about your tripe,
so blurred with anonymity
hell hardly matters anymore

Arizona, my life's belongings
are melting in a storage facility
and there are more things that beep
here than I can count

Arizona, you haven't hassled me for a while

The world is flooding as you dry up and blow away

Arizona, a kid almost got crushed in your parking lot
and I went to one of your social service buildings
and was amazed about how many homeless lurks
were sleeping in the lobby

Arizona, I can't get assistance at the cash register
and the mountains are closed, cats run free
and all the lizards are gone

Arizona, you are sucking in souls

I think you should battalion
the borders with snow

An Official Statement from Rodrigo et Exciso Industries

2006-09-13T08:54:00.000-07:00

We most humbly apologize
for the series of unfortunate events
leading to the catastrophic batch
of pancake mix products
used to sanctify your
national rituals

Although, for reasons
beyond our control,
as well as those we can,
we cannot fully divulge, recite,
enunciate or simply explain
those circumstances leading
to the incidents in question,
our hearts go out to the families
of those who experienced
death or discomfort or both
from the clearly overzealous
applications of our potions, mixes
and accessories

We also thank your priesthood
and supporting public officials
for their patience and continued
business and prompt payment

Those relationships mean everything
to us because Rodrigo et Exciso Industries
is, if nothing else, a people place

We are proud the many denominations
of your faith have chosen our pancake mix,
asundry gifts and necessary toggles,
brushes and rubs are so much a part
of your holy houses, as well
as the network hookup

Your worship means the world to us

As you can imagine
those behind the so-called
“pancake plot” have been
severely punished

You can trust us on that score

While, certainly, the regrettable fallout
over the unfortunate event has been
trying for both of our nations,
our methods against the miscreants
were far more painful and long-lasting
than those horrors felt, in the last hours
by their victims,

We at Rodrigo et Exciso Industries
remain supremely satisfied
with the high quality of our
pancake mixtures, creams
and agents for fast relief

Working closely now
with your priests and personages
of high renown who have paid us,
handsomely,
for your patronage,
we have made great improvements
to our mixtures, creams, fixtures,
accessories and agents for fast belief,
as well as our security measures to ensure
the purity of our products and applications:
The Make-a-Mix Spirit Cleanse causes
no more moaning excess, rapid heart rates,
vomiting, heaves, sores
and so any further anxiety
is no longer necessary

Which means our products
can be used in your rituals
without any more tumult
or torture than is
absolutely necessary

No more stigma
No more stain

Blood is no longer
needed as a substitute
for milk, whiskey, or water
(depending on the denomination):
A graft of skin will do

With our new push-button process
worshippers can avoid the 'roids
and ascend or descend
the pancake stacks of the void
in ways both Dante and Blake
would find agreeable

Our caste system coddles
and coodles with cost-savings,
rewards points and our bar-coded
no-punches pulled card,
Oh pancake candy dandies,
listens to the father
as the father listens for you
listening to them, and so on ...

After the one-hour chairless
session, you will be a hairless
and sweet, a compliant people

Because, like I said,
Rodrigo et Exciso Industries
is a people place,
a fixed furniture,
fee-based turnstile,
decorated and discreet,
offering ambient
monoculture music,
all heard before it's felt,
seen before it tastes
as you drift away from
chlorinated conceits,
that oblivious reeking
of seeking anything more,
no longer wanting,
anything more

And when it’s time
to put your ass in the air
to receive our golden spike,
there will be plenty of time
(and advanced notice)
for you to become mortal,
wounded, of plaster and still

Rather B in Bed With You, Girl

2006-09-13T08:50:00.002-07:00

For exactly one decade
I have made a habit
of smoke-toughened
into leather-lunged
bouts of caffiene-induced
delusions and other
observations
from the broadcast
centers of the monoculture,
usually staring out
at parking lots,
sometimes at mountains,
sometimes the sea

During these years
of nicotine reverie
I have sent myself
naked into the world
as a statement
opposing me,
seeking you:
A pretty
silly exercise

Especially since
now I have found you
Especially since now
I have acquired a need
for reticence,
a hermetic safety zone
from all of that
attention seeking
and performed
self pity
that is the act
of writing poetry
in a public place

This need for privacy
I believe is healthy
since the heat rising
from the cement is getting
more than just intolerable,
it's positively escatalogical,
as are the stormy arms
of August

These days to dive
below the surface
into the womb of water
as lightning strikes overhead,
just a brief swim to exist,
below the waves,
as a teasing of fates
in case an electrical charge
were coming,
is everything:
I'm in happiness,
beyond its natural limit;
in hope, beyond its most
fearful flight

2006-09-13T08:50:00.001-07:00

Ginsberg Rolls Over

2006-09-13T08:50:00.000-07:00

I saw a flower child with a ring in her nose
and a house as big as a cloud
hanging from a cliff like a prisoner in a noose,
a rustling from the trash bin, a sticking of my heals
into the carpet, and facing the wind with ear bent
I was forced to wear some kind of ridiculous
head contraption and now I can't hear you
and now I can't get to sleep anymore
and now I think Orwell is right, always right

August is in arms and the president is on vacation
and the world burns and the seas swell,
satire rings more true than ever before
and Ginsberg howls from the grave
and the world heard over my headset is corporeal
and now I hear voices and, fuck, everyone else can, too.

And they are the same voices from the same damn
electronic fireplace and country twang is the radio salute
and Operation Wannabe Warlords is just a rush
for the kiddies in the suburbs and those two characters
from American Gothic have left their pitchfork to rust
and their haybales come to use now in polystyrene bags
covered with American flags and the media,
allowing us a glimpse, think that's their best effort
for sticking it to the Man and those haybales won't
dry in the barn because it's just too fucking humid
and the seas are melting from ice into dust
and the country crooner is a caged old bird now.

Start, Click, Go ...

2006-09-13T08:44:00.000-07:00

Answer, Click. Go ...

Dark star, who has known no
historical shape, but summons
the swooning sun and cold,
diminished Pluto,
as do the ghosts who roam
our napping houses
and see us through
mannequin eyes and pass
through us in digitized clouds
of moneyed seas

Born of the earth,
this failed and fabled space,
where darkened dreams
dare us through tubes
of pixilated light,
and friendless faces,
quartered bodies,
are our avatars
in the endless night ...

Ask me a question. Anything.
Play me with your games.
Answer me. Anything:
Demons, be loved!

I thank the sky lord
for clean water to drink

Thanks

I thank Tom Clancy
for providing so much
damn PR for the military
industrial complex

Thanks

And a special thank you, too,
to the clown in his flight suit
skybombing us in his dreams

And a special fuck you to
the apocalypse for being
such a damn Good Book
and making it so hard
to get clean water
in Beiruit
and for the passing
of fluids through
his oh so cool
heliopadster suit

And thanks for a hole of hot sun
stretching toward the East,
causing a bubble that burns
little words into a diplomatic urn,
and thank the world
for what the devil would do

His imitation is your mastery
as the nations fold and unfold
and the baliwicks bawl
about the rule of law

And thank you money for your energy
passing over the world like a green cloud
being and for hell being all filled up,
by the counting of your digits

Thanks a lot for my sanctuary box
Thanks, thanks a lot
Gift thanks to this gift, this square
where I stand with my porridge
and my cash register or gun

Oh, so much thanks for this taste,
for melancholy and sleep
to keep me not so much
sane but at least in a state
of palatable paranoia

Thanks for allowing me
the rather obvious conceits
of always wanting more
and giving me a way
to step out of the circle, hey!