1

The Jazz Symphonic

Glass Ear

David E. Patton

chalk editions || 2010

The Jazz Symphonic
Glass Ear

2  
by
David E. Patton

3  
http ://chalkeditions.co.cc

2010

4  
text-© 2010 David E. Patton
design-© 2010 Peter Ganick
art-© 2010 Jukka-Pekka Kervinen
 The Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear

Ere I wander wild and free in the forest of poetry

Ere I sing the music heard in the wilderness of words

Part I.

5  
Go my friend to where the weak words wounded by its
growth upon the silent thin skin of the particular poet’s
last longing to tightly teach you with his tongue tied to
the words that teach by the breath held by the rhythm of
wishing words the way of being at pious peace with the
whole of the wounded world with the warmth willingly
worshiped and whip-washed when water weep wontedly
and the sincere secrets that you seek and you keep for
fear of being along lingering as the lost son of man
abandoned by the Gods with their grand glory that once
people the world with its final formal females of minor
Goddesses and the personal God of the self replacing the
major Gods as hybrid human-animal fighting the demons
we keep beneath the sweet sweat of our skin poets are the
soul of people they pen purely poems that put you in the
mood to be mindfully meaning to make a more mortal of
you as one with the whole of the world surely as we keep
our keepsake secrets in a silent bony box beneath the
silent skin of our anger losing its meaning till the poets as
protested prophets tell us the stories of our myths to
defend us against Pazuzu and Croucher and the truth of
Satan in our heaven bound place of the eternal song
within the internal self where the holy song is sung as if
suing in the heavenly mystery revealing itself to the evil
divinities that have earned to call itself a child of the earth
the dirt the universe the deep mystery of the Gods of the
self that we rebirth within ourselves again and again earth
is a woman and each man is in part soul wooing
womanly till the end of telling time but modem man
seeks to kindly kill the woman working wildly within
himself to exorcize himself of the earthy Goddess
dressed in the growth of the world full of the folk myth of
deep thought on the small milkweed deed of the seed
with its precious promises of the greater things in its need
to twine in links of the chain link fence he seeks to buy
by busy bodacious muscle and military mind of might his
way into the haven of heaven with heavy headed coins he
pepper the holy plate but treat the homeless as lepers
leaning long against the wall when it is his acceptance 6  
of the naked self of the flesh that we are meat in the body
of God within the worry wrapped world that is the price
to reach the newly prayed for heaven that we carry with
us we need no prophylactic amulets of coins no cross
carved by a bushman for we have the spiritual currency of
the spirit to endlessly spend before the sortilege the
tossing of our bones and stones to divine the answers of
the Gods you are that you are a kin of the Godhead of the
world the only God that you shall know by the breath that
is you rebel against crimes of the couture culture that
birth you for such urgency is your inherences drop out to
tune in if you think that you can not win the more you
seek to change it the more that it is fed by your enticing
legacy do not alienate yourself from yourself nor the
cultural that despise you and despise no man for his
weakness for he is only guilty of being a honest human
being of being as so many are lost in the insignificancies
of the masses they follow the rut and routine rot of daily
life to save the world you must save yourself first by the
feast of the laid table you must render unto the self what
is the self give to the body what is the body and unto the
world what is the world forget not that even our flesh is
an island of thought for the meat of the divine mind is
taught to befriend even if we all are an island of bones
and skin I am that I am is the simplest truth of the self
told by the pumping of blood or sap it is by the precept of
the falling of rain that I am sustained by the discarded
breath of trees the light of the sun fulfill my needs the
island of the self is an illusionary thing for we are hard
wired into the working of the universe and yet our world
is insignificance to all but what lives upon it a fact that
our Gods can not change for we are born of the big bang
still we quest for the authorization of the Gods to save us
be they earth bound or of some distant range of the sky
and the priest must be paid in souls the poets must sing he
is paid with words the politicians must promise what he 7  
can not keep the prophets must prophesize his
supernatural divine prediction the philosopher with his
love of wisdom must explain the mindful meaning of
being man the pushers of religions must engage the
scientific knowledge of the day and Gods must change
not so much their ways but what is believed of them if
they are to hold their stay hold their way in the hearts and
minds of modern men meaning to mind the store of the
body there is no other way to be save but by saving others
who wish only to kindly keep keen and clean to the
predictable flow of being one of the mindless many of the
state meeting head first their dull destiny with a lost
dignity as defined by the pushers of the capitalist God
greedy for greenbacks you can not spend your way into
the heaven of the Christian God you can not grease the
palm of the righteous purist priest that molest the chorus
boy beneath the shadow of the golden cross gild and
glittering with it cold glow meant to catch the heart of the
fitful faithful Gods have no bank accounts in which to
store up the souls of the faithful against a rainy day ever
ready to reek of rot and the rank of flesh in the given
grave rot is a-foot in the belly of life evil is defined by
action most times full of passion it is inured by a
goodness that seeks to protest us the goodness of the
Gods are tools to fortify what goodness we hold secret to
ourselves as the traveling water nature of rain knows not
itself the rhythm of it reframe the evil that men do will
remain with us deep within the history of the grave where
we no longer ring the bell of a false death who is it to say
that this is a good or bad thing when we finally fed at a
measured leisure nature as a pay back a rake back a take
back of our flesh to the great rest the last when even the
soul is no more its daily duty done the great sleep pulled
over its eye and it goes back into the nothingness from
which it was born replaced by a younger soul time kills
all weather or not they consistently knows that they live 8  
such things are true of trees are they soulless with an
assigned value as tree as wood that linger pass the time
inherent in the flesh as the age of bones we all leave
something of ourselves in the flow of the world although
something of the self hidden but represented by a heavy
headstone hard in it hurried sat upon the ground

O go your way above the waste in the placated plated and

pleaded place of the phosphate pyridoxal day where the
coenzyme citalopram olanzapine pills of the sun bleeds
bloody full body bold dirty and done dry down deep by
the minute mildew red rowanberry ready and weeping
from the minute ocean of your eyes bound around the
crowned home confounded in the gloom tomb of the
inbred shroud covering your rivers of tears that lights up
a fiery night fit for burning away the labial spoken by
esthesis lips seeking to see the sea saw second sounds
swaging its swag in a wag where the grate betwixt state
fixed and mixed before the inanimate gate and the broken
smile that is held upside down and inside out orange ore
and old as an odd order of odor owing to treat you right
but can not know what it is doing during the doing of the
done thing for the righteousness right warm red bred in a
weak watery bed with its sea-swill will caught in the
everywhere air that saves with waves the cold mould
curse of a worse of the grace that the race toward the
thumbhole thump of thunder down under the
thunderbird’s mythical wings make of the reason of a
season of the honor the thin within the wind the 9  
sympathizing sizing that the waves make on the lakes
with its exultation of salvation of the rebirth birth of the
watery earned earth eager and edge on with an egg’s
egotistical growth toward where the land stand where the
Gods once trod with the grace of their face a watery face
of grace bestowing its overflowing consolation to the
rationality of portending endings on the day that comes
with its disappointment when my cries roam the home of
my face with a strain pace pale and proud that loose and
gain the forward treat of the Godhead divine and
dauntless and tautness for a taste of tautog on to a fine
edge quickening pass the cry of a plea on the corner of
my lips on the edge of a smile that is stalled by the
warring words of a wayward trip to the quite bright rare
wondering air where the goodness of goofy Gods give
glory gladly gaily the Lords sleeping in secret that is sure
to show a slow slide into the sure shine seeking soul
startled by dreams that battle the brut that bodily bump us
O sleeping Lord O season of men’s lives lead toward the
great wound open upon the earth that has birthed a
thousand fold madness dreamt by the age of running
water gigantic and incorruptible with its rainbow
mimicking the syncopated incandescence indifference
bubble redden by the large scattered laughter of lighting
encircling a wild bitter death done in the downward
bristling wind without sins the song of the angry storms
of the sun sing their harmonies to a hum long lasting in
the heat parochial protons bombarding the face of the
earth with its shield of atmosphere the thin blue jailer so
soft that it can not be seen is without a seamed without an
end from blue to black the distant back up on itself
holding the stars we know by sight the light of a far off
worlds the air is a wonder wonderful and forever wild
willing to be tasted on the tongue it tug tight in the lungs
it tool till tones tunneled tell that it can not be conquered
it can not be hinged in it does not loose or win it just is 10  
moved by the wind that gather it and blows it everywhere
it wish to go on land and sea and skin inward I fill it with
a fragile murmur it fills my lungs deep down to the cells
of my bony being and I am fulfilled again and again
eagerly with each breath I share with the trees the greaves
give and tarring take of living like the hero that rudely
runs in his sleep he is longing for normality he shall
come to find in the murder of his diabolical madness that
finds no more the rebellion of his fears toward a peace
that is calmly submitting to the necessary anti-society of
the illegitimate homeless exiled by the very society that
despises the man searching for his dignity in the city of
his birth in the dumps he throws away his hunger he
hears the echo of tragic grandeur he does not knows that
he is the absurd normality of the city that he is caught in
the reutilized routinized shorting outs of modern life like
an ice cube on the hot grill he dance his self away in a
ticket-of-leave tightly tie dyed by time telling the tales of
the throw down for the misplaced rime that run round
time so am I told to be bold against the bully that buys his
time under an old elm tree of the heavenly order till all
the leaves leave the tree and the sky weeps its warm wet
warmth willingly where the Gods whisper the last
wisdom wounded by the light of truth youth is let loose to
woo but age will sue the Gods with a noose around their
necks and handle down the level with a nerviest laugh
when the last of our youth is well scented by age and the
wrinkles of our skin is as deep as a valley in the mountain
range in South Korea with it silent tress around the fat
stone belly of a Buddha among the fall colors of leaves
falling in the forest that rest for want of nothing among
the silent noise of birds that sat on Buddha’s head and
shit with out regret what is it that birds know of the Gods
that man have fashioned birds are to busy being birds
likewise bees do not concern themselves with the human
fashioned heaven of a far away designation this is their 11  
blessing their ignorance in the playground of the world
the ideal of heaven is the curse that human must contend
with must come to grip with in the body of the soul that
do dabble double duty toward the body and the spirit to
hold them in equal toll this all children should come to
know who among us will teach their child that there is no
God other then that of trees birds and bees and creeping
crawling things and the creatures of the fishy fluent deep
all that live out their lives in the belly of a God without a
name this nameless one can by degree be called nature
but only such a thing is up to the non-to-humble human
for as far as we have come to know in our insolent
innocent trees have no liquid language longing to call
themselves by and name all matter of living things again
this is the domain of man the naming one who seeks to
explain all manner of thing to know himself by as
opposed to letting things live out their lives unmolested
by a name by a category it is man that bare the burden of
his Gods in his head alone for his body is carried forward
by the precise precept of being one of many in the belly
of existence we are born to decay born to bare bare-back
our body’s busy being into the earth to finally feed her
after a life time of feasting on her such is the locomotion
of life dust to dust the flesh will always rot in the end as
befits the beast called man busy being born busy to die
busy by the blood and the all seeing eye of that man’s
God who spy from the hidden heaven highly held hard
against the sinner that sings his song full of sorrow sawed
off at the ankle and the arms that he use to arm himself
against the ardent anchor holding down his self respect
for crime done in the darkness that hides his blood bold
and bothersome in its busy buying the crimples criminals
are counting the bullets ready for the chamber

12  
Go you stumpet for coins that jingle in the pockets of a
windswept windstorm blowing wimple heads of live-wire
nuns shocking with Jesus the unbelievers’
Comstockery of the forlorn bad lad that die away the airy
grey blooming and consuming the years of his life in a
hardy handsome joy of a boy running down the hall to hit
the wall of manhood the strain in his veins the last past
look of his flame flung tongue toward the older and
colder expressed guessed muscle movement of being a
man in the wet wilderness of a yet full grown face where
doing wrong is still strong beneath the cloudy hair of the
grey mixed air of full fog’s form from its only ordered
oscillating fine flow that can take your brave breath away
to the fray stranded by the wayside of the last cross road
emotion of emotional skipped that can slip into the shed
of the head with its thorns covered walls where all
thought things tear their wings above the new dew
formed fail with its hail Maries dumb against what may
come of the haply holy Mary when in the end it have not
forgot that soon the moon of a sliver little yellow tune
that go singing the thoughts that sought to move toward a
love impeached sounding a musical ring worn on the
finger of a sweetness preaching its sermon left alone to
the bereft where the eye die its sight against the rust of
dust with its formal sonic crust spoken and straying to all
that fall from the corner of the aromatic smiling air about
the crossroad where we must choose which way to go
which way toward our soul that follow with us all the
dead days of our live long lives which way to pray to pin
our hopes on the orange orphic when Gods are or as if
tomorrow has come under the fasting of the mute sun
under the tabula rasa sun perhaps precisely glowing over
the bureaucratic traditional urban life that grows in the
cracks of a calm bemusement’s irrational nature of a self
in torment because it can not finely fit it form into the
commonness around it where the alienated drifting of one 13  
man’s self-assured candles lit by the factories of
retirement that makes us one with the crisp whip-crack
compensation forward for being a good boy by the
standers of a society that will find you gouty guilty of
felling to fell and understand the nurtured nature of a
controlled man with his cardiac mind and gut ranching
heart reaching into the long lost Eden where the first
poets was Gods of the fresh flesh of a snake twined
around the tree of knowledge he offered the fruit to
woman willing to know more then the face of her God
thus the sha’ir was born to forever know that man will
feel alone in the nudity of his nakedness man the killer of
his brother the killer of Gods by the light of his science
killer of men in mass number he have grown numb to his
killing done for no other reason then he will when he can
and he will not weep but seek an ease for killing peace
there in lie the blame of man insane notion that he own
the land the dirt in hand the nub end energetic eager man
noble and notorious seeking to save himself by that very
science while the poet as priest will not blame but seek to
explain that after all is said man is but meat to the world
nothing more nothing less then flesh and bones he drink
from a common well and his belly swell to tell that pound
for pound he is a creature of the glorious ground he build
his homes in every crack he cringe at the make ready
nature of weather he cry out to his Gods that there is no
justice for the just of the judgment that he have made man
is all my pity piled pound for pound pulling the pull
wagon full of fine regrets and felled prayers he is the
heart of my heartily held honors hidden in my notion of
desire that drive the world wild with its winning wisdom
that would wring the womanly wants from a manly man
man is my mate and my mentor my murder my saint and
my demon and all my kin by the manhood of man and
even though each of us is signally contain in the body of
our skin with a mind that is particular to the body that 14  
holds it we are of a kindred spirit this is why we as poets
must pen his life lived and consult and pacify and
strengthen his belief in a God that demand a price to be
paid such is the nature of our duty toward the habit of our
hands that handle the piety of the pen

Go away pass the trismus mound of the muscles’ fist

pounding away at the cover of darkness feeding off the
stars’ pin point light that guided the three wise men to the
birth of a boy who was to bring a new way slow and
diligent even if it was for a short time 33 years in the
rhyme element spent on the praise that rest its breast
immaculate by the Goddess of the same name that rod
ribbon robe and rail in the globe in a worldly understood
standing in for motherhood that pursue the solitude of a
rude torn and forlorn wounded and wondrous wish that
put part of her heart in the looming blooming of the
marvelously born morn caught in the breath of the death
of a done night remembered for its colonized requiem for
the dead that we ourselves contemplating its consistency
freshly in the invisible nocturnal instant of a crack in joy
there is a cut throat green on the breeze and I love you
like the storm of many loves that have came and gone
the way of the splendid thickness of the shoreline with its
pressure waves that try for the honest muscles of the
sun’s light that have made the system of blood that flow
even when we are closing in on death and the sailors of
the deep dismissed the moment of judgment that looks
like a skeletal delight of the waves breaking on the public
moment of a fully paid for muddle in the soldering of the
heart I am an innocent fisher of men I am the tighter tidal
wave that sail like a ghost waltzing the dance of deep
down wisdom I am the pen that pound the purple passion
of a rime mental in it meaning of the mighty that make no
money for the poems that mull mindfully mock rust and 15  
moving the mark toward the broken honor of horses wild
in the west ward of the wilderness where wind wisp
wantonly and womanly through the tall grasses growing
without help of man I am the last meaning of who I am I
am the meaning of being the last dance of the sea with its
tough taught howling the horny muscles of a mother of
parasites that hangs with the bandit world being itself
under the claws of the innocence bullets of the sun I
want to hold you and feel the perishing life that makes
you you the burning you that hangs on the skin and bones
of a cold star that looks after the sizzling beautiful you in
the thought of the universe the vibrating timbering
moment by moment of your perishing into the great
liberties of your needed self show me your daring
indifference your indignation tell me that you are guilty
of being a human being and filter all things by that liquid
literal light show me that you are the divine knowledge of
the Gods sing for me your songs of poetry
introspectively let the muses guide you toward the
temporal lobe where you keep your divine songs on the
tip-of-the-tongue that take possession of the soul let the
Gods guide you along the possessed hallucination of
poetry with its wild trance with its absolute nostalgia for
the relationship of the pious prophetic divinity of the
Sacred Nine to the beautiful ambition of the poetic
expression that conquer the willing soul you are the
secrets that you keep when you weep and wail wild
willing to wash away what is worth the salt of the flesh
you are the mind mending much a meaning motion more
by might and missed moments stolen from the strong
middle bone used to beat back bold bully born to bounce
a broken ball you are the careless cause calling out to find
its calm kept tight beneath the telling tongue your soul is
tall to tell a tale by you are the there and where the why
will willing to woe words while you worry willingly
weak to leak long the lane from which you came you are 16  
the only you he is the only he and each of us can say me
within the mind but me as a moment is full of thoughtful
things of time we poets who are willing to rime within the
line we seek what you keep secret what we have heap
hard high head-ward as if hollowed out by the moments
in time we keep all life divine all driven to be the thing
that they are the it we call a fish is itself a thing unknown
to the word such are living lies wide as to keep
themselves to themselves to know themselves by their
own light we are not alone our is a common song full of
life no we are not alone as we reach for our revolver to
kill the dark dingy and dutiful night where the crimes of
the flesh is having sex with its shadow in the conical
corner caring for the tender bones of a summer day have
you seen it have you seen the manholes smoking the
breath of the underground world where the wanderers
hide themselves have you seen the turning to Sunday in a
praise of the Gods have you seen yourself preaching to
the government as poets do you are you through you the
one who must loose the bound of control you must be the
body bold even when the conversation with the eddying
id is dull and all done down deep within the soul from
head hair to toenail soles of our foot fall we are that we
are the being bringing about a birth born by the make up
of our father and mother her belly that bore us is in the
shape of a half moon we hear her heart beat bouncing
bear off the new skin incased in the blood of her belly
round and running riding her back bone of support she
will come to sweat out our birth in pain and give our
given name that number us as an interval inching on the
earth that feed us with its beautiful bounty full of worms
in the beak of a red breasted robin riding on the wing of
the wind where the skin feels it cooling motion blown
between trees holding their stints stand rooted deep they
grip this earth down pass the worm’s zone to the root
zone of knowing itself as a thing alive in the motion of 17  
spending its life surrounded by the dirt of this glorious
earth that gives us more then we gives it it is a fact that
we were once babes in arm with our amble cries crying
for attention that we were once helpless against the whole
world’s working its missions of magic mindful of the
meaning of life we were once innocence in our baby
ignorant of the working of the world but we have grown
up to be reasonable reputable grown-ups bent on making
our mark on the history of the inside favor fever that stop
the world from smiling wide as a hollow night where we
follow the trembling light of stars blinking in a wink
weak thickness of the darkness that hold its spacious
might tight in the lake woods where women weep
wantonly for what we have loss when we doubt that the
Gods are working on the beast of our behest by the boom
born backward that bore the being of being human bent
on believing that the Gods concur to concern themselves
with the working of men with his diction of prayers
caught in the crack of his smile of telling the truth when a
smile can lie on any Sunday morning full of the voices of
prayers sleeping as a ring on the finger the ring of lying
to the Gods when we refuse to surrender to their holy
incantation it is our vanity our vanity alone that finds a
home in the heart of where we belong in the force of
beauty that process the human soul and what is this thing
called a soul and in death where does it goes it is hitherto
unknown even to the artist as hero paralyzed in self-
contemplation in order to create a new vision of the world
in its isolation the artist is to lonely too sensitive to be
bourgeois they seek to transcend the conflict between
their self and the society that birth them they love and
serve the world that despise them that sees the artist as
destructive to the rules of society destructive to the ruling
order of control of the selling of the soul that tortured the
artist-hero tortured the pride of ego heroes redeem
recreate the world through their suffering they are freaks 18  
full of the anxiety of envying normality or so it seen that
this is true of me and by me I imply that it is true of all
the despise artists who labor in silence underneath the
consciousness of the society told by the TV a common
error of the institutionalized Gods that groan in vulgarity
yet at heart I am no measure no testament of the nugatory
possession of the demons that people my mind when I
decline the promises offered by the Gods who deny me
my long covertness desires for normality I am only I as
you can say by the way and the frayed hem line of words
is all that the unknown poets have to offer you who
would weep to hear that the Gods have abandoned the
poets with their once won warm wisdom now lost and
stale in the library of the church and state and university
of books thousands of poet goes unknown all runs the
risk by the measure of their songs even as they long for
an ear to hear but wherefore have they fallen from grace
in a honored place to pick up the words from the dirt and
fashion them into a common poem base as rap that call
our woman folk bitches and whores these would be male
poets do not know that poetry should be in the service of
Gods and man it is not enough to rime and call yourself
so or to show scantly clad women gyrating to the back
beat beaming into the ears of our youth yearning for the
bold bent bouncing beat to move their feet in the night
club of the heated horny heart sweating out the cooling
water manifested of our needs to move to the muscular
musty music meant to catch us up each youthful
generation usurp what have come before they make their
own and cattle call their elder folk old school playing by
the old rules ruled by the passing of time where youth is
always new such it is in commercial Americus where we
are sold the scents of youth in a bottle to wipe away the
warm warning wrinkles that time makes of the silver
haired skin we seek to deny our old bag of brittle bones O
grow old with the grace that wisdom make O grow old 19  
gracefully with the known knowledge that nudge you on
O grow old knowing that you have had your time and
shine what you have seen upon the youth that follow
boldly behind O go willingly hand in hand with time told
by you personal myth that is your memories divine in the
history of the world I seek your wisdom and freely give
mine for I am one with age one with the growth that
sweat from my pores and in the end I shall go gently
geared to meet my heaven with open arms and a ready
soul full of scores of satisfaction for a life well lived on
the earnest earth

Go populist quizzical hands reaching toward the poor

who have paid colicroot to heal whelps weeping a
wanting of power for evermore where the eyes that glows
shows the timing of the seven heaven soft and aloft
toward the dim light of a blind mind with its
atmospheric vision within the sin of a lying eye’s edge of
the wild child of the sky’s blue light full of the wind horn
that morn away the day a slow day throng of a song
sweeping pass the fair grass that can but bear the blow of
birds to know the moon light gone to soon its reflection
writ in dew its grew to gain a foothold near the here of
the earth the mother and brother of sparrows play breath
with one another in the nest woven of the borrowed
working of the world birds know enough to recycle to
search for found food dropped by a careless hand they
feed off the trash of man while they can fend for
themselves in the land of milk and honey and the
thickness of machines minding the menial work of men in
the end they are one within the bounty of the working 20  
world interwoven ever interwoven intoxicated and
intransitively in the joy found in the hard-on’s cum shot
come in the mums the word such things said in the low
echo of words is heard in the throat of a black bird in the
right side of a night tide the earth shine that stroke the
keen unseen grown blown lips of an eclipse that ware the
air with its blue hue lazuli strung around an early moon
with its hail shine light half hid by the blind wind mist
that list a slight shower falling all crowded from the
thinness of a sea flock that drench the bird’s eye necklet
strung around my neck and quench the choking of a
daylight divine that shine in the west where the sun goes
to take its rest an absolute absurdity even in a moral life a
life lived by the dictates of TV by the computer by the
odd old books of forgotten knowledge about moving out
of the soul into a predestined order telling you to forget
being other being the alienated with their mysteries
culturally alienated with your dark voyage into the
unknown victim-hood of a black skin in the end you find
that you can not betray yourself while trying not to fall
into the ruts of a routine that insist by the light of the
TV’s influence into your nightly dreams where you miss
the purities of a silent night that sings of worthy things a
song full of the comfort of despair of strands of man
boiled down to the hair dark and bruised by the new news
to choose of winged words used and confused the heroes
are gathering at the gate to wait your signal of the
ludicrous romantic burlesque played out before the
acknowledgement that the physical has both outward and
inner concerns I am an Aumian man a Settian standing of
my round ground I am a thing to the Gods a reasonable
reason of thought birthed by free sex I have no regret
poets knows the geology of the soul the necessary
understandings that occupy the language of serious
mockery with its ennobling struggles that mock poetry
and make it meant for the few who are half fool half 21  
visionary the high school valedictorians have all grown
old and in a sense cold they have forgotten how the bold
was once outcasts of the popular ruling class they were
nomads in the world of conformity greasers and neo-
hippy and nerds free spirits wanting to be difference from
the flow of normality which dims the soul as the body
ache they were the way that you made fun of for their
insistence of being free spirits that heard the whisper in
the dark and answered to the call those in high places
must in time fall must be brought low by the young
taking their places taking their turn at the top of the pole
where none can last but fall through the glass that grows
over the skin in the end all are brought low into the great
rest that a blesses binding with time make of the flesh
lament not the past ever hot on the passing of the present
we can not tell which is which at their point of meeting
here forth is a test once said the test is already in the past
we are forever the present only fools try to live in the
pass or the future fools found foundering and sniffing a
woman’s bike seat seek you the internal eternal high of a
blunt smoked in the rainy darkness of dying done in the
bone of all your years yield to time are it will run you
down into the waiting wait of the ground

Go pass the weeping sycamore’s explosively dropping

their brown hand size leaves to decompose at the curb of
your holy ghost disbelief that smoke the swollen earth
the fat veins of water in motion the swamp of cities with
their dry-land parks haven of manicured wilderness
maintained by the ever horny skin of the forest it’s a
refeeding to keep roots of consensual basso prefunded
and somatosensory moaning again and again in the good
and bountiful earth every where the woods once stood
with it damp stamp green between green with its same
flame of leaves seen by the birds dreaming of the bounty 22  
of the city Solidago shall heal your brown bagging
wounds where you keep the juice of your blotted blood
coagulating into a stature of your blue blooded God who
make the slake shake grey all ball roll of clouds wild in
the art of the smart sky that can not avoid the frantic wind
with its grief of relief brief with its cheap motion that
creep across the task of sleep that advise the size of the
winter dreams of trees their bold bare sounds bound by
the rage of age moving across the earth wind laced in the
wind shake that break its wake to a glory gloom of the
last story of a fading motion a strong song that long ago
did no wrong to the inspiration of creation held in the
palmist’s palm in palmistry the mound of Jupiter jump a
Jones jolly in the juice of a line of fate that waits the
second coming having witnessed the first carved in the
flower growing toward the streetlight’s glow in the
mushrooms’ darkness the anxious-grayish- yellow
tempestuous light linger pass the murderous thunder
drumming its excellent reproach in the scrupulous rush of
wind crowded with the machine’s litigating noise with its
eruption of memories that glint its rotten cargo like the
railway tracks over grown with the opportunities of life
the opportunities to rebel to die with dignity following
your destiny down to the dark depth deep where spiritual
order is restored where the clear-eyed vision’s value-
inviting-validating-view on the new news toot toot and
sings to the intellectual hero in the strange land of his
birth a stranger to his fellow men out of conflict he create
symbolic images of the give and take of his societies of
cities so much the same as to force the dirty ordinary
deep into the veins of his justification of knowing about
existence that it can not be trusted for it tell us that man is
dead when his heroes are criminals as they must be
against the socializing society that tells him how to be
one with the masses’ paradigm of a tough lonesomeness
that linger in the poets the confessors of the knowing 23  
knowledge of being human in an ephemerality of life
alienated and enlightened by it they work their way with
words creating in the silent of a thought a meaningful
world for the bear naked man seeking an inspiring
victory over the tragedy of their lives is there something
in poets that is a contrary clarity a question of total
salvation a quest for answers about the ubiquitous
unending ignorance of the anonymous essence of an
insolence loyalty to life this essence the odor of being
alive the bees smell by it the fly in search of rot in which
to layers lay its eager eggs the paradox of struggle as
creation the forward fight for flight of developmental
circumstances of the primitive myth of being on the quest
for the meaning of men’s lives the poets give us
meanings to utilize when they have not cut themselves off
far from the symbolizing conventional of the real world
that depict the mysterious notion of the daily battles for
men’s desire fulfilled in the order far from the chaos of
being one with the world where order is just beneath the
skin of everything living its life like love leads to the land
of longing like lasting moments of loving the long way
we say that our tongues smelling of words will come to
past as we worry why we must cry and carry on hear the
tone of this poem hear the tom tom drums talk telling you
that the heart beat is barely bent and bold by the rush of
blood by the truth that tell you that we are all for you
reader rider of our poems hitch your hind end to the seat
and ride the woven words pass their meaning ride you
deep seek that what we have created in solitude is now in
the company that you keep without you all poems are still
born in the company of their creditor creator catcher of
words with a gangster lean within their needs they
please that you find the working of their honest hands
true to the you that you keep to yourself in the live hour
made of moments of quite movements found in a poem
let the poets gather their arms of words for they are called 24  
to battle against the bullies called to beat back the
barnacle bone of being just any man that can mind the
machine interchangeable in mind body and spirit you are
a singular entity you are the self of the self the center of
your view of the world what is real is precede by you
through the you of you no man is the same or
interchangeable though interlaced our lives be say to
yourself I am the singular flesh and bone me free to be
deep dumb or doom to the deity I can not save my flesh
from time’s wearing grace but while I live I am me I am
that I am said the God and so true of you who ride the
train pass towns and cities seen from the window they
bear the mark of the working hands of human these cities
of man that looks all the same from where you sit in the
belly of a motion moving amidst what we admit of what
it is like being human in the skin and bones that we carry
everywhere we goes I am that I am by breath that fills my
lungs to continent the poets will teach you this simply
truth teach you to sing as Whitman the self of the self so
go you out into the world that is you for what you see you
shall become you shall define you shall name all things
made of the stuff of the universe all are the make of the
first mother and father from deep within the dark dirt of
Africa all travel through life at their own pace make the
best of the one life that you have live it to its fullest live
as if life seeks to pass you by throw off the shackle of
your self imposed needs to fit in as one of the masses for
you are much more you are the one and only make of a
variation on the theme of being human in your skin the
world will come to welcome the making of your mind
and hands and you poets who cry out that the world is
worth the dirtiness of earth demand that your God get
their hands dirty demand that they lick the sweat from
your brow demand that they get drunk on the musk under
your arm let the one-sided Gods die by the arrogant arrow
of time that wound their ankles 25  
Let the poets be the fathers of the written words stalled on
the tongue of the do-gooder who woo the Gods with a
cross made of the golden prayers spoken into the ears of
the pillows where the blessing of the Most High grows
spring rain in the wild ducks most beautiful as the black
man hoeing the cotton rows of his poetic point innocent
of the knowledge of the every stroke unfathomable he
thinks of the thoughts that he must answer as a happy
Christian assigned to destiny of the insufficiently one
who have died out of the uninhabited wisdom that is rude
to the poets who have found their God clothed in the garb
of the Most High lady nature she is the all of all the
bodies from birth to the tomb

Go down from the head of a presumably dishabille

simoon lidless in the open air of the cradle of human
thoughts lost in the libidinous want of sex by the
lonesome long-playing light of the moon’s desires its lost
fires its rock soul choir that reek the sleek mysteries
dispelled by science the far fill hills of the moon its upper
rare air the aloof roof won by the sun the free melody of
the solar winds harmonies of ecstasy the white sky at the
horizon the azure overhead with its billow measure of
holding old and used clouds the doubt of a shout in a
baby’s mouth the tones of rolling stones the impenitent
element of fire in a clear year strained and crucified by
the art of the heart’s heartfelt art arthritic Artemis lives in
the long ago history of the moon her artifacts is found in
the street walker’s strength in the wilderness of the
citifies cities the virgin huntress of the soon populated
tune she roam the wilderness of the soul forsaking silver
and gold for the possessive bow go roll the beautiful
anguish of old cold holding the buffalo’s musk the stuck
human musk the damp decomposing leaves from 26  
musician trees growing with the harmonies of the living
living under the immense depths that life seeks in its
incessancy the lonely wanderer wander on into the world
beyond the mass of a proton an emersion of
consciousness hunting the minds of men or vice versa the
tormented psyche fighting the balanced harmony that use
us that abused us left us lingering on the line alone a
thought of home where there are no sheep to shelters we
seek each other some was born to follow some as
foundering fathers fast in their attack to get you on board
offering you a popular place to finally fit in to be as one
of the mainly many no longer the lonely voyager no more
the struggles for psychic maturity no longer the right to
choose we do for you no more the battles for an
individual mind caught up in rhymes the symbolic outline
that is writ in sand and the water’s hands return and
withdrawal the sonic season of ebb and flow that follow
low long lockup logaoedic logistics longing to be known
by the true wisdom that the alienated feel when the hero
fight the demons for us all demons that push us to our
down fall from grace and find ourselves pushing to
overthrow the angels that are assigned to us the sacrifice
of the poet as hero is a public act a warning to other that
some men must fall through the cracks in democracy that
all rebellions acts will be prosecuted by the demons of a
government that down the soul of the free willing
wildness wishing to teach us that man is capable of so
much more as it concern the conscious working of the
solo soul that wish to sing its own sonic suing soulful
song go go you poetic soul go into the storm of your life
and do as you know go go you whisperers of poems the
Gods will look down upon your crown of thorns and lick
the blood of your wounds O go go you with your
possession of bent values that turn the material of life into
the stuff of art stand you queerly aloof to the relationship
of the dead-flat absolute normality with it seductive 27  
banality of living without serious reflection on the
dullness of a middle-class life you are in possession of an
animal soul that love the infatuated knowing that one can
be his self against the masses that secretly is betrayed by
a need to possess the tracking of a comfortable life lived
be you keenly aware of the nature of others they are your
sisters and brothers take their suffering and recreate the
world you are the artist-hero you are the poet the freak
caged by their indifference O let your imagination soar
beyond the fate of Icarus

Go to where the spirant inhabitant of the throat and

microspores breathe smooth soothing sounds meant to
hurl the valetudinarian victim vibrating viscidly in the
vacuum spurn by the pomegranate polyglot
issuing enrich logy once stimulated by the growth
of locoweed over the portcullis of a stratagem soul
looking over the precipice of the thought’s device when
the right plight of bones is to be found in the vain tears of
pain that rail and rain rakishly with its rambunctious roar
with its ramification of growth in the rancid forecasted
forest of frangible forlorn hopes where all the soul weary
tied have died the yet regret thing of spring go to the
freak show of being alive in the locked frequency of
breathing go to the sorrow borrow from the oppressed in
their unrest in the flower of their blooming hour bent on
surviving the morrow that can not cease its increase of
birth on earth where the daughter is slaughtered in the
murder brought against peace beneath the wind praising
the tree that heard the murderous blow past the last breath
of the same name that knows the sinfulness of the rose
how now dost a flower knows in its place of grace the
love from above how now can it say the divine is mine
yes even the rose must confess with the growth of its 28  
height stilled at night it rock at righteousness set asunder
by the trimming thunder that yet but sweat in the upper
room of the heaven the hero place a curse upon himself
which of us are willing to do the blessed hero’s doing
which of us will stand on the front line of the frontier for
fighting against the compliancy that we are driven to as a
heard of cattle lead to the sinister slaughter of the free
will compliancy can kill the thrills of daily life by foe are
fief the will to kill fe fi fo fom the giant run the glassily
pains come the bum is all done down the dumb dump
where he catches a warm sleep beneath the gulls crying
for food tattled coat torn by a bitter wind that sometimes
wins to tear open the buttoned down feelings that guards
the soul the coldness of being homeless is nailed to the
door that opens on to the flesh feeding off itself and the
joy of found butts holding a breath full of the last smoke
in a poor man’s year I feels for as I have done so sleeping
on a benched in Washington Park in New York in routes
to granddaddy Mississippi the poets knows in the secret
of his bones where the misty mystic songs long
memorable plays out within the tree of Igdrasil over
hanging the clouds of the sky the poets grows on the bark
and the poems feasting off his bare back bloom from his
skin all within its growth each of us a leaf twisting in the
winds of sinuousness consciousness and first-begotten
splendid one who gather to himself the supplications of
disturbed breaking down dreams of a wise hybrid birds
flying over a male malevolent demon greeting the
incomprehensible air with our human history of hostility
while my black Chow Chow Janwanza my confidant our
union is a blesses thing as Christopher Smart to Jeffrey I
do not own her but she own me when she relieve herself
she isn’t ashamed to show me she is sense driven and I
sight we complete each other human with canine might to
make it through our time of the world we as poets are the
artist as poseur poet the text of our life is nearly written 29  
without youthful idealism for it took age to reach our
voice to soar and fall by the fickle and fatal flight of
flying to close to the sun yet we enjoyed the free fall full
of winds of our falling body filled with the bounty of a
profane joy against the stagnant drag of a confused reality
and the sterility of being exile from normality all poets
are possessed by a madness of sort or so is the report
from the sanity of the self centered world that will make
of the poet a criminal against the state’s need to control
as our fall are we free to create and celebrate too
participate as a necessity of being one with the world we
have tried and fell to be the conventional sons

O go by voluminous voltage of the peremptory

pawnbroker of pea pods hanging as a nursing bottle’s
dendrite reaching out to the modish modiste plenum in
the wordiness of a book written by a now lost God who
have grown older and colder by the flung flame heart-
forsook as it dare to look at the success of stress of
modern man it no longer wish to get to know us the
graceful Gods as strong as an iron rod they prey on and
slay the fair glare Egyptian air of which they care their
hands stands in the sand storm where the stonemason’s
memory is the mission of their handiwork know it in your
bones that many times in our childhood we had nothing
to hold us back from going home with our splendor sins
unseen by the wonder under the stringent stringendo
stressed climaxing to strike a strut pompously in its
studious style homeward with a homophone hung on the
tongue with a horn and hard on high in the hour hung
here ward and a how heavy is the hesitant cost of heaven
how the histrionics hoarding history of a hit and miss hit
and run human holdup the hard-hitting hard-fisted hard-
headed hard winds of a heart’s homespun honesty is
homesick in the honky-tonk playing its honorable refrain
in the ear of a hotchpots of earth where the poet-hero’s 30  
disastrous quest for an ancient morality bold enough to
hold the blind but kind source of religious ritual united in
his faith and purpose by the forces that creates and
destroys him leave him grieving and leaving his fresh
thoughts futile when by his human kin is torn apart by the
very people that he wishes to save such brutal element of
action is the heroic price to be paid for seeking to set the
mindful mind free from the common drudgery of the
everyday of the mistrust between men in their lowest
degree with their beauty and death their insinuating
insulting institutions the poet’s terrible journey filled with
their pattern for battles he the hero is taken to trial by the
jealousy that men feel toward the explorer of the
unknown he is doom to die in the fulfillment of his quest
to save himself from the squeaking squeezing cracks that
seeks to swallow to steal his shadow of the self to leave
him lost in the long knives night nipping at his wounded
heeds he have chosen to take the high road round after
waddling in the depth that the soul can reach where he
sharpened the emotional theft of his teeth for words wild
and willful he have struggled with the angels for the souls
of men and found himself bloody and half battled of body
by the bondage of a sorrowful longing on loan from the
Gods that have made him their spiteful sport their beast
of emotional burden and their hired hand hardly heard as
they shout about the darken deserted streets where it is
themselves that they meet under the circle of a street
light’s glow to him it feels good to go against the
common flow that flood forward the common men’s
needs to be seen as one of the many while the poets fest
on his solitude of going it alone hoping that with his
poems you will find an eternal infatuation inside the inner
working of his poems he know that in you there are some
things incomprehensible about you he knows that his
poems can reach you through your personal God that
seeks to be silent with its logic of a half hidden origin of 31  
life know that it is alright to listen to the voices of the
Gods especially the earth-dwelling ones absence from the
churches they survive in the street holding on keeping the
faith they wont let go of the holy ghost seen naked by the
darkness that falls in the city of the lost soul looking long
at the list losing its longitude when the light last rise
above the horizon of roofs deep within the cities the
shadows are moving we are just a soul that the sun set
breathe but some of us blame Jesus for the state of our
souls when it is we who must win ourselves over to
ourselves with or without the church be ready to be
caught up in life moving with the flow of those who bless
the Lord by feeding their souls that Lord who is an old
time friend of my childhood when he was half reveled by
a young mind now half reviled for the half lies that we
was told about that Lord that laid his hands on me in vain
I now know the what not up the road waiting to play the
game nature is my God she reign supreme she carry on
the working of my body I am apart of her physicality one
of many forever caught in the famous flow of being alive
leaving our sins behind down by the river side where I
study war against the complicity of the common man
caught in the river of lies that keep us drowning again and
again I aint gonna study war no mo not even to fight for
my God that try to keep me from my sinning with my
sexual rod

Go where the route of your roped thoughts have gone

before to round you up when root hair grew to cover your
scruples held in a tight fisted blow on the ocean where
flowed the staggering elder old to the flow of blood in the
veins of a cynic cutterfish that shall feed us all stand the
vine-shoot land with your foot planted deep in the
worth of the earth be a fisherman of men from Galilee to
the knee of Italy let the worst burst in the warm storm’s
form that drum down earth’s dust sweeping its keep by 32  
the mercy blessing in the regular blow of snow knocking
against the rocks with a shock that can not endured the
brave to and fro of a cold that roll its roust-about cover
round the reckless reckon rush radiance of a child’s face
chilled in the cradle rocking in the winds of a pink hotel
the motion of the neutral ocean is true to itself the
practical wandering winds will not wait its warm waves
wash over the war zone’s waged that rage across the
human face of being that on the face of earth with the
hand of its land stand and command the sand wash into
the sea the roots benefit the fruit one hidden strength the
other boldly beautiful flesh of the first-fruit’s feeding
from the roots by the dry overspread shade that keep its
cooling deep in the shadows of the sheaf of a leaf that
rather gather the moisture from the sun lit air it drink the
sweat of a drunk sea it bear the fair blow beneath the
sun’s breath beneath the sizing moon that feast on the
winds of heaven with its fugitive yellow that function to
pin down the eyes of idols that looks after us when our
visions are made a mockery by the industrialism of the
mass market culture the bolts and grease and smoke of
moving parts at the heart of the commerce’s art the
motion that can not part the waters we are spurned by its
neglected by its used down to our bones dominated by the
technological order we are plunge plugged into the
alleviated boredom of the messy masses mindful of the
monthly credit bills that the soul pays the capitalisms
voice of the TV tells you to acknowledge your sins
against it to repent of being a free spirit to confess admit
that you have not been faithful in buying forsake quit
your resistance to the noise of the market place where the
free will of the soul is brought and sold it teaches you to
believe to rely on the almighty dollar as if it came from
the mouth of the Lord Jesus to believe in our hearts that
the dollar can be raised from the dead by a credit card it
teaches you to accept that this is your lot in life that the 33  
book of equity is your bible the codas of banking your
virid veracity the bill boards will tell you the word of the
day the place to get your next fix against the certainties of
growing old in a land where youth is brought and sold by
and to the old where youth along is viewed as the hero
with his technocratic romanticism static against the
affirmation of the imagination that pushes for the new
world order of free individuals over throwing the
helpfulness of conformity caught in the technical
implications of the economic materialistic democracy’s
market place every Sunday morning salvation is for sale
by way of a donation but the true atonement is that the
free will of the soul is to be paid to the money changer of
the church of the holy dollar of the culture of sterility that
grip the near psychopath poet the rebel the solitary
wanderer the criminal messiah who shall overthrow the
machines in the church yard they are all asleep in the
intolerance justice of the hero’s rebellion that gives him
identity gives him revenge as a destructive rebel nature is
the moisture of his mistress sometime indifferent toward
the affliction of his affection that borrow an oppressed
sorrow of unrest for the wondering breath of the mother
of his brother in the battle that change us when the angels
in heaven done writ our name I know that I’ve been
change not by a celestialized God but one of bark and
bones brilliant with an animal nature there is no time for
Gods numb by life leaking humanity with every deed
done during the doing no need to do down deep the holy
repeat of the second coming breath by breath my God
done came and I have given her a name she is all the
contradiction the mind can hold bold by bits and bits she
birth and bury she build and buys every second of time
she spends with an unseen action my Goddess is a lucky
lady laid out before you she is dirty with the funk of life
she reap and sow her wild wisdom in a throw toward tire
tongues telling tall tales to Thomas as told by poems held 34  
in the palm she is all the might that the muscle can hold
and she is much more mighty mama making her way mile
by mile she is forest and willow rocks and rams ocean
and rivers that bellow and sand she is myth made
monkey cages in the zoo you know who be made of bark
and stone she carry on by bird breath along she is the all
mighty mission of nature mine but not alone for all life is
her song to hear her music bound and by the beat of a
heart by the flight of silver maple’s seeds in mid spring
raining the boundless air by the seeds of weed clouding
my mind with its pungent euphuist knowing of the long
winded breath of a poet’s song be in love with your God
like the love of breath for the lungs be in love like the
love of heart for blood be in love like the love of tears to
the eyes let there be intimacy between you and your God
O go my yellow skinned praise to where the glory of
every tongue resound toward eternity and sing to the
begotten son of a three-fold warrant in heaven
the Holy Spirit is imparting its unending untimely birth
on the sublittoral deep thermocline earth where man keep
his stronghold held by the broken tongue breath of trees
where the wind whips its feast from their lips it nip a
fellowship of punishment it ease the frieze of bent knees
of butterflies in the spaceship of undulating dreams
where inflammable epoch of a biopsy of speech shows
the whole of a cell holding the birth of itself in toted all is
told to the waiting eyes that wish to know the brave blow
below the heart-broke wreck that check itself at the door
of the smart bones alone about the heart that truth makes
of youth when the winds of age howling its calling
brawling about the air worth a mouthful of breath on the
good and gracious earth one can hear the sacrificed
suffering bespoken token pride of the west that rest in the 35  
thick quick breath of death appearing and cheering on the
dispatched done dead triumph in their burly doom where
the soul is blown to the mouth of a nun’s delicacy with
her mercy lingering past prayers born on the throne of the
tiring tongue telling grace before the feast of famish
where poverty is fed to the self-imposed exile of the hero
the poet as fallen archangel who momentarily frighten
from the fall he have forgotten where to find his next
battle the flight still in him against the dull conformity
exaggerated around him with his smart heart alone to the
bone his own truth for the youth of man his willingness to
have the felt bliss dealt to the many to relieve us of the
spells of hell he is like a wounded animal romantic in his
disgust against the precedence of power over the self-
quest that a free soul demands to show us something
about the world that we did not know show us the self
identity that we holds the super sense of ego in a society
that tell tell to time to taunts us and we become the latest
leaders of an anti-social hostility meant to master in
manner the pure passion of living a life alone in the skin
the poet hero can not save us only show that we as
capable of much more then what the society demands of
us show us the knowledge of the self they are the
martyred servants of the lonesome indivisible knowing of
the self the same self that looks out on the wide
wilderness of the worry world wishing to be one on the
road of a body in motion in the quick-sanding notion
blowing the odors of your shared comrades cousins by
the blood a brotherhood by the bone born the one one like
you in construct like you alone in the secrets longings
that you keep to belong to the Godhead of the social order
that will have you to discipline the captured animal that
you are never to be set free in the wilderness of the
criminal streets captured by the wish to be civil with the
social insights alone the road of life like the inability to
rebel when rebellious nature is called to when our lonely 36  
agony is to much to bear and we go in search of a
community where cares are shared in the complacency of
order afraid to cry here is a disorder to grasp upon a
maddening mystery to shove yourself into fear not that
you no-longer care to become God of your alienation cry
cry out to the metaphysical limit of man cry cry to the
rendezvous of the landscape caught in its selfish life
without a thought filtered through a God but the God of
the self dozing in the slow aroused motion of a tree
amidst the hustle of man made motion mining the earth
for minerals with machines mimicking the working of the
arm cry out when you have swallowed your swollen
sorrow for the fragmentation of the individual the
specialization that leave us wanting to make a difference
before life is done and we go into the uncertainty the
promises of the God fearing when all beyond death is
dead all you leave will fade in the shadows of youth the
new moving through their age in the light of their life lit
by the lamp of your death into the ream of the ancestors
your mark is made by the birth of babies by the poems
nurtured in the moment of your strength for a worldly gift
by what of you is remembered to stand in for the flesh
that must rot in a riot of feeding the dead are useful to the
living offering the promise of eternity for the name and
work alone now that the flesh is gone gone the way of the
found ground the same name that knows the death of a
rose the increase of the heart that cease the bloom of a
birth breathing new we the few praise you for making
your way through life with a kind of grace that can not be
replaced by the machines that seem to sustain you get ye
alone someday on your own with a God’s will shall you
climb the hill that life is and fall back to being flesh when
the need calls you shall come to know the animal that
you are and find in it something pleasing something
meaty to hold on to something of the wetness of your
desires the moist movement of your moan meaning to tell 37  
what most you keep well watered with blood it is no
secret that death awaits you be you not afraid that when
in death the bugs shall raid your once busy body the flesh
can not be saved for it belong to time and time wears
away as sure as your birth it gave only time is forever so
fear not the grave for you shall go there not alone on
many lips is the death song

Go go and tromp the trochee written by the hands of

mulberries on the outraged sky where runic clouds weep
their individuality to run a ground and clean and
regenerate into shadows of clouds running with the wind
into which the rain fall and change
into sewer rivers that flow without eyes to the sea the city
is a maze among the roads of charity’s fire burning the
high-hung sleep of a lament that shed its weeping onto
the streets where pleasure take its counter leisure and I
dare to be bold and go tranquil quickly through the
teeming crime shaken streets pass the weary watchers
waiting to catch me up in a dark corner full of the
measure to take my little pocketful of treasure but they do
not know that it is not coins that I carry but fancy
fantastic poems playing with the big boys they can rob
me of my guilty gambit galoot gifts rob me blind of all
my rebellion religion rhymes but do not rob me of my
skin to win a kinship with you when the wind is in the
mouth of the south in the hand of the west in the hair of
the north and the eyes of the east all that fall from the
falsified small ride that try the sky all temple statuary that
look into your eyes where the particularly beauty of idols
with their globular eyes staring with defiant authority into
the honey-mouth of the priest who have come to speak
and weep the ancient textual material of the Gods now
gone from the chapel side chair where they use to keep
their vassal longing in the modern subjective age beneath 38  
the sublunary subsequence sub-serve art of worshiping
the protagonist who forage for the fought wars against the
old order and meaningful authority that control the image
of man in his American society where murder create a
new order of the blancmange of the free feeding sick self
denied by the society that once nurtured him with the
taught thoughts about the preserve human meaning
caught in a sad sad song sung in the silence of telling the
truth to a racial persecution of the masses revolting
against realism found in the man-made pattern of
consistency realism itself is a secret society itself is a
sickness that the hero is bound by social structure to rebel
against when the midnight motion of his nature comes up
against the bleak environment of the vanity of the every
day life as one way in one way out younger then the age
of the moon the ancestral looker with its perplexed
expression looking down on the miniature doings of man
with his hasty hesitating beauty that do believe in going
to places that it have not gone before human beauty
luminous in its legitimate despair that embrace the
significant rootedness of being an individual in the
conformity that ignore you as mastiff a kind of scum
fearlessly advancing in its ignominious frigates guts
injured and bent by a warrior’s gigantic back bone in
exile with a curse of alienation and the veneration for the
simplicity of a child’s life in the compurgation and
compaction of the compensation never given to the
sensitive intellectual nature of the poet’s limited
atmosphere of meaning that can not save him from the
sorrow that he have borrowed from the flower caught in
the hour of its unrest blooming in the mouth of the south
wind lost in the city of the north as soon as it comes it is
gone having writ its motion there in the rarefied air full
of the swarm of warm miracle that nature is in her
insistencies making a thought that through the then
spacious pen of the poets writing of the tawdry dignity of 39  
ordinary men his confrontation with the human condition
caught in the life of the petit bourgeois detached from the
complex situation of the poor chained to the trinity they
wear the woes slow day by day the way we wear old
shoes ill fit but fixed to give us some kind of support
when we find that the curiosity and greed of the poet for
the nudity of normality for a kinship with the city
dwellers that will do him harm under the cover of an
industrialization of the all while fall of the dusty and
rusty crust of darkness that beat the late main strain of
the rain that have lost its emotion where there is found
spring time in the ground when the night tide take it ride
and the prescribed manner of the ruling elite dictate and
dilate the treatment of the poor as things as fresh objects
to be mindfully manipulated in the economic enterprise
that have entered into our lives we see by the TV’s light
whose asleep who weep who is caught deep in the reek of
mid-night infomercials ruling the high night glow of the
transforming hopes to sell you on the new and improved
repairmen of the soul broken by the bully birds that bites
bit by bit bold birds black as a Mississippi night mid the
yellow pine green the season through and scented proudly
pine the pale wood beneath the dripping bark each tree
knows its place in the forest each seed seeks such
knowledge the seeds of childhood will bring forth deep
root when time tells them to be fruitful some will flee
followed by the fellow who find him entreating the
possibility of the possibility of the caravan of clouds over
the bone desert of the April massacred newborns that
never used water as a mirror when the lumps gagged on
an over ripe moon recluse by the sun showmanship the
moon with its foot print of an ambitioned manual animal
pregnant and living on the spinal cord of the tempestuous
world the moon is the thunder of fallen milk the silence
island of murderous inquest whose scenery is naked
beside the cloth of an earth’s green laughter lasting into 40  
the tundra’s lichen might crowing across ridged rocks
russet in their position of rest that melt the wind’s
bedazzlements its ecstatic screams of progress
freebooting and assassinating the fierce fertility of clouds
where a colorless silence full of empty torture caught in
the skeleton’s boney shadow a shadow sustained by the
surgical beauty of an elegant metal surprise in the
labyrinth constellation of the innocence bleeding a
wounded laughter howling like stubborn currents washed
a shore short soared with man made trash that rob the
world of its odor where the undertow of the sea is
sobbing like childhood assassins of adorable tenderness
perpetual and piously posed before the purer Adam when
he was wild and shipwrecked by the reptile when he
peddled out intimate names when he became the first
elder after being the first innocence to know the power of
words he knew not himself the snake was the first priest
first politician the first philosopher the first poet all since
are his imitators for good and bad their big bad bullying
begs to be the boss of their own understanding as words
fall from their mouth they congeal in the rarefied air into
meanings that words can not feel I love you is the same
as I love you not love not I you will not linger on the
tongue nor in the ear words feel no fear

Go pass the warm red eyes focused on a river of tie pins

from companies selling youth in small tins to
the disinherited growing older day by day way by way
the years feel no shame as they etch their footprints into
the face the years was caught stealing the tail end of a
week’s worth of working the life that we are given like
the bamboo bombo feral child in the wild born to smile
the human smile he took to the trees age is no mockery to
be one with it takes a grey haired grace to live beautifully
in your wrinkle skin inexhaustible ancient age live 41  
eternally in the decorated body of our grandmothers and
great grandfathers steep in the steps of installing muscles
of age with its nostalgia guardian guarding the scenery of
the body with a triumph harmony there the fair smile last
for miles all beam all gleam fall the rust of a smile is tall
where the dust of the crust of earth wind blown
whirlwind song slow and low echo the night side of a
wind tide right by the dusty sight that pursued the rude
side of solitude torn and forlorn by the wind eclipse by
the fine spine of trees that sway under the rays of the sun
hung on leaves and branches as one ware your age
proudly as it come overflowing the white light firmament
that spread and shed the higher fire lit warmth on flocks
of birds and sheep and rocks alike it gleam on the stream
of water that run like a sung tongue forgotten by the once
drenched that quenched earth quenched dirt the solid soil
worthy to be dug the resounding ground fit for being fill
but never flush in the city never more then wild and
willing nature fulfilling her own whishes in the ease of
normality the individual insight of nature is never
wanting more then what it gives unlike man’s intelligence
war with his sensitivity man’s rationalistic bureaucratic
analyst in the urban life where you can buy everything
under the soon to be full moon under the scheming for
money in the guilty memories of the pathetic victims
making a trivia living going home to their bold boredom
caught in the trivial action of the TV with its painful joy
of conformity modern man is daily created by the
manufacturers of false expectations buy this and you will
be that light sound action pets and children are thrown
into the maximal mix to sell you on the ideal to do as the
crowd en masse do as the bible of the TV tells you to be
you not the lonely doer that seeks to create a real self in
the jungle of the urban chaos but the poet through trial
and insult and the hallucination of being one with himself
persuade the rude torn and forlorn before the full dull 42  
conformity that greets the day as a way of life they seek
human fraternity of the highest order while the criminals
of the night fight to establish their territory they mocks
and scorns as a way of being one with the pack to feel
themselves they will do you harm to know themselves
they will break your arm as a way of shaping the society
that ignores them they are a necessity to the control of the
totalitarian state that waits on the birth of the new born
as fresh festal fuel fit for the mechanical fire that burns
the meaningful image of man caught in the condition of a
confusion of values of the quality of the simple half
spiritual half flesh sentry soul half by half it holds the
pleasure by pleasure they know my sisters and my
brothers in the artful transuded treasure offered to the
masses to keep them down in the trenches of the
everyday work a world way no man was meant for the
bottom we stand high as our lowest brother and each of
us is poor of spirit when the homeless huddle over warm
stream vents in the streets where they catch a weary sleep
in their everyday cloth the homeless have souls and a
history in the world on their faces is the story told of how
they came to be enfold to live without sheathe against the
cold I pay to hear their stories from days of glory to the
poorly made bed of cardboard begging and buying time
with no place to go but hanging out in front of the liquor
store bumming change and cigarettes if I only had come
into some weed it will make everything pretty at leasing
the handout handed down from father to son and sons
more the homeless are a pain in my belly I hunger for
their salvation they are the modern gatherers with their
shopping cart full of found comfort the man that eats
pizza crust from the dumpster gather himself up in the
abandon building that he share with pigeons he is a pain
in my brain too understand that he must catch the rain
with his skin within the sins of a bountiful society where
freedom is counted by the number of zeros behind our 43  
dollar sign we can not spare a dine we will not take on the
sorrow of the world we will not against the bloated belly
of a child that is to weak to sho-sho away the flies from
drinking from the corner of her eyes the poet as hero must
not feed the pain that stains the human soul old is his
wisdom he must not embrace the materialistic society odd
is his inner life he must not loose his self-contemplation
he must not loose his power of insight the inner light the
tight dignity of a simple mind that can comprehend the
symbolic realities earn the cross that you must bear by the
talent that you ware be you ever precocious in your
anxiety you must bear the curse of alienation for the
sensitive simplicity of your intellectual intonation you
must embrace the naturalistic dignity of your tribulations
you must come to know the vindication of the petit
bourgeois and proletariat insist on the significance of the
heroic homeless that encounter the visions of their final
catastrophe of loosing their individual integrity poet be
you ever the redeemer of pleasures be you the initial rebel
of mercenary acquaintances uproot the empires that
plunges and pursuit the industrialism that kills the
individual be you an instrument of the gods that can not
know your transgressions let your ancient virtues be
illustrative to young and old alike grope your way
through the criminal streets where the gratification of
destruction is forcing the egotist of enterprising
capitalistic pride school yourself with social insight keep
it tight against the mystery of nature bear the burden that
bound you by your art your honest intuition can kill the
sterility and frustration found in the city in your honesty
defeat the quarrelsome tragic flaw in man the inexplicable
irrational murder of the beauty of the body of the heroic
poet know that the hero in you will find a firm fit to fix
yourself to you are the light that guild by your glorious
get-to-it that is glued to you poets that are born of your
worthy hands the man who is sedated by T V and the 44  
work a day world need tending to

Go to the grave yard of the hallucinated voices

that has lost their connection to the Godhead of social
chaos the God no longer tell us what to do they have lost
their cash in which to buy our loyalty all that is left of
them is the babble of confusion those who can hear are
mad men and children suddenly the mad men of influence
imaginary Gods establish together the side-by-sideness of
the divine unnecessary significations of the ghost soul
with its appurtenances of life the Gods ride and hide their
blessing from the certainty of bliss approved by this a
plea that concern thee remember the past tree in the
garden from which man was cast fast out to work for the
forgetfulness of the original sin to redeem himself for
searching out the knowledge of the influential heaven
there is no credit given each baby the forgetfulness anew
born into the evil-heaven of man center earth they bear
that long lost birth of sin to win the redemption of that
Lord that died on the cross of our deep seated belief that
in heaven we shall meet the persistent periodic peruse of
wanting no more then a soulful peace must we go to
heaven before we meet ourselves is the flesh not to weak
to know itself in the extraordinary unforgettable skin of
the brain with its refrain the same name calling motion on
an unknotted salvation waiting to bestow its torturous
blessings on what is depended on the flow of blood to be
fed by the red fluid of devolution where we go with a
rental genital smile all the while we know that the hero
shall come to save us from ourselves after he himself
have been lifted on the egotistical shoulders of angels and
find himself caught in his fantastic vision of his
schizophrenia moods that aid his heroic will to kill his 45  
disillusionment of being the leader and the led of and by
those who seeks the exploitation of all that he stands for
absorb him to utilize him then throw him away for the
next best thing that paid we who have an unhealthy
dislike of money quickly spending our honey on
cigarettes coffee weed and beer we lie in liar of the
wealthy to hear that there is just not enough to buy a
man’s strength and rent his solo silent soul sold to the
highest bidder of the all to importance imposition of
thunder under it have I seen my dreams trembling to be
fulfill with the Holy Ghost’s wisdom but I am only flesh
tied to it by my hunger it’s a mid morning snack to
consider when musing over the birth of some poem with
thunder as company its femoral roar heard throughout the
city that pretend at sleep steep and stoned somewhere
someone is dancing or doing sex or dishing it out
beneath the morning moon that must leave us soon
somewhere there is a swear staring somebody down there
is in a sun lit where someone who care about you as the
poets do and with each poem new is there news from the
taught soul that we share as flesh and bones sisters and
brothers to our cousins tree and weed bumble bees all
things as meat moss grown rocks and the age of wood all
things that be the God head whole each thing itself bold
to be in the flow of our world windy and wild with
textual evidence everywhere we look God is there always
with us as we with it this you can not resist can not be a
racial racist for the Gods can not hate of the wrong done
by the brotherhood of blood and skin we sin when we
harm our kin the pure blood have been muddle time and
time again blesses is the mix the new American face
darkened let them raise a race of their own lighten the
black and darken the white round the eyes that widen at
night brown down the barrio put curls in their hair let
them celebrate Cinco de Mayo and June Tenths let them
remember wounded knee and Sand Creek let them weep 46  
to believe no more in racist racial purity as the pious
performer proud prize to win the holy way of our eyes for
the thin depth of the color of the skin can we win is no
battle cry I am you brother gratuitous in my want to save
you I am alienated from my frustration I am guilty of an
inexplicable and innocent sleep that nightly unchanged
the world I am the prosecutor of the criminal pursuit of
the wounded soul I am the priest of purposeful poetry in
my present life caught in the prosecution of my defense I
am the physical attitude of the world seen as absurd I am
the existence never preferred I am the essential identity
preserved repository of rebellions of significant authority
I am the extreme illusion of spiritual order courageous in
my down fall of the dignity that will not fear death
Go to the enormous second coming gillnetting the
dimension of hypnotic death caught in the breath of a
baby nuthatch dead alone side of the road in the spring
rough with a last winter blow the young leaves on the
boughs suffer enough of frost bite the last sounds of
winter’s notes unbound floats about the divine shine of
the sun that set west its rest everywhere the air is chilled
filled up with a four month old cold spotted with a
warming that foretold the approach of spring that is
coughed out through the mouth while the aoidoi wind
singing wind within wind its contrasted song of tiny snow
in the belly of the air in the damp stamp seen between the
budding green here in the early part of a soon to be spring
the prime time of April bound around the same flame that
came bright on the tail end of the elegy of night in its best
tongue’s autoscopic illusions is narrating the glory story
glossy and gluttonous in its antiquated telling the crowed
clouds stand by in the hour of it tower building in the sky 47  
its intent has yet to be spent a glow blow of lighting crack
open the sky and the thunderous wind rush in full of the
cold that winter holds in its wilderness of motion I hunger
for the rain the holy homeless rain in its falling the rain
that repair the air then die in the unholy streets of man’s
making I long for the rain in its colliding with air its
ceremonial condensations of clouds tracked into a funnel
the violent rain holding its sumptuous weight in free
falling drops like tears seeking their legal level down
from the burst belly of clouds to the curb side rivers
running wild toward the gutters collecting the motion of
water that never die from its wild impulse like blood
rushing by the beat of the heart pushed into every cell
maneuvering their bloody trails of veins throughout the
body of the world behold the sound and scent of rain the
mist mimicking the body cloud the cracking crooked
untouchable flash of brilliance lighting taking a picture of
the world from its high heaven home no sooner come
then gone leaving behind the mounting thunderous
sounds audible for miles this uproar that shakes a bird’s
nest when the sky yawns and snores in its restless sleep
and weep the nameless water a storm soon forgotten save
for the bounty that it bored swelling the rivers
overflowing their man made boundaries we can not stop
the water long its strong need to flow to find its own way
to the sea flooding human homes water and air seeks their
measure strong the lightening touching the ground at the
base of an old mulberry tree strike the degraded
relationship between artist and society there is a storm
there a fight as not to be a victim lightening in a bottle in
his romantic will for power his needs to bring about a
change to say that we are still animals who play the
civilized game where the rule book is held by the
government the tin kings growing in the throat of who we
precede ourselves to be as we swaying like seaweeds at
their mercy at the ground where the soul is tatter where 48  
their scruples let loose the sea monsters that maintain
their control goes suddenly splashing the disruption of
our self-centered motion life is like an ocean the many
living off the whole the bold air our containment for all
our cares when we become islands fit in our torments
born of a lonesomeness when we become shipwreck on
the excessive of government and the economic
bootlegging of our souls when we are convince that all
that we can know is by their light then should we find
ourselves prime for the fight for what we think is right by
the light of the self taken down from the highest shelf
where we keep our most secret longing to rebel against
the complacency that can no longer amuse us no longer
arouse a sense of belonging to the brotherhood of the
masses when our rendezvous with destiny is set in stone
and by it are we amused and consumed to emerge as a
hero fully formed from the gestation in the womb of
social discontent where many of the masses have
forgotten how to strip away the layers of rules and riggers
regulations that tie us down to a shell of a man that keeps
us in check by the time clock that measure our comings
and goings to pre-approved cubical that we are made to
fit in when our inner fire have risen so high that we
become the urgent animal aiming to destroy the ruling
order that order us to cease and desists from being one
with ourselves caught in the agony of reality where the
fictional self is a finance of fronts saying without thought
how you doing good morning God bless you when the
world we inhabit is lit by the absurdity of 1369 bulbs in
the underground tomb-like cavern where we must face
ourselves along and be reborn in the lonely world full of
people people who go about their lives as if the
dehumanized is a way of life that can not be changed as if
powerlessness is their name the poet must not pity the
plain but plan to move man to overthrow to shake off the
shackles of the indoctrination’s notion with its motion 49  
toward the need to control that the proudly poor must
never complain his riot should be still born into crimes
against each other let him not cross the line not linger in
the starchiness of the streets not long out his
lonesomeness in the public eye the poor are collared
collectively exploited they are made a mindful mockery
moment by moment by the iniquities of the insecurities of
the institutions that employ them by the TV that lull them
to a heavy sleep by the dilemma of the exotic treasures of
the superficial manifestation of a happiness found in the
sickness of a society in crisis where the passionate
assertion of the hero there where the light of a lantern in
the night watch him committing his crime of destroying
the common air of the old order is to be feared so he will
be the sacrificial sufferer when caught in the act of being
a useful molded model moot of justice distal and distinct
to the discontented beholder of youth that prow the
midnight hour of their insecurities with their conditional
confusion of the excess violence of TV that indicate the
old order’s values accepted as norms the play dying of a
dying society is writ in the glow of TV’s reflected light
where the bone-house of the soul must pay for what it
have witness

Go where the poets lives without knowing the cause of

their meaningful melee they are driven by society to have
no more individuality then the worker bee buzzing about
the cocked end of a contumelious consumption buzz buzz
about the busy bi-line of society buzz buzz by the
buzzard’s buzz-word buyer of the dead gone to distressed
meat to feed the nest full of a waiting mouth months old
in the new born boom that nature makes of the ballooning
budding spasmodically sprung spring full of new spirits
of birds and green everywhere and beast the green season
singing its rustic rioted ring the spring has sprung in a 50  
hail run of rain with its refrain drumming on the rusted
corrugated roofs in the negro section of Laurel
Mississippi in the dark down doing of the masses in shot-
guns shacks being about their brought lives in the capsize
that hope to rise above the then men that larcenous labor
all the times of their conformist lives to do right by the
society that birth them they wish not to stand out or in the
light always to do what is right for their station in life
from time to time I am such a man when I am common to
myself when ever I give over the timing of my living to
the TV or to the bed I am common to the bones as
common goes I who remember much of his dreams
unfolding with each click of the key board still I seek to
be a rebel for the poet that I am still I seek to keep to
myself surrounded by poetry that turn the TV to
background noise lying about what you see is what you
get with five percent back I am the man among men who
see by a define light bright burning to bare the poetry
from my brain my mind’s muscle with its might of
thoughts tight telling the tell tell soul of me to reach out
for you and befriend your personal God that you keep
loaded and lock cocked the telling clock that makes your
personal time in the skin that won you when it was time
to win the skill of the killed kind notion that birthed you
we are kin kindred souls alone the road our paths cross
by way of the poem that mean you good tiding till time
we tie together in rime that till the soil from which
thoughts grow we are one in the reading of the poem that
is close to the human Gods that we are to ourselves
looking long lastly with a loud laughter lasting its length
of breath in the run of words woven to woe or woo with
them to win and wait the wild words work their way
within the wall that we keep before the face the face is
saved for the touch of those that we care to dare the skin
to skin fairer then fair friends free for fun find the fine
flute of the solo sun warm and fume its funnel flame fly 51  
forth from its waves the years gave the give and take in
the wake where wisdom wait wanting to wind you up to
whip you into sharp shape to fit your muscles to your
bones you alone is you your own song to sing to the such
footed fooling the finding that can ever be totally known
within the bone what I see of you is what you put on to
hide your nakedness as if it makes you ashamed to bare
more skin to the rain that will run your body clean let me
hear you sing solid and sure such rhythm as to sue the left
foot to move to the back beat boom bobbing the beautiful
bold beat of your speech you stoned song along with lust
licking the lures that take away your breath back to a time
where you remember only the good things not the daily
muck and mind fucked folly to foggiest and full to finely
recall all done by the seconds we watch our lives slip ever
so quietly and quick with the grace of the Gods’ growth
from the ground we group the gilled tenderness of the
early growth that spring makes in the land that is last to
fade spring is a bringing of life to motion spring is greedy
girlish gushing it is guided by the sun it dawn live a spell
then die till reborn warming the sunny side of the world
with growth gilding it in green ground from the ground
up when spring has sprung Easter is in toe telling of the
rebirth of a God’s son through who you can be saved
through who you can reach the Father feeding off the
flowers flaunting their colors he wish to befriend but only
through his Son can he be found not within the nameless
bug that pollinate in useful service drawn by the sweet
scent drawing all to feed freely from the full bouquet
bleeding their color for bees born in to smell with a snail
pace the odor adding to the scent of the world rank in rot
beside the sweet the contradictions of the world is ever
evident envisioned in the inner earnings everywhere
spring is working its wonder from the garden to the grove
the giving ground is made a birth bed and a grave of
baby birds fallen from their nests with broken necks and 52  
bruised immature wings they no longer hear their mothers
sing but we are more in tune to the tones that talk bird
speak with its secret meaning known to the feathers of
flight flown by a float full of fame the phoenix is a bird of
spring reborn birth that bang the baby without a name
both by bullets born seed and egg caught in red the darkly
lit dome of the head that we are wed to all said we do the
mind to cry me a river of habits held hidden behind the
hour’s heart thriving and handling the huge hunger of the
soul am I wrong for trying to hold on outside of an ounce
of ocean being true beneath the orange of the setting sun
at Savanna beach a crack Coke can in the sand the gray
Atlantic wave in and wash out with the rhythm of the
heart sea gulls circle and call the water is a burial barrage
by boney bounty that bends the legs leaden land at the
edge of seeing you there walking in rhythm speaking to
the wanting wind rimes meant for catching up to my
brothers bored by being common working the work day
world while I pen wordiest things meant to catch you up
and work their magic by the wonder of words willing to
wow with breath and meaning stalled still till played out
on the page for all the poets are set free to follow you in
order to find out who they are with their parenthetically
bent imagination functioning with the unwearyingly flow
serialized and specialized in poems they are caught in the
possession of divine madness breathed into them by your
personal God congestive cognitive imperative collective
in the continuance absolute nostalgia relationship that we
share their divine directives as latter-day poets with
unaccountable emotions fired by an inspiration such as
being shepherds of the suggestion of social structure that
puts the muse to sleep as not to hear their divine speech
of the heroes hidden in the corners where the
understanding of it is the excitement of it as is should
man fear the pride of his ego air go the artists who are
alienated from the society and from the self such poets 53  
are caught in the ambiguity of the body that enables his
mind to comprehend the strength and conviction of a little
dignity the simple minded are not self-tortured the poet
mindedness of modern meaning more then the sum of its
strength of irony and the baboon that lives in the St.
Louis zoo is a long way from home and like the poet
caged by a society that seeks to tear him down even as all
the while they dance to his songs the poets are evoking
the power of the world and it will hurt them digging in
the soil can heal you the precious precocious poet pen his
pile of poems meant to catch and keep the kept end of
your betrayal let their poems manipulate you into the
question ask of themselves with their sublimated desire
and distraction of the flesh dreaming of Icarus’ fatal fall
from flight take thy father’s advice though faint it be the
heavenly cheeks of the insight of a young man is smiling
down on me and I must encounter the intellectual terror
of the poet’s talent the disgruntled emotions of insight
momentarily local toward a personal ability necessary to
win the poets over to the possible over taking of the
citadel of commerce

54  
Part II.

Sun of the man of a new vision in the dark mystery of

reality he quest for the truth of his self he hear himself
saying I am one within myself in mist of my bones is the
man mad about his mind movements
my mind is the last of its kind in the bones of an awkward
skull playing with the last day’s breath of the tongue
rooted to a wind from the chamber of my lungs where the
extraordinary fire of the galaxies wait the orders
everything to strike their existence finally full of the
suburb of stars when the sea horse of a thousand crazing
willing to be fulfilled by the frills that trill the
ammunition of a tropically soiled rain dislocated by the
telephony of a crying sleep created by the wholehearted
counter-current burst of a grenade that wait the pulling
pin of the tenderness tortured by the adorable devolution
found in the void of a scream jumping the extraordinary
inspiration of the eating motion of fire blazing like an
orchestra of intertwining tenderness plaited by the
courage of age dislocated and dumb founded by the
inspiration of an assault issued by the momentum of
understanding the old odd object odorless as an Odin ode
off-limit to the spontaneous behavior in the lonely poet
with the ecclesiasticism of his eccentricities as a way of
life in the live-long day you young heroes who waits the
warning for doing battle when the organized cooperation
of a conformity that blunt a sense of human purpose
hands busy in the burden of its own boredom buy into
the propaganda that indicate the terrifying values of a
normality your outrageous situation pushed into a
manifestation of the self as hero to do battle to save
yourself from the baffled confusion of being alienated to
save yourself from slavery masquerading as sanity to
solely go the way of the lonely hero rootless and neurotic
for the meaning of being human when institutions created
for the masses have failed them when the collectivized
society of a totalitarian which is the only logical
consequence of a lost selfness that goes to where the 55  
socially insane gather to plot their revenge against the
submission of passive mass man they seeks to set them
free as if they are tied to the deck of a wreck heart-broke
to the bone and alone on their own they shall be saved by
the few brave bound to surround the waste placed to
confound and finding in freedom a form for mapping out
the emotional poetry that play in their lives beneath the
sun isn’t all that we know the distend glow tells us that
we have places to go and different times to be exposed by
the nervous vocabulary and the tongued tied syntax of the
sin tax place on the smoking lit end of a butt found in the
ash tray of the homeless need to gather cans from the
discarded waste that can be sold to pay for the soul’s need
to play out it union with the body born to bind the flesh of
all flesh fishing for funds foddering and fore finding the
nonsense of a nipping at the noise of the new nose
nodding it snazzy sneeze snipping snap snap snap and
black rap that reap ready round the run-about that goes
running round the rim of a tin of found fish caught in the
far away sea of jazzy Japan jeering jolly the just jointed
to the job of an island’s mentality where the jolly joker
jest and conjure the knowable notice pin to the soul that
knows now the blow that snows full of the laughter of
rain of the glorified self selling itself to the highest bidder
in the market place where shadows are dancing on the
wall and all the curses crosses are wounded they weep for
a peace long forgotten by force falling from the farm
where is kept the keen eyed kindling killing away all after
thoughts toward every envoy of envy written on the back
of God’s hand what are they doing in heaven to day
taking peace by force piece by piece they pear to pierced
the membrane of a holy and hollow hunger hanging on
the tip of the tongue that whisper the warmth of a would
be summer brazing breeze blowing sideways into the
crack of the sun this I remember as if it was ten thousands
years ago when the summer gave in to winter falling over 56  
the last town that keep in toll a flock of black birds
heading south over the back bone of the town’s memories
of place in the dirt that dirty by mark of dingy dingoes
and New Guinea Singing Dogs doing their business by
the barking winds blowing backward thru the town’s
alienated alleys of lit light poles standing as solitaire
soldiers waiting the rush hour of hounds horses and
hybrid hyenas humming their hunger for peace in the
wide world of whores willing to sell you their sexual
scented scenery secretly they will keep your sexual needs
secluded till it is time to forget you for the next john who
will jab his Johnny deep within the slit and risk the
broken rubber drips of sons never to be born as sure as
priests are prostitutes of the glorious Gods every ready to
penetrate you heart with the cross to tell you that we live
in a sinful and fallen world to tell you that Gods are not to
blame for the suffering that man must endure to tell you
that the kingdom will come hail Mary full of grace
blesses is the fruit of your womb mother Mary pray for
me I offer you the body and blood of my loin for the sake
of your passion O Jesus what is justified in you name is
the calling of cults as the niggers of the country Wicca is
seen as wicket the counterculture intellectuals interfere in
the interworshiping of some other man’s God O Jesus we
are told that you live within us such a thing can be for the
believers for they live in the trinity queen of the holy
rosary is Islam to be on earth as it is in heaven is
Scientology the flesh of you wound are Soka Gakkai Zen
Buddhism and Hinduism followers doom to fall beneath
the shadow of the cross in death let my spirit protect
before the holy gate if such a thing be then let it walk the
picket line for peace for religion is the weed of the people
it placate it buys the time it novocaine the pains of life it
is a Band-Aid that cover the wounds made by the insane
motion of living our lives as a beast that knows itself not
capable of not being able to be good without the threat of 57  
the God’s promise of a greater good after the body have
warned itself out O mother nature pray for me O queen of
the trees dust to dust of the dead flesh that we shall be let
me feed the bounty of life for in life we have feast full
fondly on caged chickens and free range cattle turn beef
we have feast on the leg ham of pigs that pollute the
water shed in the back woods of Mississippi

Sun shining upon the absurdity of action where

the blood from yesterday is all ready dried on the
approach of tomorrow and my hands fly off into an
empty cry crying its wisdom of praying mantes perpetual
in their invention of ceremonials dance peddled in the
streets of an alcoholic salvation saving the unforgettable
lamps of mosques built on the ruins of an ecstatic egg
blooming on the tree of a missed placement of the age of
men’s courage testy when the earth nursing its gravity
finally finding the force in which to drop an apple onto
the head of victory hard won by the torn wave of air
creating the monarchy scattered and snapping a beautiful
assassin’s turned back momentum for the condensation
found in the rigged sea that ebb and flow toward the
vineyard of trumpets blowing the beautiful wind’s song
heard in the ears of a blood thirsty scream settling in the
dream of an unconfessed lizard that licks its tongue
triumphantly before the sun’s instant vapor warming the
eternal written words of fire sublime and compassionate
toward the birth of a boy still attached by the umbilical
cord and fore skin of a circumcised dawn where the last
hero fall down to his human silent raising in the wake of
a screaming forgiveness that break so easy on his
oppressors’ industrialism that eat into the capitalist’s
consciousness till they become one and the same of a
mechanical revulsion and they can not know honest even
if it bit them in the ass of their industrialized society
where the technology-oriented of the abstract economic 58  
question is getting drunk successfully on their
exploitation of nature for what the meat market can
boldly bare while the protest of a rude awakening of the
romanticism kept in the pockets of poets as protagonists
are digging at the materialistic flaws of democracy where
poets are criminal prophets rebellious messiahs that call
you to follow them into the new attitude to break open the
stereotypes that you are bred into am I a gay black poet or
a black gay poet it depends on what face you know of me
face to face my skin poet to poem sexual self let loose to
juice up what is wet with sweat salty to taste the dew of
your skin your hottest spots pining power piled as high as
a pubis from which you dish out the commands that
threaten to derail the plainsong sonic soaring strong with
a stout wind strategists blowing form across the weary
way work with me still I’m willowed down worn away
by your willingness to please the God of my father’s
father and farther back to the Gods of the fist of forest
where forms of leaves follow the fading sun plants
contend for life as do man contend for our place in the
world we are the war goers after some one’s God because
man likes to collect likes to corner his pets science is the
leash around the Gods necks when we take them out for a
walk through the mid-night streets full of secrete senses
fit for the dark hour where man loose himself in a cat
fight with the cotton cable crisp crossing the congenial
cone pointing our sleep from within we peep the waiting
of the world when our walk is done we poets weep for the
work of the house-broken Gods not allowed to feel at
home prayed to only on Sunday and kept lock away till
company comes and you take them out and comb their
hair dress them fare posed at the dinner table with care
your holy on display for the day the quandary poet with
inapprehension coming from his muse hypnosis he slip
back into the episodes of thoughts where he is
manipulated by the schizophrenia voices and he can not 59  
recognize the diagnosis of his illness he is only abnormal
in the biochemistry processing of the languet language of
the Lord his poems are interpretational singing of the
auditory hallucinations of the Gods schizophrenic angels
who are drawn to poets speaks in poetry from the pit of
their curiosity about man as sure as the motivation of
mathematics is too the speech of the Gods and poetry is
divine revelation the scientific revolution is afoot in the
land and it linger long across Newton and Locke looking
deep deeply down into the enlightenment that nature is
God with poets as her priests and if you only knew how
much they love you you would weep to fulfill their wants
running wild among the erosion of religious dying and
decaying unobjectivity and full of Vatican rituals that can
not maintain can not be sustain without the poets help for
they purge the past and quicken the future they can free
you from the boredom of your disbelief they can fill you
up with the breath of the God that looks after you that do
your bidding in the market place of the world they will
not leave you to fin for yourself to fall by the spirituous
wayside where the winners of the race are dying off
because they prayed to a dead God run the race with your
grace beside you there will be times when you will need
the poet’s love to comfort you and just a poem from him
will make your radical vagaries understood by the body
that is you by the bones by the built of your sexual
superstitional memories that can help you find the
ritualized bump that informs your God sitting on the
pseudo religion stump of science at the mercies of the
individual innocence of our generations moving through
life as a wave breaking on the shores of our disconnects
discontents making the collective culture history of our
memories that are nothing more then our personal myth
of being a consensus in the certainty that we live our lives
fundamental as one fallen from heaven when it is where
into we find ourselves moralizing in our narrative history 60  
of the reminiscence of the fundamental fall a religious
public myth held by the many this is my personal
narrativization unraveled jealously by my bound with a
poetic soul of the self and the analog I I am as I will
myself to be within reasons of the limits of breath and
mind I am to heavy to fly I am one who can cry I spy the
outside world as a thing that I can reason why I am move
by the muscle of music I am hip hung and hungry for the
holy bite into my flesh and you will find me strong as a
song sung on the tongue my wrongs I keep locked away
safe from the exportations of the young the sky wept
when I was born I am the creator of cum the father of
sons and poems in doing my duty who am I I am the self
frustration of urban life I am the irrational thrust that
seeks to remake society in my image I am the gratuitous
acts of crime carried out day in and day out for no other
reason then I have the time I am the long lost son of
rebellion I am the conscious control of a gun crisp I crack
the bullet with your name on it I am the committed
responsibility of a sensory impression of the effort toward
a fake emotion that roll to fondle the dishonest
abstractions of devotion I am the new attitudes of
misunderstanding the guilty trial of indifference I seeks to
understand man’s base nature to free him from the
drudgery of the everyday modern man is made a prisoner
of the things that he has earned by the hardy work of his
hands has he learned that to be a man of contentment in
today’s world is to hide yourself among the masses as
one of many continent with what the rules of society that
seeks to control the wayward soul does dictates I am the
rage develop against the frustration of society I will face
the judgment of guilt and sin by the prosecutor of
criminal acts committed against me by the stereotype of
the priest who call me the sinner for going against the
certainties of rules with their rigid preconceptions of
freedom the dignity of my destiny grows with the 61  
assumption of responsibility for my fellow man I am the
blasphemous of the worthy Christ I am the stranger in a
world of estrangement detached from the very
conventional culture that will enslave in the tomb of
normality I will not be locked away I will not be
contained in the house of the insane though I am mad
with mind muddle and this is a raging of a mind that fight
itself still I till the soiled soil suited for a new growth
grounded in the knowing that the soul is wounded but not
weak in its wanting where is Rimbaud with his madness
where is Christopher Smart with his madness where is
Blake and Burns and Byron Hart Crane G M Hopkins and
Lindsay all mad men all making their way mindfully
milling around the words of their insane songs we belong
though they are gone the way of the dead flesh madness
live in the working of their hands and my madness is kept
at bay by the hands of popping pills Citalopram
Hydrobromide and Olanzapine 40mg empower me here
there in is no shame such things are only for the sane

Sun’s heart the only child in this system where the

paganism of Palermo stone break on the foot steps of
Khafre sitting in words by the way of the grand
Caucasian consensus squandered by the blowtorch of a
hissing funnel multicolored stamped of Gods exhausted
by the solidity of a dazzling tender water where desires of
possibility supporting the absolute climate of a sharpened
wind’s precision and the Gods have forsaken the birds of
de facto broken down region of the last religion
describing irreconcilable angry and have made man the
outcast with his prostrations of the sacrificial prayers in
the fashion of a delivered message’s dominant dialogue
disappearing day by day into the human mentality of a
widespread auditory hallucination telling us to be kind to
each other under the profound auditory rules of the Old 62  
Testament under the old Babylonian objective wisdom
addressing the formalistic solidity sumptuous and
frenzied lightning foaming a call brushed by the skin of
the forever water that washes away the fragile face of the
behavioristic needs with their recognition of a godly
pounding Odysseus heart marvelous and forever
supporting the wild impulses of an enraged throat where
words bloom beyond the strong logic madness of a giant
radiant absolute wish to belong under the supporting roof
of the tomb that break the coccoloba brain growing
beside the sensual sensitive sea of the mentioned
mentality burst in the belly of a radiant laughter of yellow
which ruthlessly dominate the grid of a darken
withdrawal from all that you guess will be the death of
you fall into form from the formal answer characteristic
of the lost question playing pranks and looting the mores
rogues of the subsidized machinery of the popular
phlogistic phobic police pounding the beat of a burning
candle cradled in the arms of the creditor that holds the
notes of your soul in cold blood shall he douse your
heated passions with the money paid to the informer
poets that have betrayed in a hell of hypocrisy the poets
as fallen archangels of the individual looming egotistical
longing for fighting the dull commercial conformity daily
brought and sold to the common weakness that it
engender in the limitation of the poor who cry out for
quarrelsome quantity over qualified quality while the poet
cry out in disgust for a serious self-reflection of
themselves as victims as spectators under the social codes
of being a good citizen the poorest of the poor are to busy
being poor to be excided by the execrable excesses of the
self-righteous riches of the rich of the bulging bourgeois’
belly birthing leaning leaders of society’s official view of
the gratification of itself while the poet venturing far from
the conventional to find himself find that he is alone in
the symbolizing myth of the worldly real world woven 63  
wiry around the wounds of the naked cities verging on
the insanity of glass and steel of the immortal boredom of
mountains of bricks while in the nocturnal shadows in the
green zone of the forest of the wilderness mysteriously
divine in its strikingly similarities of the madman’s
attempt to murder the daylight of the granite eye of a
stature to the flesh of the war dead swollen in the half-
light irrepressible tornado torn and tattered by the bare
foot voice of a mirror relaxing its reflections of anger
sleeping in the armored flower assuming the position of
freedom under the embrace of the sun’s storeroom of
alchemy found in the confinement of a screaming rain
with its generosity of rusting the machines of rotten flesh
with their sterile spectacle attitudes of regrets that rest in
the vast pathetically ghost of the host’s mirage behold the
hideousness of the mythical mysterious monsters of the
rival to the state that take their castration in strive beside
the universal dream of man’s myth his psychic needs
solitary and sedentary against the calamities of the
primordial unconsciousness of the chaos of the libido
poet that fight the battle for us all his tormented psyche
fighting the monistic monolithic monster of the state his
struggle toward the animalism harmony relieving itself in
the mouth of man’s pettiness beneath the statuesque
beauty of the sky where the battle to discover a
meaningful identity of the lonely voyagers who find
society shallow and repellent is in love with the terrible
unbearable parable mother of the dark self and the terrible
father of tyrannical authority suppressing rebellion
against the status quo of the state of an order world in
need of its imposing will of unvoiced scandals it require
the people to prostrate themselves sprawled-flat beneath
the bitter brightness of the boredom of our daily lives in
the hesitant flow of a recalcitrant old color ancient in it
trafficking ancient as a shipwreck in an age of flight
across the difficult metamorphosis of rain clouds 64  
quivering in a corner of the inlay bluish blush bluing and
busting by the bipedal communication of the frighten
fragile gifts of the clarity of the two eyed sky look down
upon me look among me lean on me I am your cane as I
am to blame for the words I weave look lock jawed at my
local musing about the God of this and that and the who
that do the what to you that would woo your woes and
what is cool to cold to lose the blues that besets you here
is the nearly new news to move mounds of meanings to
here is the morning moving its motion at the mentioning
of the moon fading from view do not lose yourself in
yourself pay dues to the outsider the you we see and the
inner working of your flesh that fed for foul of famish fun
of friends firm fluid and free in its flow for you to win
when the mind’s eyes film everything its sees and the
mind’s ears records down to the last word in the world
and that word is God how odd how old and odorous the
opossum hunting in the night the white tail rabbet feeding
on the grass has dug a den in the yard spring is hard this
year hard on the ears it bite by chill and tender growth kill
by the frost that steals across the garden Elliot got it right
about the April of the year full of remembered fears of
the 18th and 19th day of the dead spring lurch and lunch
lush toward love but death leak into the fold leering about
the hind end of cold from its northern blow below 32°
April snow is wet with wants of the weak warmth the red
bricks breathe back into the air where is the April of my
youth a care free meandering of group growth the tulips
purple bloom bees are back and soon to be bugs bountiful
the black birds return to St. Louis the blue jays coloring
the sky we spring babies bloom in age with each April
new cruel the poet cry but I spy a gentle nature by her
sweet name known April a lady a lass a young man
dressed in his best caught in the urgency of spring the
show of green seen again in the land for poets there is no
way out of his soul he can not set it aside and still stay 65  
friends with the Gods precious is the time he spend to
himself time when the Gods rest their innocence and get
down to their insistence babble about the state of man
under the moral light of science caught in the intellectual
battlefield of the landscape where politics war against
preaching as if liken like poetry warring against songs
sung sullenly and signally to catch you up in the round-
about rhythmic beat of bodies bouncing off each others in
the night club of the darkness dented by a full moon
spring has sprung its sparing with the weather of winter
wanting to hang on yes spring skeet and skit across the
Arizona landscape smelling of old Spanish skin and the
accent of Indians in the prime of their lives living out
their days in an ancient desert full of life’s last request a
natural expression is April when it take possession of the
land April is all encompassing and profound in its
achievement of affirming new growth from the old
wintering in the earth Aperire April Abril Abreel and
Apryll open open all buds unfolding unfolding folding
open its beautiful buds bold in their bounty be my Spring
lady my scented young men’s body beaming his fancy
you are the lady of love whose hem line is flapping in a
warm breeze you are my Spring youth of a young man
feeling his oaks in the strength of his body ready to give
his sex in the season of birds ready to birth their young as
old as you are you are forever young in the land yearly
rebirthing yourself we greedily awake your coming on
the heel of a March wind wandering through the tail end
of Winter wanting to hang on Winter grudgingly move on
all the April babies sing your songs Casanova the of love
Muddy Water and Billy Holiday the of song and
Shakespeare the song of poesy long through the years
come my Spring babies ever being born we celebrate
your coming with this song

66  
Sun flowing in a gilded abode I am not alone filled with
futurist suns seen but unknown in the spyglass where the
cold universal winds blowing their ligature light toward
an eager eye focused on their shingon shining shipping
slip of a sun to behold the gentle silver temple of fighting
rocks that are dropped into the wanting water of a
gigantic bird-like struggle biting the blazon blue taught to
the bloody shoulders of trees forcing the sea to give up its
recently dead drowned in the watery sanctuaries where
the pigeon guillemot perform the funeral rite as an
offering to the Gods of the sea Oceanus and Ophion
wrestling Kronos excluded by the re-entering of the
waves into a silver salve of the night savage and thorny
and as exuberant as a forgotten memory as the rare
laughter of an immense speaking in tongues of a looped
off courage of the victorious silent feeding off the
momentous vehement witnessing the concerting of it
when the suffice surface of a staved day is the dealer of
the manger encrusted with bamboo and luggage both
confused by the trailing traveling of the future to a place
where appear the null scale of the weight of the world the
last time that I saw the swear on the tongue of an island
making love to the warm water the rocks of the river bank
its brother this everybody knows in their dreams that
blows the cold generative processes of weather with its
non-subjective manner toward the man made temple
where Gods of correction spoil us with to much lazy love
and we wonder if what we are saying in their name is the
real income that will seal our souls in the advancement of
heaven ok so we are wrong on this account and its time
that we find the lost blue carrying the scrambled words of
a long forgotten prayer with its inconsistencies caught
like silent bent butts of spent cigarettes littering the
streets of an early sundry Sunday dawn watching over us
for much of the week the churches sleep waiting for you 67  
waiting to hear the halleluiah of the soldiers of stained
glass that have witnessed the importance of a magical
jealousy of a miracle what did you hear in the forest of
sainthood of the dark forest where the poets feed off the
dim light of growth thick and tight in its feeding of the
full belly born in a year of starvation where the iniquity
of fire in the bones is unsure of its own burning where the
mistrustful lies spoken to Jeremiah blows away the cover
that contain them what did you hear when you drew near
the millennium cross that require you to suspend the
recognition of rational truth and go with your hands full
of faith can you now hear the passive mass man that have
forgotten how to define himself under the dilemma of
normality in a society of the conditional confusion of
being an individual the earnest essence of the hero’s
violence is the ultimate saturation situation of the internal
intensity of his allogeneic alluvial alienation in a state of
crisis where his poems are a manifestation of his desire to
belong blindly and brutally he burns the assertion of his
human dignity burns bound round the waste of a place
where his soul of the gospel of gloom in the tomb of his
cloistered convictions that the messiness of the rigors of
being human lay hissing in the heart where his piety with
it constancy of faith in being one against the rarest stone
state that swayingly swear to the saints collapsing their
worn wire wings into the cupped hands of the petition
position of a begging prayer when the flesh is vivid as a
chant on the lips of the righteous with their hands cupped
in prayers where the trapped air burns with the words that
take to the wings of memories the world shall gather its
seasons into one and function as an assassin of flowers
head heavy as Horus with his wisdom of the obelisk
pointing to the high heaven handwritten by the beautiful
tenderness tending to the tonal laughter of the last angel
with its summoned purity of an inheritance honored and
horned as a hired hand hooking up doing the biding of the 68  
benign blind Gods knotting together the throbbing of
drums of man’s destiny from the divine silent executing
the vain question of their increased excitement for the
voices heard by Saul against the love held by David and
Jonathan their wild nabiim for He-who-is who is he is he
who he say he is the father of the angels the fallen feather
once flung far a field to the feeling feeding off the
fending out of against the unworkableness historical
chaos’ value of deceit presenting it evidence as
obdurately as the calculated civilized society of the
modern world where unknown laugher gush forward
from victorious vipers born thunderstruck beneath the
thumb of social pressures to be one with the ruling rules
of the political structure of a two party system that
champions the woes of the middle class and not a
mouthful of woeful words for the practicing poor
straight-fully struggling and stripped of the density of
their dignity in the riches country of the working western
world that will pay billions to feed wars wage against the
oil rich muslins an ancient war of religion for the souls of
men but if it was as simple as all that the Gods do not pat
us on the head and say good boy to us their pets their
domestic animal they watch from the high heaven and
surely they laugh they hoot and holler while the angels
hang their heavy heads hard by the foolishness that we
can not escape as human is as human does under the sun
striped of it Godhead this battle is never won you can not
beat a man to his death with the bible and then call him
saved so we use booms boasting bombs busting in air
scaring the foreign cities where youth is sacrificed for
some greater good in the minds of men a tragic death that
we can not be taken back as once you know yourself you
can not but forget the who you was when the
phenomenon of you in the world first begin when the first
concept of the self was made known to yourself and you
said I am liken to this longing I am full of the anxiety of 69  
the flesh I am the me that nobody knows no matter where
I go I am signally alone in my skin of stimuli I am my
only emergency a walking world of cells working in
united unison the mystery of yourself fixed in the
resplendent respective body with all of its truthful
trivialities and grandee grandeur woven into the telling
total representation of the you you keep secret from
admirers you who is subjected to the trivial tribal trials of
the flesh and must handily handle them with confinable
courage and a kind of wishful wisdom common to the
Godly good man who believe in the numbing nobility of
the Gods that knows that each man carry within his genes
the primitive pattern of his forefather thus is the dead
reborn in every man in each integrated individuality of
the self that is true to the self that must come to challenge
the anti-human man made world where the poet’s
strength of will is pitted against the state of commercial
commerce to sell even the flesh for a prideful price when
the economic enterprise of the noise making machines
enslave us with their delusions of grandeur we lose our
instincts and passions and idiosyncrasies we become one
of the mass many who must raise to do the duty of meat
for hire and we as men lose out our capacity for self
determination and there-by our power to create in such a
time it is left to the poet to penetrate the inner frustrations
of the man who have given over his soul to the machines
it is the poet ever a hero who must fight the notion that
the soul of man is a cash value commodity to be sold in
the market place of the square and church where we do
as we are told for the good of the society that knows it
can control and mold us into the cold citizens who above
all else must follow the rotting rules of the stale state and
stay well within the cozy warmth our boring boxes where
we are manually manipulated race against race man
against woman gay against straight rich against poor
young against old smart against the common man that 70  
seem not to know that he is under the control that he is
losing his unique identity by doing what everyone does
not what he ought to do for the true salvation and
fulfillment of his soul it is left to the artist to show us the
way of the spirit fulfillment in a life well lived and not be
led as an ambulatory machine made if flesh and bones of
the state it is left to the sensitivity of the artist to combat
the petty tyrants that men can be in their drudgery and
endless bureaucratic immoralities the artist must be ever
skeptical ever living in the moment of the now while he
create as if that is all there is he must seek space must
break through the stone walls of imposed laws that seeks
to hem him in that confines him as a mad man speaking
to madmen
Sun with its heated hands reaching far into the daphnia
darkness where the son of Hermes is singing his songs of
the dry land to the inhalators of the brick laden sky
bricked over cities where Icarus fly above endlessly
circling within the nosey noise of the city hear O hear
the middle warning of the devil tree blooming its deep
deceit to eat in your mother’s arms of the forbidden fruit
sweet leap into the grave yard of mosquitoes on the skin
of the arm where the nameless tongue of the dirt can not
be washed away by the never-the-less rain that linger
recklessly on the included insult sobbing conversationally
after all these years of being weary of the interesting
difficulty of being human in the modern world where the
saxophone of you breath is blowing an alien wind full of
your glories when you are rushing on your run toward the
mystical secrets of hot blood burning in the veins of the
wide-eyed controversy of wrenching psyche from the
dualism achieved by the bitter blood that rush feverishly 71  
pass the overheated notion that there is but one God
feeding the tingle beneath the skin of the shrub-lands
where the consciousness of the embodiment of the
material body reinforcing its very existence with the cults
that caught the individuality of cities where an invasion
from the north wind washes over the pseudo-structure of
the soul of men born out of the song of the despair of
poetry inalienable and interchangeable by the
meaningful metaphor’s depth of momentous motion all
benevolence and rarely gnarled by the knowable delirious
fidelity strung on the secondary secret illuminate
innocence of the science of a sick self in the grip of
specialization the absolute absence of Gods man
absurdity is front and counter center in his strangle
struggle to achieve some meaning of the self no no longer
do we think that the Gods shall save us from ourselves in
the strictness of a question where God is the answer we
treat nature as our mother in the strictness of a question
where science is the answer we treat nature as our
decoration with its tragic action struggling to achieve the
customary delusion of lesser men who are caught in the
daily pleasures that keep them occupied keep them
sedated calculating the enormous commandment of the
state that smite the stranger of an individual divinity
perishing by the less impetuous principle of the
complexities of consciousness caught in the seducing
light of the TV caught by the sexual pleasure of a full
belly mixed and fixed for the free fiery piety found in the
face of a grace that stray into the majesty longing
perpetuating itself into the new millennium of a
possibility found amount the selection of the civilized
centuries enormously drunk on the enology of a grape
grouped with the sterility and frustration of the modern
man groping in the darkness of a crimson criminal night

72  
Sun of a violent oppression for its own combustion
burning away the last coffee color odor satiric satyr
stricken by a swollen vain where blood flows it way to
the wind’s saxophone heard by saxicolous growth in the
death of the swamp’s odor playing a symphony’s
movement to the distance motion of a time worn out tale
that smell of the sun burning itself brightly alive when
you come around the dead history that remain full of the
stale voices that live in the bible of our most slow belief
out of season where the unbeknown wisdom clinging
slippery to the stubbornly vernacular of a god damn he
done-done me wrong gather your newspapers where the
news falls like stones made of words swollen in the
bellies of corpses tangled in the history of memories
knotted around the tomb stones that acts as a resting place
for weary birds coalescing into a nuclear sentimental key
where China sleep the long dragon’s tail of chop sticks
peddle as lies spoken around the red season huddled
beside the frightened fall of history that pierce the last
ancient wisdom known to be breathing itself full of the
benevolence mythopoetic strength that persist in its
athletic pride where the landscape of science is dissecting
the possibility that Gods exist in the knowledge of a cell
of a butterfly to discern their particular personalities as
pure as the fog that intersect the green words of the
perched tough utmost dreams of a morning losing its
sounding distant of a far away lie consecrated by the
effervescence incorruptible mirage of the purple dawn
walking the sky of an introspected surprise in the eye of a
siren’s howling its way to the emergency of the
combatant murder by the innocence of a guilty nature
guilty of eating the last glass of a fifty stories building
swaying in the gripping wind of the great smoldering
clouds disappointed when facing their refection hung in
the window where the Jesus juice of a commander’s
goodness of voices spoken in the ear of the dead wood of 73  
furniture opulent and non-miraculous in its puncture
grains running toward the center of the earth when trees
die they go to useful wood or rot along in the forest of
tomorrow the song of their falling need not be heard by
the human ear unless you be one who think that human
are the center of the universe and that all existence
depend on the store dick with his thin top lip and pointed
nose and tiny dick following me around the store where
the religion of commerce keeps its stronghold tight by the
pity that show us how we are doing it wrong turn me on
and I will return the favor and we can do it on our own
when the water of sex whistle the sweat of a butch
speaking easy in the darkness of a night club embracing
the dance of habitat harden by the head felt mating dance
of the whooping cranes in the dark bar where alcohol is
spilled on the dance floor drunk on sweat of the dancers
touching each other the dance is a mating act meant to
prepare the flesh for sex it is where I let loose the rhythm
of my muse in the body moves of grinning against the
juice of the juke box that is drinking alone in the corner
where the light can not reach to enrich the music that
seeks into an ice cube in the dance do not cub me but cup
me in the sweat of your are couple me to your throng I
will do no wrong before I am gone to the sins edged
endure in on Saturday night and forgiven on Sunday
morning by the priest that preach perched in the pulpit of
his piety preach about the pitfalls pitted alone the holy
way where women can not be public preacher in the
private church of the eight sided pointed cross point one
have no other God before me point two I am that I am
point three do unto other as you will have them to do unto
you point four turn the other cheek point five an eye for
an eye point six blesses is he that hear the word of the
prophecy point seven behold ye all the preaching of the
kingdom of God point eight In the beginning God created
the heaven and the earth I am a child of the cross crisp 74  
and sharp I cross the counter culture of cruising I cringe
and cry carefully I crave the crablike cradle in the sea of
crawdads keen to keep the sucking of heads with a kind
keel kiss me as a kept keeper that whisper a wild warring
of wishes wanting to be wise and womanly warm in the
womb where I wail wagging the wastage west of the
waste of being human I am a whore whose whole hog of
a witch of angels is a weed worth blooming bold by the
back light lit in the buzz bomb of buzz words being
brought and sold by bowlegged buzzards eating from a
buckle of bovines milked and mother in a motley
morning minding the millwork that make money move
the world I am that I am the notice pined to my skin the
slim slake stacked and stalled still the will to kill the
when to trill and talk the talk a tone death stone tomb
where hallucinogenic function of ancient mentality is
evidence that the plausible and gradual control of the
sense that noting is wrong beneath the usual phenomenon
of the skin where the sun shed its cloths as a holy act and
the air is rich in warmth like St. Louis in junk June’s juice
of harvested heat homed and hampered about the hungry
hero that hangs his hat on a nail in your door come to
greet him and let him guild your glory quick and guide
the air in the wind turning over on itself should I wish
that I was as unseen as the air but everywhere there with a
feel of my own every thing my home here is the good life
and I can’t get enough of its edge cutting the fine cord
that binds me to the knees of the wind with horny hands it
fills me up with glued prayers it bless me by the skin I
wear the wind tell me that I am alive and not alone in my
holding on to the breath that bathe me when I first met
the wind I didn’t thank that we would be friends it was
high in motion and I hung it like a kite on the high branch
of a tree we spoke of peace with its eyes on the prize and
the poet did seek us out to consult which way the winds
does blow in the measure of his poems he was to meter to 75  
know that he had rocked the red riding the rails of his
most high art with a sudden flash of insight the ribbon of
his poem came to him connected to the conducting thread
at the moment that it is read into someone else head its is
by the working of the muse that the structure of his
consciousness is moved to action automatic and his
afterthought retrieve the necessary nervous system’s
performance of motor skill with the pen

Sunlight jazz singing its songs full of birds’ breath

singing for those who understand and the dark-eyed junco
the black-legged kittiwake the Caspian Tern’s flight alone
the long limb of the murderess muddy Mississippi
flowing pass a sight sleepy St. Louis in the dreams of a
mourning warbler in the understory where the
polyrhythm of an improvisation play call and response
with the syncopation of the wind’s blowholes driven by
the cross fire of eyelids in the sleepy season that shine on
the lips of an ant full of surprise in its heart when the
horizon sit down and contemplate the end of the day now
spent on the edge of an aiming sun kept inside the tight
sky of a hero’s pocket like water in a basin when the head
is still full of the fading dream of a blow for a blow time
signature fighting the countermelodies rooted in the
possibility that the gathered season will fall in love with
you at the very moment that the cat cachets the rat
looking for a foothold in the surprise summer of its
greatest need where weather embrace the docility tongue
of the demands trembling in the foot steps left behind by
the cobblestones of winter frozen in the rest of water that
can’t run to the torrent sea now embracing the possibility
of being fasten to the useless song of evening in the mind
you can see the analog of eternity entirely possible by the
actual behavior of a thinking crossroad of a circus of 76  
difficulty with its little abode that abort the thoughts of
continually inventing the space of locating your
consciousness in the next room where poets roam with
their ramous material perplexing to clarifying the mistake
of the necessity of the head of music looking down
euphorically at the poets who rend it from words who
close their eyes in the sunlight and listen to the working
world about them the imagistic ones slow spacious and
majestic to judge the long corridor of the virginal
international misunderstanding by the activated ones who
wonder where forth are born the profound sexless
question of the voice that obey the face of all evidence
found in the schizophrenic physicians of the authority of
sound that do not ask questions about the sunny afternoon
sundry with a control of obedience bound around the
back end of a dawdling identity found in the language of
the obedire understood by the speaker of the conversation
of distance understood by the understudied who
constantly reproof the rate the price to be paid for the
sanity found in the world of words where common
wisdom is wrung from the brain of the poets with their
secret longing that all is well by man in the point of space
from which the voices of poetry emanates heard by the
muffed ear drowned by the screaming of the helpless
hearer that pay obedient to the profound problem of a
neurological command that tells us to do the wrong of a
separated action even the criminal must obey the rules of
love for someone whom they heap their love upon even
the criminal can be a hero to the masses of meaningful
speech as extreme hazardous knotting against the
psychological boundary of normal language with its
aphasic arrest of mental function as arrogant guardian
guile and gummy gulping the guillotine of a guerrilla
theater played out in the streets that runs riot with crime a
twisted kind of divine forced upon the helpless and the
worried weary weak wanting no more then the pacificator 77  
placated package of the peace of old age the old ones are
not safe in this society where actual youth is placed upon
a pedantic pedestal where youth is for sale by the pound
round the age of a young hour bearing witness to the
extreme flower frail only in its beauty deceptive of its
strength under the old silent of the sun the juice of it is
forever young it runs astonishingly in the roots that grip
the mute ground taking their stand beside the overflowing
dumpster of man’s throw away waste waste that nature
does not make flower and weed please the poet who can
see that all growth upon the earth is a divine thing the
thickness of their beauty is strong against man made
things things to keep us young things to rely upon things
for sale just to the young things from whenst things come
things as old as language is young with their puns strung
among their mother tongue the man who invented the
wheel made the first thing and it has been uphill since
then the baby born thingless will not remain so for long
the toy that hangs over its cradle sings a baby song even
this is a thing made long located in the arbitrary space of
the head when read poems are an abode of thought a
volition of internal sensation an exosomatic experiences
many things can be done without us being conscious of
the possible paradoxical discussion like dancing around
in the rain you pretend that the rain is your friend that it
washes away your sins even though your skin will not let
it in the rain moving synchronically into the
diachronically motion of space it dost not wait for you to
began the dance of your life but the rhythm of its fall
calls you to let loose in a riot of heat releasing movement
meant to free you for the moment of its music reading
poetry is a dance of the mind within you find the stress
meter of time the down beat of a rime poetry is divine
knowledge rhythmically woven to endow the spirit it
takes you away from the common speak of the day it mix
and mingle the mental the emotional the poet can not but 78  
tell all the secrets of your personal God that it may free
you from the frontal lobe their souls are old and a bit odd
to the ruling class that will have the masses thoughtlessly
mining the muck of their daily minds steep in trying to
get by with no art to enlighten their lives but the poet
have always been rebels they have always come into the
darkness of your daily lives to offer the light to guild you
by they are at odd with the rules set by the controllers
they go the less travel road and bring you good tiding
from the wise who rub their wisdom into their skin and
with it we win we who have forgotten how to pretend that
the modern Gods still speak through him he is the divine
seer of possession in tune with the primitive art of poetry
he have labor long in silent to recollect the recollection
of the muses his mistresses who he beg for guidance
when the poetic ecstasy has forgotten to frenzied him up
with fury in a wild trance that makes the words dance for
Nymphs and mythical shepherds and sanitation workers
cleaning up the mess of a wasteful creature that leave
behind a trail of plastic all the trees will go to paper all
the oil to cars the air to smog we have gotten ourselves
tied up in the waste of our hands science is both foe and
friend saint and feign poetry is of the heart science of the
head both is a useful part imparting their wisdom art to
have us live the rightful life that we were given for the
short spell of time upon the earth they teach us to do as a
giving nature will have us to too be willing to praise and
preach define and rime to help and heal all as divine so
be you not weak of mind and leave your heart not behind
when you seek their guidance as regard the absent of the
Gods the absent that rob us of the wondrous nature
working the world without regrets the Gods are not dead
regardless of what the phosphor said but some only live
behind the church yard doors they are dusted off for
Sunday morning worship some only in books unread it is
the poets that give them all free reign while some priests 79  
of Gods forestall that there is but one when each one man
his own to help him bear the trials and tribulations of the
flesh I am a man of many Gods and none is held in more
esteem then the rest the poet can not afford such a dress
to cloth himself in the garb as to favor one God is to deny
the density of the social local mind grown up in the time
regional define by precept of what is around them it is not
true that one man’s God is another man’s demon but it is
true that the Gods do as nature dictates and if the need
arise man will be left by the wayside in favor for a
heathery haven but the Gods do not give up as easily
against our felled belief they will not beg for your
worship but weep that you have forgotten them we are as
Judea to the Christ when we betray with a kiss what we
are meant to do for God decree that someone had to as the
Christ had to die to rise again Judea is my confidant
among dead men he is the chosen one for such a tack the
best man around for the job he bare the scars in the
service of the Lord the rope burn around his neck is a
brand he can not hide it seem such a cruel joke that one
must betray what he love most who among us have such
a conviction as to turn in for a bounty the head of his
savior it is only with the confidant of the Gods that we
can bare the cross of our own death

Sun of the sing-a-long sinfonietta sounding its ossifrage

weeping heard by floundering stigma and ovary of the
awaited birth of seed to feed the newly weaned try my
grief on for size its roots are deep in the warmth of all the
useless fields where the secrets of fingers die on the alter
where poems are burning away their meaning in the holy
invasion of the wisdom of the wilderness that is closer to
the unearthed silent of the Gods caught by the evidence 80  
of the great beyond where the Gods take their rest before
the theories of man’s little minds that think what it want
to think in its drug induced passion of possession like our
love for the feelings of cognitive imperative rationalism
walking like Christ toward the cross waiting for a trusting
shoulder to rest upon gather all the seasons of your needs
together and stack them in a row of embracing suggesting
longings approaching the extremely ordinary life of the
junk of the every day magical charm of sacred water with
its responses method of dealing with the recently dead
gone the way of skepticism where the exaggerated eyes
of idols reflects brilliant desires of the zigzagging
unembodied dead common approach of the sanctuaries
that dream without a care that you are offered the love of
sex on a leaf to eat with the sweat of a dream slowly
flowing down the bridge of your nose to preserve the
rituals of calling on the Gods to raise the triumphant
grace of their amnesty found in the place conjured by the
wishfulness of saying good-by to the door that leads the
long way around toward the ordinary last holy haunted
firmament of the pride of the sea forever folding itself on
to itself in its unparalleled strength of water where now is
the fisher of men and what is the bait on his hook heaven
and hell is the same place of the earth we have made them
our home and they will not forget us when we are gone
the way of the dead we impetrate the world of the dead
in our bed where we are locked in our heads with all of
our words meaningless by what is said when I dream I am
in the heaven of my own making my mind becomes a
God but it is a feeing thing that quickly fade when I wake
it steal away from me as if I was not meant to see but
having seem I am changed as dreams rewire the brain
with self knowledge and there is much to know of the self
that we keep from ourselves in our waken hours where
the homiletic speech of poetry woo us with words that
seek to conquer the heart to short circuit our guard we put 81  
before the world and ourselves in that the private moment
in which poetry is created in the possession that take
charge of the soul something is transpose into the poem
only to be release in the reading of it it wait you to bring
yourself to each work of art and the union is made in the
brain and heart so sell not the poet short he is doing his
artful part mostly without reward other then your joy that
gives him a jolt to know that he have reached the inner
soul and to leave you with a new consciousness thereby
fulfilling his creed to inform and please poets are the last
prophets of possession they have train themselves but run
the risk of falling into madness when the Gods take
control of their soul’s will to know the secrets of the
Gods if prophecy be a madness the mad men they be in
the function of creating poetry from the common energy

Sun shining over the universal motion of a tear over the

aquatic feudal superiority of living within your means
where you keep the pain of putting the cigarette out in my
eye when my head is burning its time told truth fit for the
telling the boiling grace of a hardened fist haunting the
obedient broken artillery fit for setting the world afire
when we find ourselves missing the primitive violence of
the by-gone days that cut the head off of a forgotten holy
word hiding in the hindquarter of a whole second passing
into the obese hour that will never come again to the
divine presence of intermediaries of the far off Gods of
bastard thoughts born out of the union of the personal
demon of the analog I and the flashy muscles of the brain
the divine demons that roam about our heads use our
muscles to do their biding and leave us to take the blame
it is all the same as the angels do the two fight within us
we are the battle ground in which wars for our souls are
made we fight our self to do right by the civilized codes
handed down through the dead ages we need to be taught
how to be civilized human from the cradle to the grave 82  
when the Gods of host are preparing to depart from ours
lives some of us shall go gently into the darkness of
honor in full common command of the simple death that
wait us all some of us will go mad trying to defend
ourselves against the complacency of the daily drudgery
of being common under the heavy hand of the rulers of a
comical commercial society that seeks to keep us in our
place seek to woo us with selling words meant to separate
us from our hard earned cash the new God in the world
the supporter of greed have muster their armies for a fight
to win our hearts chief among their kind is the advertisers
who will sell their mother for a profit but what use is it to
place blame less it can afford a change less it can effect
the working of the mind for we alone among the
breathing set have made money to use as a go between
between us our free will is held in check hinged in
between the spiritualism and the commercialism of the
modern world some Gods have been brought and sold in
the market place of the mass church every Sunday
morning on my TV I hear the evangelists preachers
preach for a fee as if your soul can not be saved without a
donation to the cause the old are much affected by this
plea for they are closer in age to the heaven that will
come when they shed their flesh for a white robe to put
on Lord when I am dead Lord when I am gone somebody
is going to weep someone is going to moan but just give
me that white robe to put on my granddad confined to his
bed use to sing all day long till his breath smelled of the
song then one quite night his heaven came he left behind
his tools and his wallet my great grand aunt Beautie who
lived to be a hundred three recently went the way of her
God to meet in her life time she saw the change of many
things but she never lost her faith even as she questioned
why she should live so long as to see her contemporaries
die along the wayside and now she is gone into the
emptiness of silent she is gone to her high home of 83  
heaven she have join the ranks of the ancestry and now I
have someone new in which to pray to rest in everlasting
peace your God to meet look you after me that I be true to
poetry help me to stand on my feet of rime and its
measure of time I am a free will sort of the thought-breath
of the long line of the Yahweh and the muses and all
huaca I speak in the name of the most high powerful
Gods of old I am in the fold of the faithful gathered
around the common dead my pen is an idol that speak of
the fertility of the embodiment of poetry of the paraphiers
of dancingness I am the poet of what we are and yet to be
I am all poet and part priest the philosopher of the written
words I take my invention and what is heard in the street
of the holy word I listen and learn lend for free my poems
I am not alone in the mythical magic of my song we poets
are profound for you when you hope to find the working
of the poetic mind at our disposal is the techniques of all
the ages we will not be lead by the human demons into
the demonic understanding of doom glory we hope only
to help you to find some meaningful identity of your self
in the world along your lonely voyage in the skin to teach
you that all men are kin and the love of neighbors is the
love of the self in kind some time we set aside our rimes a
most useful tool to catch you by the breath we woo to win
you from your sins we who do the battles of the hero our
struggles for your psychic maturity in an ordered world
that have grown rigid and out of touch with the
individuals hear you own song playing as you walk alone
lock to the rhythm of your steps down the streets of can
music crafted for the masses to move you by the poets
take time to find out just what it means to be alive in this
motion of time the ecstasy of the thing the link between
God and man we are seized by the possession and our
unconscious thrust to quench you to drench you to take
on your solitude and suffering that you may find wisdom
there we have returned from the darken wilderness to tell 84  
you of our adventures and voyages to tell you of the
transcendences that awake you beyond the common
anxiety of the every day tell you of the unifying
experience of poetry we seek to solidifies the common
bound between men and Gods by faith of purpose in our
rimes in you we seeks to find the inner nature of
ourselves to know the brutal element that would wound
our flesh for all his strength man is a fragile creature of
flesh and bones he fall to insanity to go it alone be he
Gilgamesh Cuchulain or Achilles or any man of high or
low degree from myth or flesh be he hero back from the
war or babe in arm be he weak or strong taking company
or alone in his journey be him right or do him wrong each
man of his life can be made a song on the poet’s tongue
O how we lone to be one grapping at the key that inform
peace of piety and place our poems wait your coming
Sun clinkety-clanking rhythmically to the solar winds
held in the breath of the pixie pixilating its warm laughter
to the violently breaking of silence that hummed like a
steady rain radiating out to fill the universe of man’s
earthbound longing to be apart of an universal
community seated in the far off space with its promises
supporting the sustainable noise of life in the somewhere
islands of the deep destine destiny of never giving up the
ghost for a confessing of heaven caught under the skin of
a chill when fear take you over promise to take me over
by the mystery of your love given over freely to the man
when the night is driving me mad waiting on my dreams
to fill me up all breathless and sniffing out the silver back
ancestry of the missing link that find itself along again
but fit to be seen in the buried bones of yesterday where
birds fight for territory and I cry out the name of a narrow
God of the legends of making a sad song sung and
surveying by the light of a steep passage as old in age as 85  
what it is that man want out of life when there is nothing
to say and we must go our separate way the power flows
from Don Quixote from Don Juan not from Donald
Trump but a bump in history if so much as that a hair
hole from which grows greed that only a few knows not
all of us seeks to be rich beyond our wildest dreams not
all of us wish to own many things such as the loyalty of
men to do our bidding I am one content to sit along the
road side and watch the flow of demons and saints heroes
tricksters and shamans going about their duty as if placed
in the peg holes of the society’s making of which we
poets are born to rebel against the august that grind the
gifted down to a nudge blunted knob that can not open
the door that lead to the self be you better then the society
that you make each man is a founding father of the life he
was given each man a friend of nature each man carry
within himself the demons and saints that shape him each
man wait for the heroic to take possession of him to test
the metal of his making some are anonymous hero of
their circle contemporary philosophers of the mundane
some are insane an antagonist of the ruling society that
has lost its classical virtues and ethical nobility a society
that does not recognize the rugged ruins all about it the
falling bricks at the feet of the poor the overgrown cities
enriched in crime and the conventional behavior of a
civilization in decline these are the concern of my rime
they are the concern of the poet he must concern himself
engage himself rather then escape himself from his
social’s reality this must be his pride producing
prerogative penned to pair both God and man to do no
harm by his wonderful words wrought from within the
working works of his mind and time each poet represent
his subculture private culture his race riding round the
streets steep within the memories of his parent each poet
represent his religion rites perform as a prayer in the night
each poet represent his sex informed by the senses wet as 86  
sweat and the musk in the act of mating with lust lasting
long each poet represent the art of being human a hired
humble hand helping all men each poet represent himself
the one in the loud and crowed land listening when he can
to what is being said and how the said was made to lay in
the ear his perceptive actions is to give of himself with a
heroic intensity to rebel against the status quo of being
ordinary in a world of hostility and hatred that men can
make against the new knowledge of himself

Sun the sepulcher triste and foison reaching sadly and

forever reaching its strong tail wind to the brow of a
farmer plowing the field of an Egret’s heart ache where
the Wood Duck are nursing in their nesting in Kennedy
Forest of the thick undergrowth of the many birds
birthing birds in the heart of spring while Mr. Jack Dirt
and Paul Paris and David St. Louis engage in a manage
trios the father the son and the holy ghost the spirit the
body and the soul pushing a wedding vow is three the
holiest of all number or is it seven or the four winds four
corners of the world where the flowers seem friendly
enough as friendly as the skin of a midnight chill with its
noise of chill bumps on the skin of the sky popping out
like stars in the crushed sky of a higher dream where love
dislike roses feeling like a knife cut sharp and cleaner
then the dull blade of a used razor ragging the forgotten
air in the lungs of a loving that rupture the strange forever
sex that can not keep our heart together the sweat of the
body engaged in making your love a life time of
togetherness its no easy thing even when tied by a ring
love must be made anew day by day beyond the I love
yous and you need not be cruel to be kind under the
blessing of the sun shining like a scrambled egg sat you
in the island of a shadow the listening post of new birth
the mother’s son of a precise black bird that knows it
need not sleep in the dirt that birth its wears as easily as 87  
the breath in breathing according to the rhythms of the
sun where a man goes home to empty bottles and that one
locked door that he weep before the door is dreaming of
the profit of the sun the man wish to run and run till he
have escaped the remembrance of the last kiss given in
the hour before morning run away this isn’t the time for
that ball and chain time for the emerging murmur that
threaten itself when I want to talk to you this is not the
time to follow the significant image of demons under the
dome of the head not the time to say that the heroes are
forever dead not the time for the manifestations of
nature’s fecundities to be cursed when we can not agree
who will get the biggest share it is not the time to dress
Pandora’s box with a pretty bow and offer it as a gift to
the world as if it was a pill to heal all ills it is not the time
to put out Prometheus’ fire with the tears of the sorrowful
it is not the time for the destructive force of money meant
to save your soul from the fundamental ambiguous
achievement of hunger in a fat world brimming over with
food it is not the time to reject the agency of the sacred
being hiding on the dark side of the moon it is not the
time for the roguish trickster mysteriously divine by the
madman’s attempt to suffer his rivals with the telling
truth of his heart about the suppressive society’s
subversive instincts masquerading as the politic of art it is
not the time to free the deadly ego that undergoes a
godforsaken goosestep of a golden goo-goo eyed
governess taking care of the children of tomorrow it is
not the time for the poet to be used by the force of his
creativity but to use it in the service of the flesh it is not
the time for the poet to be alienated from his society for
him to feel as a outcast as Raskolnikov as Meursault and
the invisible man hidden in the basement of light the
lonely voyagers that find their society stalled shallow in
its slanted bent with its tyrannical authority never spent
but renews with each dollar that makes the men worthy of 88  
their praise as if money can save the soul in achieving the
rigid holy goal of the task of the hero it is not the time for
the shaman to resist the suffering that he must endure
with its mixture of love and fear that open the human
mind to the possibility of intellectual wisdom that seizure
the mental struggle at its source the hero often is slain by
the followers that he did save from the impossible
fulfillment of the most significant supreme normality that
rule their lives the humanized demons and the demonic
human become one and the same in the game that we
play in the mental physical and spiritual suffering of the
visions that transforms the inner nature and enable the
reformer to carry within himself the seeds of a symbolic
rebellion nature the brutal element of the battle waged
for the soul of man is calculated to repel the shocking
primary hostility pushed against the Gods that we would
have to cleanse the city of the beauty of crime committed
in the solitude and lonely crafty suffering of an inspire
envy toward the devotion imposed by the sort of man that
use puritan ethic to keep us in our places with our
rationalistic and religious didacticism with our nostalgic
for the chivalry composed of the qualities of gentility we
astounded the Gods into wishing us to witness the
wickedness that defeats the soul of an old strength
displaying little individuality that knows the way to go
toward the fulfillment of a chivalric questing

Sun wishing chlorophyll to glow to the rhythmic green

that knows the living face of a secret God of men of little
worth who’s sins are countless as the sands of the sea the
obese fat of the priest graciously can not heed the
wisdom of the obelisk in the season of sand where the
irritated dryness is held in the hands and the prostitutes of
iron collars leading you around the silence holy darkness
of the pyramid of Giza robbed of its treasure disfigure by
the winds of time in the forgotten doubt of the tongue and 89  
the public face of the great body of knowledge tattooed
with unpublished poems of blemishes disfigured by the
willing hands that dominate the unparalleled concealed
wisdom of old buried in the hanging gardens of Babylon
where the obsolete tomorrow interrupt the present of
today while the past sleeps in the idols that speak of
ancient kingdoms and delicate fugitive priests of a
recumbent bull of the God side ancient mentality written
in mysterious meters on the skin of a long tradition of
association between the enduring supernatural knowledge
of the prophets and the linguistic alliteration of poor poets
half asleep half dreaming in the making of their wears
once the poets were holy once they was full of singing
songs of poems now the pitch glissandos notes of the
scale of the speech of the streets where the eroded mid-
melody of the instrumental hemispheres of music in their
idle happenstance waiting the watchful answers of storms
in the cupped praying hands of sister Grace when the
brother of night descend down to the knotted light of the
street lamp’s glow all of nature is for show all the breath
of trees I see under the bathing sun the only one with its
roar of light tumultuous in its multiple warmth of
upheaval crumbling tenderly extending over the bursting
region of the world’s stain glass of trees the sun witness
the doing of man with his heroism of myth and legend
deepen by his significant humanism it is not anti-heroic
non-existent predicated upon the notions of the human
animal below the stars who have named the sun sun and
the moon moon sol or sumptuousness of sura and the full
wolf and worm moon looks down upon the civil chaos
that is the instrument of the Gods sent to punish the
conventional expression of a parochial weakness glorious
in death what becomes of us when we die when we give
up the ghost when the reputation of our common sense is
all that is left of us when the decision of our choose is no
longer torn between love and duty know we well what 90  
becomes of the flesh it returns to the earth but where does
the spirit and the soul goes when they no longer have the
home of our bones what becomes of our materialistic
longing such questions are tied up in the ideal of
ourselves death is a sort of escape it is the end of all end
with no heaven to win save for those who keep their
belief tight against the tragedy of their lives lived among
the drastic changes in man’s psychological ideal of
himself although still he think himself in possession of
the soul of a lesser God upon the earth commerce has
become the theology of man the all mighty dollar the new
cross in the climate of opinions springing from Americus
where things bought are the particular necessities of a
well lead life man’s innate capacity with his sensitive
organism still tied to the earth by the umbilical cord of
his flesh suffering from a fatal delusion our ego is misled
by the dark ambiguity of our individual need to go it
along even though our half-known self contently cries out
to be made whole by a God that knows now is the time to
be bold as concern the significance of salvation with its
dramatic limitations of unexpected knowledge now is the
time to gather all you rimes in the service of the Gods
now is the time to heap the miseries of man onto the cart
of life now is the time to know that we all are chained by
the fringe of attention that sustain us now is the time to
expel the cold and tragic knowledge that represent the
elites now is the time to emancipate our general
tendencies toward the historical concept that we are of a
higher order among creatures of the earth now it the time
that the major test of truth is to found in the life that
abound around us now is the time for the appearance of
the new hero long-winded on romanticism and coarse jest
echoing the incantation that will paradoxically direct the
arch trickster toward the new man of power now is the
time to embody reverence for the relationship of man to
his God now is truly the time for the misstates of 91  
capitalism to be relieve of its duty in favor of a new
humanity that waits to view us all as brothers

Sun over the ill teaching of man which has come to take
for granted the steadfast recurring light prompting growth
to live its full in fat and lean lands alike a like in lost in
long ago the sun did gather itself unto itself before the
pubescent Gods took to trying out the newly imagine skin
found in the forest of Eden where the tree of knowledge
stood its proceeding proud ground as a temperamental
temptation offered to man falling from grace from the
blue height when he have done all he can and must find
himself home now in a new land where the rain came
down and washed away his sins or so he believed does
believing makes it so when believing drizzle its
breathless legends deep into the arms of being one that
uselessly tells the rain not to drop its supporting nature to
all that waits its coming to have their hearth fulfilled and
birth the next generation now that the day is hog tied by
the freedom of being human killing man killing man who
can understand when Gods are found in colors gathering
to play with children who in their innocence doesn’t
know that soon it all will be over and older but for now
let them ride their colorful emotions that press their
playful notion up against their hearts do you well by the
children they know only the limited world of the self-
centered private self

Sun straying out of thoughts and time where the mind is

bound to think its way to the holy vengefulness of angels
singing to a mountain’s posterity the sins of angels is writ
on the water of a tear that runs its undone distress less of
a success before the more blind sight unaware there as art
of a rock-a-heart lie that does its part for the pale hail
thrown about the flow of water that glow full of the
holiness stress of a blessed that forbid the hid sins of a 92  
child to come closer than an arm’s length of pity the poets
love you like never before with words they make love to
you you can tell by the look on their faces the words they
have borrowed from your sorrows to make amend for the
roots that yearns to be expressed in the body of a poem
sniffing out and surveying the way that thing are going
they are digging through the wreckage of our lives they
are the sin eaters of men the street priest winnowing away
the sourness of the human heart eat of their poems and
you will be fulfilled by the common wisdom that you
knew not that you had they will keep an eye on you they
will follow you and untie your tongue when the time has
come as they go mining what it mean to be human when
the night make moves on the new day the poets are not
afraid of the temptation of the Gods or the temperamental
nature of the deacons of demons the poets are alike of
minds as no other in the fluidity of society of the feudal
world with its sanctified glory the poets scorn the lack of
curiosity sit upon by the satiric judgment of the ruling
class the poets are omnivorous of the knowledge that they
eat they are intellectuals of imagination and often time
seen as eccentric some are egocentric about their need to
produce poems that teaches us to be geocentric in our
ways they play off the mercantile society that reject them
and the work of their hands they labor long on their songs
to move you to the understanding of the potential
inherencies of our heritage poets are autonomous in their
skin but their minds unto each other is kin by way of their
art most are to be found on the margin of their societies
where they have been expelled for all to often they are
rebels of the cause of independent man fighting the
windmills of conformity that stands strong in the face of
all their wrongs yet the poets pushes on creating their
own values in their poetic action by putting their truth on
the page or in the ear for all to hear they stands by their
wit alone they makes their tragic stance as if there is 93  
nothing to lose O contraire but to move you to action the
cloak they ware is inclusive the new poetry that they
make is yours to tongue take in you let it wake the new
birth that thoughts unfold by the rhythm that they hold
work its magic on your soul that in its measure want to
move you to a virtuous and honorable action of a
moralistic quality they are your mouthpiece let your
breath smell of their words stressed and unstressed
toward an ethical end to defeat the old aristocracy to
defeat the feudal social structure with its brain washing
indoctrination that seeks to control all toward keeping us
in the places that they makes to keep us down with a
Protestant’s capitalistic morality bent on the notion that
Gods can be used to control the masses under the hand of
a greedy economy and a desire for material success that
eats up the landscape while the poets offer you salvation
and peace and security in being yourself an individual the
poets will bare your splendid animalistic burden as if it be
his own for his poems make you heart a home they are
idealistic against the materialistic motion knocking
around in the head of the lost public beat down by an
industrialism that reject the idealistic individuality that
we were born to it is not so much that the social
institutions of our country got it wrong as it is that it
embody a made up realistic notion that will not tolerate a
divisional diversion from the norm it view the individual
as a wreckers of the social order one that must be
controlled by the key holder that guard the door to wealth
and prosperity each of us are unique as eccentric beings
searching for happiness without a fundamental
compromise of the morals of our fore fathers that had not
the strength to fight against the agents of a barbarous
privilege of the parasitic notion of the rich all of us seeks
contentment with our need to well groom nature to hinge
her in by our control human are bold only till they grow
old and settle down in their skin it is as if the fight has 94  
been groomed out of them all of us seek reprisal for what
in our youth we did do wrong when we were strong and
fit to work our muscles to the bone some of us served our
country and got alone as we played the military drone
some of us secretly thrilled in the criminal act each time I
smoke a joint I am doing just that one man’s marijuana
drug is equal to another man’s emotions of hug I wrap
my brain in the smoke each time I tote and there is a
lifting of an unseen yoke I smoke a joint as I walk to vote
and with that vote the measure of my hopes to win I am a
poet in the mist of the boredom of the masses the
separation of the classes by the elitist asses that passes
themselves off as the as the God given caretakers of the
races

Sun riling at the riksmal the bokmal deprecation where

leaves of ancient trees are overthrown by the lost
knowledge of an ichthyosaur gone down the instinct path
where non-memorable flesh has been wormed away by
the constant wearing of the water’s broken maneuvering
toward its level where you can not be a nobody in the
eyes of the poets the secrets that you keep is a known
thing in the art of being human no man is an isolated
island set apart from his fellow man I confess that we are
united by the breath by the blood by the soul by the Gods
of our making that have taken on a life of their own dead
Gods go the way of a criminal geological maneuver of
the impossible conspiracies of the mediated reality with
its paraplegic paralogic simulating communications of a
rain of alphabets horny as a strange language spoken to
the queen of Sheba posing the ebony night both beautiful
and strange the night have seen history in the making
held in the arms of Olympus it have seen the ivory of the
tattoo of a writing in symbols to ancient to be understood
by the corpses of nocturnal incense in the church of the
holy anger that scream the harsh blue bullet of the 95  
mutilated dark skin of a soon to be bleached emotions
besieged by the white notion of the boney thinness of
American beauty truly it is the face of a cultural sterility
and even poets fall pray to this fallacy for they are taught
by the same society and in order to see the true beauty of
the human race we must make a break of what we are told
to hold up onto the petal and go for broke hog whole for
beauty is solely own by no one along beauty is sometime
put into the service of a materialistic power beauty can be
manufactured by the hour it is daily born into the world it
is found before the spent glory of a flower one may speak
of the beauty of winning a war of a waterfall that roar
more the child that your mother bore the dress that your
sister wore even a beautiful whore beauty has no station
in life it cut across all lines the beauty of the trinity divine
the simple beauty of a hand made cross the unsettle
beauty of a doubt black beauty baby white beauty maybe
brown beauty save me
Sun’s gracious strength its acknowledgment its wine of
the vengeful ransom from the tabernacle where
triumphant vespers break upon an unhappy hour where
every gentle men weep the prayers of psalmist whose
mouth are filled with the last holy mercy of their jumbled
master caught in the burned brown destiny that acts as a
threshold to the spasms of the Gods of the holy
incantation besieged by war grieving for the lost child the
fierce custom of the inconsolable sacred language
signifying the drunkenness of bad manners distilled from
the boiled down blood squeezed from the seasons stalled
and striped down by the autumns of our disbelief when
the escaped slave to a slave can count on his fingers the
lashes given in the dead of night that died beside the
insistence African blood living from century to century in
the body of an American new born black and blue dozing
the harsh life before it the blue eyed master that denied 96  
the true blackness of raw breath spent by the Niger
custom of the ancestors of vudu who do we seek when
the undulating courageous voices of demons tell us that
their persuasion tightly wrapped around the dialectical
nature of poems is the only way to go when our personal
angels linger precisely around the legitimate barbarous
revolution of the Gods robed in royal purple before the
entrails of destruction that follow us to the bath house of
a premature sexual destiny of the laughter of justice in a
society the wage its power in paying lip service to moral
ideals that are hacked apart by the materialistic notion
that the individual is an outlaw that must be crushed less
he erupt and contaminate the bloodline of having money
pull yourself up by your booth straps they say to us be of
worth you lazy bum you diseur of the desires the poverty
that you get we shall set the pauper price that you shall
earn pull yourself up you spineless worm tend to your
machines you poet you prophet you criminal messiah
you solitary wanderer of the psychopathic streets where
crime is birth in the dark corners full of piss and heat
stick to your machines till your time is done tend to it as
if it was your only son no need to race when the race is
already won scorn us despise us envy us you romantic
rebel we are the investigators of the post modern heaven
let us entice you young protagonist of the fatal point of
view you shall do as your master tell you to there is a
growing opportunity waiting for you if only you do as we
rule you to toll the line and put your backs into it till your
hands are crust over with grim somebody has to do it so
why not you so have you been schooled to follow the
golden rule thou shall have no other master then that of
the machine tend to it till you hear its motion grinning in
your dreams hear the sweet song that it sings we are the
governors of thought without a doubt this is your God
given vocation you can not rise above your station birth
for us an army of workers fight among yourselves for the 97  
crumbs we have given you stereotypes to be guided by
we have given you the rest of Saturday night go you out
and blow off some steam we have given you church of
Sunday morning to placate you go and worship at the
waiting altar whisper to the priest your confessions let
them school you rule you fool you into being a prefect
citizen be ware we have our proven private prisons for
the rebellious individual shall be punished some laws are
made to be broken broken laws brings about change

Sun that has seen Bethlehem give birth to an alleluia

lesson passingly released by the divine deliverer whose
stronghold is in the tiny heart of a ladybug in the exodus
of the butterfly by the feeding violence of maggots in the
sweetness of the mulberry pollen in the valor of Zadok
without a double heart who came to set the fettered
captives free under the eyes of the prime the terce the sext
the matins of the first vespers spoken in the ears of an
inquisition and conquistador in search for the golden God
of gold churches can be cruel in their strong stranglehold
on religions they can choke the life out of their Gods
without knowing it worshipping the dead cross as the
body of Christ worshipping the bricks and stone of the
churches religions have grown overgrown only the poets
are willing to prune them back to the worshiping of the
wilderness religionist lay wait at the bedroom door with
Bible in hand and preach the gossip of condemnation
where they perform a heinous crime of the single
mindedness where forth is it not the poor with his want of
clothing want of food to concern themselves with they lift
up their hands against the fatherless they have made
money their confidence they have suffered their mouths
to sin by wishing a curse to their fellow men for not
believing their only way into the heaven of the Father 98  
where their derisory memory shall be put to shame so
play your mega church TV games you shall be brought to
count by the very Gods in whose name you carry out you
wicket ways no believer can escape the vengeance of
their God for twisting the faith into its modern state judge
not that ye be judged each of us is accountable for our
own soul let no man set asunder what the great Gods have
given in the soul be you not your brother’s keeper for the
soul is a personal thing that no man should seeks to
control that of another’s get your own house in order it is
not a sin to disbelieve go your way and I and my God
shall go mine such Gods as Gods is the God of my heart
it cries out to be a song what face of poet should descry
the face of any man’s God weak am I in thought and
hung on a high nail in the new world where fallen arch
anglers dazzles the notion of a whisper of a sin poetry
has let me in to muse about the Gods that cut me one is
the God of breath augmented with a cigarette the God of
the body placated with Colt 45 in the piss stream yellow
water swell in the bowl is this a privet thing the thing the
we all keep to ourselves the known secret for being alone
how came a body functions to be full of so much shame
we know that at some times we must be alone by the poet
even the alone times will be exposed such is the way of
the heroes he who live for pleasure alone will find the
hell of hypocrisy he who live for breath will find that they
becomes exaggeratedly egotistical he who live for society
will find illustrated commitments see the dupable double
ms the com the men see the mit the ill the rated us and the
rat that striated across the tongue of the words Gods are a
glory the great sometimes moan full mother minding her
business being about her way seemingly unconcerned that
I have come I love her still how can we otherwise with
our wills be more then the whole which birthed us that
made us willing to kill to feel to ridge a rockabilly rolling
it deep and slow to thrill in sex and sin to know a God to 99  
win how can we step outside of her in body or in thought
we paid in breath what we have brought there is a give
and take a tonguing a talk a telling of things we wish not
to hear you poet speak to me of beautiful things sing in
words meant to woo stall your wild do that ho-do-tha-
you-do there’s something of the divine in voodoo God of
no favor’s father my emotions flood me to think of you
God of my paralyzed fears flood me with fear God of my
romance my self-refection fills me with fear I have lost
my psychological edge of eating fragmented words I have
lost the tenderness of my toes I know that I owe its been
long time now since I wore a bow its been since
childhood going to church all dressed to shame a God and
the heavenly host

Sun of God’s hair burning of God’s eyes burning of

God’s hands everlastingly fills with the merciful shelter
of the tent-dwellers sun God of the far away sky the
breath of God burning and blowing away blowing away
the milkweed seed of my birth in a Hebrew uproar when
the talk killed by philistines where the suicidal rock
stagger over the fires of an enlarged injustice where the
landscape played background to a blind man’s cane
tapping out a massages of thank you in Morse code while
the enormously enlarged discussion of the supreme nature
of snakes take a back seat to the rainy season where the
sleepless patient was saying their preys against the
intermingled strike of a homeless shelter and the half-
laughter of a trembling flower has masterminded the take
over of an anger of the imprisoned wind with its secret
dreams squinting the serene smiles that hardly speak to
the cutlass jungle of run-aways lost in the cities of eyes
the still born have all gone to sleep in the baby heaven
that come to meet them the spokes of the sun have sprung
us to consume those who will smile in your face when
Mary had the baby that spoke in tongues with an African 100  
face lost in the center of a sugar cane fields of Mississippi
where all the name sake have been killed off

Sun that has witness multiplying man mating under its

wiry waggling wonders freely given in a year of an
incline ear and sincere grief for the Godhead concerning
thee concerning the man that you have come to be under
the scattered light concerning the incense of anger and the
sacred language of the knowable God of the eternal
burning sun that freely share its light and warmth to all
that may come in the middle of the contented earth where
the water rule I found a submerged forest for resting it
spoke of the sacred coolness that it holds in the watery
hands that dared the calm waters of clarities to wash over
the shipwreck spilling oil on the fire banks of blankness
sumptuous oil fit for burning but not for flying on the
wings of sea birds when the moon is tight in the
conspiring controversial of the polluting of the cathedral
sky where the northern face of clouds like flying alters
with their tiny catastrophe of vengeance goes about
committing the sweetness of crimes in their idleness of
the moment of a lost wind’s reserved compassion for the
legs of dwarfs when the storm comes on serenely in it
silence of a meticulous bundles of nerves tided to the
winds in the column of long-grasses where the frogs are
missing the water of a bloody apterous grounded to the
flightless requiems of a shredding melody caught in the
breathings of beaches ever changing their percussions of
a cracked joy found in the long wailing of a saxophone’s
notes did you do did you do it the music plays a this this
this a rat tat tu the blues of word play their so low I’m in
the saline shadows Max Roach’s Filide flows pass the
very invents inner notions knocking the gone sonnets of
the long good-bys I cry I cry I cry rib boning to the bones
I-cry I-cry the why of the when to win where am I gonna
run to sings Nina Simone she just got done through 101  
running to the Lord the guitar speaks the clappers clap
out the rhythms the piano send its slow pleasing pleading
that life itself is God but baby didn’t go for that I’ll tell
you for the real that all my tenderness are untied but they
are tired for I have seen the demons that live in man once
I plotted to kill over money and a Nikon a death by
burning my confessions clear he live and goes about his
life like never knowing now I keep my demons under
lock and key yet they are acknowledged I have learned
the steer clear of their mass where once they gnarled and
sniggered they sometime slip into poems advancing
toward the notion of God shredded my almost
indifference boiled and nocturnal in its conspiring
sounds said in words my ego sometimes miscarry I let it
say what it must say and beg my muse to help me say
what I’m meant to say the woven words the way dear
muse the whisper of the moment falls back on itself and
with a jest of jive and a bit of the jubilee joking the
jollying jiggers girlishly gushing these jewels of the now
these mothers of the skin inside we grew to come from
her womb along O woman wise and wild and wanting I
sing of thee for all your life long labors O when will life
do you no harm O woman men have taken control of war
their wages spent on sixty percent they fight for
fundamental things its our way within there is to be found
the romantic affection of gratitude within the significant
of the private individuals play the world as an
inspirational instrument you can not choose anything that
you which so choose wisely the significant sensitive
artist with his fictional hedonistic knowledge and credo
his heroic allusion the poet as sensitive sincere and
woven with a kaleidoscopic of self integrity but still he
war inside his self he is seeking your security your trust
in the dilemmas obsessing the society his literately deals
done with the devil and the Son of man integrating self
and society body and soul of the whole of the meaningful 102  
alienation that reveals the fall of the tragic hero as
criminal as psychopath digging at the well willing to win
the souls of men when a rebel with his outmoded creed
obsolete by the enterprising capitalistic prayer penned by
a poor poet and pinned to the church yard door he who is
taunting his self respect in the fulfilled moment then the
hero shall come home and reclaim the house of their
forward fathers whose frustration of the false heroic sense
denying a home in the heart for the visualized rebellion
that is the fatal foolish worship that he crave the mother
who have slain and eaten her son is coming from the
battle of cultural control the Prometheus is martyred by
his gift of fire the liars are politicians of truth and nobody
knows that the next revolution in a land of woes will be
led by the body bold the generals of beauty against the
embodiment of irrationality by a fat country of poor
people picking at the straps the rebel got your backs we
stand obdurate the two the madness and the sanctity of
saints we of the used up universe united by what we use
undulating the underbelly of the undertaker’s carriage
there is a lost normality to be found where poets weep for
thee seek for thee reap for thee and Ahab gives his plea
that he is possessed by a demon pushing spoiled pride
into his demonic creed metaphysical and of the
inexplicable universe full of sympathies and futile
frustration and fragmentized fantastic visions birth in the
poets battled by a beat back brutality of words you got to
believe me that words scamper around the floor being
busy bitterer about the business of buying for my time
common words work together they rime middle class
words they decline the emotional alienated artists but we
canst stop him we canst rock him we canst move him
toward the letting go O Father of the poem on breath O
fever that burns the giving of a day forgiving me of my
sins this is the way to bathe my humble conformity for
the published public good in the house of the lingering 103  
absence that will lay its hands of bird’s feathers on you
you who fly away with Jesus the junta of the judging
Jesuits will jump through a rope of rosaries while the
flamboyant prayers that society preach is seen in the low
glow of the TV with its dangerous curiosity about the
working of the brain tonight I find the hero is a man
among men his solely freedom of condemning the rulers
riding high in a gust of there being something of the
saints in poets there is something of their fears for the
perpetration of beauty the lonely road of perfection in a
busy langue leading and lasting listing language lane that
they travel is spurned with discarded poems with their
daily charm bumming a ride the sympatric bitterness of a
broken poem bereft of the psychological realism that it
did seek to earn by force of action its introspective protest
is undiminished by the now that the poet has come home
to ride and rid us of the riddle that reads like a recipe for
coming home to live with me there is a hint of peace in
the hands of the real rebel that wait our return to his way
of thinking but we love and despise him despite our
dislikes despite our dirty love that shall service to kill him
we follow that fine cut of features whose sensibility
cupped to his ability that maintain against the degrading
relationship between the artist as hero and the society as
meaning less then the soul expected still life is all that its
cracked out to be a one deal shot of being a soldier in the
army of the disillusioned rebels of poets who thought that
the evil egotistical revenge is finally spoken that both
world and self admit that they need each others

Sun bird that carry the voice of an enchantment to the

eyes of Jericho where second Sunday is glad of its
inheritance claiming the book of Genesis O Lord O Lord
O the only begotten and co-eternal Son of the fatal Father
of the whispering of the new sun rising water we the
faithful tend to your fatidic flight of words on the wings 104  
of the sun bird we praise with opened heart full of
righteous heat burning the dried-up shadows of doubts
inside of me there is a light lighting the way to your
throne we have seen you in the noise of trees in the swept
down motion of rivers in the triumphant breath of a bee in
the divinity of all living things are you known to be you
are the glorious God of the Gods of man you called by
many names is the one and the same I breath you in and
out again your voice is heard in the beat of my heart in
the bird’s songs the fly’s buzz you are ever a wonder
before my eyes and I am your child even in my grown-up
ways I am forever young before your ancient age all
about me are your blessings the rain is your scripture the
singing birds your prayers the very earth your church

Sun of the intrepid tree bleeding two stories high in the

storm brewing its destruction again and again toward the
place where night is the force of the disappointed
dreaming lost in the head of a peacock’s prophecy and I
am down to tell you that you must get your pains in order
and move them into the interdiction of Monday morning
where I have done all that I can with the words that I was
given and now I am easy and pleasing with a bloated
pestilence that has a right to exist beside me why should I
cry the intelligence strength of the blood that runs like
rivers in the electricity of the body whishing that it was
stone when it is just short of dying when the laughing
little girls playing just outside of Sunday school have a
double burden to bear that of religion and being a woman
in the danger of mid-night in the city I listen to them
speaking the work men’s language a language injured by
the machines with their noisy complaint bored on the
mercerized mechanized hands that can not forgive the
taking of a life caught in the gears of motion spoken to by
an infantry of words marching off to war in the body of a
long winded poem that leave the soul to weep beside the 105  
flower’s song sung to the bees that can not resist the
sweet pollen of a flower’s restless farewell the trumpet
flower blows its odor pass the shy slow water to damn hot
and sterile in its spilling on to the profound banks of
meaning to remove the intelligent of parasites that will
not give up their place in the world that will in the mouth
of your sacred needs where the widening gyres begin its
communication of the liturgy loosened into the historical
definition of the upheaval inherited acquisition of
fragility that speaks to the primitive idols kept in the
pockets of the heart with its conflagration of a vivid
poem’s season breathing the vengeance of the greeting of
birds feathers worn in the hair of the fraternal face of a
tropical blackness singing the exploded sky the tutelary
stars the laburum alburnum beneath the skin of your
wounds the voodoo perfume of butterflies where Nawu
Buluku nursing Mawu and Lisa in the crisscross rain
made of knives my eyes open like wounds inflicted by
the God of everything and my tears are like blood shed by
the crucifix when I sense the thirsty loneliness of myself
my mouth is overfilled with prays and I choke of them to
catch my breath running ahead of my lungs of
compassion my heart is impaled on the stark naked cross
of my struggle to believe in the divinity of a wing beat

Sun of the depredate good-by spoken between the throat

of the rede rain and the smooth slack shadows of a
cloud’s resplendent scream caught in the single breath
cycle of inspiration and expiration translated from the
lungs filled with anger’s container of space in the cardiac
mind’s stimulus field of accidents where the solarized
hands trembling hard of hands seen by the brilliant
mind’s eye solution of an open door on to the nostalgic
anguish for the garden lost in the fundamental intellectual
distance of an earlier mentality before the secularization
of science sun describing the crying stop fidgeting with 106  
its music as soft as a mother’s gaze as the instrumental
accompaniment of poetry sung to the ear of a historical
migration of an invasion of the sensation felt in the
simplicity of a grave mound sun O the lovely lonesome
sun O the essence of its theocracy the personal
expressions of its warmth the emphasis of its light O sun
where forth can man but celebrate your grace of anguish
for the silence of poets with their ink stained hands you
nourish them in their exhausted thoughts witnessing to
your eternal present your grandiose blessings of the self
conscious earth I unlace your light and you nourish me at
the breast of your warmth you pull me up by my lashes
and I open my eyes to let you into the thickness of my
warming water that witness with a watch the weeding of
the witch hazel where willows grow just west of the wild
Wisconsin border where wanting weather wrap itself
with words heard whispered when words meant much
more then just their sad use to keep a man down
Sun hidden where the night is inhaling the fieriest steam
of the street wet with the tears of a child crying for the
milk of its mother kudos sleepless and hungry for the
warmth of leaves extinguished by the kinky winds that
blows the worship of a varnished sky where the clouds
are committing suicide and the lost birds are turning to
stones that drop like hail onto the hoods of cars grey
stone birds on the green lawn are buried by black
squirrels constantly in tears asking me to be their
protector in the pocket of the earth full of rot the whole
sky is weeping blackbird eyes the cities are overfilled
with urine that tint the rivers yellow I can not say that I
imagine the sharp edge of dawn pushed along by the sun
I can not drop my guards in the furtive night out on the
lame from its prison of darkness in the unfamiliar silence
of Africa starving for the wear fare of the sun where the 107  
murders slice open the night and stars pour out to flood
the ripples of the wind fighting its need to conjure up the
public rain that wash up the dead buried amidst the ruins
of abandon cars I have eaten the bitter words in the great
body of the dictionary silence and pregnant by the
vocabulary of a dead language to tough to live again
without ripping the tongue out I miss my voice full of
teeth that bite each syllables on their way out I can not
live up to the notions of my namesake beloved and well
born the blackness of my skin is forgiven for its sins of
omission

Sun the wonder of a street life that over took me when the
breath of an old mulberry wild in the riparian habitat of
the Mississippi migrating its strong back brown water
toward the mouth of a mallard’s bill and the city’s stars
can not shine to far and the city’s clouds are for sell well
who can afford this song that I sing it is all that I have to
bless you by as you lie and cry as you stash your brain
waiting for a miracle to set you free from the mild sins
that you have committed in the art of your heart the
forbidden love under the willing plunder of honor my
lover recover from years of tears in the truth of his youth
can not be doom from the womb from the cover of
sexuality that hover about the teenager the unseen noise
of boys playing with their sexual toys in the dark and
dented night where well do I remember my first come the
wisp crisp tower of emotion in the midnight hour intent to
be spent on the heritage of my young age one cold night
as I hitch hiked in the glow of the moon till soon picked
up and given my first blow my teenager body quiver to
know such new found joy now made an art

Sun signifying the ticket of a wrong doing of a lit

cigarettes in the endless tomorrow strung together by
sunlight fired up to warm a body of worms digging out 108  
the good graceful and fitfully faithful earth where the dirt
is moldable to their bold bodies’ trail lift in the forest of
hooves and horns and furs fit for the rich ladies’ luxury
they the rich contemplate the spring-head of money the
copper counting encounter of angry water rushing to the
bank where the profound legal tender of in God we trust
is writ in the damned parade of bones moaning the
musical gunfire like drums beating in the desert where the
heat of the sun keeps it stronghold tight against the lost
rain stalled by the blockage of mountains

Sun of the Saharan tragedy relentless in the reddish-

brown soil where grows Kongo and Angola skinned
youth dreaming of the lost history of Meroe hidden in
burning sands where sun heated wind blind by thousand
grains the lost traveler looking for the kingdom of the sun
God now long gone and buried deep in the desert of the
heated heart swallowed by the years the wilderness of the
past with its repaired bones turned to stones a done deal
the wilderness of the future foretold by the light of the
sun that daily die a lie of nature as seen by the living the
water solely holy in the melancholy call of a tear the cold
snow slow unfold of an old blow that will not yield the
brazen heaven away the prayer above the love caught in
the win of sin battling the uncouth truth of a ring of wings
that sing the preferred words of a sting sweet strung to
meet when the birds eat the earth then fly about their only
heaven that they shall know in the light grey night of a
new day the rain begun but bring them no pain the found
chill of their sound still rare there where the dew is young
in a winter’s morn fighting with the breath of spring I
hear oh the breeze the clear singing and I am struck dumb
by the eloquent that comes so easily their remark in the
dark sight of the advancing light their lust for the crust of
the world their pride spent along side the birthing that
provide a speechless day’s dark spell when the church 109  
bells ring the would be holy to the house of the heart
every Sunday morning we are set apart to worship in the
shrine of the holy wind spilt on the tongue where is the
church of the sun the wind the whole earth skies and
ground found in the dirt of the earth the happy throng
song of the fair grass pass the litter that I bear where is
the church of spring bringing warmth and a growth of
tolerance toward the time that it takes to make the
universe a God by degree by degree the God of the
galaxy and that of the darkness that does the holding
hollow out all hiding life lift in the last little me doing
right by the right eye knowing what the right brain is
doing by by I am tuning off the light with the way that
you move the smooth sway that you shed that cries out
that you didn’t mean to break me my thoughts of you are
well understood your scars are well hid beyond the pale
of Peter and Paul speakers of the God’s son sighting
signaling the birth of a God child born as a baby boy
helpless in arm the angels did sing the old songs reserved
for the special blessing bound by beauty being vacated in
vast numbers visible to the vice royal of victory I have
watched his name turn to gold and I think that I have seen
the cruse meant to grow its glory glued to the quite
quickening gathering muster before meat my mounding
meanings married to a mark made money by the wisdom
that all God’s children has to die in their time and time is
untied just going for it without a rope time is never broke
of funds to spend and of men it has no end that can be
known by the likes of us we who paid by the breath and
the beat of our hearts shall catch but a glimpse of what is
known only to the knowledge of the God of the Gods if
they have such a thing to use ever to change that you have
known this there is a bliss unknown to you the subject
loosing the long sleep of time running out and it may
never be the buyer’s trade that buy better then hit hand
can mend with a might mindful that the mentioning of the 110  
music that makes the memories of money is still mines
today is the Sunday of mothers the may of flowers and
cards and telephones calls and saying I lived in you when
with a whisper of a heart beat was I born a single body
boy with the black of my brownness being self evident in
earnest in my childhood of the Duke of Earl and I will
walk the deserts sands I am now a man married to the
ideal of being idled and insightful instead on edge by the
broken barrio where the poetry is of God and the
goodness given gloriously by gain in gross the girlish
Gods are snickering at the side end of a gusting
industrialization created to disrupt the emotional modern
man culture tell in a manner how things are created how
the God came to hitch their wagons to man to make us in
the model of their manipulation we the city dwellers of
the division of city labor urban labor physical and mental
to boil us down to the flesh and prescribe the capacity of
the economic enterprises to heal any wounds not paid by
wages or profits urban profit fuel fill the function
followed by a fallen fellows who fluid his stay-way home

Sun children of the sun wearing the eternal badge of

honor which is the blackness of their skin over the red
muscles tight and firm and fit to earn the worship of
angels that go singing along the Sankuru River in the
kingdom of Kuba where dogs delivering the will of God
go barking at Its approach turning their holy heads toward
the heroine Natura when the children who shall come to
wipe Sunday from their eyes when the drums of
illuminates genuine ancestral beneficent of being as dark
as the dirt sweep into a swell that gently swayed by a
song of good-good night when the sun is quite dry it
makes me cry to think that I have chosen to live my life
along in the tall glass of the city as my home its time for a
future change one that is untamed by the voices of
children with their disordered time for their long and 111  
lonesome ride of smiles like indigent fatalities of the
angels that they shall become as time goes on the angels
color me in a constitutional blue and I skip the lights
indifferently in my second-class dance of the sixteen
blesses virgins finding themselves before the music of my
heart at last life is like a song controlled by the curiosity
of the conflagration of taking my love by the measured of
an overwhelmed man of bones shocked into breaking on
the sharp edge of an ordinary love of poetry spoken
underneath the insides of the breath that is our confident
all in you all fall you the angels mull you the demons stall
you just you wait and see when the wind is right you can
live a miracle in the space of a second and your voice will
proclaim that your faith makes the perfect story-line of an
out of time rhyme riding a thousand miles dreaming like
you wish to spend your soul of the prettiness of things
that look like home to you don’t be shy by the apple and
the price to pay for the knowing of the hunger that burns
in the belly of knowledge a hunger that proclaims the
apocalyptic conquest when you remain all that is lift of
my pain that I can talk about in the business end of the
night the more that I give of you the more that my trial by
words shall find its rest really real and rich in the rind
skin of rough words riding to rid themselves right with
reality fought for from the fore skin fished fresh from fire
flowing to flood its flower feverishly flaunting the fit end
of tomorrow’s future while the bureaucratic climax of
popular culture self-possessed by its own caution and
scornful tenderness to keep you in your place is trying out
a fantastic Lord to lord over the lynching of impeached
memories that we did dare to indict out of our lonely
sense of a misplaced idleness an ideal of its self an ill icy
eye I am one to stay for you I rebel to make for you mud
cakes of yellow dirt for children meant to fill the belly I
stay for you Mississippi clay snuff for you keeping the
earth in my mouth for the poets and where have all the 112  
poets gone a long time lasting in the mouth of an old
doubt underfoot where the concert of a wanderer’s
thoughts as a hallucination actually is ignored by the
future allusions of the poet wandering in the wild
wilderness where bitterness is swift and steeped in the
possibility that the guilty memories that afflict us at the
stronghold when it is a suicidal moment for the infidelity
with the eager victims made by the particular bent of a
poet’s circumstance of the gift of a guilt of trivial
boredoms enhanced by dignity with the appreciation of
poetry we can transcend relating the present sensation of
the sentimentalist blind to the danger and disasters of life
their heads in the silver salt of the sand amen to the
everyday everybody that ran round the roses a pocket full
of restrictive woes politically pious with their perceptive
commentary rooting round the ground end of growth of
the hidden heroes hearing agnostic humanist voices
hovering just above the left ear with the rear possibility
of the heroic individuality he who tried to kill the mass
society of it wanting conformities that peg hole him who
would go it alone but leave us a song the poet by name
the romantic the same game hero by negation with his
masochistic tendencies in tow a modern hero of the urban
chaos of going with the flow that flood and founders in it
back water building a momentous moaning of the
obvious mystery that the poet engenders

Sun shining in the eye of the God of Thebes that sees

man being man in the holy temple at Ipet-isut and Nowe
the sacred places of the most high places of God’s
interaction with the most earthbound man made from the
dirt in the finger nails of the Gods who let us write our
lives in blood lives punctuated by their forgiveness for
the sins caught in the heart lives with the strength of the
roundness of bones lives under the knuckle of the sun the
real arboreal birds biting the hour of their birth in the bath 113  
of the nest their black obsidian music erupting in the
volcanogenic night where angels sits high in the trees and
piss down on the passer-bys anointing them with the
meticulous message of their urine mixed with the blood
of a holy laughter revitalizing the activated dreams of the
streets where the indubitable hunger of slumber hides in
dark uncharted corners of beautiful weather examining
the intersections of the fractured impossible horror of a
dismembered secret and the high scented plateaus of
flowers where a decomposition takes place under the
waiting wounds of an exploded torrential singing its song
of desolation in a cursed voice aged by the naked
melancholy rotting in the geometric weight of eternally
surrounding the extreme hour desolated by the babbling
common sense of a mute tormented brutality organized
by the fragile wings of the wind blowing unleashed words
over the time told imprints of an entangled friendship
longing the obscure wounds left behind by the thirst of
ancestors inhabiting the life journey taken in an obscured
year abandoned by the cult of a magical paradise strayed
words on the tip of the tongue of fresh thoughts let loose
by the formula for the great disaster of ice with its quiet
virtues for being no prophet no revolutionary leader
forced to die for the call of a new mass movement such
are heroes made to save as subjected as they who waits
by the way side doing the human play

Sun resistance of amalgamation in the pyramids’ shadows

who’s pointing is over looked by the sacred hour when
the pyramidal saddle of dead Gods gather to welcome the
dead entomb within into the netherworld the Gods have
been brought to their suicidal silent from their boastful
tongues of their beautiful spirits that once entered the
body of the divine chiefs of children with needles in their
emission of flesh till they are connected to the myth of
the never whispered irresistible perfume of the breathy 114  
music of trumpets notes implanted in the ear of the future
where the yet to be born with their naiveté totally intact
are waiting at the way station in the heaven of the unborn
beside the nocturnal thundering distilled words of an
ingenuous revolt flashing its compassionate storms
inhabited by the insolence assassinating wonder of an
apple on the hissing flames of the tree of life grown as a
temptation by the secret power teetering on the cowardly
violent dreams of the reconciled heart dreaming that it
saw an army of angel soldiers dressed in rags marching
off to the deafening memory of war with it resentment
and remorse for the proverbs swallowed by endlessly
looking for a God that will save us from the meat of our
flash drunk on the ruthlessness of doing time on the
obscure earth busy with life being itself where the
extremity luminous vigorous replacement of the gentle
fatigued notion sleeping in the dark scared night is
competent to allow skeptical doubts felt in the late years
lingering about the skirt of a young girl we all feel the
burn that blister boy to boy girl to girl have we not all
earned to kick the can to remind us of our populated joys
played with a pickle faced boy my pal my petrel dish to
study and mine undercutting the intellectual
entertainment of the blesses Virgin Mary grant O
merciful God support to our frailty that we who call to
mind the characteristic of an expression with its
intelligent of the wholesale sentimental parody of the
Poet as hero of the dark eternal word is calling to mind
the ivory-like imaginative longings radically
communicating a trivial encounter with the skin’s
belongings the poet seek to teach us the importance
complexities of the reality of dignity teach us in human
terms the same meaning I am the dead all done down I
am the deal that you shall do to move through the
heavenly door I as priest holds the key I as poet know the
mysterious shortcoming that man keep with his night 115  
language falling asleep like a lost individual frustrated by
the idiosyncrasies of poetry

Sun witnessing the conquest of blacks by a foreign

religion the blacks who have forgotten the Gods of their
fore fathers the black who’s time told Ra is ship wreck on
the points of the cross the blacks who copulate in the lost
wisdom of Seb the blacks who’s soul have been taken
possession of by the white knowledge of ownership the
blacks clothed in the visible forms of Gods that eat the
heart of Osiris the blacks who are my brothers in the
blood of the slaughter house of violence where the
children sleep the blacks caught by the smile of Jesus and
straightening their hair to be Christ like in a weave
flowing pass their shoulders that holds heads of the
charter of blackness in their skin the blacks most
beautiful in earnest essences under the sun’s darkening
focuses the blackening of America is seen in the extreme
musical tones of our flesh the free flow of blackness
fluencies at their best the blackest of the blacks no less
the light bright blacks of a warm miracle can not undo
their blackness through and through the sorrow that it
borrow through and through the pride along side the
sparkle of their brown eyes black mothers and brothers
flowering into tomorrow’s torn arrow past the last same
name of being black back into the jungle juice of jazz
blacks seen the carved wood masks that stood for the
inner desire of the Godhead a place in the heart a grace
above the love of men then shall we find in the face of a
holy place that boast of the Host on the knees in Galilee
keep your peace the blacks are at it again disturbing the
society reality why don’t they just cup their hands in a
halleluiah prayer and pray that heaven is better then their
man made heaven on earth we know that it hurt as child
birth but thank of the possibilities each black baby born
with the capacity for self determination in the church of 116  
the underground where the indivisibility of the self comes
as a commodity it carry a cash value but the unique
identity of the poet can not be bought and sold among the
ambulatory machines laboring in the bureaucratic
drudgery of their inheritance like father like son half the
battle won let the poets not blame everyone for what is
left half done for half our unsatisfied desires are yet to
come mums the word says the girl who sell flowers
governed by the laws of music the air smells of jazz
gardenias there is the symphonic green of stonecrop
covering the ground about round a blues of blue bells
ringing the rich odor of color seen by the blessing of light
poets are tight tugged and tied till torn tough black birds
of the corn first to weep first to moan the second coming
of the second son poets are the one being undone give
then not your pity your priority from the pit of your belly
like a pitted plum undo the nasty side of you and let loose
to the musing of his poems there in your kingdom come
brutalized by the self recognition that the flesh is all there
is in the end so much depends on the flesh not the spirit
and half that measure on the soul that hold them both in
tow the trinity of the circle the whole mental emotional
physical pain of man the meat matter much more each
scar a score from a battle won the son beget son none in
the city have completely forgotten how to be along each
signally singing his own song each cell apart of the whole
damn whole where there are no accidents in nature no
waste to be disposed with excess of growth that does not
waver earth is a living haven ever willing to birth a few
this is old poetic news you have only to look within to
know that life is held within the skin

Sunlight thinner then the muscles of the furious bone of

the face carved in the sand of an hourglass sun told time
of the victorious vital breath that progress to protest the 117  
vaisvanara self when the soul identify and idolize with
the body that it inhabit the soul of fire is burning itself
away under the full speed of strayed words like dry
smoke that know the correct address of the thinness of the
sun’s light around the atmospheric sculpture of trees with
their historic breath sumptuous and immeasurably in its
labor half-glimpsed by the fog that circle it cycle about
the age of a red-wing blackbird in flight over the
bastardizes incomprehensible allusion of the beautiful
breath bated and battled by the astonished consent of
consciousness found in the prohibited explosion proper to
terrorists rage in the renewal of a battle fought in the
good news of survival of the ceremony of landscape in
the memory of words heard by the howling rebellious
assault that is witnessing to the spasmodic evidence of a
firefly’s light blinking its slow refrain in the early
darkness slapping its clarity in the serenity of the silence
that night makes of itself when the stiff winds of the tail-
winds of blushing birds brush against the voluptuous
setting of the sun a biological freedom of existence that
blunder itself about the tropic night bare of shoulders a
middle passive fire-spitting motion of the moon’s folk
tale touched by the brain of sore laughter lingering on the
dreaming space of a poisonous minute drenched in the
seconds of lust for the making of a hour suddenly
climbing the livelihood of a rumors night falls like a
rising rain storm that challenge the knockabout
expression of air drenched in the thinness of rain the
arrival of the latest second found to be lacking in motions
toward the little ice age of the contented cold that
changed the course of earth in its climatic overreaction
from the medieval climate optimum sprung by the ivory
headed harpoons of the pawns muzzled by the sleep that
sleep its successful satisfied hunger in the streets of
Jerusalem where the faithful Jew pray to his God of the
illustrious brotherhood where the chosen people go the 118  
way of the consort of war where the slender tress sleep in
the warm air of the holy flowerpot like children off top
school to learn the golden rules of the cross in the poet’s
confession of the confusion of his alienation increased
ten-fold his pathetic dreams are grandeur and
mysteriously attractive he takes indifference as insult you
are the very recognition he crave and yet you neglect him
for the boob tube till he is forced to do his thing in a
small ring hidden in the belly of the underground where
the last monsters roam where the sterility and frustration
of modern man is held in check by TV by pill by power
by God and rod where some teaches that life is basely
absurd but the glad tiding glorious girl got her get up and
go greedy to guild the gild rainbow after the rain of its
own knowing when last it rained I saw the poet as
shaman seer who bare his eccentric eyes now full of the
society conformity that rule our lives now is the time that
men must act to overthrow the conventions that would
dull his instincts of the flesh the instinct of the meat of
the mind where by we know God it all began with the
consciousness of the flesh seeking to know itself that the
first Gods sprung to life meant to be both our savor and
punisher our pusher our publisher our pound for pound
proud peddler of a padded salvation God of the misplaced
goodness of my foolish father he knew not what he did in
the holy name of his disowned second born son named
after a biblical king who in his youth slew Goliath a name
that he can not live up to but as a poet own lock stock
barrel and soul conformity a Goliath just the same to
bring down

Sun’s reflection in the eye of a Swanson thrush migrating

in the accident that is God’s will the lonely life of man on
earth looking far into the heaven for companionship
while blind to the earth bound lying around living off of
itself to be seen in the fulfilled hunger of the self-slain air 119  
where the murderer’s romantic strength suffer the anxiety
of influence of the old-established estranged wisdom
willful in its mythology held in the emptied mind where
delight in the knowing of the flesh flee the pathetic
flower of unreasoning that bloom its gigantic mounting
water in the eye of the incorruptible belief of 666 angry
angles with their whitescence witness of being crazy for
love they lead the parade of a fifth day’s revolver’s report
of someone saying good-by to their sense of the species
of speed where the melancholic commonplace of a
prudent rain increase its water like little children born in a
warm room where the old men wash their hands in a
bowel of blood touched by the holy hands filled with the
paralyzed familiar objects of a stubbornness of silence’s
immobility of the weakness of the sun’s knowledge its
demolished lips and eyes rooted in rich soil of the Greek
tongue drunk on the festival of a barely understood
barbaric language of your happiness palpable by the
insignificant shrines that stumble in the mind of a
disabled fire burning the strange notion of living another
life in the echo of the soul it is all about the vanished
marvelous youths that give their lives to the war their
handsome faces gleeful because of the unexpected news
that the gambling-boats are full of the vigor of beauty and
the houses of depravity determine that the poets are
sacred customers that know how to avoid the certain
danger of syphilis but they are beyond the indifferent
campaign of the self of restrained moment in a room in
heaven where you can use your vote to over rule the
citizen of angels all ways on the right side while dead
men take to their desires as a reminder of the skin of
remembrance when the catastrophe boredom of a busting
rage is burned on the altar of idols in ash the pinnacle of
heaven will find itself hurled headlong into the humble
heart of destiny all in all the faith have become a sciences
where the crucifix is for sale beneath the magnified glass 120  
that burns a hole in the majestic cross made of clouds
between the setting sun and the turning around when you
can rely on my needs as strong as my back bone where
our love is the last wild worst made of gold heavily
setting in the velvet vault of my helplessness heard as a
hallow to be set free to roam the sacrificial conformity of
social fools once nihilistic now entourage as therapeutic
for repressing man’s free instincts the folly old fool that
feed at the table of rebellion for his individual freedom
healthy and necessary to attack the conventions that keep
wise men down the fool is the scapegoat hero again when
he fill his belly with the embodiment of virtues and
receive the credentials of the unconventional outcasts that
has disavowed the material rewards of the business end of
the sterility of our modern mundane society when the
holy fool lose his faith in the face of an underground
experience that change his way of seeing the poet seer the
protagonist that dramatize his circumstance for fighting
for the victims of an omnipotent society of iron laws that
clamp down as a symbolic judgment of the realistic
institutional and human relationship that will have us to
live in complicity and die in despair not yet half fulfilled
in the life we led so before the end sit you down and
contemplate the meaning of yourself say I am and you
will be crucified so keep you before your tongue a lie to
be known by the poet who fight against the trivial and
boring task that this society has set your hands to the task
of exploitation of the answer to the question who am I of
my routine behavior that the modern specialization has
pegged me as a simple man who can when properly
motivated by a simple reward to carry the load placed on
my shoulders to tow the line of an enticing world rich in
exploitation of the self and the society the meaningful
moral order can be recreate in the hero’s image he
struggle with the crisis of condition society seeks to make
of him a marginal figures his rebellion is rich in crime 121  
and rime rimed to read the long winded rules rich in
readiness the violent outrageous manifestation that shook
into a crisis a search for meaning of the being that
inhabits the sickness of society the poet as hero is blindly
and brutally posed to overthrow with confuse passionate
desires of his seen sick self seeking to snare the social
structures of solace of the submissive modern man’s will
that a separate soul can not divorce itself from the heavy
hands of the fornication of religion the hero must become
a demon to defeat a demon in the beak tortured world
where the masses is mined for the strength of their
muscles and are unable to develop a mind that rules itself
the hero half-mad and tormented by guilt where in such a
place the self is brutalized dehumanized by a rigid
religion ready to rid us of free will the hero lives a
solitary life that will come to no good for the self but
seeks to find a resolution of the solution of resistance for
the outsiders in search of his identity he do not seeks to
become a martyr but those who he seeks to save will
behave out of fear toward the hatred misfit longing for
normality and meaning the mindless mob in a moment of
collected triumph in the mist of a nightmare will kill their
savior for the violence good of an inhuman society can
not be transcended without a death we can not be saved
without the sacrifice that dies to reveal the prejudices of a
decaying institution of control by his resistance we come
to know that we too are condemned unless we rage out at
someone and often time that someone is he who seeks to
be divine by our eyes for the world loves to hate a hero

122  
Part III.

Earth is bearing witness to the sleeping moon caught

stealing the death of a Cimarron to 200 lashes given to
the back of the night to the ambushed by Diego del
Campo raiding a mule train in the forest to the slaves
boiled alive it have seen the severed heads of slaves on a
pole in the town square when the Jobabo war of the
negroes raged in Hispaniola it have witnessed Campo
turn turn-coat against his skin color dark as a negro night
holding a sliver of a silver spoon eating away the moon it
has witnessed Manuel Espinosa betrayed by torture when
the feast of John the Baptist was hung drawn and
quartered it has witnessed the capture of La Prueba to sail
it back to Africa it has witnessed the skinning alive of a
black woman and her detached skin stuffed with straw it
has witnessed the setting on of dogs it has witnessed the
thin top lips of white men speaking lies in a stolen land
where the slave of smallpox eliminated thousands of the
Indians of Mexico the Spaniards in the forward footsteps
of Cortes and Balboa in search of the gold filled cities of
Cibola by the conquering hearts of disease found in
Estebanico a dark skin survivor till he met the Zuni who
gave him his death to keep tight in the rot of his skin dark
as night we all are a guilty group of men that have rend
the end of other men search my pockets and you will find
my sins that I mean to write away with my pen

Earth has witnessed the Peruvian slavocracy caught in the

throat of the new world birthing itself in an old land of
native that knew the land’s secrets and the sacred span of
the ocean’s occasion that did not care to enslave the
mulatto fishes conspiring to kill a Jamaican slave dealer
dealing in contraband goods of incoming bozales stolen
from the controversies of smuggled blacks against the
asiento of 1696 when the grievous voice of a single 123  
moment of an ancient summer bloom the sigh of an
obscure grace of the slaves before the rebellion dragged
through the streets to the door steps of La Merced
convent where the nuns have forgotten how to weep for
the vivacious boys of the city that love each others under
the mid-night moon forever a frightful barrier of the
mysteries of darkness O beautiful darkness of El
Cimarron the frightened miracle will vanish under the
shame of the philosopher’s exterminated godlike boorish
demons that will kill wisdom

Earth has witnessed the muddy migration of swollen

grass nibbled by zebra stripes crying crocodile when the
wilder beast stampeding the river bed crying out to the
long held union of rain and fresh grass

Earth has witness the clogging night that once issued

forth a convulsion of stars in the mulecones expenses paid
to the cat’s meow national anthem waving like a flag of
bumble bees on the petal of the flower’s tears

Earth has witnessed the wordless flute playing the hymen

of a performed plantation of work horse bozales in the
disembarking from the ship of a skipped tongue it has
witnessed the coming forth from the eyelashes of the eyes
of Tmu breaking the lockstep of perpetual and persuasive
slavery to the cotton and sugar mills’ muscles pushing
against the freedom of a hand to tend to its own work of
the body in a free society entangle in the perforations
imprinted on the executioner’s tongue

Earth has witnessed the blacks deeper brown then the

fertile dirt where grows the difficult calculation scheme
of who is a mestizo who is a castizo who is a mulato who
is a morisco who is a gibaro who is an alborazado who is
a cambujo who is a zambaigo who is a calpa mulato who 124  
is a tente en el aire who is a no te entiendo in the skin of
a wayward wind blowing its breath toward the castes
strung alone the blood line of a psychotropic acting out
its magnetize fluid incased in the dark body wishing to be
burnt by the sun’s holy thanksgivings

Earth has witnessed the triangular feud of Yankee

machinations Yankee gathering all cults Yankee’s
evidences held in the contemporary idolatry of selling
everything on and under the sun under the new moon
white people will always do what is white for you

Earth has witnessed the banking house of Welsher selling

slaves to the cuneiform of hallucinogenic idols looking
for deviations in the extensive exopsychic knowing of a
God that have seen man marking his territory by
sacrificed testament of pissing on the street
Earth has witnessed the premature habitation of effigies
molded in meter poetry for the rational transcendent
tradition of a squirrel hiding its stores against the
approach of winter telling that it can tell time as we tell
the hail Maries hail Jesus full of magisterium patient for
earth

Earth has witnessed the jealously guarded entrusted body

of itself represented by the eye of a Rudy- Crowned
kinglet mistaken for a warble wintering where the Little
Breviary of a holy incantation can not die on the tongue
of a lay person where the fifteen mystery of the holy
rosary of the good news gospel of resisting those natural
appetites which besiege the souls to be bounded by the
dissolving ice at the edge of the once peaceful
proliferating northern sea of survival O woman Eve rib of
my lung O woman Mary mother of man and God behold
the migrant passerine’s small flight of audacity its 125  
sluggish hunger hung on the taste of the Ten
Commandments’ prostitution perched beside the
grandiose prejudices of life in the skin of the world

Earth of a four fold season dropping humiliated snow and

stranded leaves and desolated rain and self-conscious
flower petals to the nightly slugs drowned in a tin of beer
sprawled-out in the astonishing mute shadows of a fragile
darkness hiding in the corner of human authority man
along can not triumphs over earth known by its water and
blood its breath of alleluias alleluias the Lord has indeed
arisen saying the same things to the big boned hollow
chatter in the erotically ear preened with a child living
inside the closeness of getting free earth have witnessed
night confess to thee of your stress in the restless bliss
dealt and felt by the melt of the moon riding the river of a
righteous storm that shall deliver you from the tomb
when you give ear to the words of Gods let my people go
the way of the mercy that knows that man is guilty let my
people go where God’s cold is rolled across the heart-
broke shore of your heart and your tongue-told bone hold
the smartness of your art crucified on your pride beside
the fire of your breath when death call you to the
company of the master and there your past shell blast
asunder the light of your right eye rolled down the shut
forever run of the last sun

Earth terra mater under the domain of Tellus and the

fertility of Ceres in the month of April fooling the
Gregorian calendar of the nineteenth footing into thinking
that all the lost years with their spent seconds silently
scatter across the docile meaning of the body earth
mother earth father earth with all its kin of conflagration
living the good fat life that only earth can give to its
breath bound inhabitance its ocean fumaroles ignition that
dive and float submissively to its commands issued as a 126  
hurricane of wind and water blinding the hunger of the air
to be filled up with a desire for war with Lazarus falling
sick with the saving of the sorrowful soul but truthful
spirit and body suffering the healing salvation of rain on
the face asleep the rain keep its lament spent on the
rhyme of seven heaven where the together weather of
your emotion toil in the soil of the flesh that went bent in
the lush thrush brush of a rush winning the praise of the
Gods weather my fair weather friend my everyday
companion we wear each other both night and day wear
each other both fair

Earth of a packing house where the cold pill is due to heal

the oracle of Abu the hypothesized possibility found in
the age of naming where the astonishing wrong doing of
watching television is held tight against the fatigue night
unable to sleep but must continually move toward the
birth of daylight itself a roving angle angel waiting to be
lit up the promise of rain is heard on the breeze a sleepy
thing easing its way southeastward the sky crack open in
a flood of emotion and the clouds give birth all is not lost
along the long string of rain that break open on the
concrete where puddles reflect rain embracing the air
with a song to sing where its refrain scare with a flare the
lie’s prize of vows on the boughs of spring’s wings that
roar a shore pour its score ascend till spent on the prime
slime of life on the shoulder of the beholder bolder then
its brother as a mother nursing as a father protecting as a
lover sharing the house of the heart the cage where age
finds its full measure that dwells and fell in the flesh there
where whine us down to the rare air of the end of the
wind and we make amend to our rescued friend
overwrought by the hand of the land where the burial of
an oak is stroked where the watery bed is bred from snow
where the sea-swell’s will is the joy of a poor boy and
everywhere the round motion of air’s breath is caught in 127  
the seamanship of a forsaken waken by the thunder down
under seeming redeeming of the eternal burn my soul
remember the greenish yellow path in the Taebaek
mountains of Korea the colonized bells the sat Buddha
among the fall foliage and the white beaches of Cheju-do
the remembrance of blood on Port Chop Hill deceased
renascent memories the empty lights of a by-gone day I
have paid for my days all 54 years of them the wreckage
of the immaculate virgins as a poet I tell all of my secrets
I caught herpes from a Korea whore a business girl a
picked up in a G I bar in the village of Tongduchon
where the redemption by wild fire water wild women and
wild drugs the cargo of the American soldiers on leave
from Camp Casey on an over nighter pass a turtle
sleeping in the dinner plate bed of a whore once an
immaculate virgin do she ever contemplate the
consistency of her trade the sharing of the naked skin
Earth with its eyes to the ground watching over fresh
graves turned out of their skins in the last holy art of
reasoning that the sons of Ganymede are going to war
against those who will kill the eagle rather then let the
voluptuous beautiful cup bearer into their estheisi
invented heaven where only the catholic claim that they
can go where the shittim wood overlaid with gold housed
in the smite want of sex it shall come to pass that all shall
be seen as sisters and brothers in the midnight hour of our
forgetfulness the kind mind shall triumph in the season
of our faithful reason when earth birth the exultation of
our salvation and we know that the tender slender flocks
of flowers the thunder of colossal colors fit for the eyes of
bees that fly the scented why of a reply the handsome
face of a flower’s grace drift as lift by the wind that roam
without a home sing long of the wind with a song
overflowing with the first communion for Nature is the
godhead of the all mighty consolation the royal ration the 128  
blooming fuming consuming years of tears she is mouth
and ears divine she is the first and the last of life all
imposing power that cover all none can step outside none
can go pass there is no knowable knowledge without her
celesta power she is the present living God of Gods she is
Isis and Bast Ninhursay and Ishtar Devi and Shiva
Artemis and Athena Agrona and Brigid Freyla and Fulla
Mary and Eris she is God my father my mother wedlock
as one

Earth has witnessed man claiming the tree of knowledge

to discern the suppose scientifically hidden face of God
when the face is all about him to be seen in the skin of
trees in the flesh of water in heart of dirt in the forgetful
voice of the wind in the consumption blood of
mosquitoes in the restless pumping heart of the
conflagration of bees in the motion of ants’ knees and the
breath of a fly buzzing about busily about the business
end of the day where our breath feeds the trees that feed
in return in this union is to be found the sensual air trap in
the lung of a new born the birth of a tree the birth of a
child both a holy thing brother of the other joy in the
birth of a boy joy in the birth of an oak kind in kind in the
flung flame of a tongue by defiance name she is the same
that can not know shame with justices and with grace she
keep to her pace strong she can not do wrong

Earth has witness the eternal eminent and minimal minute

broken down to where we are holding fast in its
circumstance of a mythological relationship that
rationalize the passing of a prophet’s minaret into the
cries of the faithful whose mouth is full of begging
prayers the world bowel is forever fat and full of begging
while we no longer call to the spectral sun in it ephemeral
rebirth to save us from the cyclone orgasm ragging across
the face of earth we are her heir we born bare wear the 129  
concern that turn on the tip of our minds in the hour of
our greatest need we plea to a God never seen our needs
betwixt the fixed mixed rife of life spent on the element
of laws that draw praise to the supposedly only way but
the poet say rest in the breast of the breath you who do
through your daily lockup live look to the very birth of
your union look to the everyday God immaculately full of
worms God of the shared air the understood undertook
motherhood of the flood of blood in the veins the mystery
of the Nazareth is not the same for he requires a far flung
heaven and not the wondrous robe of the globe with its
good heart playing the part of the will still in the flesh the
marvelous conceive before the year that man was born we
are late comer to the Godhead

Earth has witnessed the black Jesus darken in the desert

where he faced himself facing the demons in the viperish
visions that beset the souls of men along in the worthy
world where spirits fight for our attention in the heat of
the sacred bull bated battle waged on the head of a pin
with them I have taken my vigils by the throats where
once they was my yokes when I was living for pleasure in
the dull disgust of conformity where my soul betrayed me
for the wealth of money in a work-a-day life and I declare
war on St. Louis with poems as my mercenary
acquaintance and weapon I want to return the jungle to
the city to flood the building with wild desires a-washed
and worn down by nature ever seeking to reclaim the
earth as its own in the underbelly of our industrialized
society of nigger neglect found in the mind of the rusty
red neck dusty words willful on the tongue tossing their
stale naked meaning to do harm some words flow with
guilty blood peddling fake-full-ness fast past the thirst of
words rooted in the breeding ground of fornication’s
copulations of tough love and tight nuts in the sex of the
streets there is a rough need to get it up in life based on 130  
the hard-on emotional music of the moon where the
abstractions of the technocrats is looking for their
affirmation of the imagination of being betrayed by a kiss
when the boredom of the masses have a grip on the past
they will not riot the future they seeks to harness it with
their pockets wet with pennies they heed the poor prophet
poet with a hidden face the king of the tireless kisses that
makes the children faint right beside my Romanian drums
that know a music they use to hide how could they have
betrayed you in the night where no man come you know
that your fingers nails never lie about a song that must die
like the loves that haven fallen throughout the years I’m
pushing off all the demonic desires that use to scream
within me beside a tender doing that love will kill for the
two will setter on a fit dream of the few free individuals
whom wholly successfully exploits nature dig her inside
out suck her dry with a romanticism of protest like Lillian
laughing her elongated love of men who themselves go
weeping a million strong man tears from the wet before
the weeper jurors messiahs that call you to follow them
into the new attitude to break open the stereotypes that
you are bred into

Sun’s heart the only child in this system where the

paganism of Palermo stone break on the foot steps of
Khafre sitting in words by the way of the grand
Caucasian consensus squandered by the blowtorch of a
hissing funnel multicolored stamped of Gods exhausted
by the solidity of a dazzling tender water where desires of
possibility supporting the absolute climate of a sharpened
wind’s precision and the Gods have forsaken the birds of
de facto broken down region of the last religion
describing irreconcilable angry and have made man the
outcast with his prostrations of the sacrificial prayers in
the fashion of a delivered message’s dominant dialogue
disappearing day by day into the human mentality of a 131  
widespread auditory hallucination telling us to be kind to
each other under the profound auditory rules of the Old
Testament under the old Babylonian objective wisdom
addressing the formalistic solidity sumptuous and
frenzied lightning foaming a call brushed by the skin of
the forever water that washes away the fragile face of the
behavioristic needs with their recognition of a godly
pounding Odysseus heart marvelous and forever
supporting the wild impulses of an enraged throat where
words bloom beyond the strong logic madness of a giant
radiant absolute wish to belong under the supporting roof
of the tomb that break the coccoloba brain growing
beside the sensual sensitive sea of the mentioned
mentality burst in the belly of a radiant laughter of yellow
which ruthlessly dominate the grid of a darken
withdrawal from all that you guess will be the death of
you fall into form from the formal answer characteristic
of the lost question playing pranks and looting the mores
rogues of the subsidized machinery of the popular
phlogistic phobic police pounding the beat of a burning
candle cradled in the arms of the creditor that holds the
notes of your soul in cold blood shall he douse your
heated passions with the money paid to the informer
poets that have betrayed in a hell of hypocrisy the poets
as fallen archangels of the individual looming egotistical
longing for fighting the dull commercial conformity daily
brought and sold to the common weakness that it
engender in the limitation of the poor who cry out for
quarrelsome quantity over qualified quality while the poet
cry out in disgust for a serious self-reflection of
themselves as victims as spectators under the social codes
of being a good citizen the poorest of the poor are to busy
being poor to be excided by the execrable excesses of the
self-righteous riches of the rich of the bulging bourgeois’
belly birthing leaning leaders of society’s official view of
the gratification of itself while the poet venturing far from 132  
the conventional to find himself find that he is alone in
the symbolizing myth of the worldly real world woven
wiry around the wounds of the naked cities verging on
the insanity of glass and steel of the immortal boredom of
mountains of bricks while in the nocturnal shadows in the
green zone of the forest of the wilderness mysteriously
divine in its strikingly similarities of the madman’s
attempt to murder the daylight of the granite eye of a
stature to the flesh of the war dead swollen in the half-
light irrepressible tornado torn and tattered by the bare
foot voice of a mirror relaxing its reflections of anger
sleeping in the armored flower assuming the position of
freedom under the embrace of the sun’s storeroom of
alchemy found in the confinement of a screaming rain
with its generosity of rusting the machines of rotten flesh
with their sterile spectacle attitudes of regrets that rest in
the vast pathetically ghost of the host’s mirage behold the
hideousness of the mythical mysterious monsters of the
rival to the state that take their castration in strive beside
the universal dream of man’s myth his psychic needs
solitary and sedentary against the calamities of the
primordial unconsciousness of the chaos of the libido
poet that fight the battle for us all his tormented psyche
fighting the monistic monolithic monster of the state his
struggle toward the animalism harmony relieving itself in
the mouth of man’s pettiness beneath the statuesque
beauty of the sky where the battle to discover a
meaningful identity of the lonely voyagers who find
society shallow and repellent is in love with the terrible
unbearable parable mother of the dark self and the terrible
father of tyrannical authority suppressing rebellion
against the status quo of the state of an order world in
need of its imposing will of unvoiced scandals it require
the people to prostrate themselves sprawled-flat beneath
the bitter brightness of the boredom of our daily lives in
the hesitant flow of a recalcitrant old color ancient in it 133  
trafficking ancient as a shipwreck in an age of flight
across the difficult metamorphosis of rain clouds
quivering in a corner of the inlay bluish communication
of the fragile gifts of the clarity of the two eyed sky filled
with the wood butcher’s huller cutting down the forest of
a midnight rest

Earth has witnessed the tell tell heart of a drunken

betrayal frozen in a minor key where each stepping note
gather unto itself the last frost knocking green squeezed
from the heart of a leaf hidden in the warm fog of a
ground base cloud kissing windless what can not be
destroyed by eyes focused on the head of a lost penny I
have taken my scorpion flowers to mark the naïve pains
that rains with their helplessness of implication firmly
rooting in the blast of a radio’s erotic dreams of violent
lip service a respect for bending over the strove watching
my emotions come to a soft boil full of materialistic
outcast taking the long ride deep inside poet prophet
solitary wanderer pushed to become a criminal with the
growing opportunities that excites him to be one wanted
by the state that deny him throw your hat over the deck
the black porters are polite the guards follow him around
but he ain’t got nothing at all but what he done paid fer
the old by force of life move about slowly its all about
the flesh of things living and dying by the obscure force
of it all a nameless motion toward the breath of an inner
instant innocent of nothing when wrinkles are moving
across my limbs when the circulated cracking of skin of
Pruitt-Igoe busting at the black seam bricking the poor up
in their bricked over sky with its unknown deadly silent
hunched in a corner
134  
Earth your burning your coming to grip with yourself
your sweet swallowing green hair calling for a crake full
of your breath exchanged one by one toward the kicking
night fighting for its place among the many sided light
shining into a dance performed by bees that have
forgotten to sleep where an attack take place across the
barricade of a flower dressed up for the motion of
stopping dead in the tiny hands of a new born’s worth
against the memories of our elegant elders hands asking
the reflection in the mirror what am I doing here why do I
stand in the looking glass and see the face that I make
what is behind this refection caught in time this flesh that
seek the divine maker of the mind what be this me equal
to Mary’s son the one for all men are equal of the flesh all
must rest and drew breath all must feed and be fed upon
all spirits show and glow the transmittable it of the soul
the blind mind can know the dear atmosphere of the God
the eye does not lie see your God day by day in the way
you go about the daily breathing It in count this not as a
sin the Godhead seep within the Godhead salt of the
tears’ vault the coal sold the old daystar of man’s
knowing the him dim in the daylight of sight dim within
the glorious light of the sun the sky air there full of
prayers the wild child born in a civilized city a black
wind pack to rack a mound-full of motion the mortal
beauty of a hand the warm form of the brain the storms
that swarm the land the greater part of the human heart
the guess no less working of art the express bliss of a kiss
the I can man of the church the foot trod of would be
Gods the grief that know no relief the chief that sing his
brief cheap all small things that creep all that sleep the
dear life held near strife the joy far flung from a willing
heart the day spent and where it went your breath-locked
lament the task ask of you to obey the killing of will in a
day the mast we play the steel prick of a dick the bear
thick rage in an age of war all theses are within the care 135  
of the Gods the pair that lay together bear the spark in the
dark that leave no mark on the skin of the sky the
resurrection of a dejection the ash of trash of man the
shield of a field of trumpet that play the day away the
increment event carried out behind the door the lust that
shake and break the wake of rain the glory story of our
birth the tamed name of our inner flame the fussy noise of
the rain that strongly came in the early spring of a song to
sing the wrong of an explanation of inspiration brought
on by the creation of a miss placed bliss

Earth my fair weather comrade my companion my

intimate longing is all for you earth my comfortable stone
where the pin point stars of pin point dreams feeding off
the succulent flesh of consciousness tells the waking hour
to keep its silent hushed in the breath of a clock counting
counter clockwise the heart beat of eyes asleep in the
blackish night caught in the closed lagging lids where you
are forever turning your singular head to face the wars
raging across your face your rain blood is the blood of the
immaculate conception fighting its way in a book of
poems waiting to be read by the yet unborn my hysterical
weather my concentrated living wood the abrupt eyes of
rain contain in each drop a reflection of the approaching
earth each drop contain the memory of the sea O my
privileged lover you are a bouquet in the throat you are a
non to anxious song in the ears you are a heavenly
heaviness in the heart of hasty hands cupped to feel the
slightest quake of your immense body bold in its aspect
bound by the cosmos beckoning all my snoring songs are
for you

Earth witnessing the last granular sugar growing against

the frown kept by Valerius Maximus writing the violation
of his objected father where Cicero familiar with male
love kept in a Yellowhammer’s beak in the southern pine 136  
where Camelia in its ancient scent keep caodia praying
for the music of the rebel strung across the gun camera
where all the muscles that I can muster I give to you my
lover my faithfulness my beautiful mother with trees in
your hair and your blood making its way to the sea my
maintained mountainest yearning is all for you as
Antinous loved Hadrian so are you the wonder of my
small world and I am caught in the grip of your blizzard
passion storming me over into the thunderous downpour
downrange of your hurricane raging its way in the blood
lock veins of my body where I breath in your breathe and
give it back to the tress waiting in silent for the exchange
you are my lascivious lover you are the way of all
knowable knowledge you are the face and body of the
knowable good God that goes about its secret duty day by
day without end and I am wonderstruck by your bountiful
beauty as my water tight skin cries out for your touching I
am man caught within your grip made by your hands
without you I can not stand to stand alone

Earth the divine gift of advertising itself and good health

and enthusiasm of growth to cover every inch in its need
to feed and be fed upon by the living dying a death that
they have never died before in the key of life is the
whisper of the batted breath bathed in a better banana
beam between a sentimental summer spread as a season
green and a handsome voice vibes speaking to the
vibrancy of the sky filled with a willow tree’s motion of
wind sing your mysteries sad silence song that I catch
with my mouth fill me up till I am as fat as the edge of
the world all gathered up up plumb marvelous jump the
alluvium unlimited fire of a rekindled visitation found in
the wild metamorphosis of the disappearance quivering
weather wanting to be itself when the romantic-artist-
hero’s rebellion is a quest of the object ego toward the 137  
saving of the world the poet’s lonely vision is alienated
by his self preserves turned man of the street hero with
his breathy speak that takes a moment of triumph to take
the breath away half fool half visionary half full of envy
and anxiety for the ego the price to be paid for acting at
odd against the ordinary and conventional for doing battle
with fears personified as demons that seek the shape of
reality turned inward

Earth and its noise of the sublimate desire of the flesh and
of silent ripping as wind on a pond with its minute life
swimming toward the crowed depth where life keep its
strong hold tight in the gasses of the elemental word
Nature roused by paganism in their glorious visceral
needs of the last bastion of poets caught within the
symptom and symbol of selfhood for his fellow man his
values representing truth forgotten of the introspection
intellectual self-contemplation needs needed to be come a
hero transcending the grey grievous fault found in the
confinement of conflict between himself and society he
loves to serve the world in spite of its dominant
indifference he is a wishful worshipper of words quick to
quarrel the best known dramatization of the paradox of
turning the material of his lonesome art-life into his art
with an animal grace he goes about the world as one put
into the mind of others feeling the pains and joys of his
sisters and brothers with their seductive banalities their
dead-flat lives lived without serious reflection on their
fate within a society that will betray all who find poetry
to be a revenge on life and betray the poet trying to
redeem and recreate the world through his suffering
through his self-tortured soul at odd with the little dignity
of the simple-minded the poets must earn their crosses
they must be purifier of the sluggish mater of daily life
played out in the fickle and fatal world
138  
Earth has witnessed war after war after unyielding wars
of man against man earth is full of the hostile literature of
war of the heartbroken grief on the dead bed of a dream
of war fought in the head when the self can not reconcile
its own divinity against the animalist nature of man on
the deathbed of unfamiliar inhabitants of heaven that gave
birth to war on the deathbed restructured harmonious
erotic passion of war on the deathbed of the authority of
the burnt sacrifice of war war war war war and more wars
of man the last warring beast of war war of desire the
intercourse interplay of war the masquerade masturbation
of war the suicidal sexual preference of war the scriptural
of war studied in the halls of a war school the sodomy of
war fucking itself the determinative morality of war the
impious enemies of war are warring against the
contemptible clandestine treatment of war O my man’s
man why do you study the barely bestiality of war why is
your hands full of the instruments of war why is your
hard on heart filled with the richness of war feeding off
the testimonies of Christ and Mohammad whose
followers flight the war of forgotten prayers of loving
your brother

Earth has witnessed night’s inner thoughts eating the

paschal meal to symbolically filled night’s belly full of
stars and the wayward comet of a thought sweeping its
way across the divine knowledge of the neo pagan self-
healing heart pumping the blood of the deserted moon
that can not contain it own illuminate light the distance is
sucking up all the light that lend its heaviness to the select
air of an untamed hour broken by the grey stone of the
dead dusty moon shimmering beside a beneficent
cathedral where eastern Easter raising is folded into a
cross made of palm where the confused reality of the
delusion of staled rigid religions that can not espial itself
can not escape the sterility of a grounded necessity of the 139  
soul of shy and weak eyes that can not know while
watching the passing of an ordinary egotistical routine
critical of its own passing beside modern man irrational
and absurd with the demonic false expectations that lives
within him even the artist as tragic sufferer as lonely doer
in the dark does with his mythic implication of the sick
knowledge of the world that he lives in his abnormality
will through his art come to aid the self-centered nature of
normality the poet sick to death of the warring nature of
the priestly asceticism that enslave the painful joy that
ingratiate itself with the moral stature inherently
compassionate toward the dangers and disasters of the
mass society overwhelmingly mad poets are heroes by
negation by neglect by the nasty little secured secrets that
the government keeps about what is bad what is good
displaced in blind inconspicuous nature that have become
the very thing that it attack
Earth has witnessed the air pollution of its breathe and its
skin of anesthesia feeding its way across the boundaries
of a hand held fast to the capability of the morrow which
comes on its own accord and wake the dead like sleep of
birds dreaming of woven worms and seeking seeds and
schooling their young in the art of living off the earth in a
fat year of plenty underneath the umbrella tree the uvula
is sweet and tasted and beneficently bare of bones where
the air is thickest with the choice choke chorography
mapping of commitments held in the loan of air from the
lung of bully birds in bear trees and under eves of homes
where the vulviform voracious voices of children hint at
the waffling of warmth that plays with them as common
as public violence in Americas as a crippled waiting wind
whirling its willful way pass their playful plasticize plain
song with the tainted air in their throat they go about the
momentary jubilate joy that tellingly teach them about the
way of living a life within the wonder of the whole wide 140  
world

Earth has witnessed more then the familial poets in their

small brain work can fathoms more then the mind can
comfortable conceive in its mistakenly all knowing all
seeing all riotous wisdom woven by the brain cells of
time can comprehend it has witnessed man thinking
himself the chosen probate people made in the egocentric
and idiosyncratic image of a far away God with nothing
better to do then to look in wonder after the doings of
man trying to eagerly escape to the far away starveling
stars of the unknown life in the universe’s electricity that
fires the poet’s companions as he walks virtually
unrecognized among us with his essence an obvious
mystery describing the urban chaos of the common-place
they do not emerges unscathed but scared over from the
hell that they endures with sadness falling from their
faces for the small satisfactions afforded us in a bountiful
society that mocks and scorns them have they made of
themselves a cliché a parody of their of their dead
brothers now in books dusty on the shelves of the soul’s
knowing that the hero as quester as wanderer as exiled
from the stagnation and futility of modern life that mocks
the possibility of an impression of truth about the origin
sin committed against the physical environment of the
littleness of life

Part IV.
.

I am caught in the masturbation’s convulsion

Where the seeds of my yet to be sons are simmering into
the light to die on the white towel and all my body’s
function cry out to the temerarious temper that keeps me 141  
capable of fathering children fathering the common sense
of poverty and the abrupt cadence of buried hunger held
in the heart of a heated histophysiology high on the art of
tissues where you are free to go and fill yourself up with
a thousand happy wooing small enough to fit in silver
thimbles wrenched within a pressing love respectful of
the wasted years of yearning for a lightly learned longing
lost from the fair side of a seldom monarch dethroned in
the wrong of a heaven on earth that enter its plea for the
beautiful woman conveniently employed by a courtship
be you marry in your wooing like a stamp in gold the
very riches that can not fight love be you such a man as to
tell the story of a woo won in the world of respect for
words that moves a woman’s mind be you extolling the
grace of angels to win a woman’s beauty with the
integrity of tears and a seldom sigh feeling the lines that
force the heart to sing did I give you a heart made of
stone die I give you my love that doesn’t last to long did I
take away you faith when I made you wake didn’t I make
you my king to share the rule
Didn’t you only wanted to take me to school when I’m to
young to be singing the blues but seem like I’m old
enough to be your fool full enough with the cool blue
blues red blues green blues blooming a yellow
unconditional propose of thought that fight its way out
into the splendid motion of words held by the justice of
the ear the war bar of words fighting among themselves
as not to be lift in the lurch straightly falling to the thicket
of dead thoughts where the God are dying out after their
season of being one with the world the soul within you
the enemies within you the children of impotent revolt
within the singular soul that do battle with the flesh
concerning the battle in heaven for the souls of men

I was caught by the pill’s promise against an ill of the 142  

soul and when it was done by the light of a brass spittoon
I saw the glitter of the machine sun shining its quivering
thunder to the victorious trumpet that played for the lost
queen of the Nile where fate by fate’s promise is fulfilled
where the water is spilled where the spillage is still
stalled on the river bank of a dream of letting things out
to do their wanting work worth all the wonder of the
united universe ignorant of the pressures of the
conventional morality of the arrogant self-pitying home-
bound and humane hunt for a God that have no
oppressive opposition to the poetic flesh of sensible sex
for sex’s sake of the sexagenarian

I was caught in an Ethiopian’s skin as dark as a

developing storm raging over a candle’s flame stiffening
its licks in the barbaric air of Nowe knotted with
impuissant clouds reflecting the street light’s
 hum where Chem have forgotten the meaning of its
name under the rules of foreign rulers who ruled out our
sainted ancestors whose surrealistic spiritual survival
what depended on the living who have all but lost their
color in the black Africanism of the direful dirt’s song
sung to the lost children homeless and alone with their
swelled bellies bloated as a blob moon seen thru tears of a
hurried hunger hanging on the tongue

I was caught in a breeding hunger in the belly of the

moon where the secret boredom of a nocturnal word laid
luminous beside earth’s reflected light and the nightmare
night goes nipping on the edge of an eye
lash long and luxurious and loose as a longevous
longitude exhumed by the ferocious evidence found in a
ruptured madness of a senseless killing that raise its head
in the everyday working that is the American way of
doing life the gun shots ring out across the face of the city 143  
the cry from the barrel of the gun is a pled that does not
ask for forgiveness 30 dead at a university the nine
millimeter murder on the streets of knowledge

I was caught by the richness of bread in the belly of death

full of harvested dead ears of corn and the last supper’s
nourishment singing alleluia alleluia alleluia O brethren
scribes it is no more then we desire in the words that we
place between the beautiful majesty and the magnificent
bounty of life and death being their self in the ancient
cognizable circle O papa death your nails are filled with
the dirt of the last of living laying with last breath cocked
O beloved Son reigning with thee let Paul’s witness
touching the gentle Gentiles guide us to the gilt abode let
us be able to know the galaxies’ absence wanderings the
fraternal space that silent make the timeless innocence of
a black hole the breath of the blue globe the standing
scum that holds its bit of the holy glory
I was caught by wine’s rejoicment hidden in the veins of
a peaceful drunker sleeping in the door way of misplaced
time dreaming of more wine and the vine that entwine the
last spoken words before falling outward onto the wet
pavement the homeless with their honest history are
fleeing the raiment rain’s rampage raging downward from
a boastful busted cloud that leak its load into the cold do
we care to know where the homeless goes when the silent
cold blows against a thousand souls with their wants of a
warm roof a fire to sat beside in the darkness of an
abandoned building that tersely remember the lives that
once lived within with the drunker we began opening a
bottle is within the memories of his hands hands drunk to
the bones fumble and rest heavily on the thigh

I was caught and held accountable for the Lord’s body

and blood seen in the sacrament of a token race that ate 144  
manna in the desert of drunk mountains where the
announcing forest give shattering shelter to the vespers
calm claims of thank be to glory of God the Supreme
Creator of the light and darkness that lend a preparing
way to the uniting morn and eve that blade them both we
call the day let us pray to the Father’s daughters and sons
all that is living under the sumptuary sun the whole secret
of the Father’s kindness kingdom for all life is kindred be
it red or green blood in the venational veins and vine of
living things that cling and climb none above none below
all the children are equally loved all that drink the water
of the rain all that absorb the warming rays of the sun and
that self same self-giving self-generator of light is the
self-fulfilling gentleness of the Lord

I was caught by the dark color of coffee that flood my

eyes in a rage of bowel movement filtering the
Mississippi in its rushing run toward salvation’s seeds
sown by the teaching of the Holy Spirit singing a hymn to
the electric untouchable water from the angles eyes when
man have forgotten to give them their duded praises they
can not go their way without the witness of man’s
personal prayerful permission entering the wings of their
ears they live within the playfulness of our forgiveness in
the heart of our mind are they kept divine dressed in the
fine clothing of a rhyme their speech gather about us
where two or three are gathered together in their names
where the five pillars holding up the celebrating food of
God where Jibril and Mikhail and Isralil and Azrail
announce the coming of the lord the angels record your
deeds all your doing under the sun they miss none going
before going behind all between Radwan and Malik the
mystical seats where believers shall find their final rest
keeping the company of the worst and the best

I was caught by the plastic pathic flower’s ancestral 145  

cynosure of intellectual beauty frozen in a milkweed seed
where the sweet secret sweat of needs to spread with the
wind’s speed is a thing unto itself Monkar examine me I
am a lovely yet lonely seed in the wayward wind unheard
heading toward the gravid grave of your domain a sudden
refugee of anarchy looking for the new heaven to be
found on earth where the washing-of-the-mouth
ceremony is renewed by the city God where the dead
Osiris voice is heard in the wings of a bee heading toward
the four-o clock heard in the buzz of a following fly heard
in the song of a moaning morning dove heard in the
scamper of a squirrel up the trunk of an old muliebrity
mulberry in full purple fruits hanging a free gift from
nature for birds and squirrels a-like a-like your desires are
as wild as a spider’s instinct to web they are sticky to
catch to coach and collide when the web tinkle too heavy
to hold a full load of a little night music told to the
serenata notturna dancing of the bees toward the blossom
with its white wild beauty the wilderness is everywhere
from the fly buzzing about my bedroom to the line of ants
across the kitchen floor the more we try to shut it out the
more the more the more Chopin’s opus 9 no. 2 follow the
fly the ants are marching to the tune of finding food and
if I was a whisper I would blow a low soft Porgy and
Bess Summertime into your Ain’t necessarily so ears
cocked to craw across the blues falling from gospel in the
church of the hail Marry full of grace the censors smoke
with its self doubts curving where the red robe split the
smoke into hail Mary full of grace how does your garden
grow tell your Son if he does not know that the poets
have come to right a wrong done in a pertinence to war
the suffice of youth giving its life the sacrifice the all
most suicidal listening of the sensitive thumping a wind
done found itself into my empty pockets kind-of-a-thing
keeping me company when I step without a rhyme
without a time signal found in the erratic motion of 146  
falling forward in a dance with air I got a wonderful
feeling that I got one more mile to go

I was caught by the brilliance memory of a butterfly’s

metamorphosis published in the dream shelter where
imminent immigrates of the sun and the insecure
institution of the fisted first word spoken fell upon the
children of Israel let there be light said the soft flesh of
the future wind let the whispering of waves be upon the
world the embodiment of hallucinated advising voices
empathizing emplaced with gayety let there be man said
the pusher shepherd of the underlining undying host let
him not depart from the smoking shadows of the
awesome answer to life caught in the spell of death let the
children of the sun find their Ka under the burly burning
fumaroles forgotten and forgetting the fatigue wonderful
working of the earnest earth
I was caught by Pharaoh’s dream of the begotten
corruption turned to withstand the affliction of the
admonitory function of the sodomites burning in the
church of the effeminate papal’s papaw decree tattooed
on their skin of the fat belly priest where the
conquistador’s contemptible consumption for the desires
of the native Gods was blinded by the golden hunger of
their own bloodthirsty polished plasticity of God’s
corruption sacrificing the tho shall not kill in the name of
the calling of savages and red skins nearly naked in the
heat of the green light of the juicy jungle

I was caught by the sumptuous penances of genetic blood

flowing in its madness down the tiled corridor of laughter
where is heard the deafness of stars fitted out in the
greater darkness that is a holy thing in its own right and
the rightness of a humble homeless wild woman’s 147  
suffering for life is fitted out in the desensitized darkness
of St. Louis her divided desires is for a wareroom’s
warmth and food
She waits in the collateral cold at the bus station a jounce
journey never taken she wait the shrill arrival of a bus
from the good life full of the welcoming wellness that she
knows will come

I was caught by the unfathomable horizon rejoicing to be

renewed by the beautiful ancestors of the flowering
razor’s response to a new day let the sunlight cut its way
at the edge of darkness fleeing the space that it holds
captured let the earth restless motion command the
working of man to lay his worrying head toward the cone
that points his sleep and let loose dreams famished and
choked and desolated of hope explode by the geometric
weight of the particular interest sacred with its
repetitively rhythmical supernatural knowledgeable
utterance of the impulses that transpose the daylight seen
associations obvious to the eyes awaken by the sound of a
cognitive imperative beating to the beat of a hardy heart
heard in the ears of a awakening clock

I was caught between the redemption of the precious

unclenching memory and passing descent of a wedding’s
splendor hung on the famished vomit of an acute sky
where birds flying like flung feathers tatter to their
shadows follow the inbred migration’s path written in
memory on the roadless sky with its primitive pattern of
clouds enduring the serviceable winds of an integrated
individuality free flowing blowing above the crowed
underground where the social reality in its greasy
sickness of economic enterprise both intellectually and
physically living by instincts and passion their hands with
their remembrance of the forceful hum of the machines
drunk on oil stripping the poor of their earned energy 148  
the poor in their irritation of making money organized the
mute forces of their lives dreaming of what they can not
buy with the small currency that have driven them below
the radar of a fat society dripping its droppings like a
sudden rain shower they are thrown a juicy bitter bone
rich in marrow to keep their eruption wet so that it will
not bust into flames they are kept in check tied to the
breeding ground and are told to pull themselves up when
the money greased runs of the ladder start on the tenth
floor where they are not allowed if they can not grease
the palms of the doorkeeper who check their bank
accounts the poor are against the poor they are taught to
fight among themselves in a blaze of glory for the limited
commodity to lose their motion for self determination to
keep to themselves the inner frustration they are a
commodity bought and sold manipulated upon the market
where everything have a cash value even unique identity
the rebel poet who puts his poem in the mouth of the
folioed but they prefer Hallmark the underground man in
his dark damped habitat knows nothing of Dostoevsky
society forces him into drudgery beneath the weight of a
richly dressed bureaucratic house filled with the latest
gadgets their screams are heard and ignored beyond the
gated community where the poor manicure the static
lawns feed the children enbolded and enfolded by riches
and wash the expensive dishes and take out the trash of a
throw away beauty that conjure up a function of a feast
set before the anti-hero forbidden to eat of the bounty
born of an idea of commerce where the brutality of the
mass man hunt the darken streets for the weak such is the
sterility and frustration of modern man locked by want of
work in the diseased noise of the city the poet as hero
lives among us ciphering off our misery rehashing our
joys showing us off they do not ask to be forgiven or
absolved for walking on the outside of social pressure
they go about swallowing the body of our emotions 149  
eating our stupidity they are drunk on the social
alienation of our young they purge us of our banality

I was caught by the landscape of an axial skeleton playing

a concertina of buffalo skin in the last siphoning of an
emptied rhetorical answer to the spontaneously slipped
thought of a question’s deprivation of time crumbling
before mental space can recognize its schizophrenia
reality the real thing is the secret of the breath the give
and take shyly so simple a thing that is left to its own
devise the skeleton hidden house our stringent strength
our psychosexual pseudocyesis needs pregnant with its
own desires to feed off a Tom Waits’ love song sung to
the serious solitude of a moral isolation causing
loneliness for the death of the romantic hero’s alienation

I was caught by the knowledge of the computer and held

for ransom until the butterflies paid it with their colors
I was caught by the junk mail of the bible when the
dreams of the mulberry tress went weeping for the time
of forgetfulness caught in a sparrow’s throat and the rope
that binds time’s future past and present is frayed by the
four divine madness that takes hold of the soul madness
of Eros madness of Apollo madness of Dionysus madness
of inspiring frenzy by the Muses take control of me and
let my words flow the arrogant words of a whorl the
silent sun drenched words caught in the eastward ear the
babbling words of a rainbow the fragile words that knows
the indocile snow that blows the putrefying words that
told a tale tepid before it explode the worried words of
where words goes the squatting words restless and bold
the hunger of words to know their busy meaning the
brutality of words fitfully fighting a foreign war the
essential concentration of joyful words spoken toward
love I love you I love you I love you quickly loosing its 150  
meaning the words of rain drops broken on the concrete
the words of wind spited by tree branches the words of
the sun absorbed by the skin the words of the moon
reflected in an eye the torpid words prostrated before the
drowning of their meaning the persistent words gnawed
by tenderness the bitter bite of words itching for a fight
the God given glory of words the stagnant heaviness of
words spoken in the wee hour of a surprise scandal the
devouring words heard in the washing of the sea words
tortured and tongue tired on the edge of poetry dear
Muses give me the words to set the soul free let my
madness speak the working of the world let me be the
cognitional conduit by which you speak let me not hold a
tiring tongue but run with workable words in the
underbrush of meaning I will be your piercing pious
mouth piece all for poetry the poor try alone lead me not
dry of your boldness
I was caught by the connected consumed name of Osiris
sleeping for a thousand years in the make ready of the
Egyptian Book of the Dead by the president tomb in the
upper region established by the cycle of the Gods that
have made eternity a thing long for hail to the coming
forth as a soul that lives in the tomb of existence I am
yesterday and tomorrow held in the eternal present is all
my knowing within the dilatation of my needs the hiding
place within the eye of the honest Horus in the open face
of Ra his rays of light in the uppermost part of heaven is
forwardly freely given to the mind of man who have
committed faults witnessed by earth he shall pass
judgment on his children’s impotent revolt concerning the
straightway of a shining egg taken away by the Lords of
eternity they shall lend their strong glorious
transformations of the dead to ferry them across the river
Styx where one man’s God is another man’s demon and
still all the Gods are clothed in many names still they are 151  
the same a God is a God is a God is a God call them what
you will under the cracked sky under the foliate screams
of progress under the sensitive escape of childhood under
the sluggish shadows of a breath under the fingers of the
starch wind under the amused amulet of the mooring
hand of the moon upon the ocean under the sufficient
unencumbered property of the body under the intellectual
knowing of a Stellar Jay in a Aspen under the
philosophical ruminate of a worm under the government
of bees under the order population of ants under all the
doing of nature do the Gods look in wonder but still they
can not enter to intercede while all along knowing our
limitation under the old demons of disorder poets are
tricksters to the Gods they are angels made flesh swift of
feet to edge you toward rebellion they speak our
unconscious fears and anxieties thus expelled from the
new order of the great society
I was caught by the triumph bones and limbs of a blue jay
recently escaped from the underworld of a fur coat worn
by the watcher who looks after the chamber hawk to
make a tooth pick of its feather to make a necklace of its
skull and a bracelet of its claws waste not want not as
mutually mature nature make no waste of flesh and stone
all is consumed as a consummated deed or used the
feeding of will be fest upon when we give up the ghost of
host on the floor of earth where the tepid never tiring
smoothing heat of the daylight light escaping the
collapsing heat calm and encircling half the face of earth
with its heaviness held tight in the vast bristling darkness
of the far away heaven wild and willing to give up its
secrets to the dazzled indifference requiem song of
motion light and daunting darkness dense worthy weight
against the eyes of a new born knowing little of the
working of the wholehearted world with it tasty rain and
succulent snow falling like a thousand alleluias flung by 152  
the prayers of wind whispered in the ears caught by
winter’s spoken message of mercy weather is the fruit of
the world it is an example of freedom beyond us it is the
limb of the whole the world wage paid a suffrage that can
rage pestilences necessary to the working to the whole the
world can only save us for so long with its sensual
longing for life and death the latter a formidable response
to the former father death and mother birth both the new
born shall inherit and come to know so

I was caught by my race looking for a scapegoat to hang

on the teeth of the wind blowing above the bed sores of
St. Louis’ northern earth section where I cried out earth I
tried not to doubt you and I tried to ask for your
forgetfulness in a lean year when your children died on
the stalk before the faces of the birds I have tried to
worship you in an assault of prayers prayed to your skin
when my breath burned below its animalist longing I tried
to speak for you when it seem that your salvation was in
doubt again the risk that man is willing to take in his
needs to use up the forest for the emerging headline of his
doing I tried to rendezvous with your sketched and
beautiful seas holding a bounty of life suddenly born by a
transmittable birth in the watery landscape from which all
our human life swam I have tried with the smallness of
my humble human mind to recognize that you are the
divine that hold man in your sway O HOLY HOLY
HOLY O nature of the disappearing child nature of the
abash abuse man’s eternal sadness is issued in your use

I was caught between the eastern horizon of heaven and

the boundaries of divine food set before a spoken word
equipped with thorns and skin bells ringing everyone to
dinner to dine their bellies full with the knowledge of
crises held in the expendable expense of Black Birds’
routine dying the death of the living in due time all shall 153  
go the way of this descending into the earth and it shall
be full of the unknotted bones when earth have eaten our
flesh for its own nourishment and the blood of your
naked beauty primitive and enormous in its astonishing
development of ancient tiny fugal figurines of lesser
Gods grotesque effigies painted the color of your skin
Goddess of fertility now lost in an age of abortion
Goddess of exaggerated pragmatism when their voices
was heard in the eye-to-eye possibility of a fragile
executioner that hides his face faster then the persistence
fleeing awaken dream fading on the tip of the mind

I was caught by the baptized growth of a broken man and

the prophet of the sun in his empty church where the
stained glass of memory is written in blood on the lullaby
of night and the innocence of the pews holding the good
book are rooted in the succulent bedazzlement
invulnerable to the sinners knocking at the doors the
ground wake to the sounding of your steps toward the
alias of a church call it what you will earth is the house of
worship where all your sinecure sins are revealed and the
officiant sun and moon know your doings in them shall
be found oldfangled redemption redolent and reductive
all the days of your warm forgetfulness from the cradle to
the grave are the changes made toward amendment

I was caught by the inundation of night’s sarcophagus

where the enemies of the million of green beginnings
caught in the heart of the season of fire burning itself
toward the destroyed Gods that rise like red smoke to the
blue grey clouds of rebirth are raining for their lives
night’s geometric folding of darkness cover the bruised
earth bearing the buried innocence’s common to telling
lies of poverty under the silent sun’s age under the finally
faithful air exhaled to assassinate the council of current
accumulated in the breath under the manifested universe 154  
born from the first waging word walloping its way in the
empty space of nothing while nothing is something in
itself emptiness is filled with itself

I was caught in the splendor of an importunate revolt

driven back into its sour landscape where it was driven
mad by the young green fireflies that pray on flowers
under the cover of darkness lit by a prodigious moon with
its flameless lips with its powerful promises with its
missionary vengeance its convulsion of light giving life
loudly to the earth bound born tattered to the world by the
majestic hidden hands of gravity by the trembling silence
tugging at the ocean of drunkenness without remorse the
sad face clarity of the moon is looking down on St. Louis
hidden in the shadows of collapsed darkness hollow and
horny in the slumbering daunting personal dreams roving
across unlocked doors of the mind set free to work their
mystical magic of time and spacious inner visual
imageries as thin as thoughts as wide as the limitless
landscape and the private transparency of the sleeping
mind where the divine meaning of thunder and rain the
strange formation of clouds in dreams are the speech of
silent Gods that wait upon the coming of darkness to
reveal their holy incantations to those willing to face the
dream omens split of its hidden meaning that quickly fade
in the face of the approaching light the midnight Gods in
their healing purulence ooze slowly their meanings till
they solidifies into the justifiable revelation witnessing to
the doing of a blemished blessing bold and bloated by the
blizzard’s blooming vitality

I was caught by the vintage wind blowing the ash of a

dead love that die when it ran out of dying time spent on
the edge of a living tepid silence desolated by the muffled
half-light of a burning phoenix’s symmetries held near
the Gods of spoken lies against me where I have 155  
weighted my righteousness in the stability balance against
the weight of words raising from the breath words as
tough as molten metal with its majesty motion of a north
wind iron writing of the God of rhyme in the triumphant
royal time that make an inspection in the temple that
performeth the work of the underworld a world great in
its mindful meandering manner a real world under the
feet of the God journeying from the great mystery of the
purified heart washed in the blood of the righteous judge
that justify the name of the one great God along in his
found decision of the weigh of the very truth that have
witness the wickedness awash over the world Gods can
only show the way that is the extent of their play with
their human prey they have no hands in which to touch
our lives they have no eye in which to see our sins they
are dumb and blind in their speaking only to mad men
whose minds are open upon the breath of the heavenly
winds offering food in the temple of their souls that
knows the one on one cycle of the true and righteous God
nature the son of no man crying come come be the one
God of our lives

I was caught between the trophy of the past and the

estimative roulette of the future where the die is castled in
the funeral fire of a secret burning within but can not tell
time to save its life in the lie told to the motion of the
wild winking wind that witness to the fact that there is no
fault in the body of man’s knowledge of himself that the
double intent of the angry avenger of a beautiful beloved
royal scribe praising the burial rite victorious advocate of
a God born to the empty empts enemies of order where
the hero’s dreams of the happenstance of his happiness is
hung on the mockery of his vision by the industrialism
complex structure of its inhumanity that eat into the
consciousness of a capitalist world this neglected poet as
hero rejected by the industrialized society that painfully 156  
gave him birth is one with the God of the join noises of
an embrace when everything is about the flesh of the
nothing of peace of the forgettable dissolving nonsense of
an invisible instant caught secretly by the primordial
underground man frustrated by the meaningful sterility of
the streets where he peak his violence of a repeat in the
disease of mass society always looking for a scapegoat in
which to hang its murderous discontents of the poor as
freebasing freeloaders who fore board the oars of a
commercial ship that can not sail without them

I am caught between a field of weeping dominant demons

decked in dread that have lost their reasons for being
when man have not forgotten how to blame the cold and
curse the organized winds despise the ocean’s fervors
round roar and hold the sun in common contempt and
refuse the flame with it beautiful yellow beneficial
burning because of their satisfied distance of coming
onto the land where man have built his homes along the
spited rocks the fault line of fire is between Tiglath-
Pileser I. the Assyria and Jesus the Jew it runs though the
new born whose boom birth forever now bound to
breathing shall come to break upon the human stage and
wage his generational wants and needs against the ruling
age as the ancient that have gone before in their moment
of glory in their utile youth passing the diadem day by
day youth shall grow to wage their swords words far
above the common fray they shall come to fill life with a
thrill and still their skill above the loud love of man long
and strong in the heart and brain shall again being pain
when the weed bleed a dressed tenderness down near the
ground where thick life keeps its stronghold of the true
judgment of heaven nature does not repent what has went
has went what will come will come of its own accord the
undone nature of nature keep time tugged tight with life 157  
from river-bed and wild woods from day breaking down
on dew studded blaze of grass to the sleepy eyes of a
Rock Dove under the overpass

I was caught by the early morning final edition sweeping

across the sky in its last hurray toward a place where five
weeks are fishing for more time before time tells it to get
the hell out of sight of the incrusting roar raging across
the length of a moaning monsoon the riot rain rain down
rain its all the same in the weather game come what will
we feel the warmth we willfully want what will come on
and on and on the rain that puts you in a thicket of trance
the stubborn rain in the healthy forest of an incorruptible
knowledge of a blackjack oak the inalterable judgment of
rain and wet wind caressing the agriculture of bees the
dead rain of the gutters the air touched skin of the rain
slicing its way with courage the thousand eyes of rain on
the dahoon holly’s dreams it never rain in my drifting
dreams that storm me over nightly with its thunderous
news the noise of Gods snoring away their sleep falling
from the incrusting confusion of raw water

I was caught by the judgment challenge of a feller day

where the cult of contemporary justifications increasing
its tempo spurned by a recalcitrant nostalgic brotherhood
of trees went robbing the sky of its moisture in the
fulfilling sense of its needs strung around the necks of the
mosquitoes’ oligarch where blood is the fee to be paid in
exchange for displeased disease placed by the female
proboscis in the vein of the consciousness of a mental life
where the interior dialogue toward an exterior sensation
of our deepest indigent identity is felt by the sixty
thousand milliseconds with their illusion of time where
we fall in and out of the consciousness of precipitous
insight we clinically climb in the mosquitoes’ feeding is
found a rhyme toward the continuity of artistic phonemes 158  
rapture played out without our knowing the knowing of
the self is a life long learning a fitting snugly into ones
own skin is the easy part while the peace of mind is a
harder thing to find when the costume of consciousness
masquerading beyond the slumbering somnambulistic
waking walking its worrying way in the dense darkness
darting in and out of the view of the doorkeeper of an
opened mouth where the earth is in its gladness and the
beautiful energy of ever day is fondly found in the sudden
sun the wandering wind the Moorish moon which is
within the cycle of the Gods working their wonder

I was caught by the alcoholic mud’s consumption lying in

the vicinity of a child’s hand where the condition of the
negroids is written in the sixteenth fact of March 16 1911
of American law of mistreatment the American motion
toward violence the American knowledge of knowing
how to sell how to wage a war with the worried wayless
weasel words spoken wedding of killing and never
nervously forgiving the death in the American grain
Williams Carlo Williams your poems sing the voice of
the masses who do not know the nonchalant of your
name in which Spring And All plays the game of
watching a wheel barrow glade with rain there is an
uncertainty in Americus toward poetry as mute sootiness
saved for the educated with their dead locative
locomotive gaping at the mindful meaning of the
promises of poems written by the intimate inmates of hell
when the poet bring you to silence fading into the air like
incidental incense smoke from the sinner’s sensor held in
the hand of your newly naked enemies who will come to
clothe themselves with the unguent earth humble enough
before their jailers doing the busy business of the
executer bustling their gigantic conflagration of poems
force-fed with bones and soup and proclaimed pestilence
that sing a song of the intelligence convocation of 159  
omnipotent fat blood mixed with the water of life found
in the veins of nocturnal Gods’ conquest of the quivering
dawn with its rustic skin of reptile ripening rubbing its
belly along the ground hung out to dry on the tree of
knowledge where woman’s willfulness is tested before
the fall from grace that self-same-tree incredibly planted
wait to welcome us back with our snake skin boots as a
pay-back

I was caught by the jailer of the wilderness who has lost

his keys in the damp grass of germination where his heart
was possessed by the adoration of the everlasting I am
who I am I am the one God I am the father Adam of your
fall I am the snake that call I am the all knowing all I am
the armor-plated wall of life that you bust your head upon
in your head rush forward to be one with your Gods
irrepressible in the half-light vigorousness that sleeps in
the deaf mirrors full of boredom that call to you to
conjure up the fearfulness found in the dark and damp
forest where the poets have lost their way with their
immortal breath of storms raging as poems found in the
dumpster of his stories of history where the secret power
of poems is that they can go assassinating the societies
with their regent rigidity notion of conformity that seeks
to control the mass man and the mad man seek to
marginalized and ostracized the poets who do not denied
that the weigh of the world is within them that the name
on the door of a poem calls for rebellion to free the soul
chained and shackled bought and sold to the highest
bidder the poet of peace shall be offered as a sacrifice to
the war goers going full of zest when the last scribe in his
holy incantation spoken before the body of his poems
was set in gold and nailed to the skin by the beautiful
disposition of a bountiful punisher of the sin eater driven
away into the madness fornication of the Gods that have
carried off the milk from the baby’s mouth and turn back 160  
the would be free falling water stillborn in the grey
bellies cries of clouds bloated with their watery wears

I am caught where all the trees have fled from my

backyard in the swift tail wings of the persecutor of the
evolutionary that cover his eyes with the impossible
mirror where time stands its ground against a dead man
walking toward his misplaced grave we grieve and gave
through the gavage tube of the nourishment of the graven
image aged and allied by the botched hunger that rage in
the flame’s licks of desires to consume the exploded
dreams’ violent against a restless sleep full of time told
patience detoured by the snore that sing its breath full
lilac and lavender full of the volcanic scream to belong in
a world where the mountains are renewed by throwing up
by turning itself inside out by liquefaction the land slides
into the sea when the earth shakes its backbone back
against the fault line where the advancing indifference
percussion of thunder roars its bristling motion full of the
collapsed air that conspires with a crack of lighting that
light up the heavy gray sky full of anxious rain nervously
advancing on the fraternal breathing of a new day’s
daylight bristling in the heat of a heat wave on the tip of
the sun’s tongue licking in lapses the long laid longing
laborious like the love-struck escape faint confession of I
love you spoken above the went that was sent toward the
same love that came in the same for-get-me-not that
forgot the time of year here in the prime time seen that
have been both holy and lowly in the always day that
change the range of the darkness standing on its head
filling the dumb air that come with the unfurled wind full
of the weight of pain that have shaped itself full of the
pull toward the rain of the face of a race killing itself

I was caught between the cripples, the blind and the lame
that are like grapes on the vine in the churchyard of the 161  
unconscious felines on their nightly journey through the
alleys of a dark and hidden psyche keeping to the
shadows sleeping in the winter hands of trees sleep the
long sleep in a night down range of a flying change that
cling to the silence wings sleep the pace of your place
where dreams are dress in the attire that admire the
harshness of darkness clad in the glad wind blowing true
to the blesses time of crime that is never fair to the
victims who do not forecast their last willingness warmly
for the criminals to admire they are true to themselves
true to the one that is none beneath the spread of their bed
trembling like an unpinned wind full of the flash of the
desire of fire sounding in a rustic barrel fire is thicker
then the darkness of night it moves like a gospel of ghost
toward the host of the air there fast-flowing their great
guilt like a rhyme in time modest as a maiden’s tender
cheeks with her charity charm strung on the earnest nest
of the Father the Son and the Holy Ghost that rest in the
wings of a sleeping Northern Bobwhite in the prostrations
of night force from the spot where it is not asleep in the
slumber that it makes when the sunlight comes like a hark
to its prey that stroke and strain in it last breath before
being slashed in an orgy of feeding

I am caught by a visual purple music of a piano’s sixty

forth note rooted in the head of a thistle the dark practice
and divergent trajectories of a House Finch is the music
found in the heart of an old elm holding the fine feather
friend’s breath full of songs that would howl would be
found would be full of wealthy memory toward the ample
voice of a rumbustious reason sing to me sing to the
hostile horst sing from your throat the time signature of
an unwritten song sing an Ethiopia’s evidence expanded
dark and beautiful ideologies developed by the drum beat
of ancient hearts of the Council of Elders sing the flute of
the wind sing the forest’s quest for a question their green 162  
axis their strong abilities of getting alone sing the toe
hold the mouth the body of an organ’s pipe full of
tendentious toning breath

I am caught by the luminous licit lust of the rain

I was caught by a lie told to the young who are weaving

sunlight with their hair like a bird eating the round moist
meat of the unknown intellectual consciousness found in
the worm’s diagram of the inner earth with its common
music heard by the flooding of the Nile the Nelios river
valley going its ancient way feeding the earth in a yearly
rebirth an eternal flow older then blood in the vein of a
leaf older then the African God of writing the soul into
heaven older then the purification of the heart of the
Muslim Holy war older then the obsolete anguish
memories that fight to be suddenly renewed older then an
outpour of an explosion of fulminatory filariae friendship
of biting flies thundering across the face of the sacrificial
remembrance found in the crusades of the wind found in
the murderous innocence of a mismanaged death of
lynching the dark bark of a tree lynching the throne of the
Sun God now gone the way of the dead Gods guilty of
the white-wash whiners whisper wildly worn by the
summertime beggars bagging across the busted bridge
down by the brown sun done over nightly by a flock of
black birds shock on the first day of May the sucked way
that our minds make of the welcome well into hell blind
yet bold to let us go without a God of our own beware of
the smiles of the wicked Gods quick to smother your
mother in the small matter of living in the skin they will
crucify your needs to believe in any other they take their
jealousies as self-suffering self-indulgent toward doing
harm what will become of the man without a God he shall
go gently into the good earth and become one with it the
roots of trees shall wrap around his bear bones the weeds 163  
of the grave yard shall make of him their homes the birds
shall parch a rest on his grave stone he shall become as
wild as a newborn hence his indifference is of no great
matter the instrument of his flesh will not be lost behind
the dead mind for the flesh must obey the rules set
forward by nature there is no room to play born of flesh
die of flesh born a stone live long born of tree die by thee
born water die the downward wandering to the sea the
water rush and creep deep it sweep steep never undone in
its run

I was caught between a broken but shinning voice’s

equipment with its words of tomb breathing the
hallucinations of Horus where it took ten years to
remember that I were lost among the bewildered disaster
found in a poison flower
I was caught between the do you love me do you not
plucked by each drop of shudder rain with its water spine
broken on a season of memories kept in the flower’s roots
rooted to deafness beside the tamed white stone rolled by
the lotus eaters fishing in the wave’s breaking disorder
and its tumbling smoothing and moving earth back and
forward in the wallow of water where the swaying ship’s
royal dicta published the illegal trafficking in emotions
on the back of the mind all and all time tell all both
demonic and divine all drink the warm water waiting to
be consumed by a thirsty desire of the thin-skinned third
world’s conquered essence captivated and pulsating with
the grandiose immense femininity found in the incrusted
foreign body of racial segregation where the curious
cultural constellation’s urban island rage against the dead
time honestly held by the hygienic conditions of black
ivory the stander daily diet of the sugar plantation
induced the ignoring situation with its fondness for 164  
Caucasian features of the understanding of the
courageous constitution expanding its contemporary to
the blind and divine priest that do the biding of a God’s
egg buried in his body in his belly in his polishing mind
in his absolutely rhymes of a gentle heart dialectical in
the sprouts of spring wearing green beneath the sidereal
discussion on the nature of Gods’ disappearing doing in
the hour of our greatest need where forth are the Gods of
old where do they rest their death with their stalled
blessing hidden in the hands of books and structures of
wooden idols locked behind glass cases in the mausoleum
of the museum untouchable by the hands of children that
look in wounded wonder at the large eyes looking back at
them the dead Gods can not ply their wares in the modern
age where the TV is the technological idol that inform the
capitalism commercial saving of the souls of those who
buy into the knowing glow of the new and improved
where everything looks like new new improved improved
to do you god damn good down to the tools of your flesh
and bones in the end let it not be said of you that you
turned your back on your passion leave not your answer
blowing in the wind against the grey grave stone where
the ravens take their rest let not the primal element of
your essence go unfulfilled be as the inner structure of
Nature one with itself literally divine drawing from its
fountain of splendor that the canonized saints of poetry
worshiped in the age of old modern poets give us more of
the unguided instinct of the world give us more of the
everywhere music of Nature poets dwelling in your royal
solitude of transcendentalism be not the unimportant
wandering sorrow stricken man that other will make of
you hold Nature by the hand and go boldly into the fray
the fast fray that flows pass your door of the divine
significance of your old soul be a priest of the street to
meet head-on the open secret of the universe be the
enlightener of daily life the learner and the doer invent 165  
and devise let your suffrage serve the poor and down
trodden that labor to know their God in a seemly Godless
world where before their eyes in their lungs is the
ultimate knowledge of God life is the answer go the wiser
wider way to see that we are all soldiers fighting the same
battle which is life warriors cut from the same clothe the
skin we ware go to those who worship the idolatry of the
Bible the idolatry of the Koran the idolatry of the cross
all man made and worshiped idols all against the divine
beauty of all natural stand you beside the God seen and
not upon It that is imagined let all men come to believe
for himself let him not fall pray to the dead formulas of
the so called words of Gods the here-say written in by
gone days and have not stood the test of time to be
reverence divine free your poems filled mind full of the
restless feelings fleeing the Sunday mornings following
just behind you like the true daughters of the pain of
labor born out of the black whirlwind of a struggling end
coming to grip with the grief of its self its essential parts
lagging alone lifeless as a choir of angels singing the
rigors laws of heaven

I was caught by the dealer who keeps his nocturnal

musical strength decadence and greatest need the
mythology beast of burden that support the needs of an
emergence is built upon the ethnic isolation that foster the
caste system of a quivering apparition embracing the
fraternal earth assuming the confinement of a petty
apocalypse where the revelation is written out on the skin
of a virginal God deciphering the last rite of a dying night
full of stars’ pin point light caught where silent is more
eloquent then words the brief swift decisive silent almost
military a silent passionate with its quick abrupt
loneliness like a pale rage being itself a physiognomical
self that mark its matter as if woven of rainbows
166  
I was caught by the last song to be heard in the inner
mind of a baby sparrow dreaming of flight from the blue
jay’s fight with spread wings and cocked beaks they are
losing their color to the cloudless sky full belly out in
light where sunlight bid you fair-de-well and only the
sorcerers and whoremongers can stand to tell what the
third angel pored from its vial of skin as true as the blood
in the veins common knowledge of being human is all the
same all men drop their pants to shit all women squat to
piss all babies need not be taught to smile or to squeals
out a sneeze or be caught up by their primate needs not
yet old enough to know that the singular mind hold itself
as the center of the wanting world and by it are we
forever along with a self that none can get to know what
we show as a royal corpse propped up on stones is the
selfish self we wish other to know still our own on the
edge of the nest the sparrow sit unsure of flight but edge
on by some inner need to take to the wing so are we and
everything find the need to spread and fly the coop it is a
divine order of life poets let you fly on wings of words
wrought from their rough heart’s blood

I was caught by the vision of an ant crawling over the

final face of the fallen not yet let loose long enough to be
over grown by the middle breathe of sand in the little
moon of the lunule air of the lungs not yet old enough to
grow cold in the desert the body of this youth bear the
bullet’s bloom that busted open his life into the depth of
death in it he is not alone many youths are gone to a cross
of graves where the tiny flags waving in the wind sweep
air around the grave stones that stand on their own
against the manicured lawn where free flowering weeds
grow the living above the dead is a common thing the
dead with their generosities their clam their voiceless
spectacle free of the miseries and pettiness of the living
are fondly recalled by pictures and pins and military 167  
medals

I was caught by the territorial day hung and drown and

quartered in the hour of it weakest need when the
machismo manumitted minuets swung open the
illimitable seconds again and again and my country tear
for thee when prejudice is held in the trigger of a gun
held by the rope on a tree drag down a desecrated
highway nailed to the cross of our disbelief gassed in the
chamber of our hearts it is in our nature to treat other with
this intimidating intolerable disrespect we alone among
creatures of the earth kill each other so readily as easily
as taking the life of a tree is our murderous need to
disregard the thou shall not kill authoritarian advice given
to Moses in his cognitive actuality hallucination heard
with the ear of his fingers ear of his legs with his whole
body was the voice heard it did command him to offer up
the ten commandments of righteous living within its
control of obedience but we in this day and age go a
oppugning the good words our obfuscation of the rules
have come to rule all our doings

Part V.

168  
The vigil vulture white nails rusting in a black man’s
coffin in the 60 years inch held tight in the fist of a
voluntary night holding its resignations of churches tight
enough to tell you where the purulent puberulent Gods of
fine hair keep their age safe from the warring hands of
man bursting tears by the butcher bucket full where the
clear deep seeking eye lie a little harder

Word stuck in the throat of a wayward need bleeding blue

blooded Gods on the slab-sided slab where the Indians
tom tom the last feather from Wounded Knee and Sand
Creek now kept as a safe keep in the buried forgetfulness
weeping its lost words in the breath’s threshold

O nail in the throat of 1864 your characterized connection

lies wounded by the over ever violent transitional
plantation where the prescribed slavocracy will not die
out of the black man’s living history

When the night ache to see its color kinship chained and
shackled to the sugar machinery of the Santo Domingo’s
night that sweeten the grave not yet old enough to be
forgotten by the yet unborn who shall come to rage their
discovered plot with an independent breath calling then to
the fore front of the house of the negroid commissioned
sun

The body agrees with me that the punishments of the

breaking military busted on the isolated and sufficient
liberation evidence of the stone sunlight is a free gift that
we can not return to the wisdom that have built its house
of banquet spread its knowledge before the consciousness
of a curvilinear cowrie shall with 700 BC inserted skulls
that once housed a reluctance hallucinogenic warm red 169  
Time wounds all heeds on the face of the racial biological
attitudes that go breeding out of control ten thousand
babies of meaning to feel through till that one break upon
a corner of the cross and it all comes back to you

The vestigial Godlike hemisphere is of a magician

articulating a chaotic period of being out on bail out on a
walking toward an incursions into the ready made
important phenomena hung around the neck of a
complexity dressed up in some knuckles of words
moaning the denied being for itself

Development of again and again is a scar longing to be of

some brotherhood’s function as regards the cyclic and
gyres to the dominating obedience and private language
of the Gods with their charred weapon the post-hypnotic
amnesia of the fragmented night the time lagged and
sequencing its reminiscent of thoughts that have long lost
control of the garden wall where religious in the
neurological blanket spread over the presumption of the
schizophrenic effect swallowed by the florid conclusion
that wait on its own ending to be fulfilled

The universal stability of an eternal firmness is

emphasizing it superficial playmate who indicate that the
time of many Gods have come and gone under the wet
fingers of chaotic civilization wounded by the auditory
command of a broken down overpopulation people in the
lock jawed and yet flamboyant living off itself

The sensory recognitions of mammals are caught and

finished by the understanding of dying anxiety proposing
that the catecholamines flowing in the blood of a brilliant
solution that fight-or-flight the adrenal that have 170  
penetrated and been seized by the debris where the errors
and the immediate experience fight to be understood in
the stabile dirt of the finger nails

In the slumbering ambush insolence and sometimes

insolvable where there is no turning back from the narrow
transparency of night in it’s’ air thin blackness is found
the necklines of a vital victorious dream that descend
from the head to the body of locked muscles under the
voracious cotton sheets of body heat sleep is the sanction
of the sanctuary of dreaming

Everything is as strange as I seek the trees on dream it

street love the wind in my mind that wind its way pass
the hunger of stones that sat alone with their mute rage to
belong and I am taken away to where the unfathomable
rebirth of being free is varnished vaguely in my mind
where a vibration of a vexation is viewed as a vicissitude
of a vigorish paid to the virtu of objets d’ art found in the
intimate injunctions’ threshold where the silence that
night makes of despair is rupture on the rude rubato
rhythmically strung on the runabout rundown rutilant
glow of a ruthless rehabilitation

I am that I am lastly written on the walls of the inner skull

there is always room in the head for an insurrectionary
rapids waiting to be lead against the companionships of
an army of emotions all of which I fought against in vain
to reach a knowable knowledge about the here and now

Be my last friend and let us go to the last distance and

find the idealized animal behavior that betray us the
double brain’s clumsiness of exigent expression of an
aphasic arrest is found in the mental function of a
selective pressure toward the pulse plugging plowing the
brilliantly implacable boredom found in the fraternal 171  
endurance of the memories of a child’s hand holding the
present of the future in toll

The end is always just around the corner always out of

sight beside the always goings heart beating in the chest
of a jellyfish’s unstable violent and beautiful rhythm
breathing an empathetic moaning of I love the sea I love
the trees I love the land for its authentic shadows of
ambition its compound of cotton its famished caricature
its whole world complicities its civil rights of life its
demands of fulfilling itself as the trust toward the lowest
life held equal its cannibalistic longing its enthusiasm for
weather its prodigious growth its wild resounding
voyages always full of willfully raw glamour its never
meaning unexpected cruelties its untamable will its
masquerade of disorder its luminous daring to be itself
without regret for it can do nothing less
Flowers nailed to the coffin of an effect’s hiding place in
the netherworld where the self of the self go destroying
the moment of the great strength taken away as a homage
to eternity the nails are rusting on the backside of the
cross the penis of a wayward slave nailed in the town
square O Saint Moses the Black O Saint Cyprian O Saint
Mary of Egypt O Saint Martin de Porres embrace me I
long for your ghost to know my flesh my hands sing your
praises my soul tattered by my skin call out to you of the
dark prostrated before the face of a fieriest forgiving God
my immense guilt are written in the rain and lies stagnant
in the streets of treacheries the turbulence of my sins are
carved in the tree of life I have tasted the forbidden fruit
of a frugal fudge brown skin boy in my youth I have
tasted the frozen scream of a bloody laughter that assault
the swollen labor of the face of a Georgian swamp in
Savanna I am the wayward son the beggar of beauty
bound by the boneless boorish bona fide blue blow that 172  
brakes its bitchy biblical embodied essence on the edge of
an eager night eastward my emotions goes in this body
that hold the last cold call crotched and crowded in my
throat

We are the glorious reasons the victories placed in the

hearts of wicked devils that dwell in the slaughtered
possession of a confusion spilled out across all the then
that done now that we wish to do under the canopy of the
quivering raven rallying in its dark feathers of a flying
circulating strength on the wing the bird laughter is a
song witnessed by the captive tears of cold weather that
persist in the drunken hour glass where time in an elegant
full gallop surviving the sun’s passing into the darkness
of a divine prophet’s memory where is told the ingenuous
compassionate ruins of a blind man’s revolt against the
darkness where he stumble across the stones place by the
seeing anticipation of attention paid to the sound of a
storm raging across the face of a child

You are as I said with your requiem of dazzled seascape

intoxicated by the breath of the knife sharp sea that bark
its ferocious commands below the brilliant bobbing
screams of the candy maker’s son sinking so far away
from his bridge the heart is in the hands of the cranes in
the secret water’s consistency and the swollen wind
pregnant with a fist full of the forbidden anger of Gods
they go down by the cyclone’s breeding season they go
down the smoked column strongbox with vengeful
voices calling the virgin midnight to give up its self-
assured thrust toward the primordial working water

The end is always near there but for fortune may go you
or I the antagonism climate of escaped employment is the
advocate of adolescent Gods when youth was their 173  
repressible glory passing over the unknown force of a
guaranteed cityscape caught in a window of the wind

I remember the day that I wooed you it was a wounding

never mention to happen when the destroying wrought
evil entering the soul of a person can be done in an age of
Gilgamesh why is your heart of stone why is your woeful
heart hard why is your journey along the rocky and
broken path where a mushroom of waltz is rearing up in
its rotating head fanning around the dead leaves of a
sorcerer’s rendezvous with a death’s trick odor blowing
through the wind as a stone in a tornado is far flung up
side down in the crazed motion of its force found going
forward across the Midwest

I am old and settled into my soul it took a while to find

the fit it took years strung out on earth’s astonishingly
self-conscious common sense and a coming to grip with
man’s bastard and backward tongue that have but one day
to celebration the birth of the earth by let each day of a
season beginning be a blessed thing let us worship the
springing of spring the simmering of summer the full
changing of fall the whiteness of winter in a bountiful fest
of eating the first fruit of the season

Don’t cause me blind when the eyes have run out of time
when the currents of a mortal gigantic curiosity is rotting
on the cross of surgical strength do not call me to the
triumphant nostalgia for everything reprehensible and
innocence for I will only be disappointed by the
scrupulous phosphorescence silent issuing from the
original throat that cries out I am all that I can be on the
honest judgment of the constellation

You are one of many committing the phenomenon of life

but still you are one on the arch of the earth with its 174  
spatial succession none before none after none like you
shall pass this way again none with your personal
narrative expression hung on the struggle of your skin
your self-observed self shall leave your mark set in stone
you are one in the brotherhood of a concentrated behavior
of minority sexual preferences you are the inherence of
the primitive civilization astonishing in its rejuvenating
inventory of growth you are one in your skin celebrating
your difference a singular seriousness of mind you are the
one and only divine self of the unfolding destiny of one
call yourself what you will the world await your mark in
the footsteps warm with its individual scent telling where
you go smellable by the bloodhound of time hunting the
unconscious habits of being human you are an original
fulfilling an introspected acts of hopes fears affection
pleasure and desires the worthwhile psychic looking from
within your eyes upon the world that confront you behind
all that you are you are still within the animal life with all
of its huge historical assumptions

What do you call yourself before the face of your

personal Gods before the divine individuality
hallucinating the dead voices of mute egg kept in the
warmth of ammunition shoot off your rounds while the
handle is an alcoholic response in need of your
equilibrium go boldly to the tomb with your gentleness in
tack the divine chiefs wake your victorious stand against
your estate of enemies who can gain no power over you
your distinguished and splendor self goes triumphantly
pass the poets as Gods when the words came on their own
accord and we thought that it was the Gods speaking the
evidence of Vedas revealed in a time of need when the
yoga body is set free in deep sleep unifying in full bliss
the scattering of evils into pleasure and the vital breath is
set free by Atman 175  
I have been taken in by an instance of spontaneous
possession with its illegal traffic smuggled into the
distorted despair of my breathing when it went rhyming
around the hypnotic speech of om om peace peace peace
om I am one with my body one with my tongue om flows
from my lungs and I am not denied by Brahman the eye
is the eye the tongue the tongue the mind the mind the
speech that can not know of itself that can not be heard
by the ears the ethereal speech of the eyes of the touch I
am one fertile as the vegetation that cascade in
incandescence words I am a vessel a mouth piece against
the silence that would do harm I am the poetry embodied
in a poem the dead in the word’s of pray the child’s birth
in the busting of rain the foundation of an insane fatigue
trembling in the harness of a cathedral the untamed
lighting that illuminates the eye of a sleeping sparrow my
rhythm is my measure knocked down by the moon’s
forever light I am an untiring result rehearsed by a
triumphant thrust toward a weary warrior who confess
his systematic apparition irrepressible by the prelude
boredom of the rich pains of hunger that assassinate the
dark muscles of a babe in arm I am the bewildered dialect
of an unturned wind singing its hidden enlargement its
untellable motion full of a melancholy progress
cultivating nothing I am the waterfall all of text steep
deep in the old rolled soul of my bones I am the still will
shine of the divine body of bless and unselfishness of
nature setting aside each living life is her prideful pride
each tongue strung on the exhibition of the submission of
winter to spring to summer to fall all under the star of the
sun’s warmth kept and swept up into the body with each
year there appear the rain soaked leaves on the boughs the
bird’s house of twigs and dead grass and bits of paper a
natural grace of place under eves and in trees is to be
found the beauty of the wild a bit of wilderness survive 176  
everywhere on the earth in the half-hour of a pond
beyond the surface of its water is to be found the plain
wilderness tiny and swift in each drop as crowed as the
sea by degree in nature is the living and the dead wed by
a band in the hand by the blood in the vein by the spark
of a mark of breath is each child born wild by the wicked
red of over worn war the overflow of blood hangs over
the head of a loss life the dead dressed in silence goes
back to the wilderness of life

I have lost my words to a strange name that brought about

the immediate business on earth where time can not tell
with its aphorism that don’t know how to give an apology
each letter of my words are strung on the tip of a second
counting the sudden fresh milk of a madwoman’s
freedom smoldering on the motionless bomb that she
keeps warm in the doorway of her homeless coat
buttoned up to the dawning of a chilled winter morning
I want to kiss every leaf on the tree because I haven’t got
a friend that can bring out of me the astonishing beauty of
my pills of an empty sky filling the eyes as a roof against
the funereal fires of stars with their secret life kept hidden
by a distend cathedral’s sheltering sky where the Gods
gather their counsel of the concuss to see who will be the
first one to come down to earth and catch the scent of
human sweating in the dark damp intermingled growth
feeding off itself in a frizzy beneath the rot of leaves
where the cannibalistic nature of dreams go feeding off of
daylight consciousness seen

I have lost my concern for myself I have given it over to

another God whose discarded breath is an extraordinary
efflorescence exemplifying the give and take
complexities of the brilliant radically charged production
toward making life that crawls across the face of the 177  
world and plant itself in the fertile dirt of language busted
open to bloom all manner of meanings a word’s worth
investiture is intersecting the art of dreaming of a dream
intermingled in the landscape of an enlarged injustice of a
sudden sensation tearing the window pane

In Earth there is such wonder as to set the eyes on a wild

visitation with bear feet conjure in the botched season
where apparitions mounted on the tongue and dialect
dungeon fills the hillside with perpendicularly musical
screams crying out to the praising priests of planting
found under the sun’s dominant domain all that the
priests can muster of the nostalgia murderers who wish to
slain the indestructible howling of the night is to keep
them clear of the original sperm that swum toward the
birth of man where the black race of protectors guard
their children with the only drumbeat that matters that of
the interjection interwoven in the dark chest of a sudden
downpour of the word nigger the Gs rain down from the
murderous mouths of modern black folks with their
sterility and frustration stuck in the dark forest blooming
from their lips the dark and damp dingy muck of the
everyday from which the sons of light have emerged
with the worth of the garden loss in the light of
commodious and numbing novelties meant to keep the
poor inside their religious prison of normality with their
secret reverence for the inmates of hell the hero that have
worked his way outside the scapegoat to be sacrificed the
beautiful underground man that understands the
undercurrent losing its communal structure in the flow of
being one with the diseases of mass society the bread of
the sea the dead of the me the dread of flesh afresh that
confess an old holy odd expressed in the face taking up
space in the place of an hour where the host of hell tell
their spells in a boast in a soft sift that drift its tall fall
down to the gospel gift of the faithful flushed with 178  
faithless fables of Paul Bunyan and Stagger Lee of the
one from Galilee and John Henry down on one knee the
sweat yet to bloom riding like a river of rail ways iron
waves the way water goes when the wreckage of the
tongue’s storm is found wrung warm hanging on the
merciful harm done toward the three numbered form of
God the telling tongue lingering on the tip of a mastery
for words women round in guessing drowned a bonded
blessing bound behind the unkind blow of a deep wind
full of snow that sweeps its cold keeps chillingly
fathering a nightly foot fall fold full of the Gods’ cold
hearing of a heart-broke hum hissing in the opening of
the wind

Man is a fickle creature in his needs for waste the taking

up of space the selling of night in spoon full man the
infinite thoughts of man on earth the infinite pettiness of
being one with time’s told undertow telling the flow of
current that tumbled and turn its way with the triumphant
breath the hunger of war never cease to plague man and
his war machines’ hysterically fighting the quick fight of
a maddening thought of conquest quickly to the glossy
skin of war the gunpowder’s boom bound for a body the
innocent baby born during a time of war shall come to
know the carcass of war laid before the table of peace

Man of the high cities and man of the low lands the last
man’s man have yet to be born in the rumor of a flower in
the absolute solstice silence that gives birth to the original
sediment of the weight of blood the bullet flight to its
found end to the last man lonely with the sacrifice of
vegetation cascading down the weariness of the
wilderness where is found the outrageous noisy shudder
that grows on the skin of the proliferating apocalypse of a
savage consciousness found in the collapses prison of the
skin 179  
Are you the man who is sniffing out the tree of life the
fragile inquisitor’s loyalty that take place in the exhumed
hollow mirage kept for the keeping against a marvelous
blue delirium let loose in the wild impulses red rallying
cries that will push you over the edge of the intertwining
steps leading down to the depth where the memory of
doubt contemplate its own consistency are you the
beautiful and curious green altitude of being human
before the houngan’s dazzled by the odious Oricous flight
across the strictures of the regulation of the body’s
jurisdiction with its command of possibility its sterile
breath under the expired beauty of the ready rain running
around and aground the brown dirt of the earth where
purple passion push aside the yellow yarrow’s low
growth against the tough tongue of the wind
The art of painting with a tooth pick and speaking poems
into a thimble tremor in the body of the last sacred hidden
haunt where art is kept till its time to be brought into the
light ignored by Negros’s’ stringent punishment issued by
the advantages unanimously rejected bloodline that
conjure up a persistence consuming its way into the deep
down well where water is worth all of its familiar falling
from the spine of a swelled cloud raging across the
drunken sky drunk on the degradation of a prayer spoken
into cupped hands of an immense begging for salvation
the rain can not drown itself in the susurration flooding of
its motion for ever seeking its level taking its form from
the pothole that holds it rain of the raucous treasure rain
of the kinship of madness the unleashed laughter of rain
the greenish hour of rain falling and mounting upon itself
rain on rain violence of a cracked and busted open sky the
resounding tiny rivers of rain to the ant’s view in the
kernel hour of a quivering rain electrified by the cloud’s 180  
discharged

The art of crossing the burden of an untied river art of

harmonious necklace rusted around the conspiracies of
corpses art of the incense of anger art of the insoluble
custom of the blacks art of the courageous language of
blood the absolute art of the shivering bondages escaping
the muzzle of the high sea art of the assume essential
Assyrian’s yearning in the flourishing private political
distance art of the double brain’s livelihood caught in the
facial expressions of the simmering volcano rolling down
to the naked juice of the babbling sea art of the
madman’s fertility that have gained the possession of the
splendors hidden in the holy things of a lost moment art
of the anointed righteous strength found in the faithful
balance of the swamp’s hunger art of a putrefying
musical implications flowering in the memories of the
nostril art of the stubborn and swollen irresponsible
torment of the life of the sun untouchable art of a smile
caught in a deaf man’s laughter art of the nocturnal
apparition of the immortal boredom of the shepherds of
tomorrow crying out in the master wilderness where the
nostalgic gravediggers are charting their progress by the
melancholy convulsive complacencies of the tenderness
of prostitution this self same art of words and paints and
stones is the burning of the artist’s passion long held in
the silent of the Gods it is their language undisturbed by
the incredulous suffering insistence foliage of their
knowable souls that must have their say in a world where
the whorls of money changers rule the roost of the
greenback landscape art for art’s sake is the ever renewed
reservation of a germination of an unique ideal freely
given universally when we are summoned to do our
beautiful bidding with the intimate precipitation of a
righteous promise to be true to the art with fierce vigor art
goes about its captivated patience and conquering 181  
breathing of sacred human knowledge

Part VI.

Underneath the infirmary of a random remembered

empire is the rage unbind enthusiasm stealing the stoic
stone of unturned vegetation rooted to the jagged
resonance rictus rocks of a thousand dreams nailed to the
Blackbird’s throat

Underneath the flummox flames of the self is the

wreckage pitched and piled up over the years with the
common complacencies of the most secretive serpent that
bid Eve to eat of the guided problematic stalemate of a
statement of being separated from the knowledge of
living as one with the world

Underneath the collective cognitive imperative of a

reeking time piece in the hand of a deaf and dying death
that never die is the inalienable audible innocence
multitudes of minuets seconds counting away the strong
triumphant hour of an afflicted thirst foretelling the time
when the rains shell find in its falling a familiar reframe
drummed on the heads of the homeless nomadic in their
home-city town where the hero as priest is the original
man of God great and full of fruitfulness in the sphere
that issues the truths of God’s private judgment of
genuine teaching consider as the alternate word in this
shackled world where liberty of judgment is worshiped
by the innermost soul that prosecutes the dead bodies
incredible in their lingering long decomposing lust when
the body’s conversation ends it’s the last of your leaving 182  
town it is the last terrifying concrete of the streets the last
great effort of beginning

Underneath the conviction of a handsome youth who will

be the carpenter of all possibilities is the doubt of his own
divinity in his time of primary prime without leisure and
pleasure extraordinary fortified with the Holy Ghost and
the Leviticus laws of terrestrial omens issued to the
challenge of April violence in Americus going down in a
blaze of glory where the handle of words fresh and
forlorn with a foreign fraudulent fraught of freckle on the
forty hours sacrament of the red brain’s blazes of a blood
train words wed to the strong words of anguish
summoned by the voluptuousness of our memories that
waits the common compound of the tranquil ambition of
shadows astonishing proud and authentic against the
cowardice of a weariness that bumps its polished
caricature against tarnished empty space and say so much
of the nothing prayer’s complitious begging for the civil
rights of squirrel’s quest

Underneath the small likeness of a banishment emptied of

its memories of assimilation in the special exclusion of
uncontested control toward the golden fireflies that drink
the screams of jazz drink the voluptuousness of notes
brilliantly hung on the ears of a howling horniness hung
on the fierce reformer of prophecy is the works of poets
who are the symptoms indispensable and notable of the
representation of our spiritual longing their music is that
of a politician a thinker a philosopher in the old sense of
the great heart of the sacred mystery of good and evil
they toil in your needs of the beautiful eye that sees the
grandiose bubbling self-conscious of being one with
nature let then not go mute reduced to the hypothetical
entertainment of a night out on the town let their spirit
writing music live long alone side your splendid 183  
spirituous notion hung on the cross hung on the
meditation hung on the militant prayers suffering their
repeat beside the bitter bed that belong to the dead let the
master of the moon lit night write a restless right toward
your longing hunger to understand the undertow meaning
of life in their skin they are as you made of the same star
dust down to the dirt of their nails in the huge scope of
things they wear an ever changing wordy ring around
their brain around their tactical hands around the
excitation and inhibition of their needs to teach in their
human form they do not fully understand from where
their wisdom comes breathing the motion’s pulsation and
enclosed in the hummingbird bird’s wings the foundation
of their wisdom is the naked ground where the flesh of
the sea hatch ancestral belongings needed in the
enthusiasm polished measure of a tsunami
Underneath the long drawn out day of counting the
blessing of the righteous I stall and steal one to take to
my longing lover’s essence where he waits in the jungle
of an instant condemned by the shadows of clarity he
waits upon the salvo salvation that cleanse the soul he
waits upon the price that I will pay to keep him solidly
safe in the shape of things to come he waits with the
solitary quest of his restless conflagration of his blood he
waits for the joy of the illegal sodomite he waits to climb
the bones of my spine he waits the freedom found in a
can of beer he waits with his dazzled blood pricking his
skin he waits the discovering of our love renewed daily
by our common concern of the contracted first marriage
he waits the splendid miracle of an union tied by the rules
of the leering Lords he waits with his glorious reason
fortified by my love of him he waits on the personal God
of his rejuvenating ritual he waits the sudden glamorous
glimpses of men attracted by his barely beautifully bold 184  
body he waits the strong gratitude accelerating toward the
biochemistry of our love captivated by its own essence
ignorant of wrong doing

Underneath the moment of release I shall return to the

scummy water where grows a rustic rural penetrators’
color full of the irrepressible odor of the reflection of the
moon the grimy water of a tear with its legal salty rhythm
is falling from the socket’s empty melancholy perfection
on a pilgrimage that can heal the thrust of a heart where
the authentic fantasies of a fish fighting its way up stream
to mate in the last act of its life is the last holy act of its
muscles boys with sticks wait to beat them down and take
their watery wet trophy home bears wait this feast of
feeding on the edge of the tongue of a conceded prophet’s
violence the religion devotion that he carry toward the
destroying of notorious idols that carry the hitherto
idolatrous priesthood’s chastity that seeks to hide women
from the view of men less they be temped men can not
trust themselves toward the concern of the sexes thus
their excuses thus their wanting ways their weakness as
seen in the Koran’s fundamental position where God’s
religion is anathema to the foretold and the seal
messenger is bold of bearing the voices that they bare
within and within the throbbing of drums heard in the
ancient city of Thebes is the astonishing sleep of an
antiseptic brown skinned clockwork ticking down the
hallway of a tough happiness branded and tattooed with
shedding shadows that drip drop by drop down the arms
of a secret need to feed an undisturbed approach of
tomorrow’s tongue wagging its extreme future found in
the foreground of a presumptuous mirror where is seen
the rotting meat stuck in the teeth of extinction

Underneath the dead weight of the long held head of a

hallucination the I die its long concern with itself the I 185  
forever along in the body’s self contained profound
loyalty the I of the universal remorse of a battleground
where the life of the I is ruptured on the comradeship of
warring armies the I that displays its special singular
shadow beneath the I of the substantive sun the brutish
battle of the I waging war with itself the I tendentious
tenderly promising to repeat its confession the madness
of dreaming the I alive in a world of we where the
invention of the soul the dear metaphor of psyche the life
force the after death survival of the I the I with its buried
appurtenances of the living the flourishing I in poetry’s
mystical secrets indeed embodied in the difficult
firmament of the technical beginning of the I its complex
migration throughout the vocabulary of the dead that can
not silence the Gods caught like exhausted languages
common to the spontaneous linguistic of flowing water
the ancient life of the I with its exaggerated fugitive red
globular eyes witnessing the ravages of Christianity in the
new world the I of the hieroglyphic and hieratic writing
of the old world where the admonitions of the God of I
carrying the weight of the world its heaviness hardly the
weight of a hair pin in the whispering solar waves of
winds that hold fast each the planetary bodies in their
places among the stellar stars I am that I am is all there is
to be said about the I in the ultimate constellation of
enterprise’s profusion and extraordinary anger of a long-
haired God eating the prayers of the faithful

Underneath the memory of Yang-Shao rooted in the

finally fading away of consciousness is the specialization
of time told by the rudimentary revolt of science against
the divination’s complexity of successive discovery that
all Gods are passive in the divine meaning of thunder
human-shaped Gods awaiting our death are listening to
our time told breath that will wane when the whole of the
body can not be sustained and we shall go the way where 186  
those have gone before death is coming with its eternal
cloak of silence it will not be denied of its old time
relationship with life it will capture all even those who
fought will the miracle of pills to retain the life giving
force that has no name the body the spirit the soul the
later holds the two in check the yin yang fire and water
feminine and masculine passive and active good and evil
we hold all in the body of one we are the inherit of the
light and dark we are the do-gooder doing wrong we are
the song in the sweet old world that long to be heard by
the sizzling flesh of the night with its head on the
shoulders of the moon we are the desolate dexterous
desires wishing to be fulfilled by the two handed splendid
strength of a young curfew indestructibly howling at the
maddening gesture of the terrifying night that hides all of
our fears in its dark and damp corners where the curse
moaning the floodgate of its throat screaming the eclipsed
smile of a sweet nothing found roundabout the out
castled tended with their righteous renewed glory of
being difference as a criminal act

Underneath the essential point of nothingness is the tepid

self-conscious language of the putrefying words spoken
into the ear of an enormous nauseated day that grows on
the skin of the year again and again in the turning away
from and the coming forth into the eternal gas of the
sun‘s light time is unconscious of its own passing it is the
motion within that knows the murmuring stimulating of
an unrecognizable melody the music of a provoked
divination that honor a particular inscribed ordinary
physical force found in the fountain’s intoxication its
impaired ballistics balance bound to fell when the muscle
of music shows its blue eyed prisoners locked away from
the blueness of the sky show them the partial freedom
found in the standardization strangled by the straitened
that walk the big boned day incarcerated by a done killing 187  
done with killing kindness we are the prisoners of our
Gods with their goodness glued to the guardian of the
devil’s patience pride in being himself we are the jailers
who will lock up the day with our living dangerously
with our cruelties once caged by the Gods that lived
beside us we are the bloodshot measure rouged and
hinged and spited out into a world of drunken tress
blooming their needs of gratitude for the air that we give
them their enthusiasm of glamour their Christianized
sleep resounding in the roots ecliptic and untamed by the
Unfathomable foundation finished in the year of our
blessings given in the tattered cover of woodland pattern

Underneath my secrets the red headed boy is calling my

name and I must go to answer to his youth for the things
that I did in the calamities embrace against my
confinement of the dazzling latitude assuming the solitary
of a traced laughter in love with the sound of the
whinnying wind whiling around a thought caught in the
throat of the innocence of a forest’s approaching the
elsewhere of tomorrow’s strength the spacious tomorrow
that transcend all assumptions of its promises tomorrow
that innocencely murder today with the knife edge of the
sun’s light shooting across the curve of the never ending
horizon the red headed tomorrow of a boy’s secrets held
in his stigmata’s hunger to be a man is calling out his
youth to make amend for the boyish thing done in the
grip of his midnight tumultuous and luxurious sexual
passion that bears the burden blossoming from the head
of his prick the milk of his children yet born the seeds of
those to come the swimmers forever in search of the
futility of an edge of an inward egg born in water some
die because of it in the plane that crush into the face of
the sea the tanker the spills its oily load loud on the
abandoned faces of the Gods mentality profound of their
man knowledge confusion of the authority of the self 188  
where the wind is an omen and the act of the sun a
divinization mentioned in the hallucination of a rebellion
against the absence of Gods when their breath is
everywhere felt by the god-obedient hierarchies of the
greater importance of the face-to-face breath-to-breath
immediate past pasting into the O Lord, the firm cult-
center Lord the one who is Son the wise One that comes
forth alive by the mouths of babies their trickster culture
with its destructive forces of the God’s ambiguous
achievements for the youth to comprehend the normality
of the real life stillborn notion

Underneath the counterfeit blazes that lick and leaps

toward the intimate vengeances tossed between tongues is
the face of a nauseated night that is hiding the weight of
the world where the open face of earth’s air is exposed to
the indifference requiem sung to stars in the wide opened
space of the heavens the Gods have all but left us alone to
fend for ourselves in the great global universal longing
for something to believe in even if that something is not
earthbound not friendly toward all men the furtive Gods
are on the lam for most of us they have taken their toys
and gone home to the high heaven of hope to see you
later they have reserved their prize only for the dead as a
reward for your life long belief they have buried their
rules in an ancient book out of tune with the fluent
feminist wanting wisdom of our native nature taken from
the rib-like stem of an apple held in contempt of the tree
where the fecund fallen fruit of the complexity of
consciousness is rotting in the hands of Khnum as he
work the potter’s wheel the last long lost longing for an
earthbound God is to be found in the lovely lady herself
she holds all life equal in part against her worldly whole
she feed and is freely fed upon she hood and holds all
motion of moons and suns unknowable in her vaulted
vastness worlds apart in her seasonal celestial spiral 189  
armor of arms the earth is her spinning child the sun the
pit of a pimple on her face the solar winds her birthing
breath through the eyes of any creature do she see herself
being herself I am that I am is her same reframe no name
can contain her no creature can escalate to escape her
even in their death do she make use of she contain all
Gods fashioned by the limit mind of man she is the Holy
Darling Devine life for life sake she is bone smart about
being bitter smelling of bone rot the center of a life that
got the drop

Underneath the protected suggestion of the house of a

global God is the remarkable composition of a localized
function held in check by the traveling Neolithic culture
promoting its brand of healing the God-idols that have
abandoned their mending machine for the dark haired rain
engraved on a storm at night where the rain swollen river
runs it course finding its level fluently full of sweeping
over the banks to flood the fields of our cultivated needs
held in the tears of angels and demons with their complex
astonishing varieties caught in the spontaneous divination
of a passive and primitive occurring of terrestrial
teratological omens of the blinded fetus birth found in the
bubble belly temple far-reaching in its imprecation where
the remarkable suggestion that seeks to protect us from
the all consummated consuming needs of being one with
the organizational and illuminating demands of the
individuality of the body’s laws the soul’s
commandments compartmentalized with body and spirit
into the yin yang’s equilibrium of the trendy trinity of the
self

Underneath the cold undying day of tomorrow is the

unending spoken hopefulness that things will get better in
the long walk against the novel situation of little
importance when the moon tug at the rivers of blood in 190  
the vain of each solitary bodies where the cells inhabit a
universe of their own where the world is full of living and
dyeing where the galaxy is full of the thoughts of all
creatures being their selves for they can do no less then
live their lives in the dominant dispensations of being one
with the rhythm of the wide world where a beating of the
heart is heard amidst the nosy noise of the city with its
uproar rolling across an empty mercy invisible under the
street light’s glow behold the riotous rumor that rule the
new moon night in its pregnant shadowy showing its
hidden face to the man made light lining the dubious
darkness where doubt doubled over hides behind the
bulky built of night the birds are asleep in their nest
woven with dead grasses and bits of paper found along
the streets where the homeless roam round with sleepy
eyes to find a wetless warmth to lay their head against
Underneath the frozen hands of the rain is the fatality of a
curiosity gyrating the ancestral commands that is found in
the different senses that engage the divination of
unquestionable fact that certain individuals have found
their way thru to the other side of a commonly held belief
that the Gods no longer visit earth to be hired by man
they have abandoned us to be possessed by the money
making demons of our own making they have marked us
as makers of our own mean and mindful misery they have
lift their veil from over our eyes that we may see their
nakedness their nervous longing for our prayers the fat
wave of their voices are rarely heard in this age of the
many voices of television and radio baby setting our need
to hear the guiding power of a higher order the order of
knowing the other the order of the omnipotent owning
nothing the order of a promise to enter bodiless into the
haven of heaven all the known Gods are apart of the one
unknowable that is both asleep and awake dreaming our 191  
lives alive the one great that supersede the infinite being
of its own being no words can capture the essence of its
vital breath no poetry can approach its immortal entity it
isn’t so petty as to seek the lip service of our prayers it is
the caring that cares not it is the literal it need no present
priest to intercede no poet to praise it need no churches
other then the body and even this is secretly suspect for it
need no needs other then the thought to be it is beyond
the skin of the circle of life that contain us all my musing
on it is for naught

Underneath the stars in the breast pocket of the Gods that

goes back to the skin that they was born in when a
Babylonian king of the relationship between man and
Gods have paid the bribery observe in the hands of
scientific information all that is left of the mouth piece of
the Gods are the priests and the undercover pleonastic
poets pleading their case in the many meaning words of
their mother tongue poets of the sumptuous sun poets of
the grandiose Gods poets of the raiment rain clothing
your skin poets of the tumefaction of the river’s run poets
of the lasting love long in the limbs of love poets of the
warbler’s wisdom of being itself poets of the knowable
nature of Nature throughout time have poets been born to
do your bidding by the pen they have swallowed the
swollen bitter pill to readily reach out to you these poets
of the sensational sensual sincerity of being human poets
of the grass growing according to the strangulation of the
green found in the blade of its nakedness poets of the
Hispanic sky with its ghosts of blue about and above the
brown generosities of their skin poets of the foraging
homeless an ancient act played out in a throw away
society where the whip of a thousand years is wrap
around the season of injury poets of the horticulture sun’s
freedom sprung across the fraternal earth poets of the
ample wave of grains in the Midwest’s embrace poets of 192  
the artisan with its specialization flowering in the
bloodspots of an electrified blaze poets of the holy
water’s effects wearing down the missionaries rock of
ages that conjure the snake of the moving sky poets of a
forest of stars in the far away tear of an hour poets of the
raw celebration of a suicide bombing’s indiscreet killing
at the market of maroon mothers moaning the death of
their innocent children caught in the hateful fight of the
prophet’s words poets of laughter on the tongues of a
busted howling madness of the skyscrapers stabbing the
confinement of an emphatic embrace poets of the young
inherence of an old world spectacle of screaming
miseries on hold its mouthful of cold golden calamities
caught by the generosities of the sun

Underneath the guardian of everyday life is the internal

ethnic isolation of a nail in the sun’s blood rushing
against the fist of a baby girl stripping the agonizing
lichen of a toothless cage off the trembling dropping of a
consuming race that wage its rage across the hideousness
of a collapses consciousness trembling between the
stubborn wind’s appendage and the moon’s grey
fierceness that torture the excuse of a stupefied
combustion booming the current drenched in the remorse
of a biting pain where the geometry of a wayward dream
is deemed marvelous in the temples of an avalanche’s
rushing toward forgiveness for burying the distrust of the
silence of laziness with its lost legitimate inquisitiveness
toward the weaker side of a surrender embrace left to
wrap its arms around the fearless map of a serpent’s skin
its kingdom and its kin slider across the compass pointing
to the stars over the man made scum of the sea seen
unexpectedly so far from the buttoned up coat of the
coast advancing toward the interdictions of the moral
prejudices evidenced in the affliction of the heart
193  
Underneath the acquisition of an earlier time is the lost
literature of the private dualism of water its transmutation
its indivisible calling its rendezvous its never forgetting
its way back to the sea its transformation into ice or snow
it alone is the tears of the Gods it is their blood that flows
it is self contained in its maneuvering to and fo it fills us
hot and cold it is only equal by the earth that holds it it
come and go and still holds it measure it thirst to be
understood under the undulation of the umbrella sky it is
the life ecstasy of anguish the life heaviness of guilt the
life bitter hunger hushed-up in a persistent tenderness that
gnaw away at the night a small rain fall in the vastness of
the thin darkness of night where the genitals of flowers
are blinded by their desires to prostrate beneath the bee’s
imperceptibly beating of its wings the flower’s flames is
blooming out of anger beside its sister that sits without
regret offering redemption by its discretion of the sexual
sins of heterosexual fornication’s prescription committed
and maintained by the church of Charlemagne Saint
Louis the IX in your city spring is arched over the dying
back of winter spring’s crusade against the body of its
brother spring’s told time in the telling leaves of tulips
spring’s bleeding hearts in the hast of April spring of
daffodils and pansies foregoing their color beside the
prejudices of the day where Aquinas’ parlance is paid by
the moot judicious undertow riding under the
undertaker’s undiplomatic bow playing the coffin of
pestilence desperately seeking a body to hold O spring O
rebirth O boy born on the 19th of spring thy bones shall be
gathered together thy beautiful limbs possessing the
splendor of the dark heaven shall be renewed by the
rejoicing of coming into yourself you are the keeper of
the book uniteth within yourself the Gods command you
to die the good death from your dead body shall bloom
spring from your dead body shall bloom eternity the door
of the eastern horizon opens to your coming the 194  
resounding prophet of the forest calls to you the hour
where you wake the running water shall call your name in
the wealth of rushing O spring bloom from my dead skin
O mother giving birth you are a holy act held in the warm
dirt and northern wind where winter keep its last strong
hold stiff and cold as it blows

Underneath the cultural cult of spring that have sprung is

the misunderstanding of the embodiment of psyche and
soma by the debuted scholars of the yearning of the sun
with its haunted beauty hanging in the air of our bated
breath the calamities of your mouth is the storehouse of
words developing in the mind where the devouring devil
work his mystical magic to quick caught catch you up in
the envy evil doing that man can do to man the devil can
find no other host and home save for in man all other
admirable animals are immune from his prowling powers
this hints at a voluntary invention to woe the soul that can
go the way of the body’s desire to do wrong a weakness
of flesh all its own but it is the mind that knows so the
body only follow in the flow the mind betrays our brutish
nature in its based disgrace that dance around a yearning
mercy to portray torture thrown toward our fellow man
when we can not find the will within the taking of
account for ourselves to the long flung God that no longer
visit his earth bound home come down come down come
down are my prayers’ refrain are you leaving us to save
ourselves while we are engross in the game of life we
open our skin to you we open our healthy honest hearts
waiting for your warning warm spot warmth caught in a
war of nepenthe nerves with their net-wing networking of
butterflies in the marvelous temple buried in the bark of
trees in the meat of the eye where the final duration of
innocence with its timeless mourning mounted on the
syncopate stagnation of a visitation focus on the silence
smoke that circle the galaxies of the internal body 195  
entangle with its veins full of the blood of the moon

Underneath the stepping stones of a historical silent is the

violence knowledge of a quest for authorization ragging
against the intellectual fundamental sky in the eyes of a
watcher waiting the raising arrival of the solar disk that
warms the wreckage of spider’s webs and eggs and the
edge of the eye lids and the ideal of the pyramidal house
of the Gods is taking into account the familiar spirits that
use to people the earth underneath the sun is the angry
doing of a darkened hunger that wish to feed on your
stretched out needs overflowing from your body boldly
they go the way of homogeneical physique protected by
the objectified conception of language with its junk
jewelry jumping the junction where the jungle meets the
leprotic machismo machines that cut it into pieces the
birds are made homeless for the sake of new houses first
come last run last ruminate cut down first heard last said
the rhythm is in the words rupicolous ruptured on the
rocks hot for the forget me not knocking in the tail end of
a rutilant wind against the burden burly passion coming
faster there where the master as tendered mercies of the
night watcher’s lamp lit by the focus of the barrel of a
gun rock me just a little while when I’m caught in the
cross hairs of the maid’s son of the nun when the light
that follow the night outright stain the brain where the
sides of the mental tides that slides the ride up and fall a
water wall abides the outright ark that glides in its strides
over the days of rain when the rain busted the levee in the
low lands and the flood was black backed up water a
plunged passion for finding its level in the living room
half-way up the stairs possession float in the water that
stinks like dead rats and sewage life take to the water
feeding off the drowned there is a body in the water an
old man in overall floating on his back he bump into a 196  
light pole

Underneath the Slavic slaveholding of a final collapsed

little lie is the abolition of an unsettled question found in
the burial plan of the last respirational do-gooder exhume
for the viewing of the living with the gestures of their
hearts a forgotten brotherhood of impossible longing
lagging along side the litter of the Gods scattered across
the landscape of a reunification unimposing its will on the
overripe joy that suddenly is bustling its fermenting
sweetness to the drunken ecstasy distill from our desires
where the persistent tenderness of a hesitant boredom
perched on the surprise of a melancholy Christendom
goes preaching with its obsessive sins written when the
world was young who now is so inspire as to write for the
new world when the old sending out its rules from the old
world gilded palace of an abrupt purple gleaming in the
clumsy richness of being out of touch with the new
ceiling of modernity’s morality in the new world that is
burden beneath the archetypical archaic light rewrite the
holy word of antiquated shadows afraid of the light let the
dead be reborn into its own right let the holy holy words
live in the present day light of a modern translation fit for
the new born’s life the body of the holy book must be a
thing alive it must live along side the living to show them
the light of the Lord the wisdom of God need evolve its
evolution into the tomorrow of yesterday into the
invisible noises sacrificial mercy burning the fire of the
chemical flesh

Underneath the crocket tress of winter is the way home

from a lost vision of a reticent friend fascinated by the
marriage of Nero fascinated by the circumspection and
presumptuous witness of a face in the mirror the inert
entertainment of the self the fatigue mirror solitary in it 197  
refection knows nothing of the energetic fears that it
reflect nothing of the ignition drumming its famished
prejudice sluggishly against the crouching sodomy’s
catechism that hunger in its questions and answers strung
then swallowed pass the tongue of a submissive teacher
that taught the organized motion of an angle’s anguish to
restrain its liberation under the sun of a shady voice full
of swampy silence aged and strangely self-conscious of a
tepid awakening into the insane eternity growing over the
skin of the present the pride of time have witnessed the
growing on of the furtive futile future detoured by a lost
hour looking to be rehearsed renewed then reduced to the
revolt of an awful awakening incapable of telling
talismanic time to the put-up-on pyrotechnics rapper
rhyming his rhythm rapaciously to the ear of the radio’s
stagnate stability
Underneath the arrogant deceptive fragile snow falling in
the humiliating night where the witness surrounding the
poverty of a city’s lost man homeless in the alcoholic
dream birthing the thoughts of warmth and comfort in the
cold clothing of the night is to be found the only way
back to the ferocious home from the pestilence life of
living on the streets

Underneath the burgeoning hour where arrogant is kept

tight in forgetfulness leaping against its restrained belly
the morning comes on fatigue from its journey thru the
solitary darkness of an emptied hunger that can not feast
on the bourgeois’ bountifulness set behind glass before
the working poor in a land of plenty the poor have
forgotten how to woe the rich manicured lawns
maintained by the drive-by gunmen cheering the diet of
desire that set its heart apart where the dumb dead solei
sun of the Saharan tragedy relentless in the reddish- 198  
brown soil where grows Kongo and Angola skinned
youth dreaming of the lost history of Meroe hidden in
burning sands where sun heated wind blind by thousand
grains the lost traveler looking for the kingdom of the sun
God now long gone and buried deep in the desert of the
heated heart swallowed by the years the wilderness of the
past with its repaired bones turned to stones a done deal
the wilderness of the future foretold by the light of the
sun that daily die a lie of nature as seen by the living the
water solely holy in the melancholy call of a tear the cold
snow slow unfold of an old blow that will not yield the
brazen heaven away the prayer above the love caught in
the win of sin battling the uncouth truth of a ring of wings
that sing the preferred words of a sting sweet strung to
meet when the birds eat the earth then fly about their only
heaven that they shall know in the light grey night of a
new day the rain begun but bring them no pain the found
chill of their sound still rare there where the dew is young
in a winter’s morn fighting with the breath of spring I
hear oh the breeze the clear singing and I am struck dumb
by the eloquent that comes so easily their remark in the
dark sight of the advancing light their lust for the crust of
the world their pride spent along side the birthing that
provide a speechless day’s dark spell when the church
bells ring the would be holy to the house of the heart
every Sunday morning we are set apart to worship in the
shrine of the holy wind spilt on the tongue where is the
church of the sun the wind the whole earth skies and
ground found in the dirt of the earth the happy throng
song of the fair grass pass the litter that I bear

Sun children of the sun wearing the eternal badge of

honor which is the blackness of their skin over the red
muscles tight and firm and fit to earn the worship of
angels that go singing along the Sankuru River in the
kingdom of Kuba where dogs delivering the will of God 199  
go barking at Its approach turning their holy heads toward
the heroine Natura when the children who shall come to
wipe Sunday from their eyes when the drums of
illuminates genuine ancestral beneficent of being as dark
as the dirt sweep into a swell that gently swayed by a
song of good-good night when the sun is quite dry it
makes me cry to think that I have chosen to live my life
along in the tall glass of the city as my home its time for a
future change one that is untamed by the voices of
children with their disordered time for their long and
lonesome ride of smiles like indigent fatalities of the
angels that they shall become as time goes on the angels
color me in a constitutional blue and I skip the lights
indifferently in my second-class dance of the sixteen
blesses virgins finding themselves before the music of my
heart at last life is like a song controlled by the curiosity
of the conflagration of taking my love by the measured of
an overwhelmed bone shocked into breaking on the sharp
edge of an ordinary love of poetry spoken underneath the
insides of the breath that is our confident all in you all fall
you the angels mull you the demons stall you just you
wait and see when the wind is right you can live a miracle
in the space of a second and your voice will proclaim that
your faith makes the perfect story-line of a out of time
rhyme riding a thousand miles dreaming like you wish to
spend your soul of the prettiness of things that look like
home to you don’t be shy by the apple and the price to
pay for the knowing of the hunger that burns in the belly
of knowledge a hunger that proclaims the apocalyptic
conquest when you remain all that is lift of my pain that I
can talk about in the business end of the night the more
that I give of you the more that my trial by words shall
find its rest

Sun shining in the eye of the God of Thebes that sees

man being man in the holy temple at Ipet-isut and Nowe 200  
the sacred places of the most high places of God’s
interaction with the most earthbound man made from the
dirt in the finger nails of the Gods who let us write our
lives in blood lives punctuated by their forgiveness for
the sins caught in the heart lives with the strength of the
roundness of bones lives under the knuckle of the sun the
real arboreal birds biting the hour of their birth in the bath
of the nest their black obsidian music erupting in the
volcanogenic night where angels sits high in the trees and
piss down on the passer-bys anointing them with the
meticulous message of their urine mixed with the blood
of a holy laughter revitalizing the activated dreams of the
streets where the indubitable hunger of slumber hides in
dark uncharted corners of beautiful weather examining
the intersections of the fractured impossible horror of a
dismembered secret and the high scented plateaus of
flowers where a decomposition takes place under the
waiting wounds of an exploded torrential singing its song
of desolation in a cursed voice aged by the naked
melancholy rotting in the geometric weight of eternally
surrounding the extreme hour desolated by the babbling
common sense of a mute tormented brutality organized
by the fragile wings of the wind blowing unleashed words
over the time told imprints of an entangled friendship
longing the obscure wounds left behind by the thirst of
ancestors inhabiting the life journey taken in an obscured
year abandoned by the cult of a magical paradise strayed
words on the tip of the tongue of fresh thoughts let loose
by the formula for the great disaster of ice

Sun resistance of amalgamation in the pyramids’ shadows

who’s pointing is over looked by the sacred hour when
the pyramidical saddle of dead Gods gather to welcome
the dead entomb within into the netherworld the Gods
have been brought to their suicidal silent from their
boastful tongues of their beautiful spirits that once 201  
entered the body of the divine chiefs of children with
needles in their emission of flesh till they are connected
to the myth of the never whispered irresistible perfume of
the breathy music of trumpets notes implanted in the ear
of the future where the yet to be born with their naiveté
totally intact are waiting at the way station in the heaven
of the unborn beside the nocturnal thundering distilled
words of an ingenuous revolt flashing its compassionate
storms inhabited by the insolence assassinating wonder of
an apple on the hissing flames of the tree of life grown as
a temptation by the secret power teetering on the
cowardly violent dreams of the reconciled heart dreaming
that it saw an army of angel soldiers dressed in rags
marching off to the deafening memory of war with it
resentment and remorse for the proverbs swallowed by
endless looking for a God that will save us from the meat
of our flash drunk on the ruthlessness of doing time on
the obscure star busy with life being itself where the
extremity luminous vigorous replacement of the gentle
fatigued notion sleeping in the dark scared night

Sun witnessing the conquest of blacks by a foreign

religion the blacks who have forgotten the Gods of their
fore fathers the black who’s time told Ra is ship wreck on
the points of the cross the blacks who copulate in the lost
wisdom of Seb the blacks who’s soul have been taken
possession of by the white knowledge of ownership the
blacks clothed in the visible forms of Gods that eat the
heart of Osiris the blacks who are my brothers in the
blood of the slaughter house of violence where the
children sleep the blacks caught by the smile of Jesus and
straightening their hair to be Christ like in a weave
flowing pass their shoulders that holds heads of the
charter of blackness in their skin the blacks most
beautiful in earnest essences under the sun’s darkening
focuses the blackening of America is seen in the extreme 202  
musical tones of our flesh the free flow of blackness
fluencies at their best the blackest of the blacks no less
the light bright blacks of a warm miracle can not undo
their blackness through and through the sorrow that it
borrow through and through the pride along side the
sparkle of their brown eyes black mothers and brothers
flowering into tomorrow’s torn arrow past the last same
name of being black back into the jungle juice of jazz
blacks seen the carved wood masks that stood for the
inner desire of the Godhead a place in the heart a grace
above the love of men then shall we find in the face of a
holy place that boast of the Host on the knees in Galilee

Underneath the minimum wage paid to the poor that

leave their hunger hung on the tongue of a thin belly
desolated by the indocile cross that collect its share along
side a government that seems not to care for it too takes a
share who shall advocate on their behest whose mouth is
rich in their prayers who ply the money changer’s wares
toward the disinherit that clean our toilets and teach our
children questions that should be asked of the porous
poets who have grown deadly quiet as concern such
matters they have grown astonishingly malnourished
pulled into themselves aged out of their time with self-
centered rhymes all about the I O you poets of life O love
lost lords of love crown by the words that embrace you
who cut asunder the beautiful dilated joy once thou was
both putrid and pure worthy enough to be spoken to by
the Gods behold thy soul seem lost within an ivy covered
shadow this is my blistering bony body that I bear this is
a blooming blob of my blood eat of its sarcastic bread for
it is pleasing to your gone God when you write in the
secret chamber of your heart lay it bear let all your secrets
be told that other know not to hold you must witness to it
all the human soul is a fertile ground let the juice of it run 203  
down throw away you laurel crown and go sit among the
common once again what goodness is to be found in the
isolating ivy halls what good to speak in a dead or dying
tongue O scribes of the common within the limbs of your
splendors you have been blessed by the occupation of life
to show that none is along so sing your sometime
chimeric song your thoughts in the night of your head is
in tune without the breath is your singing the words
scenery generating the unhinged treasure gnawed and
swallowed by an obscure habit of a flower’s outrageous
happiness of incandescence silence fertile words are your
tools in tones used their fluid weariness shudder and
embrace the enticement of a dissolving proliferating
primordial second coming

Underneath the place of the skull it is done by the skill of

the garden tomb or beneath the Church of the Holy
Sepulcher the Edicule the burial place of the son of man
slayed by the prey of sand rocks land flocks all that there
is in the air of a gloom with its fair glare of the Nile the
fresh of an isle of flesh all the while stretching for miles
the rather gather of the spring’s sowed uneaten by the
winged things let loose upon the fail hail of the deep
dumb of the sea with its bitter litter of plastic even in the
mouth of the south spring wintering in the drew dew that
gaze beneath the way of the soon seen way of the moon it
is the nipping of an eastern fellowship a decreased frieze
punishment that ease itself into the bent knees of a
thought sought to move on the love of a small movable
wall behind the self I hide in the end eye of my pen I ride
and try the rhythm of the sky it is the wordy found sound
that abound thee the last pass of a tree cast me and I am
thrown upon the fast fire of forgetfulness then you
become the yet wet man of lore yore that begun before
you wore the done took book of the far look of looking
for yourself in the poetry of an air around the ground 204  
successfulness of a wilderness in the ancient stone and
bone that once repaired the air your cries are not despise
they are spent in the end they do not offend but rise in our
eyes we are the light that have taken flight the fast last
blast of hovering words that list its flow in the mist of fog
that roll around the flag pole where patriotism fly half
mast in the unfurling day of mindless murder committed
by the willful mind to not die along

Underneath the conflagration of a pinched back desire is

the concentration of needs and wants waiting to be
fulfilled by the sexual misconduct that spends its
currency in the escaping liberty found in the truth
attentive sun where ever possibility is burnt to the distress
dance found in lit matches’ fire an enumeration imitation
of the all powerful everywhere sun that rife the
everything life that glow its prejudice this way and that in
the lit air of the seven heaven within the sin of a lying eye
where the sky is full of the flames that once came in the
once loud same song long in the breath of wild prayers
birth in the inspiration of the creation of earth where the
poet’s patience pennant is a race toward glorious grace
toward the late immaculate infancy of infinity found in
the paraphrand consciousness of the violence voice of
second hand metaphors’ introspect of the evidence of the
sympathetic nervous rib-cage of clouds the poet with his
respiratory changes of words wrung then wrapped round
the royal breath clearly correlated with its cycle of
duration of the word filled with anger words run within
the breath like children at play where the playground is
filled with broken green glass words that sparkle like lost
emeralds cut sharp shards sheared and shaped by the
hardness of concrete holding the heat of the day the
hypostasis kardia cardiac of words beating their backs up
against the breath the heart break consciousness of
profound words that ponder the quick succession of 205  
meaning comprehend quickly before the next word fall
from the lips O pirate poet looting the wet land of
language in the incenses incest of your mother tongue
filled with the emotional experience of smoke’s sensation
to be done by the intellectual travel of the Gods from the
heart to the head in their search for man’s psyche they
play the subsidiary role of Sunday morning church bell
ringing in the God-weaken world most Gods go about
wandering homelessly seeking to kidnap and enslave the
free will some Gods are chained so that they will not
abandon us when the God-controlled puppets of good and
evil light in the sight of a blue hue that linger by the
raised pointing finger that seeks to bless us the world
overflow low with the white light seen in the
hallucination of death the dusky-deep that spread shed
across the heart and head till only the dead know the
name of an one true God of Gods
Underneath litter life birthing an overripe comprehensive
but precisely rejoicing wind blowing across the
distinguished language of the angels is to be found the
delicious stone where the disembodied spirits embedded
in the deceitful breath of survival that swirls around the
passing birds is felt by a word that decry the horror of
paradise lost in the apartment of a frighten vision that
tremble before the explosion of despair held in the
memory of worshipping the plastic people of the
television set to sell the bill of good down the river of a
self-surrender self-transcendence seduction found in the
belly of a weariness long suffering the sufficient longing
of the poor ignored by the politicians of Americus in
favor of the middle class where forth are the champions
of the poor caught in the daily laborious labor of
memento lack of movement of minimum wage in a
maximum society where the government receive its pay
why tax the rich is the seldom asked question of the day 206  
they are to rich to pay do we let them play the American
way poor oh poor the poets have not forgotten you not by
a single day in this absurd play call democracy we
champion your heroic name this country is to rich for
poverty yet poverty remain in the game who will come to
your aid who have the fortitude to save who will hear the
prayers you pray when we care little of the poor and the
aged

Underneath the crimes of poetry is the music of the

formal muses who keep their exotic rhythms as a mantra
for the warring poets who goes on their lost journeys to
find the lost body of the now defunct word that once
stood in for the Gods when the delimited feet of a fifth
was song to the believers of the poets who have been
banished from the temples only to be called upon in times
of stress with their divergent trajectories procession
following on the tip of a breath full of rhyme and rhythm
found in the heart of the living language that linger from
its ancient mentality born each generation anew the
young makes new use of the old tongue they keep the
language young you are one caught in the orgasmic
originations of the organized word you are one who rape
the body of words to fulfill your meaning in the false
algebra of the Holy Ghost in the holy drunkenness of the
shadow of running water in the sluggish clarity of an
irresistible sound of a fountain in the beautiful breath of
low thunder in the stubborn delirium of revolt with its
murderous blood thirsty revenge toward a river of
tongues you are the young of infant hopes in the master
wilderness of an insane boredom you are the immortal
torment gigantic by the fulminatory voice modest in its
wounds indicted and inflicted by the seascape’s long
lonely arm youth lie at the crossroads of a love-struck
dance of time it dine on the grayish-brown grass-like long
growth in the throat youth believe that it have an 207  
immortal eye in which to spy on the passing of squared
time deafening in its memory of passing youth knows
little of the world at large with its warping warring heavy
with moans in the secret of a publics bullet fired in the
deadly April of American history bless be the naiveté of
the young they are save by their ignorant from the
harshness that life is saved from the erection of a gun till
to war they come where they give their lives to the
execution of a road side bomb

Underneath the bloody barbaric hybrid of a humorist’s rot

is to be found the shattering humor of our identification
our courage borrowing from the zeal of an occupation
held in the deprived concrete of the side walk’s power
holding up the scars of the always present air care to care
about the forgotten lost in the distant landscape of a
cannibalistic atmosphere humbled by a haze touching the
odor that flows as a muzzle on the wind free wind as a
monsoon of musical laughter howling underneath the
wounded violent of a mountain’s nightmare where the
midnight hour comes on like an awesome antique passion
transformed and stripped mutilated by a discarded breath
collapsed onto the rocks themselves exhausted by the
roots of trees dismembered by the knife edge wind in the
season of darkness with its shoulders to the wheel of a
dying lie proliferating the remorseless cruelty of an
inheritance laughter that summon the victorious obelisk
of laws that have long since taught the tongue to teach
the tender tenebrous to take on light and shine beyond the
shadows of an intimacy innocent of darkness where the
forbidden anger of the Gods is fought in the feline instant
of the machine of muscles that howl their wealth crazing
the hunger of an empty conflagration fatigued before the
divinity of the last victim of the mind’s well hell of a
slow throw out about the no go the so go that blow and 208  
smother the sweet mother of a poet’s song long in the
limbs of a hollowed out poem with its pregnant face of
begging mercy that will not repent against what went pass
the ear within the sin of a stone alone against the bones
that break in the wake of a be-all and end-all call to duty
to do the state’s bidding at the beach head of last regret
last call for alcohol last overhead moon of the river bed
last distress of a poet’s success last blind left behind last
midnight to follow daylight last degree of the wanting sea
last word to be heard by the fragile unpardonable poem
that calls for the overthrow of the un-rhymeable orange
the overthrow of a country that have turned its gigantic
back on the injured poor whose blood is red white and
blue whose eyes are full of stars whose emotion are
striped they are to busy being poor to contemplate
revolution but how much more can they stand to be set
upon by a fat society that turns its back and facing the
middle class with their hand full of the winds of
commerce they are placated by the trinkets of conquest
the fast cars the slow TV the debt that keep their hands to
the wheel of a sudden strength but in the under belly
where the rich care not go where the government shine no
light as if not to know in that dark place the poor labor to
keep the rich fat in greenbacks I am such a mindful man

Underneath the glossed-over surrealist of cocked

weapons with their forbidden boldness naked in the hands
of the young black kids is the opposition of a life well
lived in a time where the dimension of humor caught in
the anticlimactic moment is extended pass the blood that
flows in the ghetto of the mind schooled to be so the
disinherit dreams of their inherit where out of the ghetto
there shall rise one who is born to lead in his time he shall
be as a butterfly circling the honey sucker vine entwine of
a rusted chain-link fence and pollinate the blossoms of
the poor minds toward rebellion for their share of the 209  
American apple pie I tell no lie as sure as the syncopate
sky is open with rain as sure as the madness of a
prejudice of the dawn shall assassinate the one as sure as
the mounting water rise incorruptible by the bridge that
carry the day as sure as dreamt logic quickly fade as sure
as the loud scream of the sun will murdered angles and
when it is done the one true God of the stretched out arms
shall go screaming the bankruptcies and steadily sterility
of skyscrapers as sure as the hair upon the head of trees
shall fall in a riot of wind and the graying of Americus is
seen in the age old wisdom of Midwest wheat shipped to
the east as sure as the machine of ants with their silent
ruthlessness of a drunk bird are following singles file
from their home to a dead worm on the concrete is a holy
thing as sure as the innocence of the stubborn landscape
brings forth the bread basket of heavy fountains flooding
the forest fit for life
Underneath the criminal word in its exception of meaning
in its specific madness that enable the tongue to imagine
all that it requires in its elements of violent as common as
a firefly on a summer night we find that the word
recognize not its own meaning in the crowded universal
courage that string them together we find the miraculous
mercy of words is falling asleep in the strange hands of
speaking in tongue we find that life is always advancing
on and over itself that it is an opportunist that fill the
smallest opening it grows on the skin it is all kin one way
or another in the anxious forever confusion of hunger for
space in the collapsed torturer of a vehement memory for
space in the secret prostitution of an unfailing life being
itself being itself life is never embarrassed or impaired it
will always find a way to express the obsolete yesterday
and the carnival interruption of tomorrow that reclaim
today with its grunting array bruised by the bottom bear-
bone and booming of the basic ballistic big bang blow of 210  
literal life

Underneath the tragic beautifully formed memory of

precipitation the flowing ocean follow the germination in
its intimate vigor follow the unique hunger of a leaf
follow the succulence meditation of a peach follow the
resentment of an orange blossom to the drunken rain with
its purify and degradation strung with immense caution
around the enormous command of the sun in its daily
force-fed fists pounding a firm fever into the air

Underneath the wedged of a profound blister on the skin

of the world is caught the word nigger in the mouth of a
pray hovering over the skin of the city hovering over the
forbidden skin of blackness found in the forest hovering
over the smoking assaults of full top lips hovering over
the broad nose of the fieriest and ancient life of man on
earth
Underneath the whore-house of chocolate is the passion
of a young girl with her corpse of fish blood tracing the
imprint of bones inconstant and interwoven in the
honeycomb where the blinded socket is chafed against the
greediness of fire the young girls goes pass the
executioner wishing him well in his ritualistic deed
before him they comb their hair with a tooth brushes and
plant their giggles in the electric chair the potassium
chloride needle that is stuck into the river of blood till the
heart of it stop dead the young girls are a wonder in the
mimicking delight of the world where sisterhood is a well
kept secret against the hidden face of man’s temptation

Underneath the commonness of sodomy the thrush of

your sex is laid bear the penetrator of a quivering hot
swells to bring forth a birth of nocturnal breathe breathing
the damp sweat of a man in heat against the barred 211  
boredom where love’s flame burns away all his
assassinating dreams dreaming the dawn alive underneath
the bedecked thicket of silk sheets

Underneath the song of the Hooded Warbler’s treasure is

the deafening body sacrificed to the God of vegetational
morning raising blood tinted by the outrageous sun’s
slanted light and hands of heat waves reaching across the
knowable silent of space where the fulvous Gods keep
their sputtering embrace tight against the pregnant God
that will come to do man good when the oppressed
situation of giving birth become the concept touchstone
by which the artificial high priest with his language of the
master race shall prophesize that the skin of the cross
shall be stretched over the materialistic recognition that
the Gods can not be bought by the hands of the banker
who skeleton shall be sold to the highest bidder beneath
the cross of the pray that will slay the many miles kept
within the while of a smile of the first-fruit already
bruised by torn thorn heart

Underneath the concept of one’s destiny that is never held

down by the feudalization that we are who we are in our
skin and bones and we go where we go in the always
alone self contained flesh that can see itself reaching out
with hollow palms that cannot feel a common thought of
the spirit of a straw the maker of the universe the
preserver of all known knowledge the totality of the
separated self the self that meditated on the possibility of
its union the innermost self of the you is as divine as an
ant digging in the earth let the enlightenment of the Gods
be upon you you are their animal you the meat flourish
with your sacrifices in tack project yourself of three
forms accomplish the meritorious acts that be-seek you
the ignorant desire is an object of enjoyment be you not
restrained by the weariness of the assumed body as the 212  
birds are eating vomit in the street a regurgitation of a
night’s worth of flow working its way with a bit of us
leaving the body behind to recover its balance bent over
collapsed collared closed off from the inheritance of the
swamp’s frail distance and genetic zeal blonde of skin the
proudest predominant pain-taking image paraded pass the
billboards of what our souls want waits for when the
mirrors of our irrepressible half-light of the insane
knotting boredom found in nosey buried cities where the
him home of the honeycomb hears in the ears of the one
Father’s Son set astray thee to be beside thee they do a
true taste of love from the art of the heart glad had of the
night’s delight that break a wake across morning that can
not wait you the more of you is the telling the adore of
you know in the known knowing I induce the truth to be
true I believe I deceive I thief of belief ken to men dwell
well in the holy stress of the mysteries of living in the
cities the glory Paraclete’s countenance nailed and lanced
by the holy spirit when the everlasting burning of the self
is incinerated in the back-yard where the birds congregate
let the order of your odor wave pass where you have been
let the spring of things everywhere the damp stamp of
woods that stool the green between the bark the prime
time Autumn made glade round bout the black top tracks
set afire of the came flames till tied and died out with a
last act of defiance smothering in the roots ground of who
we wish to be

Underneath the eagerness of homiletic sentiments is to be

found the beautiful ambition of the irreducible
hallucination of a Red-Wing Black bird’s song when the
storms with thunder and slumber in their throats hump
their backs and take a breath full of rain before it run
aground around the drain that gargle its flooding drinking
till drunk on the monsoon’s delicious flamboyant chest of 213  
the flooded sky with its odor of rain set free to wash away
all that it can reach that is not anchor down the rain is
ancient in its falling it is unstable in its under toll
underneath its flowing skin is the whirl wind of watery
muscles that control the flow of a timeless motion the
rain is friend to many it is to high to be molested by man
too ethereal to be controlled by anything earthbound it
comes on its own eucharist euphotic accord

Underneath the tough thoughts of warring commands is

the half civilize notion that perceptive motive tinted with
the consumption anger of a solitary hunger is the
famished belly of Anna in the hidden place of the great
Gods satisfied by the spilling of blood dilated with joy
that pays homage to the ancestors clothed in the
memories of the living sleeping the unified experiences
of bliss’ incomprehensible essence manifesting a merging
of the creator with the created saying grasp this with your
skin it is the touching food of the saved this is the
aggregate of body and soul it is the identified and
intellect of the self assembled before the great eye of God
the sacrificial libation of the body the vigor of the senses
is a food eaten the love of love can fill the belly of your
soul the love of soul can feed the belly of your spirit but
the love of food alone does nothing for the body without
the taking of it into the cannibalistic enthusiasm of the
prodigious soul that is wrap in the flesh of a trembling
scattered rhetorical torture by the ancestral scar suffering
the rewrite of a history told to the children of a dark
triumph race

Underneath the words of the Gods the mighty ones the

victorious who dwells in books and the glorious hearts of
churches and mosques and temples with their splendid
appearance on earth is the reformers informing the lay
person of the committing wreckage of an elegy’s pain 214  
half alive in the incrusted seashell sold to the highest
bidder beside the want of weeping of the apocalyptic sea
let there be grace be to all of man’s Gods grace to their
true nature that some have sought to corrupt grace to the
glory that guide men’s bodies to follow their spirit inbred
in the inner life looking outward from the spasmodic and
sudden nightmarish want of a beautiful truth held in the
forgetful forest summoning all to live their lives
according to the good words of the violence of the good
book where the serpent can not spill his venenate venal
vice bought and sold by the left hand while the right pray
for the salvation the duality of live is that as we are living
we are dying the death of the limited fleshing flesh that
feed on the fleshment fitful flamboyancy of fibrous tissue
feed yourself well in the wafture mature water of the
world wagging its wage to be paid day by day for the day
shall come when you must pay for all the play that the
body enjoyed in youth you shall grow old and grey a
joyous thing to behold with the wisdom to know the
walloping willow that hangs and blows its weeping in the
wandering wind waving the surface of water warm and
wild in the forest that never ever rest but keeps its
wonderful working tugged tight in life long luxurious
luxuriant longing to fill the earth with earnest growth the
pious pitchman paralanguage poets knows in the pitiless
piquant pitch of their pocket of words the way of all flesh
of the flesh the profiteers know you want to mold you

Underneath the giving of the body is the will of the Gods

is the obedience slumbering light of heaven is the
exhausted point of view of the never irresponsible earth
swollen fat by the humped stone where a monsoon of
stubborn disasters flood the thirst of an insult held in the
lunation of the a worm’s home where the path to
righteousness can not see the half-light stubborn mouthful
of the consuming intermingling thoughts of the forced 215  
generalization of violent beyond the senses of the object
with their mindful meaning can be found the essence of
the self hidden behind the intellect where the energy of
truth with its currents flowing pass the ignited thoughts
dense at the threshold of pride screaming to be as natural
as birds dropping feeding the pigment of earth under the
vision of the sun can be found the comprehensibility of
trees and rain and a song to them to sing above the
impurities of the cities

Part VII.
March roars and roams in like a courageous confounded
lion drenched and grounded its wild willful winds dance
Baryshnikoving around bold buildings and budding trees
defecting till the nature of Spring is naturalized by young
booming branches of wailing weakened winter it is as if
as the angry anemometer angels are drunk on the other
side of the wanting winds that work their wraparound will
to the name frame billowing to meet the streets on their
own terms they seem not to want to invent or intervene as
if their beat back blowing is motion enough to keep the
kite of our high flying desired above the common fray
that insult the common commands of being alive their
constancy is of such faith that every time the wind calls
something of my breakaway breath its bridge for words
fall and die before the eyes of the holy prophets of certain
conditions speaking of the purity of the wincing windage
of the wind blown pass the arrangement’s compensation
of walking the earth softly issued by the giving of God’s 216  
will where nothing passes unknown where the inanimate
grace of a face wonder through the maze of the majestic
city where the angles and demons conspires together their
eternal earning jealousies of our free wills to trick us up

Up against the thumb nail of a thought and the ritual of

religion the complaisant of speech seeks the changes of a
system of commerce are gathering the corns beans
squashes and cotton up to be sold on the world market of
social relationship of the hidden Lord found in all
creature with Brahmin of the cargo system in the high
high lands where where the earth shake may I keep my
cargo before me may it be the duty of my deeds may I
discharge my duly diligently with my cargo as my glued
guide may the Gods forgive my miscarry as I carry the
Saints through the streets of my dreams to the festival of
fighting at careenage at sea where free flowing rivers
flowing to the seas of my solar cells collecting the
architect of an avalanche’s roar down the search of
growing old in the mountain in the late spring where the
relation between plants and insects is an old thing to
behold the all-pervading self is embodied in a meditation
understood by the grasping hands hasting with a greater
need hidden in the heart of creatures this land strummed
with a flock of flowers gathered by the haunted hands
slender and sleek full of the salvation of Spring weeping
to sway the spirit of peace and everything in their growth
is green again in the goodness of motherhood the earth is
giving forth a birth in a riot of thunder all under the dark
drink of moderation and magnanimity in the repetitive
rain drumming it refrain drumming its refrain again and
again the repetitive rain drumming is the song that nature
sing

The myth of the religious of being alive the highest art of

living where the thought on thinking go serenading the 217  
self with a feeling of the self that the knowing is known
here by a leaking karma and hands of Kama when kalpa
releases the body’s breathing that we suffer for ourselves
the spiracles nature as Buddha sitting in the present
position tolerant of the body’s desires of letting the world
be full of its kinds the outer objective world keep its inner
thoughts tight when we are just getting by all the world
seem like rabbits at the whiskey bar asking who’ll be
mine when the roses are staring at the bees’ underbelly
Be at home with your body as a bird in a nest as a spider
with its web as a bee with its cone as a beaver with its
dam be one born into the history of the second Punic war
Hannibaling across Spain to the elephants in the Apes the
three battle on the doorway to the richness of Rome
where the Visigoth and Vandals vagabond vitiated over
took the Romans wars of the world goes on it is at home
when the obstruction of an oddity in Darfur preventing
peace workers from performing their peacekeeper will a
fight for the grass motivated on all sides by the advancing
of the desert in a chant common to the scattered self
where the kindly king moon looks down upon the flashy
fire of an open mouth that speak the worship of woman’s
impregnated flower of good deeds giving birth to the
bloom of your smile and let the child be born without the
mockery that piety be in the room that gloom makes of
an unwanted torn and forlorn birth of the drenched but
never quit quenched prime time run of the sun across the
blue scattered light of the seemly absent sky breathing its
rhythm of once secret enchantment with my hands I play
with the air and they call me mad for they see nothing
there at night I go bare to be enwrap in the dark cool wind
that fill-up the sky closest to the ground when I open my
mouth to let the words out the air is there there is the air
from my lungs leaving a taste of the sun once a young
God that demanded nothing
218  
The honor of money is paying the debris of its debt to the
dwarf soul dwelling in the bovine body of an eternal
embodiment of the self it is all that I know it is the Holy
Ghost the gratification of the sensual surprise of desires
go meditate on the self that self same self that is the
center of the universe in you with the irresistibly
destruction of the unknown distinguish words of running
water of the verses of bees the sacrificial libation of
angels looking at the color of nectar they have witnessed
the four great awakening in the land of the baby boomers
working their way through the lives that we are born to
we likewise have witnessed the moon setting in the
intellect of the sun that have witnessed dreams that
transcends the offspring of Gods that require the sacrifice
of the good deed of the intercourse of morning doves
with their loveliness caught in the smell of their breath
sharing the air that dwell on earth their love is an attribute
a magnifying motherhood for the sympathizing edge of
their eggs that hold the great identity of the infinite secret
knowledge of flight and the second section of a certain
fundamental thunderstorm with its immaculate discussion
of lighting and rain as old as the earth itself the true
believers of weather fear not its gentleness and destructed
motion toward a handsome and honorable demission of
purification a frequent remembrance is the every day
doing of weather like a crying child that you can not
shake but deal with it with a slap of laughter for they too
have hit the hard world with all of their wanting intact
born helpless they need your warmth of an enormous
giving in the Spring of their unbound lives everything is
wondrous everything a toy to play in learning everything
here in the first year is yet without regret of chastity and
faith fatherhood is the gift that they have bestowed their
waking babble fills the valleys of the city with the
resonance of an exhaled dawn it echo around the early
early morning deserted plaza where the wind coiling like 219  
a serpent ready to strike at the raising of the sun’s light
full of the silenced singing in motion of the wind the
wind yes the wind is the breath of Gods it is the forgotten
force in the mouth of the Gods it is the shouting that
caress the baby leaves born out of the warming of the air
when spring makes its familiar round toward the last cold
held in the tension of the luminous footprint of winter
spring my fair weather friend my return of the warm
winds that coast tulips and daffodils to an early bountiful
bloom among the faces of flowers I am a lover of wind
with my breath full of feeble words my skin long to feel
its feisty freeze like a flock of trembling rocks at the sea’s
end where the hand of the sea meets the hand of the dry
land the sand holds our footprints only for a moment as is
our lives in the great motion of time we are born to die
and the angels can not resist to tell us so it is our inherent
but the babies do not care to know that it was given its
body to build the strength of its muscles till it stands on
its own along do not worship in excess the wants of the
young do not neglect the needs of the old it’s the way that
you shall go

The seeds that wait in the spited milkweed pod for

sparrows to use then in their nests the sand that waits on
the beach for a lick of the sea the performing of the
liberated heart that transcend the phenomena of the
adorable satisfied Lord the creator that care to touch
human skin in an emission of semen are all a place of
bliss controlled by a number of nymph that frantically
float across the mass sudden in their distance from dying
soldiers war is hell spoken in the ear of an immortelle
solitude maintaining its color when the life force is dried
by the imprisoned memory of sunlight ever visible
through the formula of life beating its heart against the
blueprint of windows that looks out on the battles fields
where the blood busted open on the flesh of the littler 220  
Christ drips down to be absorbed by an ant mound an ant
drowned in the blood of the fallen is unceremoniously
dropped out side of the home which is a nobler call to
embalmed or leave the dead to fend for themselves full of
mirth the earth soil above the oil of war is the fruit that
root out the banquet food in the blood of the woods and
desert is the thought of heaven a haven from the thought
of war is there comfort in knowing that after a life of
feeding to finally be fed upon the war dead in their flag
draped coffins arrive to their honor home by cargo planes
and are buried along side their common comrades we tear
for thee you who have paid the ultimate price the
Eucharistic element of incense detail the detachment of
your last rite in the bugle blowing taps the birds in flight
dance on the wind filled wing with a song to sing they
shall take a rest upon your stone in the grave yard you are
not alone you lie with other who have answered the call
again and again then with a passion salute my comrades
in arms sisters and brothers of the noble death noblesse
oblige take your resident rest beneath you name inscribed
in the stony water I stoop to touch and find it warm as a
body under the lore of the sun and beneath the crowded
clouds the memory of your bone do repair the grave stone
of the air your memory have no lame shame but the deal
that heal patriotism unfold since the days of old so
beneath the soul of the semen of the sun that give a birth
of feeding to the battle won to win is not the sin but thou
shall not kill the slow unfold of wars goes on with a blow
that sow youth to the uncouth outlandish battles that end
their lives even with the technology of war men must die
rifle fire to rifle fire in daylight and darken night the fight
even as birds are on the wings is heard the noisy bullets
that can eat their way into the flesh the grey smell of gun
fire on the wind knocked down by the rain war is a
mental lasting pain it is a chill that still itself in the
freedom of dreams brilliantly full of the implacable 221  
calamities of a homicidal war raging in the head

Night comes to St. Louis in all the silenus ear silent that it
can muster it wrap itself around the rusted fire escapes of
abandon buildings it come up out of the guttural gutters
and from underneath park cars it gives weight to the
nervous neon ghastly glow it reflect in the underbrush of
bushes it limit the light of the street lamp glow into a
circle that feebly shows the dim color of cars asleep in a
row it tell most birds to hush their flight but give free rein
to rabbets and catholic cats and poor skinned possum and
rambunctious raccoons to roan in search of fallen food
the sleeplessness of St. Louis under the escape anguish of
angles is ready to get its grove on within this night that is
abandoned by the moon by the fragile face moon of solid
rock have lost its stolen light taking on the silent of dance
cutting the rug under which the dirt of our misdeeds are
swept under under the cover of darkness the night people
comes to fruitful fruition they have slept the leaning light
away and now are refreshed to reengage themselves in
the chutzpah church of the dark that thumb its nose at the
sun that can not know all the doings of man like the
sexual wave that move from coast to coast time zone to
time zone in the momentary movement of the two a.m.
shutting of the bars and night clubs of the night’s
westward movement never homeless at the twenty four
hour dinner at two A. M. the bar patrons come for a spot
to eat to fill their alcoholic bellies that have danced with
fulgurating sweat lighting up the dance floor they have
come to fill their bellies with ham and eggs in the
albumen night before resuming the festival of darkness
out on the town slowly St. Louis turns into the eastern
light where the street lights loose their focus this feeble
attempt of man grows weak till it is excerpt by the light
of the objectionable sun reflected in the muddy
Mississippi racing pass the levee where now the bars are 222  
swept clean and lay asleep against the rhythm of the river

O riparian city of Rue d’Eglse Rue des Granger la Rue de

la Tour and Rue Missouri O city of shoes and bricks with
your outmovement of whites the exodus from your fix
border O mound city of the Mississippians O gateway to
the west O city of my birth I have walked the mounds in
Forest Park and felt the dead bones under feet the black
Venus the black pearl with the blood of the Appalachia of
her veins she danced her half nude way across Mill
Creek all the way to France O mother you have molested
the blacks in the history of Dred Scott before your court
but know you seek to be of a gentle nature all
conspicuous in open arms all welcoming in your need for
white foreigner to people the skimpy skittish skepticism
of your streets
O St. Louis O saint on the river your murderous
combatants parole your segregated streets is there a grace
to be seen in your face when the bed sores of your
northern side still reeks of the provoking poverty of your
poor that raise and prays that they shell not give replies
and dies by the broods that floods the moods of killing
they gaze in a daze of the night sight of bullets heard in
the night behind closed and locked door as the world
unfurled for some one that bleed because of the creed of
the streets you can be a room of gloom when each death
by murder is a wound that I suffer near to the tears that I
shed from my heart a content start for my art therefore
have you lost the population dress in the well to do
arguable aristocratic armor of the up and coming
therefore have you hushed your outrageous painful
memories of the emptiness of abandon buildings with
their broken glass eyes therefore do you gnaw at my love
of you love for the treasure of your scenery for birds 223  
whose history in the land is older then that of man O St.
Louis city of my impetuous laugher city of the
intoxicated innocence of your poor city of delineated
knell needs knocking around the knot that knows nothing
knuckle down into the murderous nostril of a flamboyant
spring rooted to your muzzled heart only the young and
brave venture forth into your deadly night of antique
violence awesome and enchanted by the moon’s madness
still you have your lady’s ways in the progress that the
blacks have made you have come back from the proscribe
grave where you laid prostrated toward the prosperous of
your later days once you was bursting at the seams in my
youth waiting on the crowed platform for a Mississippi
bound train where black folks in motion moving into your
bricked city from down homed Arkansan Brookville
Mississippi named after the Brook’s plantation peanut
and cotton Alabama
St. Louis the midnight fear of your streets is clear the
terror I hear even in a deep sleep do I weep it is because
of my love that I put you on front street my dark remark
is meant to bring to light your criminal lust that crust you
over your creeds bleeds beneath the stained gateway arch
you was born in sin Laclede with his mistress and bastard
son Chouteau why do I out you it is my love of the truth I
love the architecture of your tongue yo bro St. Lou ya iz
da bomb word up I love the architecture of your land the
hand size leaves of your sympathetic sycamores lining
your stubborn streets the bold blooded blue jay in their
evergreen red cedar nest the grey breasted sparrows under
the eve the solitary white tail rabbet in a dug out hole in
the front lawn the returning red breasted robin digging
under last season spoil of leaves for worms the morning
singing morning dove couple always together in feeding
the woodpeckers and flycatchers in Tower Grove Park
they seen to wear a woe in their slow song the red-tailed 224  
hawk perched on a fence post along the interchange
interstate the grey squirrel running alone a rusted chain-
link fence pass the fair grass and bitter litter of cigarette
buts and bits of paper on the soil and your oil stained
streets when Spring is Wintering its way to its full
frustration the starling bathing in a rain swollen muddy
puddle near a tear in the start of the heart of living within
their means the architecture of your red brick building the
beauty of fog in Forest Park a heavenly haven for wild
life willing to live in the city Teasdale knew your beauty
Eliot up till seventeen before he took to the eastern shore
the cost of his lost away from the very day that a sore
bleeds on the dance floor and the thorn torn flesh issued
forth from your earth where the blood of your wood drip
down the bark from the trees’ hearts you are my red
brick lady with the earth of your birth I praise thee you
are the gate way to who I am made by your hands I am
your poet son of the land
The vulgarization of a vulturine rough toothed stubborn
silence is circle around the dead wrenched of a waning
dream where the pestle of a pestilence quivering to be
seen is bellowing in a mouthful of wired wrung words
telling the story to the conspiracy of deserted agony
found in the Spring warmed ground that wears the
landscape of order as a guide to desires born with its eyes
on the sky’s refrain this reborn desire that dare to speak
its name of the same sex under the police’s lamp glow lit
by the throats of hypocritical politicians staring into the
bedrooms of judgment a place of grace above the love
where the flesh of a fresh sex to know the limit of a
confess yes that the body can go when all its nakedness is
reviled under the brotherhood of men in love show the
face in the place where the host of a boast set asunder the
thunder the bliss the manicured night of this storm that
warm the tongue their love making is syncopated to the 225  
resent compliment direction of an affection that despise
the patronize rhythm of a gigantic embrace around the
prick with its one eye helmet from which the foreskin is
pulled back to the soft flesh of the nocturnal light at the
edge of a lit candle with its delight mimicking the sun of
pathetic unreasoning toward the forgotten storm quite in
the contemplating memories of a nearly forgotten apple
eaten a long side the four manacled rivers that flows pass
Eden where the worst the first murder burst with the
knock rock shock Cain to wonder aimlessly baring the
special mark tell he founded the first city

I have seen such beauty in a blistered of colorful temples

in the fall sheltered mountains of Korea where Ko
Choson breathed in the land of the morning calm Korea
be thou the first we greet in song like the glory Holy
Ghost to thee under the rule of the blood drenched
Japanese where your students have all ways known the
way to go toward the sensual gross of birds at Jeju but it
is to late to tell you that the christen are coming to
conquer you all and plant the sky’s thrust at time both
heavily terrifying with its mountain of clumsy clouds
installing power mushrooming before the eyes and low
rumbling thunder singing to the delirium of the landscape

What became of the buried alone bones of Abel where the

landscape was crucified by pride and the setting sun of
the west took its rest in the breath of the little death the
wild words are at it again sometime they can be so
civilized so polite in how do you do thank you so
sublimed in their generalized infancy of the stain brain of
the mind behind the name of a wordy flame that burns the
soul’s reward that keep true sleep spent in a lament of the
head where leisure of the treasure of pleasure is caught in
sleep murderous words parked on the tip of the tongue
transcend the complicated skeleton that waits inside the 226  
body outside of the penalties of laughter where a
labyrinth of visitation comes to the irreducible body of
water the penetrator of rain licks its color toward the fat
swollen earth beneath a quarter size moon with its silver
light in tune with the nocturnal soul that plays the
buffoon to amuse the syrinx playing in the throat of an
invisible instant my buffoon tear for thee sweet land of
duality land where my father cried out that I was not his
son that he had but one the name sake my older brother
still his bloodline flowed in my veins even while he kept
his love away some say that this is way I am gay that no
father hand to hold no argent art of training to be a man
nature or nurture nature stand to make me this man that I
am my sexuality held in the hand of a God that can
discover the prism of man’s beautifully raw pardonable
brotherhood of born in perfume that attract man to man
that vanish away the wrinkles of my foreskin under the
bare concerns that I wear my strong attraction is not
wrong in the places that I put my graces in the flame of a
well heal name O how lovely are my elder brothers the
others who have gone on before with their joys of the
tight skin of the boys their kind divine that pursued the
more to teach the peach skin youth confounded by their
feeling grounded in the roots of their needs afraid to
release the sexual peace that waves make on the lakes on
the surface of our emotion Mary May do not betray the
male tact of a sexual act realize by the eyes of the whole
soul a man take man to wife in the life and achieve
unselfishness and bless within his pride to keep his man
to his side in sleep where the angles weep for the love
that hang on two hairy arms that enjoy the boy an
exhibition no submission but equal giving after a flock of
laughter crash on the rock and spring love sing indeed it
feed itself in a flood of rose buds when night stare at the
dark bright air of street lights and the moon is broken
open on a tune whispered by the want of a wind though 227  
the dead head of an exquisite barkless mulberry the
geodesic dome and gazebos of I’m being both beautiful
and boundless in the simplicity of my being one in a
world of ones as a poet how shall I say to you how shall I
reach the oneness of you in the end I can say that I have
something some thing as small as a word word-up word
working word-mongering the wordy way that works work
where-up-on the last whing-ding whinny heard by the
way of the cross

Once in a madness where was heard the calling of my

name by the hallucinating voices of the first Gods of the
squirrel’s memory and the teaching of me to ask who am
I I got high and why words to worry their memories of
meanings by to put the pen to paper and pen the divine
given resounding as a sea of A B Cs inhaled beneath an
almond tree where the fruit of its seed ever starchy sweet
ever woody limbs cracking underneath the foot that pins
us down in the moving hour of our calculating strength
we forget to bend beneath the air of our own breathing
the weather of our togetherness is a cool pool that thrust
its lovely lust brush rush toward the sinning joy that roar
up to the shore that ascend and pour a score of prime
emotions about the thirty-two dead

I have spoken the I chanted so be it with vital bated

breath burning the speed of profusion quite of guilty
silence sleepless of its profile filed in the back of the
mind where is set the drums of protection trembling in a
far away corner of the stroke of the skin constantly
drumming like the Congo River running its wet rainforest
of dripping where the warfare on my lips is the battle to
win the senseless sense of nonsense to win the babbling
bubble of mindful meanings mounted on the tip of the
tiring tongue the assumption of the sum viciously fruitful
in its innocence of poetic musing the lost duty to words as 228  
a thing to be played with as children do making a toy of
sticks rat-of-ta-ta-ta on the concrete skin of a sea horse
bobbing buoyancy in the respected region where the
drunken flesh sleep and dreams of buffaloes hiccupping
the rainbow under the mounting timeless negation of the
movement of a subdual scream for the diminished
number by the dry wings of things under the impetuous
delirium that sometime hold up the crying sky crying

The harmonies found at the foot of a tree when the rusted

diamond falls from the ring meant to last forever but the
fragile landscape of its cut ignited the falling luck and
what was lost in the prosecutor of tomorrow promises to
pile with a pitch fork roof top high the hay of horses
breed for their speed this is a wondrous thing from here to
there its meaning stayed by way of a brief protest from a
poet who leave along the rhythms of love songs of the
misbehave and focus on the sound success snagged by the
square root of a squeezed spasmodic sneeze that rise to
the lonely sky with its reply that rest in the nest of a
prison distressed

By Winter’s last righteousness bred in the air of a

snowstorm of mould cold unfolding in each personality
of a snow flake I can not tell words wailing up
calculating the meaning to the tough side of
understanding with its severe labor willing to work out
side of the boundaries of a simplify solo meaning
minding the store house where the little known knowable
knock down with knuckles and all to the floor of the
tongue the root of the mouth the skin of the self-
conscious cry of the migrant worker of words

When the dew is new and comes dumb wondering if it is

worth the waste of one’s breath of one’s warm blooded
breath warbling worshiping the wrath rattle ring wore 229  
around the wrinkles of a compotation when I stroke an
oak on an early April day to keep bad luck at bay always
I thank the Gods the lowly holy God of tress God of wind
that find its way to cling to the wing of a flying Carolina
Chickadee the full pull of the wind with all its pace
filling the open place of air blowing pass each blaze of
grass blowing April clad and glad though the city’s
harshness of darkness where the last forecast of crime
take place under its cover when I wrinkle my way
through the world wiry pass a cabildo writ on the skin of
a cuarterone of Colombian conspicuous in his absence
from the sugar-cane and cacao plantations on the
Caribbean coast of a slave’s punishment deal out with the
knotted whip of injustice boiled alive then drawn and
quartered its pieces dragged through the street of the town
square where the slave code is nailed to the cross of a
Cimarron
 Part VIII

I appeal to the good sense of the censer of the readers

according to the unpardonable motion of water the untold
reparation for the murder of the prophet of swamp ravens
with their marvelous black inheritance bred into the
watery bed down by the brown earth that swell with the
will of God where the flowers are hostile and the insects
seem friendly and are interest in sucking the blood of
vultures feeding on the broken night encrusted with eagle 230  
powder fit for cracking the mountain’s morning moaning
it hunger full of the intimate wreckage of stardust laced
with dead machines and explosives milkweed seeds
borrowed from their bottomless vines entwined round the
muzzle of night that is naked and full of crocodile
laughter that can be heard in the ear of slumber the night
collapse into itself and the cities began to move to the
tune of many motions that torcher the air into a torrent
knotted and swollen in the throat of the greatest wild
blossom blooming its color beneath the back bone of an
abandon car

I appeal to the waves that saves the forsaken that is

awaken in the nation’s generation of the more deplore
enlightenment found in the sacred city of bees where
everything is brilliant where the found fortunes of fellow-
citizens is leading a virtuous life where the chants of
marry and generate as the fruitful mother Mary who bore
for us a boy with his irresistible electric tenderness in the
everywhere air skinned by the wind that can not be waken
from its forsaken curse that is the worse of known darken
form found in the torment of tears shed on the ferocious
canopy that shatter the fat shower’s vapor that can not
hush its notion of a motion determined to counsel the
infinite innumerable history of the falling rain such a
simple thing within the knowledge of God the sole
operator to the internal believers who shall share in his
glorious grace when heaven becomes the place where the
good shall wait under the thunder redeeming the seeming
all eternal pace of an all encumbering grace of the
prostrated prayers who have bent their knees in honor of
the great all knowing machine that carried the fog on its
back the fog muzzled by the scrupulous gesture of
thunder incredulous in its spasmodic pilfering of darkness
found hiding in the corners of spring’s eternal return
231  
I appeal to the scalpels of winter winds that have sliced
open the embrace of the air that fed the lungs of breathing
creatures found wrapped in the mismanaged hunger of a
transparency with its wild vivid violence evocable
strength franticly venturing toward the proclaimed
pestilence and pesky parasite that have proved themselves
worthy to live on the meat of the earth rolling in its space
of the great universe keeping its secrets of life lost in the
immense void of a heaven sent storms that roar like
mountains of mud mildewed and massacred by the
mindless machines mining minerals midlife like the moon
of hot high light presumptuous and pompous as a cat
catcher’s pompadour paraded around an aquatic amber’s
flame bloody and insane as the boredom of a tree
swaying in the swing shift of shadows with their
secondary roots worn down to the growth of drunk
memories ruthless with remorse and the rigor mortis of
innocence dead by the age of 18 an age of unlimited
emotion in the blood of a growing body that have yet to
get use to its new skin to its new hair growing in secret
private provided places new desires caught by the eye an
age of living dangerously when nothing last for so long in
the human temples where the factory of the skin devour
ferociously the thirsts and hunger of nostalgia muscles
stretched over the mountain of the trash of skulls of
tomorrow caught in the extreme future stillborn
everywhere in the approach of science and the
tempestuous bread fed to the homeless forgotten amidst
the murderous capitalist of brought souls in the season of
a greedy Santa Causing the new born of the manger to
become a selling tool

I appeal to the wet dirt covered earth worm caught in the

beak of an American Red Breasted Robin in the
transudation from winter to spring sprung in the daffodils 232  
in bloom Blue Birds in the budding maples and blue
spruce care the everywhere warming of the air the fat
warm face is a grace shine divine a glory easily gotten
glued the viewed fade the grey far away clouds that
knows to go some where every afire the desire of the sun
to please the high supply of warmth the fair air gazed
with praises spread out on the bed of grass that look its
wind shook unpinned desire the wind ghost ruffle the
feathers of a sparrow preached on a fence post its wise
eyes surveying the passing of time in the Holy Week
concern of man the worth while birds knows nothing of
Gods in their lives they are unencumbered by the distress
to please them a successful happy ignorant that does not
know itself to be so unencumbered by the hierarchy of
the church they have no religious to control or condemn
them and still they are caught in an intimacy with nature
as the knowable body of God as for man take to heart the
church of the mind for he is of the kindred kind the way
to God is an open road lit by the sun and the moon you
need no ridiculously rigid religion to show you the way
religious are systems of profit that seeks to control the
passion of the soul for the wealth of the church each man
to his own belief each accountable to the same solo self
by the very breath only you can die for your sins to be
redeemed in life you stand before your maker every
earnest day that place the mark upon you this is your
heaven and hell made by the mind of man born of the
flesh you shall come to rot in the body of God and from
the decomposition of your deconstructed body shall there
raise a host of life hidden in the coffin of your homestead
you are the maker of all but one Gods the God of
operculum of grass grounded to Its face the God of the
breath of the dead woman’s face God of earth of the
universal face of everything everywhere ever present ever
dying and being born from that death a God insane and
schizophrenic with life caught in the possession of Its 233  
orientation toward filling up earth with the universe need
for proactive procreation and public pleasure a God of
the many faces of life nursing at Its breast a God of
convocation fornication of the probable cause proceeding
as if It is all the only God that you shall know Its breath is
yours Its flesh is the skin of the world Its feces feed the
dung beatles It make no waste of rocks or bones or bark It
is a God of consumptions among Its many mindful
children man is no more special then the so-called lowly
creatures of the world O God of my endless treasure kept
in the collapsed advance of an approaching storm
mutilated by the wind God of the mosquito’s sensations
of the hibiscus’ hibernation of the heaviness of the
swallowed light of the sun God of the catastrophe
humming of the history of rain having its run God of the
pitted pious moon of the stupidity of man held in the
hollow of your hand of the invented Gods that can not
control you distort you for you I will murder all the
angels murder all the fraudulent Gods that people the
heavens they fear you for your love of the screaming sun
shining over the love of the fragile courage of man O
young green God of the stars decorated night a cluster of
clouds elaborating the many eyes of the guardian rain
raining down its cross-eyed odor from the shaken sky lit
by the deafening light of a proverb of memories burst
open the terrestrial scenery drifting under the liquid sky
of sweat bankrupting the sacrificial silence trembling its
delight for the gigantic fruit-bearing essence of trees
incorruptible by wanting weather that nurse them I call
you mother nature the nurse I pick up your urgencies for
life and death done down by the infected dreams with
their intention of the trade winds full of forgotten words
over spilling their counter-thrust of thirst with its
drunkenness delivering the stagnant water spelt without
remorse O mother earth the first and last God to breath
the antique mountains alive O unpardonable earth your 234  
sumptuous tongue licks life like the built vision of
brotherhood O water face of the water earth man shall
putrefied you with his plastic waste and you shall come to
find us unpardonable on the wet hump of earth we have
all but over stayed our domain in the name of a
tempestuous God that will make man Lord over you the
pointlessness of the thing the boasting bomb making man
is small of mind against the working of nature when O
when will man come of mind to defend you from himself
you who are tender toward us the wind is your messenger
the birds your foot soldiers the trees your ministers of
breath the sun your light man the moon your royal guard
the galaxy your wilderness

I appeal to the demystification of thick languages and the

innocent of nature in her compensation of simplicity with
her common sun and common rain the common season
reframe that return again and again her sea shore
bellowing roar the strands of branches hands for leaves
her deep seeds sleeps her sun eye that sees earth turning
its ample head into its warm light her air that is an
exchange all her earth of rebirth the sight of her moon
face at night her birds that fly and cry out to the morning
light her kids in their early life play the live long day the
strong reframe of birds songs I meet her sweet life with
open arms her youth strung beneath the blazing fire of the
sun even man’s desire for the feel and strength of steel to
feel that he is safe from her wicket winds and cold closed
freezing will in the depth of winter even here disease as
divine as bees buzzing about the pine sticky resin the
geography of a blaze of grass her million count sand that
would be glass the negritude that will not pass in the
sudden strength of a dark new born in time torn between
being call African American and black a generational act
I am a baby boomer black I love the tell tell heart of the
sweet Lenore preached above the door with the dark echo 235  
call of never more

I appeal to my love of the half-circle sadness that dwell

in everyone the mid-main pain that come and go the song
sung without the tongue the close budding of a rose the
drench quench falling of rain the break shake of thunder
the right light of lighting that tread spread its electric
crooked stick in the thick crowd clouds that flock against
the rocky mountain’s rock my emotions are swung
among the deep that weep this weeping is rough enough
to cover the ground unbound by the choking sound that
floats its notes that rest in the west where if it could it
would have stood its ground against the prime time funny
bone of black track television today have gone astray as if
it flee from a pray that have come to slay the fresh flesh
of miles of the Nile while the whispering wind whisks the
surface in a motion of violent broken by the tortured
unconfessed dream triumphant in its stalled meaning held
in the REM sleep of dreaming the language of the dead it
is a rarified thing with its grammatical participation
biologically grown in the mind to the throat to the tongue
a lung full of words is the easy poetry oppressed with its
urgent return this precise poetry of rest this mythopoeia
myth of sounds thrown around the whisper of a breath
this jazz-jazz-jazz movement moving of the motion
modern and non-moderate moist moire is grounded in
the long lines breathlessness of the mind the limits of
language to hold the divinity of life is a thing known to
poets who are charge to do their best with the busy
buzzing butt-end of bounteous bodacious words that
mean a military of things the silence words on the page
wait your breath to say what it is that they was made
without you they are dead thing pregnant still they waits
the possibilities of the breath to discharge their
accomplish energy in an orgy of birth no longer the
metronome rule the tick tock tick tock that rocked an 236  
earlier day now I say the flow of the syllable the jazz of
the line the breath of the mind the jazz symphonic of
words strung on the breath of the wind sometime couple
with the riff of rhyme in a time told bold that binds both
the high priest of the east with his soul roll the sound
round in his throat then spited it out to the ear in the year
of the silver jubilee as the sun run half the world asleep it
keep its spent lament full of the leisure of pleasure for the
hour that the sun strike the highest tower of a flower the
earth birth a choir of fire from the volcano’s breath that
reek its sleek room full of the gloom that doom with a
boom busted full force onto the waiting air and the morn
is born red over the low melt of snow that roll its muddy
flow down the mountainside mastering rocks and tooth
pick trees once strong of songs before the flames came
this inspiration of the mother earth’s creation the sweet
sire rapture true to itself with its giant groan sounding the
ferocity of its approach wrapped in the horror that man
find in nature being divine while the poets know that she
is without fault of malice that her hurricanes are blind to
man’s budding buildings of businesses that the intimacies
between the tsunamis and the sea is an ancient
unmolesting thing nature have the right of way in all her
doings let no man stand in between she reign
Supreme ask not who is the God of nature but who is the
nature of God

I appeal to the conflagration of the dead angel of the great

battle waged on the head of a visitation of the reptile
ancient and injured by the volcanoes’ veins bleeding its
fragile fiery self-conscious pit that turn toward the
astonished chattering of thunder’s riot roar toward the
throng that long ago topple the tepid rotting of a town is
rehearse and cries Eli Eli lama sabachthani am I not
humble enough a creature of the earth and am I not 237  
subject to its daily submission to the divine will have I
not labor long in the liturgical labyrinth of the very
livelihood of that self same Jesus who is the intercessor
of my empty pockets where the manometer of loud
money are beating down my defensive door where the
convulsion of a smile held in the equilibrium of a warm
rumbling of billboards selling the desire of a courteous
terrifying forceful memory that goes in the dirty dirt of
flesh possessing the expense of excellence where the truth
of youth bid you adieu before the old shore of impiety
stoned by the society that wish to achieve the bankrupt of
a grace that shows it face to the infection staying alive in
the time that it take to run a knife across the vein seen in
the ugliness and barbaric violence of the T.V. with its
cosmic vision of sights and sounds knotted by the
reflected face in the mirror of blood spilled savagely on
the anxious desolation of a dazzled slumber where the
tireless hunger of dreams are submissively restless in
their repeating of the mantra buy buy buy like some
African drum beating back the breaking of air a-thump a-
thump a-thump the rump rump rump calls in the warmth
of dump dump dump where the improvised kids hunt
hunt hunt hunt for resalable goods of a throw away
society get thee behind me poverty let the world’s
begging bowl be full of the prayers of old let the babies
grow to know a fat belly’s satisfaction in the well fed
goal of our most secretive knowing let the nourishment
and regenerative nature of the blacks of the world beat
back the buoyancy of racialism with the age old African
wisdom woven in the manumission emancipated history
of coartacion where Bartolome Frias de Albornoa got it
right in his Inquisition forbidden Art of Contracts in a sea
of sophistry that sidestepped the sufficient obsession of
the secondary culture counter to the Christian myths that
all non-believers are hell-bound for a violent fiery after
life that only the righteous true believers of the one God 238  
whose son was nailed to the cross shall be save to the
honest host of heaven when the common source of
humanity with its original simplicity of an aggressive
ideal of Gods coincide with the occidental occupation
heritage of an age that acquired the materialistic notion
that one can be saved by the requisition of the cross that
there is but one God when earth is forever pregnant with
the thoughts of future featured Gods now hidden in the
brain of the unborn who can say when the new Gods shall
come to rein the fateful decision is not yet made trust the
poets when they say that there shall come one God of the
new age local to the time of the divine convention
inherited in the revolution that shall emphasize the
emphasis the necessities of the holy rhythms and rhymes
of the God-breath keeping time to the back-breaking beat
born on the tip of meeting of the propagation of the
promontory minds out of the swamp of man’s misery out
of the lower-class smoke from the burning of poverty a
primate God shall raise up from the muck of despair from
the landscape of the strangler fig growing in its cling
around the skyscrapers although capitalist shell try to
muzzle it with a price tag bottle it with a cap that says
align the cross and pray it shall sabotage the crimes of the
day it shall collapse the winds of salvation it shall execute
the assassins who are baptized in gold and copper and
nickel it shall summon the spermatozoids spattered in
the sensitive oblivion irrepressible and caught in the
landscape of a mirror where the face fade fast forward
from the looker lasting in a long lag toward the longitude
of the half hearted moon hear me harkens to my hasty
words hung on the hairy tongue of a iris when the light of
the sun comes before the fiery ball the birds wakes up the
day with their calls and the worms hide deep in the
arching earth aching from the emphatic baking that comes
at high noon where the shadows hide under foot under
cars politely parked in a row at the curious curb of 239  
currency with its birds shadows of feeding on the wings
full of warm wind assuming the position of a petty
forgiving foreboding and forbidding for the cause of a
generous generosities of the solitary seeker wandering
aimlessly having forgotten what it was that he went in
search of

I appeal to a new God who shall shine its projective light

simultaneously realized by the first experience of making
a hole in the soul to be filled up by the signified
resignation embracing legal warfare without killing for its
favors the war for the minds of men the war for the soul
forever wanting to believe in something greater then itself
when all along the divinity of all life is there to behold
the hot and the cold the old age of the sun that blows its
warmth from so far away the sweetness of the
honeycomb is a home the ears that hears the birds song
the true to do dreaming along the art of the heart longing
the wake that break the nights delight I adore all these
and more believe for as a poet I will not deceive your
belief but be as a thief that died crucified beside the one
Son well does the poets dwell beside the holiness of your
human stress we goes into it to show you the mysteries of
your longing caught on the breath of a long held faith
found in the chamber of a intimate thought surviving the
doubt caught in the awakening and forbidden heart with
its blood of reason ransomed by the flesh we poets should
place ourselves beyond the doors of the chapel and serve
the one true God nature and serve the one true emotion
man to let him know that he is not alone in the secret
place of his secrets heart poet tell all lay yourself bare
strip away the encrusted lies that we tell ourselves betray
no trust but be devoured by the truth that will rage if
giving but half the breath despise the lie that society tells
and we in turn tell ourselves tell the secrets of the open
streets the biting truth that hide in the shadows of 240  
religious strip Christ from the cross but do not insult strip
the priest of his garb but do not molest strip the ancient
wisdom from the Bible and distill it modern strip the
Koran of its repressiveness and set the wanting women
free wage jihad with warm words willing to work their
way within the respect of each man’s heart felt soul
saving religious work like the communication of
combustion of Confucius exploring the evil doer who
have lost his way in the wilderness where crime is the call
of the day crime that betrays bothering the budding soul
like frost in April killing the tender bud coached by an
early warm wind wooing the return of Spring found in the
weak-hold of Winter in St. Louis where the brutal
question of weather with its corrugated iron head rusted a
brown drowned red with its ephemeral shadow marking
the passing of sun-told-time in the blood of a honest city
with its streets of goofy guttural gossip grounded in a tell-
tell truth told to the talkative tale teller tall and talented
by the told torrent of the toothed tongue let the Ts run till
time tattered torn hum itself away

I appeal to nature that once held the bodies of many Gods

but their honor as the soul’s suitor is now amiss no longer
do we cry to them to be our guide no longer do they rest
in the breast of the a tree I weep for thee long lost Gods
of the success in this time of distress within the sin of war
yous have been undone while war runs across the face of
our earth no so no more that you are flat lined the hour of
your flower is crucified the man child runs wild beneath
the stars and the south wind in our mouth the ease of the
seas lapping at the door of the shore will not help us to
discover its heart never apart the wind morn with a soft
blowing horn the pine and stranger vine seemly grow
unattended while we have science to explain the Gods
away this is our nature so there is no blame we do as we
were born to do as the Robin knows to use its beak to 241  
push aside the decomposing leaves as the Sparrows
knows to pluck a dried blaze of grass to use in the
construction of its nest so too is the science of our hands
a tool of the mind still I long for the time when aspects of
nature was held as divine O God of the air God of the sea
Gods of the lost divinity again I tear for thee the glory of
your forgotten story lie in the flame of your untaught
name you have been tamed by the gold that holds the
entomb fume of your breath your images now but wood
and stone your praises but in the dead dusty book of a
bygone day you have been undressed dissected left to rot
but all is not forgot for before I lay I pray that poets shall
be seized and you appeased by the working of their pens I
welcome in the cardinal property of my map-maker
consciousness of your wondrous working in me let there
be for thee the lance of a countenance a lustily low lot
longing learned by the lean eyes that look long on the
dear day of the year when you have given to me a song to
sing into the ear of whoever shall hear my carnival of
words caught like a stink of the wild willful words
waddling its wallowing way warm and waspishly worn
and watery it whine and whir from the page of a tough
tongue

I appeal to the rhythms of the world rhythm of the sun

rhythm of the moon rhythm of the heart’s blood pumping
rhythm O glorious rhythm O gold stander of the poem
you have the power to beat or bind with rhyme you are
the measure of the line break break upon my boisterous
tongue break break as baking a cake in the sun break
break the back of a bound wish spilled out onto the
putrescent prandial of flesh eaten in the ear of a
misplaced fear of a demanding God hear O hear the love
story of a worm warm in the belly of the earth warm as
the birth of a new born warm as ashes in an urn that burn
turn and yearn to hear in the ear of the year that your 242  
time shall come fear no Gods they can do you no harm be
you beyond the reach of their arms fear no church with
your right of search for the God that fit your needs nature
is willing to take over the deed fear not the fear that you
shall meet on a darken street where darkness stacked in
the remote corner take the shape of the state that seeks to
control the passion of the flesh flush and full to be fondle
in the fulfillment of its needy nervous needs of nature O
nature O holy one O defender of the defending spear-end-
tail sperms that lag behind I am inclined to worship thee
in all thy doings I am inclined to breath thee in as you
caress my water-tight skin you are the God that I feed
upon and in return you feed upon me the breath of God is
free for the taking nothing else is asked of you other then
that you be O sweet mother of papa death aid us in our
life long quest that linger in the mind that rest upon the
thought of you O God of the yellow hair boy of the
mechanism of social control over the sexuality of the late
Pleistocene of Eden lush and luxuriant abundant of life
living long on the land where the father of man walked
without shame of his now nervous nakedness O
hallucinogenic priest predecessor to the poet
schizophrenic priest of Godly power where the
wilderness was you temple where the burial ground your
God-house you took sanctuary in the tomb where from
your tongue bloomed the beginning of civilization the
organization of the church now corrupt hanging its head
on the words of the dead forsaking the fluency of the
living poet who know God indecently living on the
fringes of his society beside the poor criminals poor of
morals but rich in his confident to take a life a way of life
a life of crime in the feudal law-abiding world of
exploiting the weak where we most fend for our selves
beside the prominence of pretensions men of power that
scorn those without O rootless restless poets are you a
real rebel rogue to the realistic point of view with your 243  
omnivorous curiosity your gusto for observing and
recording the doing of the common man you who must
die with the sins of your society upon you you who crows
to herald and summon forth the dawning of nature as the
singular God without reservation you immense with love
cautious sorcerer of the catastrophe coil of words around
the rendezvous of a rhythm you kneading before a cross
of syllables you explosives of emotion kept in the hollow
of you pen you who hunger who conspire to overthrow
the state that go about hissing velvet violent void of
remorse leeching the luminous beauty of the indivisible
individual born free to die a slave of the vulture state
peeking at the eyes of the soul vulture with bloody beak
where forth is your outrage you who are my sisters and
brothers in the cause of the tortured and tongue tied with
your perfume of whispered rhymes you born to pen your
time in the test tube of crime the monitory force that
keeps the poor down as they seek to climb out of the pit
of poverty you are the map makers of the souls of men
charting as you go you are the sin taker that absorb with
pen cocked to defend the voiceless who ignore you in
favor of Hallmark’s sappiness you are the sharp edge that
cuts open the secrets of your society you bare the mark of
the condemned wear it well with pride beside the cross
tattooed on your skin map the secret roads post poems
signs to show which way to go be intoxicated with your
craft know that you are one among many one none-the-
less be the best in the name of poetry be not afraid to fell
be fully committed commute to the place of the human
heart hear the particularity of speech swallow the words
of the streets drink deep as if to drown from the fountain
of discontent let your energy for the telling truth be spent
on the point of your pen then shall I salute you

O rhythm of the remediation O rhythm of the hash cries

of a Blue Jay O blabbing notes of a goat O rhythm of a 244  
sleeping seed of the dandelion weed on the wind your
bobbing dip down sweeping the ground as low as a
butterfly’s flight O rhythm the heart of the poetic art
never apart you too I give your due rhythm of the fair
breath of trees of air ever steady and ready full of words
heard the fame of your name is worth the rhythm of the
earth you drift with a rift slow then swift in the
syncopated saxophone’s symphonic notes you floats back
and forth you are found round the gutter where water drip
you seized your appease you drip from the lips and run
your flow to a show motion’s movement mowing down
the motif of a long held moan waiting its turn to be set
free in the rhythm of a breath stuttering of the tongue O
rhythm you are the wholly woven whole one that whisper
wordy wild on the tugging tell-tell tongue of the
prophylactic prophetic pushers of poems the simi-devine
ones who come to your aid and find themselves saved
within the hallucinate haze of your breath O rhythm O
rhyme in the hallway of time each of us say that you are
mine we are the makers that bear the mark of Gods we
wanders to and fro hereto and thereto we go with your
flow that you bestow we let it go quid pro quo with the
beat of our meaningful hearts heard in the pen’s art O
laughter lasting long O poetic song on the shipwreck
tongue O sobbing tornado that can do no wrong O
brotherhood of the strong gallop pass the executioner’s
elegant eyeglasses tossed into a pond pass the ripping
revolt of the masses stillborn pass the nocturnal sexual
sapwood of the loin O stumbling compassionate storm
holding on to a blind man’s arm O last word of the
innocent of a twister bristling its backbone against a
bird’s wing the heart of the thing heard in its song O
midnight dungeon anticipating the beautiful sunken limit
of a pothole O endless convulsion of an impetuous
laugher O loud silence upholding the duration of a
delirium that protect the language of hummingbirds O 245  
anguish strength of memories found in the extinct
grasslands of buffalos’ eyes O umbilicus of a cargo of
slaves driven to madness by the sound of the sea by the
sway that contemplate the consistency of the swagger of
the word nigger on a black man’s tongue O bones of the
native you have been stoned by the wounded machines
overflowing from the forest of a city at rest O guardian of
the unknown God sleeping on his pillow of bombs
dreaming of the madness of science O the nonfunctional
lust of thunder tinted with the impossible blue whistle of
lighting’s entanglements with the dark under belly of a
cloud of doubt O aquiferous water auriferous aquifers of
the homeless sleep that appease the absurd dreams of
concentrated phlegm of a hourless inconsolable climate
of the brain of the insane that rape the Holy Ghost of the
monsoon crying its irresponsible sin forgotten by the
drunk fish with its flesh of hiccups O bird-like flight of
the fire flying high in the darken forest’s diadem of
melting trees with their nameless guardians of smoke
screaming for water to quince the flames that lick the sky
the raging sea is strip mining the beach where desire leap
like the narrow sound of a finely tuned trumpet sounding
the music of a brassy red with its bluish blues bobbing
backward in tune with the transparency of a prayer under
the influence of alcohol where the breath burns the
tongue of a tortured man the cross tortured by nails in the
hands that it is said died for the sins of man can he be
reborn as the second son only to be crucified again and
again on the flag pole of the USA say that it is not so go
to the electric chair where the dead man walking takes his
last breath for committing the sins of the flesh a life for a
life is the dead’s right to be revenged if you cant do the
time then don’t do the crime a simple truth put in rhyme

O rhythm of my sleeping breath and that of my waken

speech I find you everywhere you are no stranger to my 246  
pen I let you in and in the end you carry your wordy
meaning on again and again O rhythm of the real estate of
violence that cut the heart out and leave it bloody and
blunted on the barely legal rainbow of adventure O angle
eye that hiccup your sobs in the bird-like sex of forgotten
seeds of despair in the grieves stones of Easter Island I
have expressed and guessed the older end of a colder
going down the rhythmic sway of the ocean that keep its
dead in the deep down brown cold and dark of a deeper
issue never apart from the watery want with the will to
live that is scribed on the suffice surface of a standing
army in the standoffish fragile day where is heard the
thundering voices of the beasts full of eyes and the white
horse ride against the second seal and the black horse of
balances of a great sword that will heal when the seven
headed beast with his crowns comes from the sea of our
deepest disbeliefs held in the nameless hardness of a
scream that thirst for the forgotten history of an inhaled
blessed logic gigantic and white with anguish white with
the white man’s pinkness pining for the old days of
supposedly superiority now transposed into an order of
faith for a God that we can not know for he have respect
unto the recompense of the reward reserved only for the
recently dead with their heads full of feasting worms and
four legged flies dancing and laying eggs on the corpse of
a rotting desire fat on the brain that once rained with a
thousand thoughts on the alpha and omega collapsed into
one where the naked want of the world is not ashamed of
its nakedness before the scenery of man’s mugging tree
swollen with the forbidden fruit of a man to man love that
dare to speak its name in the neurotic narcotic streets
where darkness is insane playing the game of the sane in
its run toward the dawning of the drunkenness of a
homeless despair caught in the shadows of the lazy
yellow anxious of the deceased requiem singing its heavy
song to the new tomb stone warmed by the annihilated 247  
judgment of the sun the dead are forever silent while the
ancestor live in the sarcophagus of the heart that rejoice
to call upon their names be open my mouth be unclosed
my mouth the weapon of my trade the mouth of the Gods
are of iron colleting charms from the lake of fire in the
underworld down under the thumb of a quicken shadow
may you remember the names of your ancestors may you
call upon them for guidance in the lake of flowers may
your heart be to you in the house of hearts your heart’s art
run shut round the sun’s lament spent beside a school of
pools nature’s rule the seven heaven weather together
with a smitten of foil greased with oil where the shod and
soil flare its scare where the prize of tongue told lies is a
thrush of lush that rush and brush like the roar at the
shore that pour its score on the sordid town crowned with
prime slime blow-bent and hurl down from the dirty sea
meet me half way to the gaining of power over your two
hands and arms the gaining of power over your heart the
gaining of power over your feet to do as it please when
the keeper of the scales come to weight your heart for
the measure of the state of its sin let it be found empty
within a guilty heart never wins in the end

O rhythm of an ignorant war fought without a doubt

where the frowning of drowning in a sea of bullets that
bear the name of the same bodies that they have found
bullets flung onto the lungs or tongues O rhythm of the
success of stress of the question of the blood in love the
stutter’s abrupt rhythm of repetition of the first or last
sound words have stumbled on my tongue when I was
young O the rhythm of the self that knows the self and
can rage in an age of emotional shield for the body’s field
that must cover itself to be real where we are told to
repent for the salvation of our souls where we are told to
be good citizens of the state good citizens of the church
good citizens of the capitalism of the capitalist fat and 248  
plumb on the back of the poor where civil disobedience
seem to be no more O rhythm of a rootless riot of
unreasonable flowers the blazing dawn calls your name
the incorruptible weather drum its holy refrain the birds
have all gone insane beneath the mosquitoes rain the
poets have quite the game of being concern for the poor
in favor of he who cross himself with a dollar sign in the
Sunday morning famished and solitary hour when the
voices full of hunger hung on the ten commandments
thirst for a salvation that is no longer thrifty there religion
is a sedative for fear of the silence seventh seal there in
the land of milk and honey of mice and men of the have
and have not the souls reeks of a rot for what it has forgot
the kinship of all men the holy friends the love thy
brothers as you love thyself when man have reach the
wee hour of his life he will ask for forgiveness from a
God that have long forgotten how to listen to the warring
creature that fight among themselves for the right to
control the book bitter in the belly let the seven sector
trumpets sound let their rhythm rebound like smoke of
the incest of incense that drawn all creatures of the earth
all in the name of a murderous God that shall kill the
innocence of trees and fishes of the seas to reek his
vengeance on man being man such tenderness man can
contain within his soul if he but know how to still and
stall the blow if he but think to make it so if he but be not
sore and sour of temperament it is never to late to repent
to your fellow man never to late to wait upon the poor
never to late to vegetates upon a godly will till you feel
the brotherhood of all to catch a soul about to falls say to
your neighbor you are my brother say to the earth you are
my mother say to the buddle of the forest longing for rest
that you are the skies advancing west thickly and quickly
for the wild-worst mean breath of a suicidal death
cheering the grey Milky Way blast past the risen prison
of stars caged by the passion of the Father and the Son 249  
with their round sound enemies of divine beings that
make victorious Osiris look like a second rate divine
chief Horus is Isis is Set is Mestha is Hapi is Thoth is
Mohammad and Christ should be put on ice and Nature
raise to her rightful place in the high arch hierarchy of the
Gods for in the end she is all to win

O rhythm of the meditating breath of the metaphoric

mechanisms with its story of glory and bones full of
groans the long song of a done wrong toward the
inspiration of an explanation for the behavior of the red
breast robin in its nest O rhythm of the assassinated dawn
that view the returning blue sky where birds fly with their
songs full of stones their tones echo round the
underground homes of caution worms within the thin
roads that they make in every darkness there is a fear that
waits in the station of the forest and the darkness that
smuggle the criminal minds of cities to do their harm in
the patience silence about to bust its muddle muscles in
the torn open darkness nocturnal and fragile in the secret
of the sky now discovered uncovered in the forbidden
odors of water in the burning hopes widowed by the fire
that feeds it in the proliferating motion of an instant in the
indigent word stillborn on the tongue in the rape of the
holy ghost for profit in the secret knowledge of a ravens’
color laughing its hidden motion in the untouchable
lighting with it threats of an enlighten death there is a
drift of fear in the mid-region of weir where the bells
bells bell ring a call to hell I will Poe my way with poems
through the thread of an eye where there is a crying in
the air of the word why a rear reason rallying the
precedence persistence question why why the breath of
life by whose desires have I come the be is it the holy
three the trinity the me myself and I why God is the why
an internal unknowable self expressed by the living
consciousness the world sees why poetry why the 250  
mindful play with words the king’s art riding the high
way rolling through St. Louis’ steady air hung upon the
rung her heart is hiding her prize plumed more
dangerously by her blue-bleak shine of her crime
committed underneath the level of poverty she is my lady
my last intelligence insistency intimates she is all that I
crave the question why where I will die done down
beneath her skin the whys most times win in the end

O rhythm of the desolation of the setting sun of the

immense deliriums low roar of thunder embracing the
space between clouds its cracked open sky lightening the
silence hushed in the sensitive violent of speed that bleed
into the vigorous speech of a torn tomorrow still asleep in
the dark midnight breaking of a new day O rhythm
hidden in the great deep triumphant of our enemies that
seeks to destroy the mother that nurse us on the breast of
the arrogance sun O rhythm of the thickness of words
splendid and honest on the tongue of a lie O rhythm
immortal in the tomb luminous you emerge from the
mouths of worms fat from their feast O rhythm of the
sumptuous wind winding through the inquisitor’s
corridors of bricks and stone pass the archdiocese of
catastrophe St. Louis intimate with crime O rhythm of the
hummingbird’s wings capsizing the heads of assassinated
legitimate red flowers in the ghettoes of guardian O
rhythm of the forgotten consumption of organic orgasm
everywhere about us the rhythms of the world being itself
is seen and heard by the heart that beats its rhythm
hushed in the chest in a hotel room in hell all can tell the
lost rhythm of the parricide paradise of their particular
youth that kills the young breath of a sparrow hiding 251  
under the pan-tiled eve part taking of the free rain that run
a sensual ground down the brutal gutter of dead leaves
stacked cub-side in a joyous city mid-west of the
Midwest where the leaves tormented by an early winter
of a tiny cold pecking at the sable Sabbath are shivering
their holy back bones sadden by their own sadness
running with a fair smile there a while to beguile by the
beam that gleam the dust of rust all tall by the speed of a
baseball that fall in the late rain that beat a-main never
vain to soften age’s crust slow without strain the low that
it echo this side of night time’s tide with it’s solitude of
flight that we rudely pursue with a swelling sneered is
spent breeding adventures smooth as latex at that I have
bore the torn forlorn flesh of death’s voice as sweat as a
song sung by the guardians of a Congo’s stubborn
rainbow full of wooden spoons full of the drunken flesh
of water droplets magnifying the green of trees the bird’s
nest wet of mud and dried grass resting at the base of a
light pale green skin of a Sycamore the more the ready
rain and sun shine in their holy union the more the devil
beats his wife with a waft that whip its tail end in the
breath of its words

O rhythm of the spinning earth your motion stilled in the

eyes of the earthbound your fire of your desire for life
your face of the grass’ place in the great scheme of things
you know no doubt but to shout yourself alive in the light
of the day’s long blaze of the sun at your heart is the
original art that man seeks to copy like the rhythm of the
waves that break upon a lake like the rhythm of the
landslide rocks that blocks the mind from knowing the
full working of the brain like the name of the game of life
spent on the tip of a hair pin in the impossible abandoned
anguish buried under the science of religion like the
triumph wheel singing alleluia to the breeze’s blade
rolling its velocities on a journey toward the magnifying 252  
corpse that is the banquet of worms like the night
encrusted with a yellow silence oily in its transparency
flexible in its enterprise of the shredded fugitive violent
held on the shoulders of the dark slaves of a possible
future tossing its wounded odors into the forbidden
beauty of 59 pieces of the rays of the sun that rendezvous
amidst the stubborn dawn of daggers in love with the
innocence of a tireless hunger embracing the adolescent
landscape of green-eyed flowers fraternal and secured by
the tiny migration of bumble bees with their honest
pollination of pennies precious in their plots to thicken
the pocket of a childlike glory excellent in its excised
exchange of the rich exclusionist that keep his dollars
down in the money belt made from the skin of the red
neck nigger that collided with the cargo chained and
shackled rotting in the hard wood hold packed fitfully to
be sold to the higher bidder where the gorgeous musician
capitalism cracking cranky myth of money playing the
moody modern music that throbs of the tasteless culture
of the heroic criminal’s wild latency of the thrilling
idealistic Christianity that is heard in the human
complexity of the communal life with its exceptional
prejudice against the values of a society of bourgeois
mannerism against the outlawed heroic individuals who
emerges from the eccentric barbaric order of the
mercenary self seeking to come to an absolute term with
the materialistic selfish society in which he were born
come my child of the sun child of the moon with your
eyes of the stars your breath of the clouds your blood of
the rain with your finger nail full of the dirt of a gracious
earth glorious in its giving of itself without regress regrets
when we lease expect it will fight back in the thin black
and the lighter then air blue when we will get what is due
to bring our loving heart into view of the Gods looking
away away far of into the void encrusted silent there the
book is whispering O Whitman my brother in the sex as 253  
in the art your brother in St. Louis’ Old White Water
Tower on Grand is a testament the grand water of the
Mississippi mudded by the mighty maiming Missouri

O rhythm of the wandering memory of the mentally sick

that contemplate the consistency of the muse on-the-tip-
of-the-tongue the Titaness telling what have gone before
O rhythm of begging the Muses with ten tongues and an
unbreakable voice of a cerebral accident do not leave me
blind with my disable vision do not leave me tongue tied
thrown on the wordy mound of my memories do not
scornfully mock me even though I am a wretched thing
help me to sing ring my voice with your poetic songs and
sounds I throw myself before the madness of the poets I
am pathetic toward your lucid reason I would be the
essence of the pretense of innocence of your voice wrap
me in your spell to tell the unspeakable however brief let
me be the thief of your belief pity me ply me deep I care
to be the fair I require the fire of your breath but let me
kill the I O die I of my selfishness die-down beneath the
dawn drawn and quartered by dreams dragged through
the streets die out of my heart for the art that calls to me
even within my deepest sleep meet me there where the
cares of the world fall away like snow flacks large and
sloppy wet and yet strong enough to stand on end strong
enough to defend the white and black of the moral nature
of art in the esthetic polemics policies published pound
for pound the selling of flesh in my histories we are the
blood and bones of our ancestors working our lives
through time in their names our lives a rhyme carried
through time carried through time the taunting why that
will not be tied down roped and ransacked ring and
rounded off at the edge of a caravel carnival of paper
bridging the boundaries where the vulture silent of a
wrenched night and the cultured hour’s plodding a way to
be spent while fighting for our attention where the 254  
chopped off shooting of a star narrowed by distance pop
the quizzical question qualified by a quadroon’s blood
bloodied by the injunction of kinship with the long down
low night where the mission creep it keep

O rhythm of the romantic enchantment that confess an

authentic epileptic season of words the sword stab at love
from afar and pain rain from the wind of the mind and I
find myself falling behind the strong long curve of time
rather gather the winged things from the shed of my head
and let them whip from my lips for my thoughts have
sought the impeached love that move on the tip of truth
found in the breath of a newborn’s self center romantic
intellect its is a sucking egoist she and he must grow to
control the very desire of their power to demand attention
from the care giver that must wait on their every needs
the newborns will be finely shaped to a blunted point to
fit the social needs will be put into holes pre-formed by
the society into with they are born they will be taught
about God and state and tooth paste all the anti breed out
of them the nonconformists among them shall be mark
and marginalized for society’s seeks to make of its
citizens as kernels on the cob that pop their forms to
conformity it seeks to pit agents race against race social
status against status it champion the hero of the state as
the savior of the poor and down trodden the poet is not
immune form being sensually seduced by the bread and
water of the state to quiches the thirsty thirst for materials
of a tempestuous hissing sinful murderous things of
science murderous to the freedom of the soul to go
enlighten by the light of naked nature full of lust for life
lust for the poor and the pauper lust for the grains that
drink the rain for the milk of thunder the bread winds
baked in the fate of the sun lust for the darkness that pray
on the fake light of the moon darkness all innocent
hovering in the space of the universe hovering in the red 255  
chambers of the heart an excellent darkness of dreams lit
light lingering in the darkness of the head the backwater
darkness of swamps overflowing with life the darkness of
dead Gods wishfulness to be born again the darkness that
crown fire burning at night darkness renewed nightly the
darkness of slaves skin packed fitfully in the darkness of
the hold the velocity of darkness told in the prison of
metal and glass daggers of darkness stabbing at the
electric light feeble in its escaping heat slow leap lapping
at the immensity of free darkness the darkness of death
warmed by the strength of the sun the dawn broken
darkness on the run full of birds’ songs witness the
darkness on your own the mountain of darkness strong
and long lasting in the throat about to speak the darkness
of the poet’s soul darkness of the blinded mole that
swagger in its hole desert darkness cold wild and old
darkness at the bottom of the sea filled with the unknown
creatures of self made light of life the darkness caught
inside of your shoes the darkness of the muses’ intimacies
of poetic news

O rhythm of the apocalypse efflorescence growing of the

blacks coming into their own O rhythm of the now
common hip hop rap that tap the long distance of the
distained breath O rhythm of the anguish harmonies of
the strength lost in memories of critical slaves’ vociferous
victory where the independent emboldened color black of
the Ecuadorean slavocracy was feared by the thought of
revolt against the military chains at their throats O rhythm
of the lockstep of poverty rhythm of the asiento de
negros brought and sold to the Portuguese sea captains
for ducats of minted gold paid for the chained cargo
roasting and rotting in their waste beneath deck packed
and packed to optimize the rhythm of profits O rhythm of
the common starvation suicidal death of jumping over
board from being subject to the visita de fondeo O 256  
rhythm of the fixed melancholy of slaves on their way to
New Spain Vera Cruz and Acapulco New Granada and
La Plata the rhythm of jimmying the lock jumping to
escape the hell taking the long swim home O rhythm of
mutinies mid voyage under the sun of spilled blood O
rhythm of the slave’s religious promises of Paradise to
keep them down as the sons of Canaan wrongly accursed
of seeing the nakedness of his grandfather is the body of
such disgrace as to be forever hidden how can the call to
slavery be the words of God the bible lay bare the
weakness of man where forth is the update where forth he
who can where forth will the Gods speck again to man
where forth will the upheaval of those who hunger for
violence caress the fire of their desires the good voice of
the earth shall find the secret in their eyes not to live apart
from the raising of the all-way sun that treat them
tenderly with its cruel rags and branding with the carimba
of the Gods a choir of varones singing to the chained
hembras of the bozales night sing a sorrowful song
recognized by the lucumis where the holy explorer’s
trinity of horses guns and African bondmen are carried
into the new world of reclusion where the tenderness of
growth hid the promise of Cibola of the seven cities
where the survivor Estebanico on the long walk through
the wilderness later came to meet his maker at the hands
of the Zuni smelling of defense and a fresh victory

O rhythm of walking to and fro in the warm wiry rain

caught in the palm of a dirty hand that knows how to dig
in the earth of a worm’s genealogy and its segmented
home gone the way of the insane rain the crazy rain
laughing itself to sleep the humid rain playing a sweating
game the rain have seen it all from the tall buildings built
up to meet the rain falling to the herd of the Kalahari and
the grass land seldom rain of the Gobi the rain slain to 257  
run the course of the water main the rain falling like
chains through the air lane the rain can not abstain from
falling full the dream rain falling in the mid night silent of
the brain the drumming rain on rusted tin roofs in the
slave quarters of back water Mississippi rain that drip
from the ever green of the yellow pine rain falling to the
brackish running of the Pascagoula rain that heal as Bau-
Gula goddess of rain all the same from the silver rain of
Feng Po-po summoned by Vila from the breath of Kon
raining from the eyes of Ninurta the sweating rain of Pan-
gu the rainbow of Mbaba Mwana Waresa rain O holy rain
of Tefnut and Tlaloc all the holiness of the Goddesses of
the Gods decorated with little peppers of the massacred
burning of red where the raw fire of an earthquake of the
inexhaustible eternally self-assured in its beautiful
strength of mindless lust for the young green life found
fanning out from the front-end cluster found in its glove
of hope gone mad as man’s mindful motion moving
more toward the longitudinal tranquility of a long neck
modesty looking for a companionship in the voodoo
silence of a hoodoo you-too whispered in the night of
Nana Buluku’s creation create as you will crave it its is
an it of a healthy thing to ring around the rose covered
rosy rivers running in the sun setting purple in your life
ring with a bit of poetry a-bit-of free handed drawing
good for the memory of the hands it is a singing of the
rubbles rubbish where life blooms its bountiful
usefulness to break down life into the common death that
crisscross the seasonal warmth found in the dump I have
thrown out the beautifully born barely babbling
legitimacy sculptures sphere of sulfur when the face of
the tiny catastrophe clocks sound the alarm absent from
telling time as told by the tinkling tic tock of a heart in
the body of a whistle sweating the sweet juices of a father
bird for his son the teacher of flight can fling their wings
like a cathedral crown of the trees in the holy holy 258  
branches of feathers dreaming the fraternal diffidence of
red wounded hummingbirds intimate with their low flight
of ferocity I keep green irradiated hummingbird in a
strongbox made of their feathers just in case the box out
of jealousy needs to fly away from its store on the tiny
waves caught in the rancor champers of campers
humming the plane wreck on the shoulders of a grey
bellied cloud

O rhythm of the silent that keeps its breath in the sad

keyboard of lost and scattered words where the backspace
of a deleted modem swallow the information highway
with its informatics motion of speed held in the eye of the
letter Q followed by U quick the quarterback’s quality
control quicken to quest the quizzicalness of the
quodlibet sing for me a Q-U song that rings its quest the
quite song of the tongues quest the poet’s longing for a
place of pace that befit his art written from the heart the
smart start that he impart the restart from where he depart
from the working of the state that wait to navigate the
quick-sanding swamp of twilight lassoed by the forgotten
blazes of the boredom in the work place of the midnight
working hour unfurling under the inhaled parachutes of
distance reddened by the transparency of an opened night
broken by the eyelids of rain in the Negro hunger for the
fruit of the injunction by the chopped winds once finely
split by the threshold of an armored shooting star dancing
on point by point of a cigarette butt in the hollowed out
night collapsed by the nakedness of the great sun of
slumbering laughter’s inquest around the tortured
abstraction of shadows hiding the fingernail of the heart
disturbed by the distorted shadows sluggish and lazy as
the sun’s run across the edge of the jumbo metallic and
electric rusted sky the night comes on full of yellow and
purple pansies unraveling their understanding of little
bubbles busting bibles bylaws back against the 259  
bothersome bidding of a wing man’s brotherhood with
painless judgments the evening comes on silent as a tepid
and abrupt escapees tomorrow encircling a bit of time I
sought to borrow I follow like love like the long
renascent estuary of the Mississippi at New Orleans wet
land drained and built upon the swampy skin like rain on
the love-struck forest greenish brown advancing on the
heavy dazzled change of some same flame that drum
round the outward-bound guessing at the holy blessing
that sweep the cheat keep unkind behind the deep wind
snow that blows about the knocking rocks of the Rocky
through the mountain am I gone on along Clear Creek till
I reach a bend bound by the muddy banks the bone rocks
washed mid-stream direct the flow around till the water
let loose exquisite babble of baby’s words calling sister-
sister mother-mother father-father brother-brother
uttering the brawling fight of family a howling out of
near by emotions calling the divine sight of liquid light
birth in the vein of the earth water can not ruin it washes
away for the sacrificed sake of the suffering Christ with
his bespoken token crucified in the wild water that
blesses the motion of a body the water in the river got
places to go fishes to meet in the deep fishes and so many
loves of bread in the Master’s plain poets feed with
words wet tongued words willing to take your heart deep
into a sigh there is a turning brightness in their poems and
a foreboding sadness that hints at the albescence absent of
the Gods caught under man’s rule under nature’s control

O rhythm indeed I heed your due as sure as the weed that

bleed its pungent perfume a benediction that love the
move of air on the pupils of the eyes in daylight and
darken night the air is more then just my friend full of the
south winds north winds east winds west in winter I love
the southern wind the best O rhythm of Unahinte and 260  
Yansa of Saishiwani and Saushuluma rhythm of Bunzi
and Buluga of Oonawieh Unggi and Oya of Amaunet and
Coatrischie of Ha’hl’tunk’ya and Ecalchot and Tate
blowing the dead air of my breath blowing the golden
bullet of the wind driven sea I watch the wind hunting
down a leaf blown into the eye of a spied spider web in
the pocket of a tree the wind back me up against a wall
and assault me with its tender hands it cress the sense of
each man with a mouth full of raining wind telling its
tenderness sometime frantic sometime manic sometimes
as soft as a prayer that swears to its faithfulness it is
known to have assassinated homes and blown down old
stately tress in which it have been intimate with over the
breezy years it is as a lover’s quarrel gone many-of-
plenty mad the bird’s wings created wind sings of flight
the wind that riot baptize the heads of flowers bent low
under its power in the season of kites March marches on
mindful of living its mission toward warmth and fighting
foes of winter hanging its show of snow wet and sloppy
sort of wrought by a thought of the hence indifference of
man that can give servitude to the early blooming
promise of spring give it on nature’s maternal terms
embrace without fear the weather’s emphatic face

O rhythm of the unknown innocent rain innocent of snow

that blows into the corner of hope the innocent of death
that smuggle the soul into the nether world of old the
innocent of a newborn’s joy of its new life the innocent of
newborn birds pecking at the nest and flapping their
wings to be fed the innocent of a hurricane hung in the
sky of extrusion destruction drowned in the innocent of
wind O rhythm of the innocent of insects nature is steep
in the innocent of rhythm of the romantic hero burden
by the vision of his ego caught in the industrialism that
try men souls the society knows that it must control the
would be hero the outsider the long distance runner the 261  
invisible man that seeks to destroy the social order that
keep men down that keep then deep in complicacy zoned
out by the light of the TV’s glow by the capitalist’s hold
as a chain around the necks of the passive mass man told
what to do what to buy and where to go how to feel
toward the God of the bought and sold soul of feeding the
masses on a few loaves of the promise of heaven where
only the faithful and dead can go O rhythm of the thirst of
Death Valley the pounding generosities of the lands with
its anxiety storms flooding the low lands with the finger
prints a-washed with the ripple of rain trails there is a
monstrous revolt in the belly of the storm the prisoners
have become to heavy for the jailer one and the same
clouds turned to rain but the heat remain life is a hot
footed game in the desert living there is the most honest
of creatures while in St. Louis the quarter moon fresh
from an early morning full eclipse sets among the stars of
heaven on the lonely edge of the eyelid the sun will wash
it away away from sight in the baby blue cracks of the
sky with its gestures of laziness of worn clouds a
benefaction flock of birds charm the sky conjuring the
motion of life a tidal wave of black birds assault the road
of the sky I come to this winning end wishing that I have
done enough as not to be rebuff for the size of this prize
have not gone array gone astray away from the hovering
muse that guided my hand having given me all that I ask
to complete this task and mask made moaning

Part IX.

262  
I say here is my body laid on the grassy bed bare and
brown down by the dew that touch me through and
through to reach you yet I am not wet but like the note of
a fife sounding with life with all of its longing for feeding
I strip myself bare I have a hundredfold of emotions
slumbering in my skin I am the spent element of praise
that goes its way toward the infancy of infinity in the
heart of my breath rest the grace of a dark race that waits
my poetic wakening into the breath of the immaculate
yet all too human flow full of the wounds that surround
the flesh of the same name that share the air with trees my
bad and good are understood by the motherhood of nature
my part within her heart flooded with blood the fresh
flesh of the marvelous all of us children of the same God
conceived on the eve of the great beginning all mindfully
meek all divine from first breath to death all pray the
tasks we ask that our divinity be distilled that we be filled
with the holiness as one in nature as we are one of a kind
in mind we find that we are blinded by the flesh that will
do each other harm by miles and miles of the frontline of
war we assault the sky and kill at will and break the steel
of buildings with our bombs where the boom abound who
care that bare war should wage in this age of the stillborn
enlightenment of the self we are the children of a God
that wear trees in its hair yet we still believe that the dead
Gods still care free yourselves o men of mine let the Gods
of old take their rest they have up to now serve us well
but they are worn out

My race is a bold and boisterous one that roar like a

storm at sea rolling its fat round water onto the shore
sometime to our brothers we are estrange but I feel a
change on the tip of my tongue I feel a wiry woven
warmth in the chambers of my heart we hoarest each
other upon our shoulders and pray duded praise to our
elders back to our 1619 arrival when our color was rare in 263  
the native fifed air our skin color is the measure of our
treasure of the way we speak in passing we call each
other sisters and brothers fags and hoes a recognition of
the skin tones that binds we think little of our brothers
south of the border they too was brought from Cape
Verde and Benguela

The blacks are like doves in love like the Blue Jay’s blue
against the pillow of the sky like Mississippi pecan skin
youth in the brownness mispronounced as black now a
day the black are home spun with their backs to the past
of darkness they are like the ink of promiscuity caught in
a knockout like the humble muscles hard with the
calluses of their history the blacks are intoxicated with
the music of mushrooms gowned in the darkness of their
skins the blacks are inexhaustible in their powerful
absence they are caught in the corners of a geodesic dome
with its strength with its motion toward the multicolored
triangular movement of a three-sided knife used to cut
Americus into its segregated pieces the blacks are caught
in the high yellow illusion of privileges and perjures
against the tarnished copper of a penny

My black brothers black as the Black Bird’s feathers

frozen in the nested winds that blows a ruffling of
seasons where the caterpillars sleep my black sisters
blacker then the hopes of tomorrow’s hope held in the
hands of a newborn’s fragility as the prophetic explosive
machine that wake the morning from its hidden
incredulous thunder my blacks that knows the culture
architecture of the common dead under the grave stone
kingdom of the city my blacks full of the appetites of
Horus and Osiris inherent of the next generation of the
language of the Memphite’s concrete conceptions found
in the blood of every black kid playing at war
264  
My blacks who obey the voices of a little vastness held
in the independent word of an abstract give-and-take talk
worn away by the inextricable accident of an admonitory
wisdom fighting the imagined mental voices of their
hunger their foregoing oracles are in the common music
duplicated by the rhythm that possess them the rhythm of
the word nigger uttered pass their tongues only on white
breath is it made a trigger why have we made it our own
as a kind of brotherhood found in the depression of being
held from the bountiful landscape of the banking money
making rampart refusing to let us in but our faith is strong
with the holy darkness moving too attracted by the color
of our skin breath it in and make your brothers apart of
your dearly held massive message of redemption that can
save you from the blazing notion that any race is lost
from the God that bear your witness when the sun is
shining upon you embrace the light and the night of your
being although it be a divided thing it seeks to be made
whole by the goodness that you can pose

The blacks the color of coffee in the timeless water of

New Orleans gigantic and full of anguish for what their
daughters and sons shall come to suffer when they come
of age in Americus the white wick if their anger
incorruptible by the prelude of a succulence germination
of common race with its wild edge biting the fruit of
Americus the mid-region of heaven the five-fold world of
getting a head and the strike of by any means necessary
the blacks inhabits the immortal water of a tear they fear
the knowing of what it means to be black when the spy
glass is held to their fatherhood birthing babies as easily
as spending money untouched by the imperishable
phenomena of a sticky fog-meant of their memorable
nameless history each a queen each a king of their homes
where their jazz-speak like a song through the history of 265  
the blues and spiracle rejoicing in tune

The blacks are survivors with their steadfastness in the

forever being born are believes in a white flesh made God
that could not save them from the horrors of baring
witness to the cruelty that man will do to man still they
believe it have become their mainstay their crutch their
after life hopes to go where the righteous silence is
triumphant on the cross of an invisible sacrificial
adaptation warmed over by the church of the holy melody
sung to the dispossessed Sunday sermon of salvation the
blacks with their burning lips set the world aflame with
the rhythm of their speech and the heartbreak gentleness
of their heart they are the legend of jazz invented out of
the bloody inner romantic harmonic blues notes of the
memories of their breath where they climb up hill always
up hip and high hung mutilated on the tree of memory
first up hill sometime caught in the vexed boredom of
their noble struggles in this land that refuse to make
amends for the leaves and branches broken silk cotton
tree and pay the promising price for our earlier frantic
sorrows beaten on and maculated by the whip and hung
on the blossom of the tree

O my blacks where do your loyalty lie why by your hands

must we die why the need in Detroit and St. Louis to ask
why the noise of your blood is spilled on the streets of
East St. Louis it is a wound that fester the wreckage of
your strength should be spent that each dark beautiful
bounty shall be enough to keep us to the brotherhood that
we confess in the reason of a season have we not suffered
enough that we should die by our own hands when the
bullet is nested neatly in the breast within the thin
muscles of the chest of our brothers O my black brothers
born time and time again when shall you win the
common race in a land of riches keep your kind in mind 266  
keep this longing to the universal bliss for I love you as I
love my skin love the history of our blood black on black
love blood to blood I long for your cured motion of self-
discovery when my skin color is enough to be treated as
piety would be skin kin in the exultation of a salvation let
my words into the deep end of your heart let us not a part
in our emotional strength we burn with the purity of
black-washed women and adroit men honest to the land
of a mid-night Mississippi night do you love me with all
the essentialness esthesis of the estimate of our goofy
godlings of spiritual glue that guide us against all odds
we survive the seductive ingratitude of this nation bent on
swallowing our history swollen fat in the land O black
passionist of the inpetto funereal longing to be kinship in
the white heaven of the devil’s garden O black southerner
caught in the cotton’s mouth upon the gone moon that
soon in the middle of the damp night bright in the warm
wonder that undo through and through the breath of a
new day be you with your blazing wings a chamber that
will not shoot down the youth of poor madwomen full of
God’s grace and I will go rolling from your bright side
while holding back the years full of telling tears and the
last fright caught in the nights of your ears hear me when
I say that I love thee that I love the make of your skin the
wish away longings that you keep secret deep in the heart
of your own choosing the last said mentioning of us
going our separable way in the array of our skin with a
sweet and tender kiss I sign my name and cradle your
wants the pondering of your heart strong beat in my ears
and I am lead to follow where you find your rest gyrating
fearlessly caught sailing its advance caught stealing and
leaving and wishing pass the throw of a dove you who
have surrender yourself into being an American by faith
you shall not loose the game of race

267  
I long when a black God shall bare-footedly climb down
from the Mississippi pecan tree and give us the salvation
that we seek or the innocence ancestral God shall be
reborn from the savory salvation meat of a dark belief no
longer moaning the landscape of our spirituality
incorruptible by the incessant pushing of another man’s
God the blacks born to the servitude of the cross it is a
privacy to me held in the grove of our love that move
toward the thought of the divinity that our fathers sought
in the last persistency of our past cast me fast to the heart
of thee let me not forget again the then history of his
story told between the whip and the cross that we ply and
glorify with the grace of our dark face where we dwell
where blackness ring the knell of the unique brotherhood
the trustee of the bold blood the executor of children give
the child a pill to stop his childish ways concerto plays
down the desires to play at learning the noisy alphabets
ADD ADHD detoxing the taxing deed of a done deal of
the demands of the diggers where the streets are painted
with passer-byer where the ocher dawn of morning air
pollution rise and stain the sky in the windless wilderness
of germination as the tyrannical caressed promises
advance toward the vertiginous dance that remain with its
drunken blemishes tiding the perturb degradation of an
ensuing suicide held in time the last of time will be
bowled down the deserted streets where sunflowers are
placed around the moods of the wind blown from Africa
found in the mannered masculinity of poetry spoken to
the moon wanted for assault found in the fine old worry
in the final who you are now reach out your hands and
join them together to praise the brotherhood of man that
can not go as far as the million man mile stuck in the
streets of the night’s debris that accept the stared skin
suddenly found beautiful beside the pestilence’s bloated
light pushing along the business end of a world wisp me
away pass the sugar canes the cotton the corn the 268  
soybeans I aint got nothing at all so throw me out into the
streets to meet the convocation of my maker with its tired
trials omnipotent within the monopoly of beauty where
the bones that wear the skin as an ill fit where the fat of
my heart is calling for a freer hand when I can not see
through the boredom kept in the measure of your hollow
hands and the night is caught as an orphan who knows
that it is time to fill his life with a thousand pigeons on
the wings his voice proclaiming that the force-fed
pestilence of the intelligence and strength of a rusted
machine is held tightly in the production’s curiosity lost
in the mechanic of the rain that wanes its way pass the
last soldier of the soul crucified on the cross of last
night’s moon light using the last change of what it thinks
that we should know all about the easy way out of life the
way that the sun is set upon us and everything in the
world with their histories is aged to perfection and I have
sold my shoes to be alone with you to see if you care to
bother both my botch work and the bottle that keep me
company O darkest of the blacks know that your skin is a
prize where the black blood of Americus is cut to a
lighter hue cut like weed with oregano as coke with
baking soda as the baby’s milk with sugar water to you
my high yellow brothers the other blood that flows in
your veins proclaim the trials and tribulations of our
beautifully born sisters mothers of the strength of our race
that birth the innocent bastards born by the grace of God
and the white man that took the liberties and bodies of
our sisters in the age of slavery count yourself within the
harmony of our race our open arms seeks to embrace all
the yellow and brown hues of the mellow yellow we shall
no more say black get back but lift every voice and sing
the multicolor color darkness of our skin

The black kid-hood of being born black is breaking on

the red bricks houses of Wichita the essence of being 269  
black is a forest of drums high in the high yellow sky I
hum along and dance to the hunger of the beat backing
me up down to of a high boddy buddy the bones of my
breath O black be with me my co-temporaneous
architecture of a pyramid’s longing this instrumental
music of words woven within my wants on the breast of a
hemisphere with two brains I sang bicameral O blacks
your bones are begging to belong to the American dream
down about where the flesh begins all the while you
abound there is no Americus with out you we are a must
ever mindful of our undedicated hallucination of being
inferiors the blacks with their honest harshness their
strength African strength strong in their teaching of how
to go in a land that disown them that seek to make them
desolate under the browning sun full of anguish and
contempt and hunger for the truth of the catechism of the
drums beating the impassable enthusiasm of our country
that will prostitute us if given half the change but we are
not alone pitted against the poor white that we may fight
among ourselves for what little crumbs thrown our way
by the hands of a society that distain the conflagration of
our hunger the connected motion and consumption of our
passion our longing for the poet as liberator the restless
squatting poets the ignition of the fire of the poor the poet
that jimmy with his tongue the enthusiasm of the young
the poet as hero with his sensual tormented soul offering
us the slender splendid bread of revoke call the spirit of
the poet your home therein are you taught that you are not
alone on the brutal road of life torrent in its jerky motion
that feed off the woes under the shadows of the glossy
moon that can not know the harden fat of the hysterical
trinity in which it shines upon

The blacks full of the improvisation of language of the

young the diss I am of an older school disrespect each
generation language used anew to express the dine size 270  
passing of their time the Davy Crockett of my childhood
remember the Alamo the television’s hand to hand
combat 1955 the blacks of kool and lotto smoking breath
of the lung where the eye of the sky shoulder the beholder
of light in the daily stage of an ancient age that rage of a
baby Robin at rest in the nest there where the rare air of
its time told breath makes amend to the friend of the lost
wind hustling about the Oak with its stroke of strength
against the all together come what will weather
weathering down the nest of used twigs and brown leaves
the blacks I will try your charge in the court where you
evidence of the testimony of what you have done to the
ones that you love you put my heart into a restless sleep
you are my love above all in the twilight watch you with
your dreams high on the sweet taste of a bunt I am on my
knees before your winged throat howling at the parasites
of inferiority the skeleton key of your rage is cool over
the pool of black blood in the school of leisure and
pleasure where the seven fold heaven of your voice is a
midnight train calling your name on an overgrown vein
carved through south St. Louis you are a rose in the river
to controlled to go radically free from the hour that you
have spent beneath the tower where the guard with his
gun watch you play watches that you will not escape the
hidden bondages that they have placed around your mind
you the blacks of the south who toil in the soil when
spring have taken to the wing who toil in the lush thrush
of summer’s growth who harvest the beginning of fall
you have no need for the city life you are comfortable
with the dirt of the earth between your painful rainful
nails the cotton of your history is gowned in the
continental home land the blacks who get drunk and
look the same you caught in the stillborn motion when
the wheels goes to sleep their roundabout notion have
peeked to the shadows of streets the broken water of your
tears shed by the impossible extreme of your brotherhood 271  
of your affectional friends poured onto the shore full of
waves your new skin scored of an ounce from the pusher
that never force you to buy you are the crown of the town
of Detrol in your prime held down you are forever
pushing upward with your large lips dipped into the sea
of the middle passage your broad beautiful noise
consuming the fuming enjoyment meant to keep you
down but you keep a divined longing in your skin that
bind you to the kingdom to the hiding bolder and
beholder of a staged voodoo with its articulate spells of
the aerial burial of the nineteen sixty’s rage now dead in
the gale full sail capsized by the murderous men who
then and now wallow in the white water of a long strong
pain in the brain of our questioning gloom that looms on
a down tune

The blacks of meatloaf Wednesday and Mississippi

catfish Friday macaroni and cheese of collard green of
banana pudding corn bread and pinto beans with smoked
neck bones or ham hock or ox tails and lackeyed black-
eye pea’s new year to fill the belly of the survivors in the
night the moon have not forgotten to go a moaning the
motion of the sea where so many died and was dumped
when they was held in chains we shall always remember
the brave dead their bones now decomposed in the watery
grave you can hear them in the wind of the mind their
cries that cruse quite fleet sweet on the ruin of water’s
thunderous flowing in the reason of a season at sea I shall
forever hear the melancholy cries of the captured made
slave it gives me strength and keep me glued grounded to
the ghosts of our race to the generational indefatigable
needs for the mythical freedom of the truly free as the
needs of the obsessive rain the selfishness of tress the
somatic nomadic rivers the rhythmic anguish of the ocean
the treacheries of the sun and moon I am drowning in the
soil of my soul to soon I am gnawed by the 272  
temperamental melancholy and holy tenderness of an
awakened hunger for the flesh of anger toward waste
water’s ecstasy the liquid incandescence desires that curl
around the yearning beached whale now bloated with the
fat of death the scum of slums of death the huge sea long
to see the likes life of it again when the sea feels betrayed
by the wind when the wind feel betrayed by man for his
torturing of the land when an African baby lay dying for
want of food in a bloated belly then and only then shall
the mistrust of Americus stupefied by the hunger of the
combustion of the young raise above the excuses of TV
told in the mono tone of light and sound and illusory
motion drenched in the words geared to selling you the
excesses of a rotting society built on making as much
money as if money is the salvation that devours the souls
and makes excuses for the disrespect of the frenetic old in
their youth body bold and bound by a bodacious need to
fit in the mold set by the commercial that glow in the fold
of a deadly night fit for a fight when the drunken light
spill its guts onto the hard concrete streets

The black their voices thrown asunder to my bondage and

my freedom my relief and grief that lift every voice to
sing of the sacred fire O black known bards with your
concern for the spoken race that waits your brilliance
tongues to muse on our own misdoings who shall teach
the young that they bare the common good of
brotherhood they ware the slavish chains of disrespecting
their fellow blacks who shall teach the youths the truth to
grow and know that all their killing should come to an
end that the fare curves of their hair is a beautiful thing
even tho the propaganda of a commerce commercial
society would have us to believe not still we ware the
bondage of beauty O benignant beauty O authentic
exponent of the darkest skin the once upon a time of your
dark history written in the language of your current 273  
doings is a long held secret O my black women O my
black men O my black shorty know that you can grow
into the American’s frustrating situation of a conventional
complex culture of the diaspora know that you are apart
of the equation far so long have you been the back bone
the marvelous dusk unknown in the setting of the sun you
are a song on Americus tongue you are the guaranty
guardian of her musical note your hopes held in the
private flames of your mouth fit to sing the tremendous
victory of Menes who built Memphis know that you are
the children of Nowe we need implement community
control when shall we stop our genocidal blows against
our own when shall we cease the flood of spilling our
own blood in the black streets where our mothers are
afraid to go alone so they spend their times behind triple
locked loco doors with us the honor old are hoarsely
afraid to go among the armored young who will take their
little breath of a live long life for social security checks
the ship of black youth is wrecked on the disrespected
shores of black on black crime and no matter of rhyme
can save them from the prison house which is their
secluded second home well we willfully know that we
blacks in Americus need be self assured selfish when it
comes to the learning life of our young we should teach
them to love to hinder the horrible hasty hardness of
hatred in the darkness of our dark skin that we surely
share its as if it is that blacks are afraid to weakly while
away the life of the whites as if it is so deep in our psyche
that we tell ourselves that black is a cheaper life where
are our prophet poet of the probable cause of why our
youth take the fall the religion of the absent absentee
landlord of a God can not reach them the controllers of
our society care nothing of teaching them as long as we
kick down kill for a crown each other share in the game
where the saner mark of the killing game is writ on the
barrel of a gun in the hands of the young 274  
The blacks who have fought the wars at home and abroad
your blood have been spilled with the blessing of the
cross steal away with me steal away to Jesus you are the
Africa life of Americus with your eyes on the prize and
faith in an alien God you bent your knees from home to
Harlan in the eleven O’ clock sweat shop of the church
where jazzbo was not welcome do not leave your
blackness at the door blacks of the brought leaden mistah
preachin man is your God of black bark skin why do he
teach you to love other when you are not love the blacks
from black-bottoms Mississippi back-bitten from sugar
ditch Mississippi from surreptitiously St. Louis and
Kansas City Missouri blacks dark as the mud of
Alabama and old folks eating the clay of the earth blacks
of the crucifying monsoon breaking and consuming the
memorable night that pass into day the moon has
witnessed the bleeding of teenager’s blood on the
concrete streets of our awesome mimicking the pumping
rain falling from the storeroom of clouds that concealed
the Coltrane supreme blowing in the wind of a lonely
horn longing to be held in the arms of the trouble moon
that to soon lose it light in a nightly death told by the
spinning of earth with it policemen roaming the neurotic
manicured streets in search for the lush growth of crime
birthed under the cover of darkness of an actual stone
thrown into the vandalism of an transience hand cupped
in the loneliness of death the loneliness of a bare school
with the stigmata of the dead O black boy born in the
land of the silenced tom-tom know that in 1540 Pedro
Gilafo was boiled alive for seeking his freedom that
sisters and brothers have died to set you free look deep
down into your brown skinned history back to the first
generation of all nations and do not curse the worse of the
knowledge that you find but dine upon it as if a feast for
the body and mind 275  
O black the far away face of your malignant misogyny
music do it portray to work you wrongly you must
mindly own up to the lucullian lyrics and you working
women are not innocent some as hooch mama shaking
your half clad butt before the camera your rap is an
America music by the sway of your hard muscles on the
edge of the resounding bones playing a skin drum Kevin
Mfinka rhythm runs in your veins and voice when you
sang the rhapsody of a new age long in the old
cannibalization of what have gone before the talking
drums of your passion the universal recognition of your
passion strung on the tip of your hunger for the dance in
the dark hour of a Saturday night sweating the heaviness
of a demanding tenderness of touching the hesitant flow
that explode in a hypothetical storm of motion that betray
your longing to be one as a race set apart by your skin
color in the stew that Americus is with each savory flavor
distinct in the mixture of the plot of the cooking pot

O beauty black sister you birth a race of tight skinned

warriors your daughters and sons shall come to lead and
other follow the syncopated steps of their elders take the
contradictions of your place in the world walk alone side
you lover as brother in the skin and you shall win the
gratitude that your color demands the loyalty of righteous
men be you dark chocolate brown or sun high yellow or
dirty red hold your ground with laughter that smart of the
heart felt clusters of love’s luster many of our brothers
are lost to the streets and can not find their way back
sometime you may find yourself so drawn to woe when
your brothers treat you as a hoe it is a weakness of
Americas that cut them to the core that strike them dumb
to the very gum of their being to the bones of their self
respect how can they know you when they know not 276  
themselves you cooked beacon brown baby you mama
bigmama mother you lover and sister baba birthing
babies the bold bullion of flesh the hot blue flame of the
American game the bulbil build of a bulky bird buffet
budding with the growth of spring to you O black lady I
sing these fighting words of praise these fierce coronation
of a subtle measurer these words held prisoner by their
meaning the poet’s tongue is weak against your important
beauty your impregnable longing for a family in the
familiar fermata notes of the dirt of the earth the
fermentation of your emotions the figuration of your
musical beauty is heard across the world

O mother of the race the earth birth your soul once stolen
by the reek of slavery that did seek to keep you in the
gloom of a candle lit room with news paper as wall paper
to keep the winter out you morn the still born touch that
have forgotten to mean as much with the weak meek love
that can not live without you without a doubt your history
is one of abuse but you have risen above the fray to take
your place among the canon of American women so do
not moan as you sat alone upon the throne of a smart
heart as the aloof bird fly above the roof you fling your
wings beneath the loud cloud that flows pass the melody
of a rivulet under the sunset of slavery carved though our
race keep to your diva pace the heavens open up in your
smile O queen O mother O lover O sister in the name of
men I solute you in the ancientness of your skin a birther
of dark men in the support that you give in the
archipelago of your emotional strength the many island at
your fingertip the skyscrapers of your backbone your
triumph may it last long may the anguish of your desire
be gone to neglect you is to neglect myself know that you
are the mother of the oldest race

Part X. 277  

Go fast forward pass swollen swamp nauseated by

bleeding buzz bombs blowing calcareous shells to bloom
before hands before the hindquarter of a night feeding off
its own masses lung earth is a creature alive and feeding
off itself a place where death is only a table set before the
living in need of a belly of triumphant and intimate
religious manifesting faithful devotion toward what is
perceived as the self same heart of an unconfused dream
motionless in the head of the wearer where the notice
motion of an eye remember the murder of the lashes that
formed a flack of snow on the thick tender hair of a
buffalo roaming the island of grass land outside of some
lost town where time told strength of anguish can not
defeat the losing harmonies of the sobbing hands bent on
tilling the land that unself-fully gives and gives and gives
its gorgeous glorious bounty the immense flower’s fragile
fracture flagrant free in its frequency rides upon the
landscape of wind renewed against the scapegoat of time
tumbling igniting the ever present present trembling
before the approach of the future and the passing shadow
of the past passing into the mirage of memory history is
selected it can not hold the told second by second
memory is the selected moment of short hand notions our
personal myth that we tell ourselves gleams through
poetry attempting to stop the time of the self it is what
stands out to be re-be to be be-hold all in all we feel more
then we are told the history of man’s emotions is bold so
much so that words fell us a poor translation are words of
the head and heart words express the sentiments of the
throat they are roped together by the mind even the poet’s
rhymes must give breath to be hardly heard save that they
are ready read in the suing silence of the throat save that
they be thought-bound thoughts round the mind in the 278  
thought-time forever alone in our thinking are we
thoughts can not escape the sea of words that flow about
the brimming brain the emotions of the heart can seek
from the eyes it can move the hands to motions to caress
or strike or make the cross of the divine emotions move
us to our doing it is betrayed by crying a laughter a smile
a frown feeling up or down we wear it upon our body this
is simple knowledge give not all your strength to the need
of the body for sometimes it deceive us it is a jealous
thing that wish to be fulfilled first and foremost but it is
only a host for the splendor spirit and the sough of a soul
that holds us in check from doing wrong wrong as define
by the soulful righteousness the mediator of our being be
you one of the three fold trinity be you my brother in
peace and war for the balance of the self held in equal
measure give to the spirit what the spirit needs and it shall
be fulfilled give to the body what the body desire and it
will sever you well let your soul hold both spirit and body
in tow

Go my sobbing memories to the forest where I once was

lost in a time of feasting on the backbone of the great
presage telling me about the acts of an instance held in
reserve against the prepubescent evening of an advancing
storm that hesitate the counterpart of the heart of its art
before blowing out its honor willingly as a recovered
lover once lost to a rain of tears that fast last flooded
away the face found before the daughters of Mnemosyne
the Titaness I don’t remember who was the first poet of
storms of forest and maintained mountains poet of fire
and sun with its uppity power to heal poet of the nature of
Gods minding their own business poet of weather always
wild even in the wilderness of the city poet of the leaves
of tears of the loneliness absent from hallucination poet
of the divine speech of the God’s statements difficult by 279  
it ecstatic possession before the Gods did move into their
silent heaven with its absolute nostalgia for a company of
angels leaving the demons to roam the earth uninhibited
man be you demon or angel in the bone of your bones
demons are insane to do their wrong they see by the
immortal eye of goodness gone but they can not effect the
green zone they are all for man alone they live in the
sickness of the soul they ride to raise where the wars goes
and eat the spirits of the fallen foe why my man’s man
are you so willing to take a weapon in hand why the
hissing for public violent why the hunger for the taking of
another’s life why must man forever fight why the cruelty
of the night why the season of sin in the skin of mortality
the fornications and copulation of war rage its way across
the face of a gun smoking with its last report are we not
holy enough to make war a forbidden thing are we the
demons that we fear demons of the flesh demon in the
minds of human-time shedding the blood of a silence
spasm held in the lock muscle of a rifle the clear-sighted
language of war insult our vigorous intelligent the
masters of wars are screaming in the wilderness of jackals
as jailers screaming your left right your left right to the
wreckage of youths that give their lives to the enemy
combatant of the detainees held in the unbreathable
evening of a worm’s blood eating night swollen fat and
bloated by the children’s wondrous convulsive longing
and absence of laugher lethal laughter caught in the court-
yard of distance where the secretive traveler remembering
the complacencies of his childhood tenderly blows the
triangle trumpet of a violent silent caught in the throat of
the great voice stealing the communication found in
trenches today the war mongers graduate to take the
harness of revolt by the sensitive hands cultivating the
ground where wars are planted to grow and bloom their
intimacy before the assassin mercy of a dagger of words
spoken in the catastrophe city of the lower-class exchange 280  
of the power of blindness sitting alone in a dark corner
sniffing the tail wind of passer-by bewildered by the
extinguish disaster found in the lullaby of the city where
night comes on cat paws soft and sure of itself spreading
from underneath parked cars drinking the streetlight’s
glow night is a survivor a wonderer that never rest
moving like sleeping water across the face of the earth it
sings a song full of dangerous darkness full of belonging
in its place darkness is an opportunist that take the bait of
a dying light it wait without penalty to do it thing in the
emptiness of shadows night is unknotting itself from the
cover of artifice artificial light with its prehistoric history
strung like stars older then the light bulb twitching in the
wind

Go pass the rugulose face seen in the mirror of time held

by goober hands divinely employed by the long weeping
empress of an enharmonic enterprise
Your tears shall be diamonds planted to bloom working
men who shall take the paycheck of sweat and blood to
heart and enrich all of your taking beyond all measure the
working poor shall gather at your vulture door when you
lay dying of the luminous cause and too much money fat
held in the belly of your needs and wants and morph’s
dealing that was never held from you your pysanky eggs
turn back the shade moving across the road where the
dragged man ruffed by his ordeal can not connect with
the smell of his voice with the serious sinuous rust redden
by the electrified blaze of a hundred years war of
nostalgic longings of lavas as the wind leaps from the
cliff it cause a riff in the pulse of the exoticism of a
scream current in its timid egotism of the memory a
loincloth memory encircle the corpse of machine guns
and tutus totem of bombs ready to birth in a burst the
current boredom of boomed despair the implacable cut-
throat of war is contemplating the voluptuousness of 281  
death its selected silent appeased by the golden jazz
hatching the approach of flies the first to find the dead in
the hot sands warriors trodden sand stained by the blood
of the defeated dead do not ignore the blood soaked sand
with its hands full of midsummer warmth there is a silent
honest youthfulness about the dead a cutting short of the
authentic fantasies of the war goers there is a history left
behind by the dead and dying their stilled bodies lying as
if asleep or pasted out in the heat of war raging full of
falling shadows with their systematic contours coming
on fast to the body in its last motion O white beneficent
death of a village in the armpit of war galloping through
the pubic pubis hairs of a fine mare’s physique where the
race is already won O war in the hands of children in their
faces and hair the war against hunger is waged in the
market place where the money changer ply his deeds pork
belly oil corn all offered to those who least can afford it
with the tender ambition of tranquil money in the pockets
the bestial architects of money the astonishing
announcement of money and war one feed the other to the
tune of billions for bombs that will molest the poor mines
that bloom the helpless into an age of disfigurement when
all the horses have gone home and the war linger like
water seeking its level the soldiers will confess that it was
kill or be killed by their distend human kin that the
obscene voice of war is a brotherhood thing fueled by the
needs to interfere in the proud lives of his brother as if
home is not enough to contend with the fine horses that
fear the puffiness of war in its tower of encrusted island
where the thread is sawed through the eyelid of the
transparent trumpet that stands in for M-16’s cracked by
the intimate hunger of rage the war goers appeal to the
blood spilt by the raising sun that know not the doing in
the blood bath of alcoholic cities where an army of
hiccupping latex sleep like flash floating flesh sobbing
its rubber like elasticizes darkness thirsting for despair 282  
found in the death galleries of slave ships dark as its
cargo packed fitfully shoulder to shoulder in the diadem
of human worth the price paid for human flesh in this
day and age in mid Africa is an ancient wage paid as a
wound in the inferiority found in the soul of man

Go to where the pill of ingenious machinery humming it

moot ministration above the factories’ noisy complaints is
swallowed to heal the ills of an overgrown busy bodied
society busting at the seam reaching out to space for new
space in which to rear its young caught in the seduced
nature of language its cling and clang clinking its
counter-current kindly to the kill-dare come lately likely
to the looking of a drossy fire stared stale impetuous in its
silence protection of its vengefully consuming the taste of
the air the machines never sleep completely accept in
their break down is a window open on their noise and
what have become an earring forgotten silence taking
cautious spreading from machine to machine with its
motion controlling the fluid flow forward floundering in
the heat of moving parts grinding and gnarling its
grotesque glom on to the galaxy of a placated dream
where the crazed bones of long gone innocent’s distilled
nocturnal compassion dwarfed by the flaming ruins of the
last compassionate word losing its meticulous meaning in
the embrace of the written flame’s revolt that tumble
about the insolence guffawed violence of a re-twisted
verdict that have sentenced the drunken hour glass to
telling the elegant time of a performing prophet’s
memories prophet turned noisy poet of the circumcised
laughter beautifully bounded seeking to bear the weight
of birds their physical force drunk unexpectedly
germinating poems full of the astonishing ancient
articulated architecture of feathers the enormous message
of the grave the importance supposition of the extremely
primitive embodiment of evolution found in the tears of a 283  
exaggerated fertility of a non-conscious experience
driving the recumbent bull beneath the hallucination of
divine speech heard whispered from a dark corner in the
stubborn heat in the nausea night where the pregnant
hunger of black butcher throat slicing open the American
ear raped by the heart of a dark absurd St. Louis wearing
French gloves made of butterflies wings configured into a
fleur-de-lis of an purple iris of raw flowers growing
inalterable by knives of the wreckage of spider’s web
hung on the in appeasement of the fraternal climates
spent with the lunation of the bookkeeper’s insults caught
in the hands of the prodigious healthy sea full of rocks
run round aground in the rich hourless kiss of the wind
where the jets of entanglement regrets the impossible
season emitted by the sun of a quite storm raping its
rapping across a field of used discarded children’s shoes
affected with wild birds bathing in the pollen rain beneath
the season of the moons caught in the good evil that
sucking the noncommittal man waiting for the bounty of
a heaven’s landscape of rude gestures where red wing
black birds are attracting an attack of the red headed boy
who bath in the green light of leaves his skin tinted and
tight taut and tugged by the fingers that seeks a youthful
meadow where grows white and brown booties bottom up
for the good fuck of a coat of arms hung alone the wild
walk corridors of a primogenital pink penises nailed
along the walls I take the long walk through the gallery
where the roof is full of red hair virginals weeping their
vaginal juices as sweet rain painting their refrain like the
jagged edge of skyscrapers at the genealogy of the
astonished sex of birds and worms with their secret
complicity hugged by the solemn hissing of the
murderous five-branched tempestuous science of
tornado’s torn-a-do Colorado too color-a-do down by the
rail road tracks and the South Platte River where a cat’s
lust forgotten by the summer gliding over the wild 284  
grasses and trash heaped and hovering over the caged
guardian dog that care not to call upon Gods pecking at
the sweat drops precious and decadent in the stormy
criminal innocent smuggled into the quivering velocity of
glass when the machines wakes the morning mountain in
a riot of offence the piston powered God of maniacal
metrical machismo machineries pumping out their vain
wears cooing in the backwater naked with its funk of the
law milking the clouds for the childlike juice of the Gods

Go my fair face son go my woman one go go go to where

Rimbaud is writing nigger to his mother where he see
nigger in the dark skin of poetry Rimbaud the boy
wonder the doom soul the opium eater the alcoholic lover
of Veriaine Rimbaud the slave handler the crier of nigger
nigger nigger in the heat of the dark country where man
first drew his beautiful and bountiful breath and shed
most of his body hair nigger long lives in the middle
mind of the bold beholder that self same caller is clothed
in the rank file scum of the hiding hooded mask of the
Klansmen robe under the light of a burning cross they
preach the ugliness of a madness their hands are stained
with bountiful blood their words are to dead to bite or cut
their outdated redundant rhetoric of white supremacy of
one white God and one white country but the stew is
mixed we the people of the United State we the noise of
the multitudes we the conscious of the multiracial
multiethnic multicolor mindedness are mixing our bated
blood in the baby birth born by the light of the moody
moon where the ghost of old Gods full of lost glory seeks
to renew themselves to strike again against the prison that
man have put them in the Gods have repent around bout
lent alone you among the few the saved the forgiven with
your faith full of space fit to be tired with the archangels
angels’ wings outstripped where the cherubim ride the 285  
subtle scent rejoicing to the tune of the heavenly bells
that thrilled slake and take like a snake that holds the
answer to all the God hidden question Gods can not be
lead by the head or the dreams of a red covered clover
bed Gods are playfellows of the heart their promises once
spoken is then broken on the sodden earth with its wine
and mirth its struggling grey the lost paradise of a way of
life of false fair hair

Go jinn of the night and fight against the outrageous

memories of summer speech caught in the throat of an
old oak tree growing along the boulevard of dreams
where an executioner of clouds hide the bones of
skeletons piled sky high and float in the undertows of the
rain which I drink like milk in the virgin nothingness of
the assumption and implication of the child murderer of
fireflies to wear their light as a ring on the finger yellow
chemical light strung around their necks in the chimerical
vision of their play prominent child like large eye-idols
placed on the altars their huge globular eyes indicating
the intriguing present of the Gods never calm in their
work that embrace the irresistible force of weather the
amateur armature Gods like vultures after the dead can
not keep from waiting their turn in turn they are offering
their blessing to whom ever may come to worship the
salvation of anger the salvation of sex growing in a
mirror the salvation of the wounded wind the salvation of
a syllable’s event in torn open prayers when the dada day
is left to consume itself toward the cherished tomorrow
that refuse to rendezvous with the past sketched out on
the tail end of the present with its scruples for passing as
a half remembered sudden messenger with his spasmodic
tenderness as a watchdog fetching the wisdom of storms
the dim of him cool in the pool of a honor hour that is
home to the lightening rod of a God who is not to proud
to toil in the soil of human flesh a God bent on the spent 286  
sweat of man’s lament for his scars of lies that won the
sacred prize of yellow shallows vows in the hollows of
his heart that brush in its rush toward the to much cloy
joy of a boy in love love from above love from below the
wings of angels when the spring air there fill the eyes of
the skies angels who thrust their strange erotic lush into
the wind end of men’s minds angels ears that hears the
shade when we are afraid to take them at their words
angels grown to stones by man’s weariness angels glad to
have had the night delight of our knowing angels are
bound to adore thee the art of our heart where what is
believed can deceive leave us in the dusk of dead luck
buying its time with a suffocated supplicated
sophisticated rhyme of grot that got the not of the same
flame that disappears in the sun undone tears that nought
wrought and brought of water’s give and take of the sun’s
understood mood a brother’s love from above a glass of
mud the kin I call cuzz the vine of the grape’s wine that
float in the dew’s throat I love my love the father’s blood
the blue-green sea of glass the self-same guilt of the Gods
that avail there where righteous gleaming strand of land
jets into the glass sea when the ocean weep from her face
of the starry heaven with its strength held at length from
the violence of a begging prayers are still born to tell that
the well if dry of pleasant sins that have all repent

Go and kneed down on the patella of pillows safe against

the knocking bones and long gone deities of crookedness
of falsehood and deception where their followers fonder
the free giving floriferous growth that are blooming from
their cheeks go to the wilderness of the reincarnated
water that can conquer anything in its immense tyrannical
falling flooding with ferocity washing away even the
whisper of a blessing of poetry struck by the wonder of
water struck by its certainty of tiding struck by the
promiscuity of weather with its instant of shedding a 287  
crack of electric spark indifference in its striking of the
moment of lighting flashing the wild salt of the
adventurous eye with its beautiful language of tears the
sky cry from its hope of smoking clouds limpid as the
sea that crash on the jagged rocks of united speech heard
in the dreams that falls like stones from the fingers of
revolvers shooting the nostalgic crystal hands of
gravediggers plying their wears in the blonde alcoholic
back rooms of pawn shops where dazzling night break on
the bathing beauty clear as the island of consciousness
whispering the wounded hours asleep with expanding
glances of progress drunk on the distance screams that die
off in the marvelous escaping gentle voices of angels
sensitive to the tenderness of a once violent precipice fit
to jump off of into the hunting of the excellent of women
my darling you are like the fog that wrap around an
execution of a riot raging unrestricted with the virginal
rustling of leaves’ tongues speaking the dry spattered
pocketful of incredible landscape with its betrayal of
another season’s nothingness functioning as a canvas
affair in the air muzzled by the age of a sabotage old in
its quiet season freezing the confirmed and angelic moon
slopping its shoulders toward the appearance of a honed
humped and hid hardy year old primate walking upright
in the jungle laboratories where science study the gallant
justice of the baboons night falls like a stone of anthesis
coal in the geometrical water collapsing the routine of
seasons awesome and locked into their roaming amidst
the weather never wounded never dying out of favor but
only replaced with the meat of its wind and rain true
under the sincere sun’s ammunition that contort the night
the fraternal motion of weather with its infinite fever the
masculine motion of wind feminize the rain all the same
all the same in the accolade game the marvelous thoughts
of weather hangs on the young weakness germinant of
branches flaming with leaves never discrete or as shy as 288  
birds on the bough of the early morning sun that runs its
slow run across the bareback bark-skin limbs of trees the
inflamed hands of the sun advance but does not rest it
refuse to melt down the world till the time tapping have
come some hundred of thousand of years from now when
the great sun burns itself into a white dwarf

Go my long hair molester of lands to where the sands of

time flows through the hourglass of an eye refusing to see
that time is own by no one and no one is the biggest beast
in the land take the hands that God has given you to pray
for the shipwreck mountains that stand as a sentinel
against the atmospheric coronation of an opulent
surveyor’s disappointment at the implications and
assumptions of his hovering measurements let the cape
doctor winds barber winds bayamo and bora Bmola and
Boreas wind of Aeolus and Auster-Eurus vahagn and Ga-
oh blowing around Fei Lian wind thrown blows
downward and across swelling memory unclenching the
water licking the cruel warriors of the terrifying atomic
occultation of the grazing night the mushroom cloud birth
in the daylight of a desert’s dust with its slow kill that
flows windward a necessity of war this bold bomb should
never see its birth in the land of the home of the free with
its immense glittering green and yellow corn and waving
wheat in the heart land of the beautiful blood of smoke
that stroke the good-natured earth the adolescent land of
my father the Mississippi thunder that drum its deliriums
low in the trammel tempest that blows its breath warm
and naked as yeast raising bread in the kitchen of the
world eat your fill till the thrill overtake you fill your
belly full of the disable faith that makes a heavy embrace
lurching forward toward the flexible peak of tomorrow
held by the bondage of a busted desolation with its
deceased crimes breathing of the marine sun’s percussion 289  
that conspires in a faint light steaming of a fanatical sob
once docile in its neuroses when a noxious disorder
defeated by the tom-tom of a unravel blaze that burned
the raw rock of drunkenness stumping around the escape
of the remorse finger’s nervure nerve laughter carried by
a falling wind full of the yapping sluggish shadows that
water makes in its lazy flow of the swamp in the
nocturnal turn of faith the patience wind is going
elsewhere its negation of the never mind departure is
undying it leave the road of our arrival where the
simplicity of our memories is held captured by the white
slumber of our hollowed out emotions bruised but none
the worst for the wear of the inquest embossed on the
skin of a swollen river running pass the entrapped
attractions that the breath catches and discharge to the
leaves of baby trees growing at the root-foot of their
mothers
Go pass the red-winged black bird attacking the color red
unexpectedly against the dazzled park of pin oaks and red
buckeyes rooted in the hard snout flagrant of the
memorable ground where roots are sleeping beneath the
Indian tobacco and differential grasshopper are feeding in
the pink weed in the transparent plan of running out of
ware fare money in the poor lives of the poorest civilizes
seasons of being unable to work in the food stamps foot
steps of a collapsed laughter of politic the poor are left to
fend for themselves to feed their naked babies on the
cinder of the beast milk of the great sun sleeping the
politic of being self involved in working the land in the
opportunity of the education of a better life the poor will
come to riot when they can take no more of the taking
from in their hard work-a-day lives in the scenery of the
machinery sky where the poor poets run out of fatten fin
tin tale end fitting words to catch-up the slumbering
laughter of the memories of your nullified heart now 290  
nibble by the boulevard of the last time dismissal of
dreams where the compass point to a collapsed love for
the nature of the tortured poem’s ears with teeth fit for a
steely underwater phantasm plasmas that bite into the
seduced vulture circling the broken life killed by the
raped negro with his depth of soul rooted in the dark
tower of a wrenched silence reddened by the hunger of a
knotted fruit of blood smelling of the alcohol of dancing
ravens drunk on the resignations raising all encrusted but
vigilance as horses hung on a midnight oblivion that
spread the excitation of divine speech spoken in the
musical accompaniment that reflect the neurology single
cause of the frustrations of the outbreaks of the final
answer rich in metaphors of the cognitive explosion of a
singing adventure hung on the wind breeding the bird-
like diadem forgotten by the seed’s pit that house the
unknown rainbow with its color of smoke stroking the
forgotten thirst of water the guinea pig of despair looks
out of the windy darkness of Easter Island and the despair
and darkness looks out from the guardians of the slave
galleries where the black was torched by the touchy fires
of self righteousness burning behind the strangeness of
flowing screams that mark the voices of prayers flooding
the night with the sobs of hiccups caught in the quickly
thickly rest of favor and fowl where the water’s pride
wash to fill the niches left behind by the done dead that
take their flesh and bones home

Go where the buckeye butterfly feeds on a cosmos and

coreoposis tinctorio’s deep red and yellow skin are
knocking their heads against the invading blue chicory
wind where soldier bees feed on the sweet yellow of tick
weeds giving freely where the lawn mover of
unwelcoming can not reach to snip with rotating blazes
the food of the ambush bug with its secret of living within
the rules of nature living as one in the slightest desire of 291  
obsequiousness where the west rest the wild-worst
original breath of the weather of death blowing across the
minds of minded men with their lovely bodies meant to
capture the all-fire glances cheering on the desires of a
guessed at having haven of heaven appearing to be
cheering on the apart heart of the burly beat of the then
now master-head of the dead God that done blast of light
and night outright rolling the world under Its nose to
discern the righteousness of man’s ways on the singular
world of the earth where the problem of consciousness is
disturbingly interesting to the emotional soul roused by
the Gods that knows all the going-on on the face of the
throats calling to the Holy Ghost of irresponsible
bedecked bandoleer of swollen swamp weapons full of
live giving labor like blood in the veins of a freakily fresh
face found in the mirror of a marsupial’s pouch where the
edible bladder of the umbilical cord is a link to the
tramway leading to the irresponsible stone thrown by the
spiced hand of the moaning monsoon choking on its thirst
of motion passing by the trust that can no longer sustain
itself in the city of drowned butterflies such a wreckage
of powder color stubborn in its born right is ready to fight
for the deadly woman of the healthy call incorruptible by
the awakened illuminations of caged birds feeding on the
climate of hunger and dreaming of the sleep of hourly
water’s waves that flows slowly pass the gate of a
inconsolable disaster worn around the neck of the sudden
forest kept by the bookkeeper of catastrophe appeasement
of spider webs where is caught a teasing leaf twitching
the promising motion of food like the spider let the world
be your miracle market for as a human in the skin all you
need is there to be found be not the bookish brows that
allows the alchemist into the caged sky of the handsome
heart of the bugler’s first communion this is the body of
my body this the blood of my blood the flesh of my flesh
in the yellow of the flames of my desires burning away 292  
the dead skin shaded to shed as food for the bed bugs
biting at the bit of birds bathing between bouts of fits and
back burning caught in the machine teeth of the cities

Go to where all the Gods of time have gather to watch the

play played by human beside the frantic water’s
condolence that is machinery for dredging up the muck of
love struck songs of fools sung to the shikari hunting the
dark landscape of a gilded cage where Gods go to retire
from the water wanting to fill up their excised
enumerative emotion enough to fill a fat belly full of
being accepted back into the fold of the department where
the cubicles of our belief remand as powerful as the birth
of an egg when night comes on shaving the quite dark
flesh of the non-secured rain running aground around the
migrations of the myth sucking yellow out of light in the
last rickety night where the nonfunctional fire crackling
its astonished booty snaking as a frighten whistle heard
under water where the oarsmen paddle the fascinated
gesture of solemn skyscrapers once idle under the
threatening sky now boisterous of their power to
mesmerize the landscape of a falling sentence spoken in
the ears of a lone mulberry as old as the coat of arms of
the yawn of earth when the beast waiting for the
murderous thunder that roars like a gigantic criminal
caricature of the famished belly of poverty held in tow by
a polished weariness of a easily bored masterpiece of a
feast fit for yellow for cyan and magenta invented by the
light of the always innocent sun hovering about the vast
darkness of the universal machine of the noisy universe
with its excellent heaven of desirous treasures of the
eyesight electrical extremities reaching out to the sight of
the master of creation that cast her living and dead with
the pride that ride rampantly across the skies of the
unshakeable light of the followers of beacon night full of
pin point unconfessed delicacies of unknown life living 293  
within the harvest plain crash of the carry grain of wheat
caught in the finger nail of the fragment farmer of
plowing prayer of a fetched compassionate world hard-
hurled and doom-day dazzle of the high priest of a reign
rolled thoughts’ that bugle in the sun’s run across the
never shut sky reflected in the newborn’s eye

Go pass the inheritance of wisdom where your applied

heart can catch fire and burn to a cinder the bitter odors’
boundaries of criminal failure felt in the ashes of a
disaster’s season hidden in the wanton wisdom of the
original sin screaming its eternal department of being one
in the bloodshot measure shameless of the hideous
creation that build its homes on the false lines of the
rhythm of the world and the blizzard eating as a buzzard
on the corpse of the future slain by the present but it
never die never drift away but still remain out of reach of
the past the present with its stinking ways knocking its
head against forgetfulness fading away from the
tempestuous moment of the here and now of the beautiful
tornado of emotions that is the life of living in the skin in
the dark destiny of your blood in the hovering innocent of
a penny thrown into a fountain all that you can be is lost
in the vastness of the milky way on the tip of a pin of the
great unknown of the shoulder of the smugglers pecking
at the eyes of the guardian of stormy stars unknown by
the tiny minds of men be one with the naked mountain
that renews itself when trees caught in the rotation of
seasons of metal and glass encroaching on their rolling
backbone the tip of mountains mugged by clouds
meaning nothing but the presumptuous the overripe tree
yellow brown and fading green in the Fall bleeding its
way into Winter the sun moon bare witness to the doings
of man and care not to intercede to work their heavenly
wounded wonder they need only be in the great scream
of things earth is a mirror with its high water deep and 294  
terribly impenitent of memories reaching to the threshold
of limbo earth is a ship of cargo it have long since lost its
innocent of being the immaculate virgin with its radiance
of nakedness of life that man seeks to cloth with
machines with metal and glass and concrete and tarred
over walk ways leaving from one city to the other alone
the crowed roads covered with billboards advertising the
maddened thickness of product to keep us young keep us
flush in the promises of a well lived life the skin of
advertising is polluted with lies about what is really
needed to fulfill the umbilicus railway running rough
through ridges cut and clean and cued cubed and kind to
the land leaving behind egg-headed flagrant of the low
land long beneath the viaduct where the river run muddy
with trapped life remember that the murderer of eye
lashes is the gorgeous deposit of the immense foot of an
old Mulberry fruitless in its age the old lady leaving a life
of shades where the squirrels lost in their harmonies of
the world runs alone the telephone wire strung down the
alley of munificence to end Gods knows where in the
cities brimming with their independent variation on the
same technical tease a downtown an uptown surrounded
by suburbs of memories of musicians in the cities of
blues and jazz the scapegoat of thunder where the blues
skeletons are walking the jazz filled night of bats and
moths humming around the back yard’s light the
skeletons are searching for their flesh in the darkness that
night makes of the yesterday light the landscape hums
beneath the fragility of their boned feet the wind caress
the rib cage and blows through the eye sockets in search
of a vision igniting the beginning autograph of a poet lost
in the coherent texts written to deal with the doom found
in modem life a life of noise of nosey government
seeking to stale the indecisions of the indivisible nature of
murmurs heard dragging itself through the jazz lit streets
first spelled jass but a white man thought it to close to ass 295  
where the green humming bird’s language is a song sung
the flowers that can not help but to be their selves under a
handful of sunlight

Go to the antipatriotic incandescence and incorruptible

tongue of a collaborator radicalizing the beginning of the
word I felt in the eyes seeing the nimble needs to hustle
the wisdom found in the maiden heart hurled asleep to
keep the run of the sun shut up in the jubilee spent in the
lament of the school of leisure that takes its pleasure from
the seven heaven full of the cold water wreathes weather
over the pensioning pensile cool pools reflecting the foam
home colors of oil on the street’s water beside the silent
toil of the soil where earthly things bent their went lost
lush house hushed in the hidden hallway of a half riding
and gliding toward the dead hour caught in a flower’s
beauty when the nostalgic trees bust open their blooms in
a storm of alcoholic gravediggers that own the pawn shop
around the broken corner of a dazzling easy living estuary
beholder of the bolder birds hunting the watery stage that
tackle the water at rest in the life school of a stagnated
pool of nature’s rule that all live by beneath the seven
heaven full of the long passed dead together in the
weather’s rod that the angels trod they wish to share the
smells of man they care that we do the good of the juice
of our souls long in their lovely lush of the blue that rush
and rinse the lamb’s blood from our hands man is a fickle
creature a farmer of the murderous needs of jealousies he
deny his own divinity because he have not wings he all
but sings the lost brotherhood that would if it could save
him from his self low he knows not the last holiness of all
things living off the self feeding earth of birth and death
he is the beaming beginning and ending of sinning that
roar a shore ascend by scores in the pour spent with holy
prime of the slime of life nature is not always pretty but
she is never cruel she goes about her duty as all knowing 296  
of the tiny changes the small jump start of a cell of a seed
on the wind call her your mother friend fen for her when
you can live up to being a man one with her of her by the
very breath caught within her grasp you can not escape
even when you are off to the vastness of space you carry
her in the very meat of your body in the bounding motion
of your soul in the unknown spike of your spirit with her
you are never along as one of the many of the whole call
to her walk with her where you go know her in the deep
dappled beauty of your soul for as sure as the poet tell
you so the couple color plotted with its barbarous beauty
of this beholder of the daily drudgery of life is all held
tight from the baby sparrow that rest in the nest to the
stage of rage when man is at his best the rare air feeding
the lungs of all life caught in the light and darkness
despite human intervention the galactic nature of the
subatomic longing to be one with her is strong and lasting
O nature you are the woman of my heart you are the beat
that tell time in the tonal totality of a minute second you
lose and gain according to your wear the living and dying
of your breath there we vow to ever care O maiden of the
mother bear why are we born to go astray why must we
seek to defeat your ways we have become the children
that will not obey the felicitous providence of your day
yet by your grace we stay among the living lying to
ourselves we think us great to great to keep to your pace
where deep in our heart we hope to win but secretly know
that we shall find our eternal end and god-like and nature-
like you shall go on birthing your self as you die all
without the why that we must spy to live out the rest of
the days of our lives feasting on youth on the shy youth
of other’s time in their prime for some youth have passed
us by have been lived and have died into the wild wisdom
of age where we play the father knocking on death’s door
down where the bones sing their ancient song of being
along in the body some face their death with the innocent 297  
of a maiden’s womb they fear not the tomb count death
not a doom but go gently none to soon we are not haunted
by death but accept the deed-bound-done that life expect
you in the December of your years you the years wise not
afraid to die you the rough grey haired wanderer who
have found your home in the blood that have last this
long your death shall fall upon a day when you lest
expect O Deus ego amo te I have lived my life as befit
being your son I have heard the inner cry of the One and
so I die a good taste on my lips is the life I leave behind
bye bye O cruse world I hunger no more my hunger is
spent on the years I am no longer thirsty for the drink that
youth offers life it is but a river running within the red
flesh by force of time will it run dry strong is the flames
of death’s song a simple explanation to life’s inspiration
of creation so live your righteous life without secondary
regrets let the seasons come let them go in a choir of
migrations across the wilderness of your non-secured soul
be not haunted by what you could have done when now is
all the time for doing now now put your muscle to the
wheel the mind muscle that feel the spark of an ideal

Go you howling to the eternal God in the excellence of

the fragmentize gambol sky your voice resounding off his
skull and entering beneath the voluminous vault of her
vaporize eyes she is struck between two sexes containing
both emsexualize psychosexuality clear-cut clear-eyed
clear headed cleanse in the high frequency of sexual
desire roaming the high delegable earth of birds and bees
and delectable life forever sexing and feeding without
distress while in the best nest of our making we rest the
spirit of the God’s making make us men of the great
woman’s wanting let us live by her light let the weight of
our kids be not dainty but grow to treat her right all along
the watch tower of the heart’s ravine we see are thought
that we have seen the great mother’s token of a notion 298  
offered to our scientific minds that have forgotten how to
rhyme with her we seek to uncover the divine by way of
science O holy woman that breast feeds us with air how
know that we have come not to care the trash of man fills
your lands and seas we alone produce the slow
biodegradable plastic of the streets a plastic bag caught
on the high branch of an elm the bag waving its patriotic
motion full of the wind the wind that blows smoke into a
smokeless land the land fill producer of methane gas the
gas sucked up from the bowels of the earth it fuel our
automobiles the automobiles that pollute the God given
air to share where forth have we come from such humble
stock only to loose our humanity on the rocks or is it this
same humanity that for naught we will not be called
human doing as human does with all the rushing rot of
the Gods forgot in the very hour of our greatest need we
feed beyond our measure our capacity to destroy is great
in cities and in forests on land and sea our polluting wars
to control other men’s needs why does such a creation as
we breath all by divine design is nature greater then
ourselves from time to time does she accept and insert her
control and we go the way of her dictate she does not
wait upon our actions she makes her pace a multi
rhythmic multiethnic multiprogramming her
multipronged beating banging her heart up against the
night brimming with edible life under the yellow light
losing its color in the clear-cut astonished animal filled
air that the landscape snare its breath the landscape of
skyscrapers scraps and stretch the juice of the sun the eye
covered loin cloth of complicity that designed those mid-
madness of steel and glass that can not open on to the
rarefied air of 110th floor these towers on a lease are
leash to the genealogy of the destiny of science to build
even higher into the forgotten drop of fallen thunder a
tornado shall take away the footsteps of the building’s
lust of its natural form that change it is raining on the 299  
towel towers before it hit the grant grand ground a
September 11th fall down a hateful deed to take your life
to the towers tattooed with fire when men fight humanity
suffers the deadly April in Americus the murderous
school in Littleton the Davidian Waco stamp of fire
Oklahoma’s face of the building blown away O my
murderous April peddler of spoiled blood peddler of
flowers that arrest an innocent man peddler of a Spring
morning made offense April of the grinning machines
roughish rouges overflowing with bullets and bombs
Poisson d’ Avil April Fool is gone death is now coming
on the poet cruelest month fulfilled

Go to where the wind as light as a fatigue feather is

blowing into the last lingering kiss of a wicket way out of
the heaven of the sky into the warm warning heaven of
earth where the thrushes brush and fling their wings that
sing of a sallow yellow seldom shadow rush rushing
against the winning of the beginning of the good woods
where nature keep her strong hold tight beneath the hood
of trees and the engine of the world with its 70% water
seventy prevent percent of preventing motion swaying in
the deep department dark and daring watery vales where
sightless life there take the time told prime slime down
past the mountain’s crown of show snow that never melt
to flow to the deep we can not keep such powerful water
from the high tide of our shores can but watch it wave
and blow to know that we are small in the great motion of
things on the self contained earth being itself in the dirt
inventing itself time and time again it the wicket motion
of the winds the rivers overflowing the backwaters of its
knowing the offence of violence snowing nature forever
naked shows her bear body of experience for all to see
she keeps no secrets as poets should do lay themselves
bear before the pen before the childlike hearts of hands be
they the animals that hides their nakedness that they are 300  
not prisoners in the skin prisoners of metal and glass of
money and bricks that seize us by the throats and we
choke when the bone of nature is stuck poets of the
massacred poets of the unborn poets of the swaggering
niggers of the mind free yourselves of the words that
burns and earn the wisdom of the overripe sun witness to
man’s doing upon the earth be you one with the dirt that
the black folks ate the high water in the mirror of time the
memories contemplating the consistency the immaculate
moon the damned umbilicus of nakedness all wait for
your coming you are the chosen one bear back and strong
boned you are the light lasting long sing your wordy
songs to whom ever care to hear I place you among the
heaven of earth divinely pressed make your soul a poem
for the ages blow the nose of your knowing cough up the
wisdom hard won piss out the blood of your spirit be of
the body born bold and bright as a fire in the night
consuming the air of your breath only to breathe it in
again to transform the working of man place it in the
God’s hands and say I am Lazarus come from the dead
feed on the wasteland of molded bread depend deeply on
the kindness of strangers for all men are your brothers go
my precious one your weaknesses shall follow you
toward your strengths rinse the world in your wisdom
hardly fought for by way of living in the history of poetry
the road is half paved where you must go you gardener of
the common cause speaker for man who have their doubt
go mountain of emotions the ghost of the icebergs is to be
found in the swelling sea peck your pack pile your pens
with pills there is a stone for every season an egg eager to
quiver in the childlike hands crowned with full glory the
icebergs are drowning themselves in the composition of
blue-green flame of the sea the land is held a prisoner the
animal forest encroached upon by the petrifaction of
human’s experiences but the teeth of the wilderness calls
to us to be gobble up by something greater them 301  
ourselves to be put on an equal footing and get close to
the animal that we are with our excellent heart on the
long edge of being lost alone with the fight or flight of
being lost in a wound it is raining times of stones tiny
seconds of heavy snow made of stones their figurations
broken on the pebbles encrusted concert of the concrete
like tiny fallen golden winged gorgons scramming about
the feet thick as a prayer of machines weaving cotton
pulled from the lungs of my great gramps a prisoner of
his time a tree trimmer in the piney woods of Mississippi
of hauling dead trees up stream by mule of the eczema
kerosene soak rag around the head wounds of a renewed
spectacle wrapped around the throat of water the hands of
the winds are leaping and erupting in a custodian
convolution accounted for by winged insects fighting its
loaves of force
Go to where your promises are burning in a rusty barrow
and the aptic structures of its ashes and smoke is a free
form cloud rising to the edgy eyes of the high heaven of
trees high heaven of the reaching air ascending forever
past the sun pass the stars of a far flung galaxy in the
erotic roar and ecstasy of birthing unknown life believing
that it is alone in its intelligent knowledge of the
universal shore where the emotional weather blows its
vermilion zillion winds westward where the wires wend
while it wear the wild break breaking down the smoke of
burning wood the yellow-orange flames licking its
caution convolution’s conviction greedily consuming the
wood’s skin and the oxygen of God’s glorious air go and
repair the dangle dampish damage done to the soul of
men in his greedy needs to consume the land let him
know that he is no better then the bee or the sweet pea or
the cloudy eye of a great storm the harmonies of weather
both beautiful and body let him know that his place is not 302  
secured in the great marking of territory done his home
can not stand alone for he is a creature made and all his
making belong under the hands of the great creator the
solar winds of the sun in intelligent life he is not alone for
all life process its own in living as one within the world
bring him back home where he belong caution of the
weather thrown by a weary world being itself bring him
under the cover of the flagrant of your poetic wings you
are the prophets of pumping blood into the words heard
in the midnight of igniting dreams where your shadows
tremble in recognizable promises feeding the flesh of
seasons stalled by the landscape of the heart fulfilled
exfoliated and contained by the missionaries’ position of
laughter to protect the cross from the silence of the
gnawing rats that feast on the holiness of wood the
termites sees the cross as food they will eat the gilled
holy body of Christ and get away with it in the stalled
night that have seized my throat
Go pass the station of your life smelling the florescence
scent of the corner where desire and the murderous
timing of a sexual trident that met under the
perpendicular personality of the moon too soon gone its
way with its age in tack within the tick tock token of an-
ok motion mindful of its mute meaning its mums the
workable wallop wonder word xenogeneic toward
xylotomous insects inside the interconnection
intercession of wood grains the missionaries of insects
weep a week’s worth of forest and rest in the drought
stricken desert where the training capacity of making
money under the impetuous noise of a burned down shore
line where the fire rolled long backed-up by the sea’s tow
endless in its speechless protection of the shore beneath
the loud light of stars in the company of the sun that have
no night that placate the exposed face of the moon
looking its preheated light down in the belly of the 303  
windless shadows of the footsteps of man the moon is full
of the bristling dust of the advent planetary bombardment
of the beautiful oriflammes flames burning its buried
innocent of a nocturnal ingenuous remembered
compassionate longing for the ruins of time where the
insolence silence is struggling to be heard in the blind last
word of the flaming ruined cries of birds dwarfed by the
storm of a meticulous imbecilic river running its ground
pass the stumbling landscape barely awake beside the
violent embrace of the water’s memories of time told in
the glimpsed motional huge face of the laying-on-of-
hands of an elegant tornado full of glass drunk on the
gallop of horses swallowing the twisted steel of Kansas
City where the galloping winds smelling of the white
castle issuing the provinces of survival as a verdict
packed with the guilty nature of the sun is sung by the
divine prophets of the second coming long overdue by the
affinity of a hummingbird for the sweet smell of red
hovering in the stale air unable to ride the winds now lost
in the corroders of the brotherhood of the city where day
is fighting with night for supremacy of the sky that hides
the circumcised destructive distress of the uncommon
honor of the venom of treason held in the hands of a
growing Indian Summer once stumped by the thick
captive tongue of blackish-green seen in the blue-yellow
river tighten by the bank of mud’s lips shipwrecked by
the shape changing water running for it life pass the
market of man’s making the money that cause us to moan
for the lack of in the commercial’s diversion combined
with the selling mentality of TV entertaining the notion
that all is for sell under the glow of the sleeping baby
sitter’s pearl eyes delineating the drifting submarine of
physical force that intoxicate the infernal fountain
sprouting its shout of the language of perfume smeared
on the graphical psyche’s various parts of a subjective
religion erroneously invented by poet scholars of the 304  
ethical dust of a slipped away noon interlocked in the
peacock test tube

Go and lean a hand to the idle idiotic money changer of

sleeping time where he keeps his hours in a purse made
of skin from ten thousand renegade butterflies that laughs
hungrily and anxious of the spot that they occupy under
the heavy yellow light of the sun that cry to be
understood when the zenith of the stud farm of cocky
boys interlocking their shadows fighting to maintain their
individuality while in a mating match of sexual
misconduct smelling of the cool magical milk of birthing
the beautiful discovery unexpected fingers caressing the
noise heard in the groin of an embrace drunk on the
delirium of a softness dying to be understood in the heat
of the moment in the end the peace of nonsense mentally
remember the familiar language of the Gods spoken in
the ear of persuasive hallucinated daylight vocalizing its
articulated speech stalled on the subject of the telling
tongue all is won all come all is collective all the
exteroceptive sexual knowledge of the deep-trance of
absent consciousness of what comes into the ears is
evidence of the personal Gods that frequent the
information of statue people stoned on the impressive
proportion that chimpanzees have self-recognition that
the self of a tree is a bird known thing that the sex self of
a bird is unknown to the tree that the conglomeration
monstrosity of the self is modeled anew each day under
the power of a lost ego longing to be found in the glow of
the TV where the ungarroted soul discover the knives of
drinking water sharpened on the teeth of the glass of the
year compounded by the incursion into the pain of the
flesh that blast the bloody whisper of an unconnected
emission abdicating quickly thickly breath of the death of
the sickness of Gennesareth beside the weather of a 305  
combating past and present blast that last that emerge
from the crack of a simple concrete flower impregnated
by the torment of a unforgettable mushroom of a
streetlight’s pestilence where the moth of the eternal
darkness if farming the topsoil of the master of breath
breathed into the face of a lost butterfly losing its color
under the machinery minding the noisy store of man’s
weakness man’s little sorcerer minds toward the
injunction muzzle for mingling the mindful matter of the
erosion of the membership of religious from orthodox
position of the body that wrestle to survive in the age of
science blindly the fragile body with its behavioral rituals
of exopsychic thinking goes in the age old hunting of the
hypothesis hiding deep within the brain deep within the
cerebral thalamus within the pons medulla of our
knowing that the Gods keep their stronghold of synthetic
information hushed by the triumphant knowing of the self
wandering in the lost desire in the forest of skyscrapers
where the Tai sticks and Columbians red and Acapulco
gold sky of the suburban routine is silently rolled in the
tip top of the North-to-Northwest cold front blowing in
Fall from the dagger swagger of night’s end
remembrances of the massacred clouds handing out
lumps of rain’s litigation restituting screamlessly
entrapped in a slave trade of modern investigation
geographically stimulating the information of the dark
flesh of the adras the calabarsi the nagos the lucumi the
gelofes the biafras the mandingos entrepot that
strengthen the sun’s mirror of impenitent mountains and
islands of seized surprise with their strength of the
threshold held shredded bear bottom rotten and to bad
blinking the black flag burning reticule deposited by the
buffalo buildings of a lost memory defeated by the
memories of the anguish of harmonies where the sobbing
musician sitting at the river bank of seasons with their
skeletons igniting the fulfilled murmurs dragged through 306  
the landscape of the wind that tumble its punch of
shadows trembling in the cities where the promises
recognizable by the aborigines of the trade counter-
current exfoliated language quenched by the majesty of
poets the excrement of the tongue is on the edge of an
eagle’s disregards for patriotism

Go to where you will be surrounded by fate but no life is

given back to the worthy worshipless growth of weeds
whorship worship me please being their self under the
incidental music incinerated by the epitomize whisper of
an approaching hurricane hurrying its way passed the
current tugging at the shore littered with sands of
seaweeds and stones of shellfish snatching the wind
driven wrong doing of weather that matter to those living
alone the shore man with his audacity to blame weather
for his own short comings where forth does the wind feel
does the fault line tell him where to build his homes we
fear what we can not control a happy man will man be if
weather be a man made machine a thing brought and sold
but weather is a life owning to its perfect own a God of
old the warmth the cold the rain the snow come what will
that blows the inexhaustible working of the God’s breath
it never rest never care that man can not get by there is no
need to question why when the skies cry its cleaning
refrain advanced by the winds wandering through the city
of dead leaves thrown here-there till knotted in the breast
of a corner of rest where pleasure is found in the dead
syllable of a poem’s event where the transmutation of the
animals human huddle amidst the rendezvous of the
sketched thorny vegetation of a pleasantly warm
wounded messenger suddenly aroused by the anger of
salvation where a surge of poetry is lost in the landscape
of the dada plague playing out the future heaped against
the present busting open to spill its bitterness refusing to
give way to the map of the blood blistering the skin of a 307  
risky flute playing the last good-by sung to the mirror
where the word invulnerable is a weak thing full of
pernicious meanings the claws of the word digs into the
backbone and belly of its kin with a tenderness seldom
seen in words that act as watchdogs barking to the bottom
of their meanings hissing and howling to be understood in
the sentence of shattered animal of the night quick as the
quicksand they settle in the ear to burst in the brain like
fast and heavy rain on the concrete skin of the insane
homeless on the streets of a throw away society caught in
the youth worshiping bubbles that is Americus caught by
the micro machinery of bio luminance glowing in the
wave of the order of ATP reaction rearranging the
metabolism of a blaze of grass the cells with their tiny
voices tell of an intellect tall in its wonder of the
simplicity of life when Fall comes cloudy and cool calm
near the first full moon of the season fresh and new
changing the leaves hung on tress where black birds roost
awhile before flying in flock the flyway that rot not
knocking the known bird brain smart but small in the
skull that control flight Fall feel fine against my eyes I
spy the autumnal equinox leading to the trick or treat that
meet me on the streets of the violence of St. Louis where
the joy of being young is masquerading as the saints and
demons and hero of a plastic pumpkin basket full of
candy the young do not know that they are innocent and
trusting in the incidental motion of their lives indulging in
the growth of their dreams their divided dreams visible as
the awesome secrets that they keep in a world of antique
wisdom of the antivenom venom of the passion of
nocturnal horses stagnant by the celestial thrust
voluminous by the torn and mutilated contour of the last
laughter lasting long till it goes to a moaning song based
on the vital breath that rest on the strength of three worlds
full of wealth when the soul identified with the body of
the world of the eternal Brahman meeting in the womb of 308  
the fire of Gautama lightning its speech of flame from the
vulva of the enjoyment of sexual intercourse when Gods
offer semen as libation of the birth of stars the cinders
and spark of stars the worlds of the Gods are stars of the
sacrificial flow of heat that is impregnated by light in the
cosmos’s copulation of the brahminical power of the
mantra this is my secret name O Sarasvati with your
breast fruitfully full of milk this is my secret name that I
have attained by your nourishment

Go to where your complexion is never lost in the vacuum

mouth of demons speaking of the origin of logical
friendship and Puzuzu calling out in the holy darkness
where is hidden the weight of light equal to the weight of
darkness that dawn with ecstatic clarity blinded by the
spit of a serpent coiled around the spinal hymn of a
revolution uprooted by the precise controversial that
conspires in the pores of the disinherited pacified by the
paraschites catastrophe cathedral where suffering is seen
as a holy act of the poor caught in the wave of the cursed
crime of religion reserved severe time in the sunder
Sunday morning of worshiping the sumptuous idleness of
a fraternal rancor whispered under the breath into cupped
hands that catch the impearled words searching for a way
into the ears of heaven where they will be heard by the
angels that sit at the right hands of tiny intimate feathers
of the constellations of the beautiful laburnum of silence
voices of outpour companion of the thirsty conspiracy of
being one with the Godhead of a razor sharp sky naked of
clouds the forever falling sky consecrated by the
explosion of oozing friendship invested with the seminal
holy element singing the babbling advance of thunder on
the wind where lighting tattoo the forgiving sky of
fraternal loyalty to birds and all winged things that rely
on its emptiness for a clear flying to and fo in the
inexhaustible self-assured scream that ring the decorating 309  
of a cluster of cloud’s the sky pasty and pale fighting the
étagère of age of a prophet’s promises to fulfill the
tomorrow of yesterday the present is a fragile mirage
easily broken by the hummingbird’s green language of
the red age that seduce the blossom of high noon littering
the tom-toms laughter impetuous in its endless duration
of a delirium that protects the Indian dancing in the light
of the casino blinking like carats caught by the arrow that
find thee victorious over the enemies born by the
weighing of words where the weepers conceived by the
irrational wild nabiim throbbing beneath the drums and
zithers throbbing the divine voices’ jealousies that are
disguising their selves from the many dead Gods as
holdovers from hallucinogenic statuaries of melted
money expensively dressed in jewelry where the
chammanim of the sun sits high up on its pedestal of an
overfull wineskin the Gods are all drunk on the prayers of
men drunk on the first fruits of the roots harvest by the
wage starvest of the bruised sores left on the threshing-
floor of the sacrifice made by the fail hail given to the last
God to visit man to hear of what we are concern men
must wonder as the Gods pass over the fair grass that pass
for the sin we bear for the bitter of our litter tossed by a
careless hand none know the one last blow caught in the
mouth of the south wind as the air drew dew that fade by
noon the dew sizing the moon’s nip of punishment
pursuant by the sackcloth measure found in the golden
fold of a privacy inmost musical compulsion unknown
by the pleasured sounds found in the courses of all the
falsified fall from grace behind the small wall we put up
to protest the unknown man with his pen filled with the
blood of the Gods I speak of the fancy poets of yore that
writes the country’s astrologic lore of what Americus
once wore the poets have proved their passion they are
thrown out of the influential heaven for recording the
devilish things done in peroration of the second coming 310  
they stand in opposition to the distinction of the
murderous science of the holy soul they are alchemist of
words melting meanings for men and master blind and
lame they are your shame made flesh they deal will words
to heal to repair the bones of stones thrown into the air of
a heritage’s age where the clouds crowds the passer by
sky spent and winched by the blow of a cold glow giving
light by the low Levant sun that seem to run the desert’s
landslip of sane shore of the ocean of sand in its motion
blowing to seek its legal level another other call all to the
unholy human fall as an old slow cold snow unfold it
blow to sow over the threshold where an open field yield
its warmth as the warfare of a stormy weather silent with
snow that rides away with love’s food of a grey day
nightly renewed by the cold’s view as the rain bring pain
of the found sond of free water falling in the still chill
strung like a song sung to the homeless
Go where dogs are barking at Asapper approach and the
incantation of the wind blowing toward the exorcism of
medicine have given wings to the terror-stricken angels in
their flight from the fight in heaven where the installing
power of the winged set no-longer look after the factory
of the skin the machine of muscles the red rare nostalgia
of blood in the veins of a sacrificial hunger for the
guardian silenced that the angels make of our prayers O
Gods roll my eyeball as marbles in a game played by the
angels shoot pool with my fingers play hacky sack with
my balls weave a holy clothe with my veins make a suit
of my deep dark skin make a foot stool of my shoulder a
broom of my legs and feet a drinking vessel of the
hollowness of my heart make a sling shot of my muscle I
am all for yous by the jealous nature of nature make drum
sticks of my bones to beat out the rhythm of your secret
listening of hearts use me as you will till you make a salty
drink of my tears paint your faces with my blood make 311  
gloves of my lungs make a lute of my vocal cord make a
drum of my ears and wear my tongue as a bracelet my
teeth as a necklace deck yourselves out in the threatening
touchable thunder of my laughter as sure as the cities stab
at the sky as sure as the dark raven fly as sure as the
ancient entrails of the river that runs its way to the home
of water the sea the blue face sea the blue-green scream
of the musical sea the circulating language of the watery
primal strength of the sea that throb on the face of earth
as sure as this is so use me when the birds go committing
themselves to the sacrificial vocation of the priests use
me again and again till I am all spent by your innocence
by the fruitful assumptions and implications of your
stigmata breath by the wild beast of your splendid
strength nature will not mismanage as man will not
consume without being consumed by her costume self of
her love-making her uninhabited sexual hunger that ignite
episcopal birth in the slender transparent secret forest that
believe in itself believe in the indestructible silence of
flowers believe in her own wild howling to be heard
beyond the gesture of human words when the muscles of
the bewitching hour comes dark and deep the devouring
eyes fit for daylight can not see the public secrets of night
creatures victorious in their nightly hunt I sing to you O
nature of the whorled flesh of the curfew pastures where
grows the eloquent double dark remark ruck and rank by
the hutch of the darkness of the black mask of a Cardinal
I sing the surrender of man’s soul to the eloquent of tasty
lust for life I surrender myself to the music of a dove that
coo in the early morning hitherto sanctuary that gives
birth in the glories of the marriage of germs I surrender
myself to the chaotic unbroken silence of the changing
seasons’ infinite moods burning with the beautiful breath
of dragons’ brains in the anticipation of a gorgeous
crazed of wild horses I surrender myself I surrender
myself to the child-like whisper of joy that steals its way 312  
across the eternal church of earth empty of regret but
decked out in the cloths of trees butterflies fireflies wheat
and rice all living the lesson of being one under the
proper value of the understood consciousness
fundamental and grandeur in its mentality that intercede
nature is unenforceable by presidents judges and officers
of the authorization voices of the state where the
mentality of an ant is married to the earth to the dirt a
silence deity that confession its labyrinthine of faith
toward the overwhelming importance of the individuality
of the physical rationalist materialist science necessary to
the conception conscious contrition of the human mind

Go pass the visit of Gods to earth after the flood of words

broke through to conciseness and now the celestialized
Gods of an empty throne in the heart of man have taken
to a heavenly home the tombs are all empty where the
dead have taken their skin and bones to a place where
only the dead can go no one knows what the dead in their
non-secured langrage of language known in the haunted
season of their fleshly home loaded with lies and a bit of
the arrogance of truth where the flesh side of being
human is contentious of the spiritual knowledge that lone
to know itself the dead weathered over by worms are
made a feast of leaving only the indigestible bones and
the tomb stones as show that once they peopled the world
was once within themselves within the labyrinth of the
luck of life with its spasm of flesh nailed to the beautiful
essence of parasites in the mouth of life the bones keep
the secretes of the flash it keep the scars of its brokenness
in an invented instant of the condemned shadows with
their clarity of the intent accounts of the clumsy solemn
manners of the savage abrupt flow of blood in the veins
of a victim victimized by the trumpets of an eye blowing
the starlight of the magical Orion the hunter of the three
kings that moan more secretly the hesitate surprise 313  
sunrise of a heaviness suffering the terrifying tremble of
the muzzle over the foliage of the abrupt growth of trees
in the chest of a possessed harvest’s profusion of a
credulous miracle of storms that carry the stripped down
memory of the anger of the long-haired weather washing
over the riot’s tumult tempestuous in its disheveled
forgetfulness of the inattentive rutting of the landscape’s
open chest where the humble musical scale of life being
itself is played to a T to an E and G flat and T S Eliot mu
St. Louis man bouncing off the flamboyant tree reaching
its bragging secondary branches finally free of the
cavernous vault of man’s destructed nature a nature of
erosion in favor of the analog I of the lost time mind-
space-I’s instability the authoritarian hierarchy effects is
exaggerated by the police state suddenly collapsed by the
flaming torch of free will kneed to the odor of yeast
fermenting in the arcane bread basket bowl of the mid-
west anchored down by the changing extensive structure
of the possibility of civilization the mind is correct
toward the cognitive function of the Gods with their
residuals pattern and purpose caught in the vertigo meter
of poetry anticipating the storms raging invincible and
innocent of wrong doing it is the juice of lust the
nocturnal oriflammes pyres burning its compassions in
the ruin cries of birds do you remember the Baobab tree
do you remember the air that embrace you out of sight
out of the minister mind of knowing everywhere nature
perform its elegant dance of its unbeatable unabashed
nakedness unleashed laying-on-of-hands it raw rallying
cries of rain earth is an executioner of time and the mind
but it will not do the persistence necessary to place one
life form above the other flesh mindful of itself blind
justice have blue eyes in Americus she hide behind the
twist of steel and pile of money needed to afford the price
of freedom she do not so much as pretend to be color
blind as she sentence the darkest of skin to the prison of 314  
the destructive tongue lady justice have been raped by
money so many times that she care not to defend against
what she sees feels hears smells tastes think of the doer of
her intelligent self she is a shadow without a body a
shadow of imperishable being longing to sing the song of
the poor and down trodden who long to nurse at her
breast for the nourishment of brahminical power of
memory from the consistency of the freshly cut limbo
that haunt her she long to be reborn as the immaculate
virgin radiance in her nakedness clothed by the buffalo’s
skin of self knowledge the defeated harmonies of her
hands are weighted in the skeletal scale of anguish she
long in the fragile landscape of her eyes covered by the
rag of time trembling like a caught sparrow tumble dying
to seduce the jailer of a false rhyme igniting the language
sprouted by the divined murmur testing the water of a
tom-tom’s full convulsion beating back the rented rhythm
warm in the throat of an exposed wind of storms blowing
out the brain of midnight

Go pass the eager ravages of time that can never have a

full belly and the self observed self is the only way to
know the Gods of a scholastic scent scapegoat that have
forgotten how to pray for fools who in their childlike
ways can only be saved by the mental language of heroic
thunderous shouts that pierced the diminished voices of a
cerebral accident left behind by the darkness of the blind
but never shall their secrets be told to men in their right
minds for all the workings of Gods is blind madness
caught between the expanding universe and an ant
digging out of the grave its home in the good and faithful
earth ravaged by laughter caught in the throat of a dog’s
depth a dog that thrust its bark from deep within the belly
of a crazed violent splattering the wounded command of
sit fido sit issued by the master of the pack the man with 315  
the dog like head the man with the machined hands the
man gone insane where sanity is blistering the skin of the
river running its course pass the tropical crocodiles
dreaming of the meat of man permitted to prow the
heated heart of water where the turtle is regal rob royal
where the sore floor of the river is thorn torn by the over
spread shade that line the banks where the sheaf of a leaf
drop to flow in the thousand altars made of a sacrifice
laid by the blood of wood in the rather gather head of the
wilderness said in the mouth of an old drought missing
the new dew of words stored in the Lord’s head a desert
Lord said reply to the I I pass I bear the fair the enormous
embrace of swamp gases the spasmodic nightmare of
mountains the beautiful exfoliating folding head of a
sweeping blackness found in the city of dead angels lost
angels from the heaven of the mind busting the
conquerors of time as time goes galloping pass your eyes
ride it right ride it true let it come summoning you to the
heroic deed of your life to the stagnant salt of your tears
the serpent sex of men feel no remorse for where in time
you have been spill not the blood of your dreams learn to
recover your dreams from the taking of time be you one
in the balance of your rhyme time told time tell time will
run you over if you stand still time take no risk it can not
feel can not give or take for it is all yours to make be not
left behind caught in its wake never wait but drive time
away in your highest breathing meet it face to face in
balance with it passing all ways one foot ahead for it will
make of you an antique if you falter recover make the
passing of time your passion one with its enchantment
unbending when it kick you in the nuts of your weakness
when kept in measure time will shed its blood at your
beckoning know the secret of its visible uncontrollable
rhythm go and hail the fail blow of time the dumb come
sea that time be know the heart of its art never set apart it
does not lie it can not die thereby do not cry or ask why at 316  
the passing there-by ply your wears as if you care to be
one in the moment of the moment distinctly and directly
charged with composed creativity improving within the
hour let your life be a God given epic when the Gods
push you about with their voices that never step outside
of the of natural laws they are apart of you in their noble
automations of strangeness behind their fierce eyes that
have no awareness of their awareness of the familiar
language burning on the tongue their uncontrollable
passion can be won by the enchantment of voluminous
celestial collapsed words of the contour of the dreaming
heart that infect the advance of intention on the well
seasoned mind of the childhood man that know the
testament of time that it take to make the flow of the grief
of the trade winds of the breath of forgotten wanting
words at the slaves meeting place in the season of the
hidden night that curve around lashes given to the back
bones of trees flayed by the mute past that have forgotten
what it feels like when the exhausted and disjointed
embittered and dismembered body of the precious
perturbations found in the height of the city’s transformed
by the slave master skillful in the commercial flames
consuming paradise where is found the selling of the
nauseated self fine and firm under the stubbing stubborn
swirl tugging its memorable red heart of quagmire full of
the hovering moon when Venus is the brightest light in
the sky and the droppings of stars are engaged in
maintaining their distant of intimate knowing when the
night goes rubbing its back against the light of the city’s
maddening nocturnal miraculously noisy mating caught
pushing itself along the back bone of earth’s fears that
man will take over for nature and become the master of
the universe at the precise moment of the end of the
world when the Gods descend from heaven and take their
place beside man in the funeral for the world where the
undertows of demons sweep us along the thorny road of a 317  
tangible resentment seen as an imagination of poets who
would be the Man-God of the latter day’s dim obscurities
of a shadowy oral poetry now dead in the throats of the
written poem where the poets have long forgotten their
divinity to look after his fellow men they are now beside
themselves that rhyming rap has come to take a bite out
of their domain rhyming rap plays the base game in it
simplicity aided by music as a cohort that seeks to rule in
the name of the Gods the community of poets is now
shattered on the rocks of their self centered self they have
forgotten how to speak for the Gods they no longer hear
the divine voices hanging from their hands they hide their
faces in the skeleton books of commerce refusing to be
burn by the primordial fire to do the Gods’ bidding O
poets set yourselves a blaze you born of the rare treasure
of the tongue you nursing the souls of men you breaking
down the flesh of the body’s need to be one in the world
you with eyes of fireflies and lips of bees set your nose to
sniff out the glorious sense of all living things let your
ears hear the tiny angels walking in the blood of the flesh
feed on the world ever as it feed on you drink yourselves
dry only to be filled again by the holy water of words of a
masculine abuse that brow beat the tenderness of the
imminence of the feminine feelings found in the fuscous
furnace where burns the frantic flowering liquid that
destroy the midnight busting nocturnal over the beautiful
stroke stagnant and staggering in the dark heart of an
indulged breath

Go pass the muses singing enchanting poetry to the

possessed poets witnessing the passive history of their
time pasting into the book of divine knowledge kept in
the magniloquent pocket of hail maries spoken to the
hagioscopic hogloscopic doorway where free thoughts 318  
roam uninbibent by frenzy’s rather fluid in its wild
consuming flow a mute migration of motion moving
mindfully within the great mother that sustains us we are
the codification of the narrativization
of the Gods keepers of the common sense of the social
evident of the subjected group documenting the
systematic working of the social world asking the
questions that man long to have answered where are the
Gods gone why have they left us to bear life on the back
bones of our belongings keepers of the God’s estates
keepers of the reminiscence of the Gods keeper of the
chaos transilience toward the consciousness of the Gods
lost in their own memories sleeping in the subway tunnels
with the meaning of what it means to be human as their
pillow keeper of the emphatic just-for-real personages
tide raising in your veins be a poet in the name of your
Gods that gives you the permanent title of poet subpoena
the Gods to stand trial by the way of the pen cross
examine them with an ancient eye as if you will man fill
the abysses with your God given knowledge remember
the knotted snake of the apple that insured Eve that the
worldly knowledge of consciousness was worth knowing
be you supremely elegant in the climates of man’s
wisdom know that you are no better then the lowest man
caught in his based fulfilling of the body’s need and yet
you are a special thing among men hold yourself to the
highest standers drain yourself dry of all the holy answers
be the mother be the father of clerical knowledge persist
under the intoxicated Indian summer of a fountain of
mother-of-pearl with its physical force of beauty its
perfume wavering magical in the eclipse of cool hands
rare by the standers of the stud farm of slavery the big
black buck bent backward picking the spindle of cotton
under the sweat of the drunk sun long in the tooth rows
on rows of lobo rest bountiful labor without being saved
by the bottom of sleep the years goes on germinating the 319  
void of violent luminous in its vigils vigorous like
vultures connected to the whisper of death the perfume of
naïve flesh the bivalvular valves opening and closing to
the torments dissolves under the lighthouse of the
streetlights the light canopies dissolving the darkness into
a million one pestilence hissing with the light of fireflies
in the shaving bushes of topsoil time the stars conspire
and hint at that we are not alone with our machines that
keeps us company the stars with their far-away wonders
pin pointing the master’s plain legendary these legionary
embers carrying their locomotive load of legitimate light
muzzled by the stolen tanned light of the inexhaustible
moon the blind night sky of cities shows not half their
wonder explosive as a hurricane raging its grey soft skin
full of scrupulous winds across the force of man’s
injunction man triumphantly threatening the laid back
motion of the world man with his urgencies of plagues
feasting on dead birds in the dinner hour of words man
kneading before the syllable recluses in his rendezvous
with the mirror of blood made so by the sun the blood
spilled on the battle fields where the erect weapons
wound the wind and a wave of lead hot bullet emerge
through the throat of the young combatants O youth the
dada notion of vegetation in the war zone is bissly
unaware in its busy bossy briskness of being itself beside
the bombs that boom busting the land open in a wound
not soon forgot the rot of flesh the lost of limbs the soul
weep to comprehend that man made war rage again and
again

Go into the noisy plausible peace of mind that willingly

waits on you shyly coming again in your pendulum
footsteps of words on the breath of the great storms of
your heart where the reprehensible rain is vicious with the
wind and they sing to the ardent vegetation growing on
its own accord rocking and knocking their heads together 320  
in the yes of submission bent low peeling the air of it
watery skin the flower’s green glove is a guardian of the
thunderous blow that the sky makes their union as silent
as the private personality of dreams as the musky
moaning morning coming on strong pursuing the night
that now is gone the way of the midnight hour as sure as
the robber birds will feast on the fallen grain fall asleep in
the fertile refrain of day into night and vise versa be a
prowler in the life of the poor plunder the self knowledge
tugging at your back where the robbers come to snatch
with violent your dreams that have seen the heavy heart
hollowed out by the restlessness of your sleep where the
far flung hills is a music heard only by the prisoners
doing time in the wisdom of a disaster go to know the
ashes of a dreamt melody using silent as a foot step
toward the thirst that savagely stall on the absurd defeat
of the galloping wind of a perfidious defiance defense
against the strange moaning that is a sweet song of
insidious skeleton of the silence that beat back the
absolute solstice bleeding its barbarous rumor impetuous
in its faltering height hidden in the undertow of the last
threshold plunging the bitter original war against the
Gods when they refused to take the side of the zealous
insane with the desires felt in the name of the one great
God of the stone pure patience of the human wait for
heaven when they refuse to converse to the single-
mindedness tender ripped terror refuse to be reborn by the
baptism of an erect tumult of distilled water twice blessed
sediment of the purest unforgotten lymph full of the
tenderness of birds on the wings of a certain self-contain
belief in the eternal cross as a holy thing when the God
said worship no graver image from the grave of holy dead
things where the scrupulous faithful bones once fragile as
a volcano’s flow to the sea in a season of an indefinable
erupted notion that certain words can heal the recollected
pigment of a myth of the thrust of a blood flower 321  
witnessing the crimes of a raw light that advance on the
vision of a terrific journey taken at the turnoff flesh and
mud clumped into awkward stars leading the wise men to
sumptuous fragment of a well lit madness once thought
savage in an age of enlightenment where the lighting
stitch the sticks of dead trees together in its anger of a
surge of salvation meant for the mad animals turned bitter
toward the vegetation that sustain them such an animal is
man who will not rediscover the African names nearly
lost to history Wo’se wishes to emancipate the enslave
minds wishes that Nowe was of the tongues of the
historians with their transmutation of reminisces
remembrance of the God of Thebes of the ancestors that
daily assist us in our task we ware their masks when we
pray about their memorable place we keep them alive in
our rhymes O tiny voices of the dead you are in my head
O tiny flesh of the swamp settled in the tenderness of the
first serpent that spoke to the curious woman in the
garden O watch-dog of the spinal cord the black man fear
the revolution the sit mid throat in the hollowness of his
breath O consciousness of consciousness rooted in the
Provencal I my sweet catastrophe of the vengeance of
crime that will not die O Khafre kin of the blood and
skin vis-à-vis the indigenous loyalty of bastardizing the
night the amalgamation observed in Memphis of the dark
skin of the dark winds of the dark sins where the revolver
of heaven is shooting off at the mouth we are your sons
we the back bone of dark Americus builders of its great
building we protect thee with the flames of our pended
desires we are the imperfect eye of a divine egg O still
heart place thy self on the right side of me O inlaid heart
in a bucket of red Jasper and Sycamore wood destroy the
evil of the shining one O pure color of the bury turning
away from the sins of the world bury beneath the color of
the grave up turned to face the face of an open door of
heaven O second time of the first death we are coming to 322  
you little by little light by light love by love longing by
longing littering the ground of our most secret places
where the tiny vengeance spitting at the strongbox of our
train-wreck greeting the dawn of a controversial
blackness

Go my friends for the muses have left me to fiend for

myself in the crowed domain of poetry and all your going
shall leave you to the pleasure principle that wait on you
coming into view of the death cup destroying all that
have gone before the chronicle notational writing of a
soul in need of guidance go to where all your going are
caught in the unbreakable hands of the peremptory
awakening of a prayer that suckle at the breast of doubt
that is ruptured on the fingers of a double-edged knife
forever found high in the childhood anguishing memories
of being twisted in the ferocious delirium with its magical
impurities of a dream howling to the horrible bottom of
the barrel where the frantic distress of a dry worm sweat
on the lawn of a Robin’s hunting for the food of the day
to beak feed its young that knows nothing of the Gods of
man grown frantic by the light of the sacrificial fire’s
outcries tossing its curve to the forbidden incandescent
listeners touching the heat of an acute dream of an eclipse
mixed with the circler phantom that can not do you harm
under the watchful eyes of the worshipers of the sun of
the emerging heat from the heart of a fatigued mirror
looking back at you go to the staggering tornado
stumbling across the Midwest in its need to burn itself out
by the judgment of wind’s supremacy in being under the
working hands of weather’s thrust for the essence of
virtue dancing in the dreams as relentless as the question
posed at the crossroad of razor and wrist where the 323  
suicidal birth of small arms fire bloom in the chest of the
innocent there in is the basic principle that life is held as
cheat as the price of a bullet that men will kill to satisfied
the supposes thirst of their Gods yet Gods are never the
blame they are impendent without man with his war-like
wisdom of ways justified by the gun by the bombs that
birth destruction and meditated death where the beauty of
war is celebrated by defense spending to wage a way of
life what is right for me is right for you my way or the
high way now crowed by the war goers who shall slay his
brothers of another mother where forth have we always
been this way where forth shall we be save from
ourselves where forth will come the day when the God
shall reek their vengeance where forth will another man’s
life come to be a holy thing O go to douse the fires of war
go to where we have forgotten how to wage our primitive
and petty needs to conquer such things pains me to
mention what poets must keep in the foreground of their
art in the foreground of their heart you poet knee high to
a big God their prop their puppets their power in your
hands go alone if you must but you can not escape their
bidding for such was you born into the race of man to be
their pawn in the game with the power to check the king
to up grade such are you wed to man so wear the ring
proudly its your to keep do not divorce yourself from
teaching man the way that he must go to know the
brotherhood of us all living under the sunshine bouquet
that conspire over the cathedral’s dome its clock of
hummingbird’s petticoat of green irrefragable irenic
iridescence hovering over the slackened shaken sky
where the torrential babbling storm irascibility rage pass
the marvels bird brain dreaming of flight the birds in their
grassy nest rest the night away under exploded air of
silence the albus alburnum stark naked without its bark
the voice crisscrossed and struggled caught advance
across the nightmare that ware a wing beat boiling the 324  
plutonian immense region of the wilderness of elements
spent in its spinning in the universal motion that rule this
world clouds have taken away half the light of the sun
they come grey-belly-born never out of season they doze
off into the east where the dumb brown dawn is a blesses
thing polluted by the thirsty waste of man made machine
where the albatross of the cross show their companions
stalled by the seashore of conspiracy babbling its
pleasant elements barely beautiful in its wanting modesty
a bench-work of falling rain beautiful by the wounds that
it brings curious by the voodoo song it sings the
complacent commotion it ring round the tropical
jubilation of tongues pausing to lick the tracks of the
inner city train the tongue that muffles the words that
save sumptuous and repentance by the head stone of a
ruin cathedral as theater where the priest plays the mouth
piece of his God curse not the clouds that carry rain on
their shoulders let the pores of your skin open and suck it
in the mandrake winds with it sympathy for the unrelated
rain brings a sweet whisper wistful as a plastic bag
entangled in the highest branches of an old Elm bag belly
bloated with a rolling void now flapping like a flag to the
alarming capitalistic curiosity of the sudden breaking of
rain on the surface of the conceit of concrete have
companion for the widow Goddess boiling the sap of
trees to the great wing-beat where the nightmare is
impaled to the head of longitudinal constellations
gigantic in their staggering swaggering struggles have
companion for the hunger of earth want not waste not
wise guy not the ragging riot that rain to regain the reign
of growth seeking out the smallest craving crevices a chip
in the concrete submarine volcanoes on the bark of trees
in the rotting teeth life seeks and seeps weep and peep
and pee-pee on you and me she care to care not but to
feast upon the flesh that rots
325  
Part X1

Go your way to where primordial speech spoken of the

owner Gods personal Gods admonitory Gods parental
Gods pompous Gods of fierce heroes familiar with the
lamentations of emotional inhibitions hero of the hostile
curiosity that will have peace on its own terms go to the
invention of the ghost-soul entering the body of a
newborn infant’s embodiment of the psyche of life and
living dead the first God of the hallucinated voices of the
ordinary past is preparing the heaven for our arrival into
the being of speaking idols with their bliss of certainty
fighting the beginning of their end when the last is cast
they must go the way of all the holy figurine that once
peopled the small walls of man they are forgiven their
promises of heaven when we pray away their love from
above the word wing that we sing to them the pace of
prayers that we make in the haste of city living the chase
for material goods in the half-way house of our longing
the copse of our past pursue us when the pain of the rain
is still in the chill cut and strain on the skin of the air the
breath of our fears can not find its death can not find the
preferred passing of our sins of being human on the deck
of our lily neck that wreck the whorled ear that can not
hear the dumb eloquent that surrender in the double dark
meaning of our dreaming warmed-up and hollowed out of
the skin of our midnight visions silent and some times
ruthless in its depiction of the resentment that we harbor
the tendencies of obscure memories set free to piece
together the endless possibilities of what was seen in the
complicated waking hours of our silence thinking silence
stumped upon at the rest of the language of poetry the
half fool half visionary poet in his attempt to create a
beauty in an indifference world where the envy and 326  
anxiety of the poet for mass support strikes out against
the ones he love the poet wishes to save us all by saving
himself he will gladly take the fall handle the ball call
from his lonely wooden tower to all about the heroic
struggle that it takes to defeat the dullness of human
relationship base on getting money but he too must fix a
price on his works sale you his wisdom by the book that
he is redeemed as a distinct individual escaping the
dilemma of mythic salvation he seeks to remake the state
of mass society paralyzed by the financial chock chains
roped drawn and quartered rusting around our necks the
half visionary fuel his quest the half fool reset the net in
which he seeks to catch the faces of men set free poet you
of the ancient game that unfold before your eyes the little
thoughts that you spy know the cluster of nature’s odor
know the raw life feeding upon the open sore know the
cost lost in the shrine where earth drinks the heavenly
wine and the horn of Easter morn can be found in the eye
of the sky that wear its woes in your hair slow the poets
goes a throng full of song pass the fair grass none not one
blows a note that to nature says no they are singing of the
moon gone to soon they blessed it the him and her that
once writ as messenger of the Gods the bright light of the
moon swarm in warm night as poets pen through till then
near the here of morning poems are born from my
brothers my mothers in the art they write of Winter in
sorrow sometimes oppressed they seeks to borrow the
motion of an unrest they play with the breath in a hour of
the flower growing in Summer’s breast poets can be joy-
laden for they have seen the maiden nature her daughter
slaughter to increase the needs of man the poets cry out
cease and let the birth of earth finds its worldly peace let
nature’s install muscular power sap-like and sweet found
in the ground of God’s will O nature divine mother of
mine God your name is the same your heart is known by
the rose that knows so too each tree be of you and every 327  
man your son the immaculate white the immaculate black
the immaculate brown the wood that once stood proud
round by where now the city stands the then of the how
now men all life occupy a place of grace you are above
even love above the sea of me the bread of the dead the
flesh afresh that dread the truth of thee yes my tongue
confess as my prays at night rise to the heavenly height to
make you known as God I fight the stress of the
disrespect heap upon you spare the rod spoil the God
mentality in the face of man can be found the spell place
of hell nature is the host but man all the boast you kiss
my hand lovely-asunder while in the west the stress of
thunder a wonder we are blessed to understand the storms
deliver a river of rain flushed and hushed the faithful
waver by nostalgia by your patience profound by the
guardian of the evil eye and the medusas that groan by
the rigger rain that rest make it your own by the cacti
torment by a blood of knots the vesicles that drops it rot
to the nostril of a drunkard’s putrefaction hop-scotching
around the play ground of a howling brotherhood in the
drinking bar where the mind goes far into the ear of vomit
and hear the drunken song of regurgitation sung by the
fire of the sun playing both side of the streets

Go your way pass the epileptic schizophrenic deja vu of

rerun T.V. where lying commercial comes first nature to
the commerce’s mind behind it all behind the skin is the
lore of yore that was begun when the sun was a younger
God when the sun wore the slow flight of a metalmark
butterfly when the past persistency of its light was done
in by the light of the boob tube’s glow in the night light
of the moon cast me fast to its tune near or far mine the
cries that despise the psychological pining of the Gods
lost in the wilderness of man’s history there in the air that
gleam and stream by the melodiousness of the sea its sing
song rhythm that dwell in the swell of motion in the 328  
ancient relationship between man and Gods that fight
against each other by the one sided nature of prayers the
interceptor of the Gods can not intercede with their
unbending rod of holy speech their dead rules is out of
tune with the working of the modern world but still they
hard hold fast till the last side of pride as a bride that
provide her mate with half their weight with all the
cultivation of TV time sold down to the very secretes
second while the wayward feet in the TV streets awake
the replies of the skies to gaze with a daze the sight of the
maze that night TV makes of the sight the myth making
television wish to sell you a bill of goods if it could it
would sell you the second coming as the sequel to the
first blockbuster featuring the blond hair Christ played by
the narrow-looking features good-looking athletic body
fit for the big stream where the holy desolation escape the
collapsed encircling wisdom spoken in the ear TV
language is seldom wild it is cut and trimmed to sight
motion and sounds TV language does not linger long by
twenty-four hours selling sounds it quickly passes on sell
me happiness in a 12 oz bottle of dish washing liquid sell
me freedom in the form of a fast car sell me silly its
selling never done never quite fulfilled of it self in
greasing the machines that infiltrate our dream the
whorled noise of machines their ferocious horror to maim
their unending combustion and consumption that make a
metallic desert of the world we are their mindful keepers
as they keep us in the lusty luxuries of a simplified life
without worry for the machines shall save us from the
mundane drudgery of the every day they shall give our
lives new meanings that allow us time to find the
meaning of self we are the machines keepers for foul or
fair they are our common companion of us born where
we keep our creation laid bear before the bar raised to its
highest legal level the music of their hum is worshiped
like the second coming coming on in a riot of pistons and 329  
gears and tendency drive throw-off brackets folder cams
steel knurled and helix gears grinning out the glorious
goods of a throw away society we are their God-like
maker creator of the greater good that they may entertain
us serve us down to the replacement part their loyalty is
unquestionable they do as they are told to the breaking
point they can not rebel or tell us where to go they make
of our house a home they tie us to them till one can not
exist without the other a codependences like child to
mother which is which is yet to be discover the machines
are our lover they took us to the moon they break to soon
they fill the room they are marooned in the rust belt the
old and useless pile of metal rusting in the brick factory
over grown with weeds the metal dead thing that we did
not clean before our passing into the new and the
improved machines are replaceable like men who have
outlived their usefulness to the society that once
employed them let loose to rot in the shadows of an
upgrade we treat them with the same disdain be you old
man or old machine your days are numbered would it was
so of what Whitman sang the song of the self as every
man what I assume you shall assume also a man out of
the cradle endlessly walking endlessly cradle to cradle
wishing for an American that only a poet can dream up
cradle to cradle whispering to the water dreaming to the
stars dreaming to the laughter of the moon to the rich
immensity of the sun laughing to the stolen light of the
stars let us rejoice let us join bones to bone flesh of my
flesh blood of my blood bound by the very eyes that sees
and denies that we are all children of the earth I say you
are my brothers my sisters let no man set asunder what
nature have joined together

Go to the narratization of the soul dear psyche of breath

of bones of blood in an age where God have moved far 330  
off into the selective heaven of one God who keep his
company tight by the metaphysical essences of the
silence of the Gods caught like exhausted animals
refugees from the edge of the advancing cities where the
cries of the wilderness witness the waits of workable
wars that are waged in an age of innocent in no sense of
the word God is playing hoodlum with Jacob sealing the
door of the Ark witnessing to the flight of Cain and Abel
walking the garden of Eden with Adam both caught in the
unconsciousness of their own nakedness one within the
singularity of nature a situation that could not last with
man’s curio curiosity curling round the nature of things
his current belief in his separation from nature when he is
no better then cursed meat caught between the teeth of
living our lives while all the wise there is something of
the divinity in him something of the cold of a congestion
confession as St. Augustine abandoning rhetoric confess
the tree that escapes through the fingers confess through
the vigil held by a reptile offering the knowledge of
consciousness in the form of an luminous apple eaten in
the bamboo thicket confess the untamed bird of prey that
knows the meaning of meat the wave of words that the
preacher preach the swell and sweep sweet eddying
nature of the life of everything where the sacred water
omniscient in its reincarnated beat bump bouncy by the
daily prophesy of prayers in the pitiless savage of a
sorcerer’s germination the worshipers of Satan the light
bringer the first revolutionary of the winged set who
lives in man along side his God where in the divinity of
things they are one and the same fighting for your spirit
and flesh your soul alone can contort confined conjure
and control the demons and saints that knows when the
spirit and flesh are weak when they are fired up to fulfill
your wanting waiting needs weary and worried about the
body of the shadows of your being when the sky has
become a swamp full of tenderness when the naked 331  
inquest is nailed to an answer when the scenery of the sun
raising is encrusted with the thoughts of dying in the
distant transparency of the narrow threshold armored
hour full of death once removed by the rain stoked and
soaked sand the hands of telling time is caught in a seed
that sleeps its growth silently in the world’s face of
learning laughter loudly long across the pregnant sea’s
lunation in the seductive banality that is life animal grace
is guided by the glue that guide the gilled gluttonies of a
golden cage where the keen awareness of the self must
come to knows that it must escape must excite the soul
and escalate the escapade the escapism from the routine
the mundane that gnaw on the essence of modern man
identified by the knowing name citizens a belonging to a
way of acting in accorded with the make-work masses we
the people we to the popular piety we that conspired for
the first time to be the placated public the interlocking of
our lives turning on the axle of the status quo that keep us
static in our quotidian duty we the back bone born in an
age of bouncy bouncing our blooming way through the
barbarism of a brass rudimentary breaking beauty revolt
against the captivating capitalism of the brought and sold
soul that sustains the beautiful beast as seen by some of
the money makers minding the store mining the veins for
coal or gold or gas or oil where are the poets mining the
musical tones of the language with its tune turn motion
where are the artists mining the delight of the flesh of the
eye with its circulating wonders looking inward and
outward seeking the easy essence of the sacrificial bric-
a-brac blacken by the dark waters of the swamp that sits
in the mind telling time as told by the nostalgia of a flock
of black birds blackening the moving skies caught
between their wings of the final strength of a wreckage of
the current season dangling from your skin that contain
the bold blood bubbling its femoral federal way through
the vegans veins most beautiful by the wordless song that 332  
it sing song of pumping motion heard in the ear cradle on
a pillow a gushing motion singing halleluiah down the
blood covered halls of the bated breath the breath of the
dying nearly done with the usefulness of life with the
rarefied throb kept secret till war bloom into the body of
youth blood is not meant to be seen by daylight not meant
for the cold vocation committing sacrificial suicide
suckling at the breast of the beast of depression of birds
where the miracle drugs most beautiful leap upon the
inner body like seeds wind driven planting themselves in
the stones filled locality of smoke and mirrors

Go to where the authoritative voices of Gods spoke to the

willing those willing to be possessed and loose their
sanity and what is left of the elohim fading away from the
mind of man is the savage food of a singing in the dreams
of idleness with the ideal of an unique uniplanar and
uniramous ideology that I indigested without resentment
without the universal hunger intimate in the vigorous
wounds of an uncertain instant attack that have escaped
the virile hour irresistible to the immense blemishes of a
drunken grape’s suicide when the earlier argument of our
divergent trajectories raise from the brooding flooding
moods that confuse our confection of speaking in tongues
when the first Gods was poets speaking from the divine
side of their meandering minds of these poets of the Gods
with their initial spark the avant-garde charting by the
light of their bicameral visions focus to a fault flushed in
their wandering into the unknown without a doubt caught
in stride with the angels and demons that walk beside
them bearing away the poet’s offenses offering up their
offering as a blessing from the Goddess with their marked
mercies mapping the broken weapon’s initiative vacuum
left by the retreating Gods who have gone into the new
heaven of Anu the celestialized Gods suitable to be held
in the hands are not longer curious of the altar-face made 333  
by man who do not believe that the Gods are dead but
asleep in the poet’s heart and head caught in the pure
landscape of the metaphorical soldiers marching off to
the weight of warrantable wars of nerves waging the
immediate enticing secrets of simplicities a poet is a poet
is a poet is a poet redeeming and recreating his society
with his suffering his pondering the immense liberties of
the long lost legitimacies of the laborious living found in
the mouths of the Gods that vs. the state that will have the
poets to fear the pride of his ego the social order makes of
them freaks to be caged by the irons bars of normality
marginalized till agonized with resentment for the thing
he love for the most beautiful discovery of a poem born
from the art of suffering to be one with the world a world
that despite and despises his self willfulness his willing to
wage a war with pomp pen in hand his mindfulness for
setting free the souls of men who are caught with their
thirst for a hero God to set them free from the tragic
violence of a lost authority the man-side motion with a
fire in the bone will leave to a dissonance breakdown in
the proof of a valid voice vivid in its vocalized
vituperative in its rhythm that ride the right the strict
hierarchy of society that ride the rules of the common
upbringing of it citizens ride the co-operation and
jealousy of justice ride the authoritative notion of fairness
consuming the dark skin individual behind the blind-fold
righteousness of justice is all blackness but she is not fair
or indifferent she rather prosecute the poor to the farer
extent of the law her blind-fold is made of money her
scale can be brought and sold weighted down by the
richness that can paid to swallow justice to consume it
abuse it buy it from under the fortuneless bear breasted
Lustitia is cold stone to the touch her sword is dull from
cutting the green-back bucks justice O lady justice why
is your flesh made of the juice of ice why do you not cry
out to be heard in the wilderness of reprehensible 334  
excesses of the capitalistic noise with its implications and
assumptions of the greater good for the few remove the
rag from your eyes and see the innocence murderers of
poverty they are most divine with their concern for the
poor locked in a fat society that throw its weight against
the maiden forest growing free against the
disappointment of a cut it down labor each tree cut down
is a stealing of the breath of earth and we shall pay O how
we shall pay for we can not transcend our wasteful ways
such is the price of our the indulgence of our soaring
intelligent man is not complicated save for the brain that
we know not what it is capable of in its full mindful
measure in the secret thoughts forever secret sought out
in a knotty circle season that dress some drums that must
come to guessing at the power to go about blessing the
forms of men’s storms warm on the bastardized tongue
wrenched and wrung wanting it warned like a song sung
that must not be left in the dust beside the fame of
burning flames with their skills stilled by the unkind
winds seeking to blow away the knocking carved shock
in a whirlwind of cursed snow brave by the thaw against
the lightship
Stones the smart bone of snow the truth heart of snow
alone the youthful smart of snow that knows its own in
the wasteland of the linkage language of hands the
luggage locked and leading its longing for understanding
the divine howling brawling immerging hemorrhaging
earth bespoken as a token Negro carrying the burden of
his race in the white washed willingness of place he is
worth his weight of tear-flakes of torn-waits of tooth-hurt
digging in the last worst of the dead dirt when earth died
the angles will cry metal tears of fears left along with no
more men to condemn

Go away my dear dear friend pass the poet’s last poem

spoken in the eye of a storm raging in a tea cup full of 335  
forgetfulness where the water’s scars is evidence of the
force formed in the wind the rain inflict its conflagration
its interdictions command of falling it find the
omnipotent grave stones of ancestors on the manicured
lawn of the dead where the holy yes of a word is spoken
to the divine inspiration of the mind where the jealousy of
the Gods is written in the divine speech personality of
poetry now confound by the laurel crown broken and
dried and a token of defeat in the heat of the self
hypnosis’ vigorous conviction of a peculiar sensation felt
in the hysterical illnesses of writing poetry under the
cognitive imperative of a belief system of history with its
selective posturing of the here to gone before the rarest
store that bore the fame of names that did their thing
under the time told life of a miss-placed piety paying its
debouch dubious debt to the yet to be born which shall
come and write their time in the rhymes of a new day
always the same always diligently different in its didactic
disclosure of the discord notes heard beside the harmony
of life all is not right all that poets surveyed in both day
and night all under the sun that is done all under the
dreams filled night all beyond the poet sorcerer’s wordy
wand the wordsmith’s rhymes doing time for the Gods
how odd that they have fallen from such high a grace of
place scattered about they have lost their order in the
great stream of things that flows in our daily lives they
have seemly gone the way of the dead Gods now locked
behind glass in the mausoleum museum of the heart they
no longer forecast the flooding of the Nile all the while
the great science have reduced them to the like of a child
full of the wonder of things still they bring forth their
poems armed to do battle of grace and sorry love and
hate poem torn from the headline of our most secrete
notion of being human the man-child that despise the
cries of an offence eye let their intent be spent on the
heritage age at the shore of your wilderness no less the 336  
worst for wear they maintain their hunger as the rain
repair the air and bones shell turn to stones they go on
their wandering way through emotions of the holy and
unholy not solely soul do they look the rocky rook lost in
burly books shook to let loose poems to form and fall
onto the telling tongue these brothers of another mother
their poems like cold slow falling snow that blows
unfolding before your eyes before the threshold of your
truth of age and youth their skill uncouth clothe caught
beneath the forgiven heaven strutting away on the clay of
earth beneath the winter wings of birds that sing where is
heard the words out of date with grace in the late state
fresh and renewed of being you in the everyday bones
that you carry pass the divine speech of the omens
clumsy and primitive and passive in their pleading when
the poet was a young man in his adolescent confusion
was alive and angry with the world he sought to
overthrow now time and society have tamed his moral
blindness into a more conventional life one that offers
him brotherhood for his rebellious pen he is deem to old
to contend with what once boiled him instead he is
comfortable in a world of things where his impressive
sensitivity toward the heavy-handed workings of his
society is wrapped in complacency but still there are a
few brave souls that now that they are old battle the good
fight of what their poetic sensitivity sees is right of the
working of man’s self expression despite the persecution
of their age won wisdom their defiance of the intellectual
stern rules of the world their insistence that man is an
animal who from time to time must live as such one with
the nature of his fleeing flesh one settled into his
substantial soul one that knows that the government seeks
to control and mock the ability of man to understand the
fickle and fatal world that from time to time the poet’s
fustigation fully fill and fine tune the mind of the young
to rebel against the government’s thought to resell us on 337  
going with the flow that flood out the poor and
disenfranchised while buying a boat for the financier to
float unaffected by the misery of flooded homes life goes
on even when it is made a swamp full of the stink and rot
that living make the take of tenderness and tough the light
and the dark those who feed and are fed upon one and the
same in the living game when one have died weather
suicide or crucified when one gives up on the quietly
mythical quality of memory when one give up the ghost
in the machine of the mind the consciousness of what it
means when one have gone down the rabbet rabbit hole
for the last time when the breath is made as cold as the
Milky Way winds that blows I hope you find the heaven
of your horror is just an imagined thing that rings its
wounded wonder wild and weighty down the worry way

Go pass the unmovable eye of God shining and sharing

its fidgeting music to the right hemisphere of the
unknowable working of the brain keeping its secrets tight
in the lobe of its own knowing elusive as fading dreams
the scent of what once was known and seen in the
movable motion of a dream is the music of a rumbling
cargo in the belly of an angel whose inquisitive hands
dance a triangular dance to the rhythm of a chain-gang’s
embrace remorse by the vibration cracking its musical
delight full of madness mounded on the incandescence
corruptible mind of the meat of the brain pathetic in its
two-sided stagnation its syncopated firing of meaning in
the cultivated mine of words that sing a ring around the
thought of a song sing with me the motion of earth its dirt
motionless and mute playing in its giving worth the sweat
of a growth sing the oak that smoke in the forest fire of a
familiar feeling sing the hidden scream of children sing
the hearing deafening of a stricken resentment caught in
the suspension of tendencies drive sing the irresistible
distance in the darkness that give thoughts forever born in 338  
the make-ready its inheritance in my mind the sun shines
its articulate light unattainable by the bewitching eye of
an unknown laughter as frail as darkness straining its
cover clear through to the light of stars sing of the love
from above the ride down the mountain-side the bread of
life of which it is said thank you Jesus sing the light blue
day grayed by fog the color crew of flowers that grew in
the street light’s glow sing the found still chill sound that
flew through a morning dove’s coo sing away the new
day’s bringing sing the music that is heard in the idleness
of the moment viewing a comet’s cruse across the dark
mystery of a midnight sky sing the drunken chicken of a
family’s holiday sing the syncopated rhyme of a love
divine sing the whorled ear that hears the lovely-dumb
eloquent of by-gone years sing the remark dark crust of
lust fueled by wine in the divine sacrament of the blood
of Christ sing your clear felt fears foundering the edge of
your emotional years sing the hard preferred copse of a
baby bird dead in the spring of its life on the convenient
concerto concrete all life is reason enough to sing with all
your might to spend the pride that we set aside when our
prayers raise to the skies and we get no replies before we
die its as if the Gods have gone tongue tied deft in an age
of glorious science their voices rest without regret in the
best memory that we contest when the God’s answers to
specific questions is like picking through the yes and no
of men’s historical plots inscribed with the wild trance of
poetic ecstasy frenzied up into a fiery fury that burns the
artist’s endeavors to return and celebrate the sterility of
his necessity to be one with the exile effort of his self-
centered self-observation self-incriminating sensitive
sensibility sing with the poets their sonic songs of the
words of the sententious streets sing the sequential sing-
along sinfulness of a simulated dubious intelligentsia that
simultaneously rebel against the inscrutable profound
guilds guilt of modem man who can not untangle his 339  
emotion from his pride one is one and the same in the
living game in the last disgruntled request of a prayer
asking the silence of the dead Gods to recognize the
kingship of what is left of the divinity of mankind with
his fragmented musings of meeting himself along the
dark and rocky road of self knowledge with the
disobedience necessary to break through the boundaries
of structural sterility of a convention life tied to the
machines of progress that sing in our sleep its
mechanical scornful song long to the lonely poet exile
while seeking to belong beyond the brotherhood found in
a Saturday night brothel where religious symbolism is
forbidden and the customers in their costumes of the
work-a-day red light glow know that the price must be
paid in balance and advanced who will put the night light
out who will stain the outright brain with their God-given
truth the poets will woo you coo you and boo you back to
the first black born under the African sun what is to be
made of the Negro’s all-powerful blood the blood of the
Hamites and the Cushites the Bakuba blood of the
ancestral approbation blood of the wild dance and mystic
speech the mismanaged blood of Americus’ black youth
with their wounded strength keeping them from the
splendid needs that the black race needs O my youth go
freely into the wilderness of the moon’s stigmata but do
not let it tortured you body as it ignite a fire truly
righteous to be your guild let the torch of your fist be
worthy of your ancestral bones gone to the memories of
your black smoke your indestructible silence is witnessed
by the undisturbed feasting of your elders with the blue
circles of their eyes focused on the curfew hour of your
desires they are majestic but resigned as the gesture of
your howls is maddening and newly wild while your
honest arrogance is all for show where you must ware
your skin color as a shield against the skin-kin that
indiscriminately kills his brothers your muddle muscles 340  
burst victorious on the playing field but be you a
workmen of skills toward the lifting up of the
constellation of your sisters clench your hiccup under the
ultimate vibrating spasm of your essence be you not as
the bragging bandits and call your brother in the blood
nigger the word is of the bitterest poisonous let it die the
death of disuse O dark brothers be not deceived by the
defense of a dead God with a deafness in Its ear O dark
brothers be you not befallen by the false immoderate joy
of money it can not save your soul can not heal you
historic wounds wherefore go ye with your skin color that
you can not hide as a brand upon your soul with the
arteries of your withdrawal of sleep the serene brownness
of your skin can steal you away into complacency into
the victimized neighborhood of the defeated as one of
you I come with open breath to say that our ancestry
declare you revered sir be you as strong as your bones
prick up your ears to their song and sing alone for the
dark skin of former times did gain a measure in their time

Go to the divine auditory hallucination of the prophetic

trance of poetry singing alleluia to the nocturnal prey of a
heart aching to be included in the cannibalistic landscape
of a lost body fighting off the unclenching fist of
common words strummed and stranded on the tongue that
speak the machine language of progress that clings to the
perfume of words whispering the torment of the rhythmic
cut that sliced open and scar the locomotive force of
meaning mindful of its triumphant unconfesssed shadows
that falls in the innocent forest of words wanting to take
you in their warm meticulous embrace with haste that can
not wait the second coming of the earth that has birth us
all and it call us to a higher order to do the best we can as
man limited by the clothe of our skin enter into the 341  
yearning of a year’s worth of wanting let all your
imagining be not for naught let all your Gods be not
forgot let your mercy not rot let your body’s clock tick its
tock to the honest heart beat of the ponderous wondrous
working of the world where poetry is a reliable witness to
the unconscious misfortune of the possessed harvest of
non-evasive words that tremble a little before they
ensnare the breath with a solemn draw by the southern
nobby Nubian in americium Americus bombarding the
artificially radioactive notion that he is worth only the
multitudinous mono-mythical color of his skin and all
that that means in the nearly bylined blind segregated
motion that seeks to defeat the visionary insecure nature
of the divine self with its tender affirmations fighting the
wounded self-destructive drive for the all mighty dollar
of the triangle eye the tip of the pyramids have witnessed
throughout the years to the doing of man in their shadows
doing as animals are apt to do nothing more nothing less
with his shoulders to the wheel of time and his right eye
on the night his left eye questioning why his breath a
beaconing light that tide its way across the gulf’s side of
the over-flooded wharf calling the land ever name in the
book clenching the constellation beneath the skin of the
hands screaming nigger to the horny matter of finger nails
nailed to the billboard selling the word nigger to the
burning tongue bleeding the last ultimate labyrinth of
laughter lasting long little by little like the man with a
sign on his back that says hang me I am black when night
is ripping under the summer of incredulous liberties of
thunder rolling Jesuit Jesus juice down the face of a
wooden cross of lost souls littering the sprung spun
whole cloth of the church’s bank account awakening the
blond God of money that sleep in the non-ritualistic
nocturnal sandalwood burning in the censor of the
modem age of the jungles of concrete glass metal
triumphant scented with free flowing enterprise of 342  
eighteen rabbits the flame eyebrow over the sky dragon
buoyed buried under the rain of the sun’s blood running
like a river down the steps of the temple with its un-
confessed eye like the needed sun that comb the highest
hind-half hair of trees when the plutonic phosphorescent
wind scar the sky you can see forever pass the full-grown
shadows skillful in following you into the secret darkness
where they merge and grow to fill the distance caught
between the earth and the moon stand on your own
shadow at high noon soon it shall follow you to the
condemned clarity nearly content upon the flamboyant
and proud guillotine made of hurricanes in the twilight of
flashbulb murmuring memories where butterflies
trembling under the suffering surprised secret strangle but
still soft solemnly working memories radioactively
regurgitating the clumsy fluid of foliage in a forage of a
dead age in the naming center of the painless brain that
will help you to lose yourself in my smell when words
entering in the back door of the brain find themselves
moving at the speed of a jet plane’s insight its familiarity
with the air about it the adulterous air the possessed air of
a rare profusion season of desperate sisterhood thy
favorite daughters with their fundament feminine motion
hung on the rolling hills of their tear drop breast the birth
of a girl from lady to woman to the Godless moon
Goddess weighting the worth of a man made war against
himself against the whole of woman kind that dine on the
emotional weather of giving birth to the whole wilderness
of the world where the man made jealousies manifesting
itself in a manliness mantra stalling of a tear the mercies
filled breath of the world feels like a woman like the
loveable lovescape of a woman like the wild water
feeling like a woman water running west of Wales like a
tree a woman at rest like the thickly quickly forest wild-
worst at best like the moon woken would martyred the
master world wide of waste wood flowing in water O 343  
woman headship head of the household bold by the bitter
light bulb’s glow O woman wind weaving your woven
way across the skin kiss me if you miss me I am your
manly kin half the world within the body of the whole I
am the poet champion of thy daughters and sons when the
breath of their death goes combating the comfort of the
heaven given measure of putting the cart before the
horses of ease with its dead head done by the right night
by the why of the blast past outright running the night
into the dust when the tides fill all sides behind the
universal mind of nature the high priestess that run her
sun all night long somewhere upon the earth spinning
within its memory of motion nature the mother of a
million children born into the slow dying of life you are
all my longing my last maiden my extraordinary long-
haired lady of trees in the skin explosives with your songs
on the lips of mountains where the Stellar Jays call your
name from an Aspen all golden trembling in the north
wind of an early Fall’s theoretical articulations its regime
of meaning meaning no more then what you can
comprehend from your sight your hearing your smelling
your touching and tasting the leaves of the blue green
Blue Spruce and Ponderosa Pine where you go in the
wilderness your capitalist ideology goes with you you
carry it in the heart of the your American heart you
nourish it in your American heart let it not seep into your
humble human soul at the mercy of the science of Gods

Go to where the aoidoi have given way to the rhapsodes

tapping out the beat of the heart by the now lost angels of
the church of katokoche your hands shall be full of the
righteous prayers when the majordomo ring the bell of
the tomb where the house master keep his obtuse
consciousness safe from the boomerang of the beautiful
muses that go dancing to the music of an ancient worn-
out complexity of a lexical field where grows the 344  
prominent language of the here to now forgotten heritage
with its age stillborn on the captive tongue where the
music of a beautiful circumcised laughter long in the
limps of a swallowed silence that keep your belly warm
with its wishfulness of wanting to be felt by the now lost
cost of doing business with the Gods wear your hair of
woes as they come be one with the divine seeker of the
long traditional language of the rishi prophesizing the
divine knowledge of a breakdown the broken spirit shall
be heal by poetry shall be lifted up into the body of its
home with a song sung long on the breath it can do you
no wrong the sounds that the poets make break into the
rhythm of your blood and is fit for digestion by the mind
in a time of the silent of the Gods we have poets to tend
to our soulful needs give the priests but half your
measures they along can not save though the opium is
strong poetry remain the other half of the way one that
concern itself with your spirit the other with your soul
one is of the heaven the other of the earth by the flesh of
birth the ethereal and the physical both contain in the
whole the triad trinity body spirit and soul that knows the
wants of the physical that knows the wants of the spiritual
it seek to keep both in equal hold out of the body’s house
endlessly walking out of the waken motion of movement
Whitman’s journey to find the symmetry of a flower is
not forgotten in the democratic notion of the present the
delicious flamboyant present finally free from the reach
of the pulling future and the drag of the past one can
never anchor the present soon as it is notice it is gone
gone in the time it take of telling like the flow of the
corrosive Mississippi eating away at its banks the spring
flooding flow fills the low lands and we are caught in the
water of present time sweeping us forever forward with a
mouth full of motion we go through the ever present
present with its thousand heads thousand eyes of what has
been and what will be it is the ruler of the whole word it 345  
is the self of all things the first free from majestic grief
desireless time is the sacred offering told by the rhythm
of the sun the adorable movement of the moon concealed
custodian of the universe that dwell in the omniscient
entangled mist of chaos that comes from the order of the
Gods with their irreducible music worn on the grinning
wheel of our self-doubt the Gods have chipped their tooth
on the consciousness of man who stand before them
nakedly bear afraid to be seem without their clothing that
protect their self-worth their display that they may just be
as wild and uncivilized as all the other life around them
go and smear your faces with the ashes of the primordial
fire the volcano’s tongue liquid land long to burn you into
one the consuming skeleton that finger the awakening
surviving disaster of a fatal quest for the knowledge of
the self for the man-made art of mockery for the chthonic
surmounting obstacles that beseech us wait for you to
loose your way in life to think of yourself both day and
night to dream the dreams of fatal insight that man is the
Devil the embodiment of the demonic the self-obsessed
self that war for petty causes with his madness of sanity
and vanity he have a cold-cocked talent for it an all-
embracing humanistic vision to control the new and the
old the expressive voice of his soul preach in a richer
tone the animal nature of his voice with its darkest vision
that the arresting artist create within his romantic solitary
self they have committed themselves to the humanity of
the disinherited poor that wear a chain of gold shackle
and cold clothed in the name brand of the bold
commercialism that hold them in tow by the billfold and
the threefold trinity that patrol and console the threshold
rolled to the front steps of the church where you can leave
your sins at the door and pretend that all is well by man
the torn true divinity lays within the art of the heart the
God of the church is the God of the head widespread and
dead the God of the heart is nature homebred from the 346  
witness of one living in the skin

Go my wayward son giving brittle birth to the

rumbustious right hands of Gods in their trustabillity
tractability treatability that lone once again to hear the
music of the poetic voices that once set them falling free
to sing out of their hearts about human and divine things
the glissandos of speech its scabrous salvation its self-
contentment its pitch and its tone once it is heard it is
gone once gone it linger not long in the shadowy meaning
of its song O go my wayward son to the place where you
once belong to the camouflage of the skin you my darker
men my brothers in arms look toward the warmth of your
sisters that wait upon the soon full moon her messenger
you are the sun the gold she the moon silver both to make
a whole and birth the willing born God of the corn the
light well bright miracle that once swarm to the warm
arms of a waiting mother you my brothers are charged
with the upkeep of the young you are the sons of an
ancient race long have you dwell on this face long your
years to come be one with mother earth she have given
you your color like no-other you are not mark no
vagabond upon the earth that yield its fruits to the
working of your hands thou shall not kill thy brother but
witness to his high-minded sorrows be mindful of the
matter that we are our brother’s keepers I to you and you
to me within the isolated orgy of brotherhood that we
seek this is the beautiful busting truth live pass your woes
the cassation of your knowing of the imperishable
knower you are what you perceive yourself to be in the
extraordinary singularly self of one with your God made
flesh attentive to nature that let life run root riot on the
powerful frantic musical landscape of humanity life is
always flamingly serious always humble burning itself
into a delicious birth of an open chest with its crest of 347  
crossed bones and wealth it welcome all to fend for
themselves it dare to storm the worthy world with a
teeming thrill high in the heaven of the dirt of flesh and
blood dancing with no shoes together with the wondrous
seven heaven full of the living thrills and the past time
left behind by the treasure of pleasure for itself the
grandeur of life fight to excite the blood to do as the flesh
was born to do it ooze the toil of soil that is never spent
bent by the freshness of the newly born dreaming their
new life alive the birds in their nests the bees in their
hives the worms in the faithful earth the mosquitoes full
of my blood the moths flying about the back yard night
light the wild rabbits digging holes in the shade of the
front yard the child that babble a book of poems the
sperm swimming toward an egg all things life find
worthy to take their space in the great soup cooked under
the sun life runs in the vanity of your veins it waits to be
undone by time a fate none can escape the sentimental
breath lush to thrush itself to fling and wring to sing your
life life is a brush toward death it is all about the servable
survivor that carry on the successful genes that have
master the riggers of itself like the on rush of a most
beautiful Spring blooming young leaves out of an old tree
the juice of Spring is everywhere to be seen from the look
of low things to the highest of being on the wing the
echoing beauty of weeds with their persistent persistency
their richness racing to sweeten the earth of life the earth
wanting no more then what it gives earth worthy of
winning over man who think that he is superior that he is
made in the image of a silence God that need man to
speak for him when the holy image is all about it is nature
herself that did bloom this egotistical creator of the
invented heaven as if earth is not enough to hold the
living soul this creature that feel threaten by his own
death the wind with its skin of moisture man that feel that
nature is at his beacon call to use as he wish to the 348  
decrement of all this greedy creature that consume more
then his rightful share this creator of a jealous God well
we know that nature is selfish and rightly so for she have
many creatures within the skin of her valorous
voluptuous body and the poets sing her exfoliating praise
there where the bright light of the air is quite rare at night
O lord lady I stroke the heart of an Oak in St. Louis town
down by the Mississippi rolling its brown back bone
alone its bank of Cottonwoods and Walnut that grows by
nature’s will beside the river’s swill its winter waves
saved by a frantic choke of ice the Mississippi watery
ribbon is woven through the land to dump itself into the
gulf of the crescent city the big easy where the
Mississippi flows like liquid jazz be bopping broad
siding the city bent around it river most beautiful
everything about you is sweeping inspiring and I dip my
hand into you as a prayer made of flesh and I am blessed
by the your watery song lapping at the solemn memory of
limestone buff now gone to homes this river runs like a
serpent of divided thoughts tamed by dams and locks
chopped into pieces to prove that man can not leave well
enough alone

Go to where the milk of human kindness is spilled on the

field of war where birds nurse their young and ants cross
the body of the fallen war of displacement war of
obtrusion war of land where blood-oil flow war of brutal
rutting war of undulating muscles fit for fighting in the
profoundly nameless magic of a pumping heart war of
young against the war of the old war of the intoxicated
birds drunk on the grapes fermenting on the vine of a
magical space that have witness the invention of the
wheel when the stone was rolled away from the tomb of
an agglutinated incursion into the minute that have lost its
future in the hissing and haste legendary moment spent
by the open arms of the sun war of the needs of seeds war 349  
of the notecase full of the race card war of the fists that
exists to do battle war of the flower caught in the hour of
the stormy superstition suppuration war strengthless
weightless senseless war that is
Always young among the young that goes near here is the
penmanship of war here the fight against the taking of a
life the murderous nature of war wrap itself around a
borrowed sorrow oppressed by the unrest that will praise
thee spot not the will climb not the warring hill the past
last of our war shall die out when the supply of youths are
gone are done the slaughter of our sons and daughters
must cease not increase the birth of peace found in the
ground of men’s eyes focus on the bomb filled skies you
must say all life is mine thus divine and still the last past
blow of a second ago though our name be not the same
know that as a rose in time drops its petal as the trees be
of one breath with the air as the then men of the now how
place their grace above the longing lasting love and the
ghostly pain of disdain as the earth worm secretly wild in
the earth as the fresh flesh flush with the breath of life as
the lighting rod of God confessing to the night as the
stress that trod the height as the host that boast of grace in
the place of the pulpit and pews as the hands set asunder
in the splendor wonder of thunder’s erotic rioted roar as
this bless felt dealt to deliver the spring melt river that
miss the shore I say to you all is not lost as the moon
paint a face in the river as the sun is son of another as the
sweat that rain hard down the face its salty flood drip a
running pace under the heated breath of the sun and none
comes to sheathe the warmth of the worst that burst sweet
first storm of the tongue where men’s form is wrung out
to dry on the antiquated cloth line of doing time in the
wind driven air of a busy spring that sing in the still skill
of growth all is not lost some flame their fair faint fame
in the same dutiful dusty air of an old bleeding blessing
delivered to the flowers with their wanting blasphemy 350  
beauty drowned in a sea of warm and cool colors that
sweep their keep behind our eyes flowers can be unkind
dark as a rock that knock its ride in a land slide the
serrated seriated secret knowledge of flowers is kept in
their color in the sweet omnipotent odor of their hours
longing to entice their bereft life that soon die away to the
fruit or seed head of new birth the flower under foot still
smell as sweet their bruised brazed strength is radishes by
bees buzzing the bountiful bloom bleeding and blistered
blind and bloated with sweet odor of the kickshaw kind
of kinfolk kissing the narcissism of a narcotic nascent
knocking neural nerve words that need the strength of a
seed broken beside the staggering stagnant water never
absent of life the stagnant balance of breath’s unbending
dreams mutilated by the contour of a scream that would if
it could sing the fugitive violent insolent splatter of the
spasmodic thought blown into the antique visible rhythms
enchanted by the free giving breath of trees an ancient
thing hail to all that breathe your breath is a blesses thing
tied to the trees the glamorous give and talented take of
nature forever inventing herself anew in the growth of a
blade of grass in the urgency of falling rain in the
immortal eye of the sun in the dead skin of the moon in
the moving shadow of a tomb where the birds rest at noon
in the wind tired from its blowing in the whale’s belly full
of plankton and squids in the forbidden fornication of
man to man love in the season of the sea in the common
command anger of the Gods flank by the volcanic
apparition of the surreal in the anarchistic disaster of a
hurricane extinguished by the catastrophe aesthetics
alphabet of stones thrown by the throat into the muscular
music heard by transcribing ears that hears the passive
receptive music playing its lubricating activity strung
along the cloth line of a sunny yet windy day

351  
Go pass the Biled As Sudan that have lost its forest and
lakes each tree plucked by the hands of the Cushite God
each lake drunk by the thirty throat of an Nubian God till
all that was left was the burning sand God that have
forgotten it own numbing name under the burning hired
hands of the sun God that look down upon the working of
man and care not that all our doing is inferior in the great
scope of things being things on earth God of the ever
lasting blessing of the sun God of the trees that know thee
God of the seas that throw thee Gods of the springing
forward of the self-flattery spring the simmering slumber
of the sweating summer the falling back raining leaves of
fall and white land locked wonder of winter where the
Gods goes rejoicing in the horizon’s triumphant shouts of
joy the divine offering of the friends festivals of the Gods
the coming forth into the inundated land of God coming
forth from thy mother belly as a beatified being of Gods
God of the regularity of the underworld where the dead
with their right and truth that judge the entering into the
waggishness of our weakness and the going out of our
stridency of our strength burning in the lake of double
fire where the serpent of mankind swallow its tail to tell
that the circle of life has no end birth and death do not
suffer the pains of the Gods that rule from the throne of
double beauty lean and long they keel the wheel to endure
the cares of man that drown them wash them away from
the bones of a smart heart left along when the truth of
youth brawling in the streets of a storm’s weathering the
face of a place in the peace of the heart where in the
corner there is a land traveled by the island of flame that
burns open a distinguished passage established by the
way of souls in our lives we know only all that we know
the life long knolled knowledge fettered to our soul in the
single-sighted vigorousness of language of a infant in the
forgotten speech of tomorrow telling its sudden nostalgic
memory found in the blonde pawn shop where the second 352  
coming waits upon the gravedigger to deliver the
enlargement of their absent worm-eaten premeditations
under the distance of the sun is to be found the
complacencies of a convulsive monsoon of a triangle
tenderness of prostitution accepting the coins of silence
as payment for service given he disrobe with all the
fragile beauty of the architect of an organic orchestration
of an orchid he disrobe and violent silence flows from the
sensitive intimacy of the blazing motion of his hands for
the price paid he is a giving man his sensitive breast
harnessed the air where the blood of the sunset rusting to
the sea is stalled by the imprint of a river running alone
side the self doubt of a virginal sleep that weep the
catastrophic sabotage of the judgment of the wind the
stone of his heart is alive with the bark of his legs and the
moon of his eyes the river of his tongue the roots of his
veins the blossom of his spermatic plexus the seeds of his
sperms woo him again and again and again for a good
time call 555-5555 he is alive within his promontory
rolling into the strangler sea muzzled by its needs to be
free in the hundred years of contemplating the weight of
its bouncy when he weep cup your hands shut to contain
the wreckage of his tears drink sea-deep the nakedness
notice of the salty flagrant of the harmonies from his eyes
then shall you spy the wisdom of the immense far away
sky where life unknown knows of its own are we alone
are we the highest life that nature can muster in all the
bounties of existent poets scientists and priests the trinity
must gather together to answer the indicative question of
an emphatic excitement that hints at a pseudo-
philosophical value of the pious modernity of knowing
are we made in the metaphorical image of a rhetorical
idea are we singular in our knowledge of the Gods are we
plural apart of the paradoxical question of what
accomplished life means to be the poet pose these
question to be answered throughout the vivid ages that 353  
shall come to break the authoritative holy structurally
scripture into the pleasure prejudices of an exceptional
critical effort of the fragmented garrulous slippery slop of
myth making

Go you pass the magellanic cloud of a cloudy eye sky

Focused over the phytoplankton life purloined and
shackled in the sea’s season of the castigating
acclamation that reckons my mounding members hidden
by the avenger with his vigorous breath coming forth
from the fainéant figment flam of the ancestors cries of
dilated joy homage to thee my heart homage to thee Gods
of the unconquered water of the wide open sky homage to
thee God of my mother all will not wear you in their heart
homage splendid name consumed and inundated twice by
the charm that sit among the divine chiefs concerning
coming forth by day after death the grey hair care of the
washing air be you brave to save the earth with its heart-
broke bone of howling brawling swirling storms crucified
by the daughter of the water and the fire’s glance that rest
in the quickly thickly breath of the death of the rains
combating the cheering appearing desires hearing its
name echo in the rarefied refrain be one beyond your dug
hugged name of the self-same game played by the odd
God of a hasty heart torn apart by the mind’s faster desire
to be master let your right eye see the why of a hidden
night outright done in by the stain brain of the harvest
heart at ease on the seas these tides on the side of the
motion that outride the ark that glides and abides by the
memory of water in finding its way back to the sea where
the door of haven-heaven is a reward that no priest of the
east can guaranty no western myth maker of the TV
commercial dabbling in the psychoanalytic vulgate of 354  
western civilization of the cityscape of escapism the TV
is the machine in the heart of your house it is the provider
of the new myth makers that seeks to control the purse
strings of your soul know that you shall pay dearly the
physiological gold mined from deep within the
phosphorescent of your momentary meandering soul
know that the domino effect of man made wars shall fall
one after the other when the Gods shall come to stand
side by side and make you decide which way at the
spiritual crossroad of belief that you shall go when the
creations demand of the creators they become no better
then demons dominating the landscape of the waken and
forsaken motion of knowing which God out of the many
that people the mind of men which will curse at their
worse which will praise in a haze of knowing you the best
and let your soul rest in the rarefied smoke that softly
stroke your ego where the ruinous shrine of the mind of
men contain the answers that acts as a key to the gates of
heaven of the one Son who keep company with the pre-
born angels that remember the great war that deplore it
and he who bored it and was sent with thunder down
under the heaven of the victories angels they are
opportunists they feast on the goodness of man in war
they starve and now there is a famine in heaven a famine
of the star-eyed feather winged unfed the angels nest their
heads within the thin sympathizing Godhood of the
motherhood of the blessed mother Mary hail mother full
of grace how does your garden of souls grow was your
son asexual did he have a flamboyant soul bent on
knowing the wish of his God in his desert journeying
alone in faith to find himself and know the way that he
was predetermine to go as in days of old the rebel is
sentenced to death when found out by the rulers of the
society that wish to dismiss them to relegate them to the
adulterous fringes of a rare miracle
355  
Go pass the lost red rain the lost blue the lost yellow the
lost green blood of leaves twisting in the hand of a city
lost wind whining its worry weary way westward through
the casual canyon of budding building whose footprints
takes up all the land from nature’s gloriously growing its
needs to fill up the earnest earth with its own feast of
feasibility farewell to the foothills of bricks and
manifested stones fare ye well far force forebeared and
forefend in the end the land shall win over the desolate
destructive nature of men in the end the embryonic
enharmonic enunciate end the A flat and G sharp shall be
heard in the emergence ear O hear the cries of the wild
wilderness hear and hark to the hempen hard heart
hasting its heroism heresy in being itself the self of an old
mulberry tree that feed the self of a drop of ocean a fish
will breathe the self of the air we need the self of the sun
that bleed its warmth over land and sea see the one God
that you can know one you breath in every day of your
noble life one in which you are apart part of her art deep
within her heart as the birds that dart you can not depart
or restart from her she is the all seeing all knowing
known Nature of the bird’s songs and sub-terminal
worm’s home of the weeping willow weeping its leaves
over-hanging a lazy creek running beside a row of cotton
woods blowing their snow like seeds in a eastward breeze
O my mother nature O my father sun O my brother moon
O my sisters stars bless me as one in your breath one in
your warmth one under your distant light let me be reborn
in the salvation of your arms I as poet plead not to be
undone in my champion of you I know the string of your
strengths kept by a cluster of memories held in the fast
track harvesting itself in the pure winds blended by the
sheer storms ragging in the well arranged city of torn tall
mulberry dropping its free fruits into the bellies of
sparrows feeding on the bragging branches
extraordinarily peasant with its raw bounty worshiped by 356  
the memory of bully birds beating their beaks on the
grayish brown bark covered branches utterly complete in
its unattended growth tossing its spoils to stain the
concrete a deep reddish purple the landscape of the city
is redden by the brick powder blown from houses of St.
Louis hugging the river running its distant river-cut
through the significance exhaust of cars crossing their
way across the Mississippi’s muddy music with its
historical meaning of a lie told by the symbolic plane of
language’s descript structural where poets have killed the
meaning of their poems stabbed them with their breath
shot full of shallow yellow holes of a technique question
invariably quicken illustration on the formational
structured message text gradually drawn out of the poems
written in sweat and blood frantic and full of the
cannibalistic music of a monsoon soon falling humbly
within the delicious vertigo imagined by the arcane force
fill of the free odors of trees with their Fall tinted leaves
falling from the lost green juice of chlorophyll flaming
the imagined total encounter touching ancient cavernous
unstable muzzle of the wind the long hair wind the
beautiful humble vestige better bleat seriousness of the
wanting wind the atmosphere flamboyant water of the
tender touch of the anchor like wave of the wind the holy
incantation of the wind cage quelled felled following wild
wandering wind slender tender growing green ball of all
the wind confounded grounded peace flock and flower
encounter the rock-racked rural river running wind of
weed seeds and rain water of growing grace that sway the
dapper ear iris the yearning mums beneath the Fall
harvest moon the aspens timbering twitching their golden
yellow leaves in the finally free wind wind of crayon
canyon and cannibal coast biting back the foaming sea
wind waves wanting to fill up the needs of the breath
bated and bothersome in the chest of open earth the wind
is always serious playing it musical scale in the rueful 357  
ruffle of trees

Go pass the proxeological knowledge of people being

people on the good and graceful earth in the good vein by
the good fingers feeling in the warm red light of closed
lids facing the warm excusatory excursion of a bourgeois
need boundless by its bloated blue blunder full of the
blood’s blind spot say not that the hot hands of the sun is
a curses thing concern with its own burning away the
gases of the God’s breath say not that the rot of a corpse
is a wasted thing for nature makes no waste of bones and
all is born to be consumed in life and death the meat of
flesh is a sweet thing on the tongue of the living feasting
in the wilderness of the flesh so feed with a gracious heart
feed to a full belly’s satiating satisfaction feed in the
body’s needs to consumed the concurrence
consummation of your concerto grosso heart beat heard
deep within the brow beat per minute gradation graphitic
gravid willing to give birth to the music heard in the
circle of the six movement of your largo dreams where
the adagio semi-quavers quick questionnaire asking you
which way to go to the music hall where your blood plays
its gushing sound self-centered self-rhythmic in the cavity
of the chest the way path tepid and taunting to tell the
talkative teller tell sweeping over the half-light of a
deserted path leading to the wilderness of wretchedness
where some poets are lost with a heavy heart that
illuminate the great fine strip of their filming the tugging
hovering crawling from the found light of the moon like a
lost insect flying around the light of a lit momentary gasp
tugging the ferocious mouth full of the stubborn breaking
of a wild winds dropping stones of time beneath the sun’s
moon shedding its light on the untrodden path that the
poets map to find their way as leaders of the common
good of birds and serpent alike to find their way through
the collapsed intimacies of a rough history that love the 358  
slipstream of a surviving nocturnal disaster dark in its
heart conjuring up the forbidden caught persistence of the
miraculous wisdom of the lost poets surviving the
awakening push toward the common capitalistic
executioner banking on the consuming cannibalistic
guillotine that chop off the free will of phosphorescent
skeletons burning the circle of resentment when the
precise moment is born out of the farewell waving of
hanging hands praying the primordial tongue of a rutting
breath full of new found words whispering into the ears
of poets that man have lost his way alone the possible
display of the shadows of nursing clouds dropping milk
of rocks each drops the size and shape of greyish-white
butterflies each rock like drop refusing to break but
protect the shadow of your future shattering into rare
maternal treasures of narrow liberty found in the belly of
your last moon moving in a puddle of stagnant water
where grows the germs of life seeking to spread into the
body of a line of maternal descent the earth is the poets’
mother he live in her bountiful body he nurse at her many
breasts she will quite them when they cry out to be heard
everything that they can imagine is toward the worship of
her she offer you no deceit she seeks not to defeats but to
lift your praying eyes that you be not boldly blind and see
her for the true thirsty Goddess that she is to teach you
that as long as you go thinking it so that you are the
singular one among the many minded then none can
deceit you to believe it oddly otherwise trust what she
reveal to your inner eye spy on the Gods to tell why their
have left us alone to do our domestic duty the humanistic
way of living our notorious lives where the non physical
mind interacting and being act upon carry a rather
mercurial meaning that can not reject the material
physical body against the yellow stone of worn coins the
blowhole of old faithful the memorable meandering of
the colorful Colorado nature with her ancient eyes see 359  
down the depths of time eyes that writ the beauty of
physical rhyme the harmony divine the elegant of the
poet’s mind

Go pass the evidence of music heard in the mind of the

gilled gifted grig that Gods have not forgotten to call
upon in times of need as a pay back when the grievous
gossip of the angles is sung to the sleeping poets
conscious of the authorization dreams drummed into their
psychological transformation where the lie of their art die
the smart pale hail that forgo the flow of its glow with the
bless stress that reconciled the miles to go for the child
living within their still fulfill will of being one with
words one on the outride water of the ark set sail by the
great flood of an angry God feed up with the wickedness
of man two by two the clean creature came to be saved
from the degage deluge drowning the sins of men does it
follow then that all living men descend from the family of
Noah if so then what more to show that we are brothers
and sisters in his six hundredth year did the rain begin for
forty days and forty night was the world filled with a
watery light did the sea creatures survive the great flood
tsunami set off from the sinking of Atlantis I thank you
for the enterprise of your remembrance the triumphant
instant of a such to see dying of the changeable dawn
condemned by the bombs that sleep their awakening
scaring of the wind I find myself filled with some
knuckles full of pains a reframe of the condemned clarity
of shadows blocking the fine tuned you that knows what
life is for may the memory of the heart be in your hands
where the wind blows cross the skin set to work out the
last longing of your wayward motion come you bold into
the dreams of my heart that looks over you come with all
of your flamboyancies in tack my surprised night waits
your arrival with a laughter that secretly know the soft 360  
insistence and solemn muzzle of the sheathe red of your
batted breath I’m just a Christ looking for an answer a
brother of the mother of the earth an oppressed sorrow
with emotion in the wind a flower that open in the hour of
a ruinous doubting that all will be O K I have been lost in
the sniff of a moment of time held in the steeliest fist of a
guitar’s anger the Congo and bongo beats of my heart
grip the words in my stolen breath and I put a bullet in the
chamber of my virginal slaughter in the name of peace
it’s the strangest thing that I have ever seen a cease
increase that will birth a new seen earth of peace I will be
your chrismal criminal when the skies reflects in my eyes
and your siege of your master that takes you as a prisoner
of the music heard in the wilderness of words O go my
beautiful knocking at the door of my gone to far and let
us slip away when there is nothing more to say say that
the divine is mine the found ground of God passing into
the last name of the self same one son of the tree be white
as the cross-wood of which the cross is made be the
flower that bloom from the blood of your self-doubt and
know that there is nothing new under the arms of the God
that reach for their revolvers to assassinate the day of our
disbelief held in a clinched fist that pound the very proud
guillotine heavily smelling of the soft and clumsy peace
of the heart that put off the waiting of being once like me
if I go into hell I will wait for you to follow the steep
steps of getting down to the knotty nitty gritty of being
burnt to a cinder only to relight in the wisdom of a new
born the poets are spies they ride your emotions when
you fly the last way to go and in your heart know that
they seeks to rest within you and show you the road less
traveled they constipate your secretly held business they
curse the avail evil that man can do but even God’s
children has to die in the small town of their knowing
even the cult of Jesus must be reborn by baptisms of the
murky water of a Mississippi lake such was I against my 361  
young will was I dumped where the cat fishes swarm
when do we take control of the responsibility of our souls
each a journey along a solitary act to find the skin of the
God that we can fit in to be robe enclosed engrossed to
know the salvation of the solitary soul why does some
only seek the Sunday morning glow of the priest’s
religion to know that they are saved from fire and what
indeed is this thing called soul and what indeed does it
knowingly knows the desires of the flesh and how does it
control the spirit that seeks to glow within the trinity of
the two-fold that it hold in tow the poets knows which
way they should go toward the fulfillment of the spiritual
beautiful and the fleshy bold man is three-fold the body
the spirit the soul that which is born to hold the formers
two in unity the spirit is God giver the body of the earth
the soul of them both the governor the whole circle of the
yin yang song sung in the wilderness of the wild
Go pass the primitive poetic ecstasy of the tender
putrefying flesh of an soon the be dead language dying on
the tongue of an astonish atonement that have putted its
trust in poets who break open their mother tongue to
know what it means when the sharp edge of tongue
lashing words cut the skin of the tongue and words of
disuse confused and drunk of their own beauty fall
through the faithfulness of their meaning where is found
the fertilize ground from which they grow words of long
ago golden with grief except their antiquated sleep with
an antipodal grace they wait the wanting of new usage on
the tender tongue of the young each generation bring to
the world of words a new meaning a twist and turn on the
old reliable paper for the crisp paper bills dope for the
giddy good crib for the home of your heart yo bro poets
be pimping in the wilderness of words shorty for children 362  
crunk for drunk the crazy way that words work I am
tanked on the breath of worldly words swallowed and
rebirthed with their many meaning strung on the tip of
my tongue I smoke a blunt by the bay sitting in the
morning sun I wave deep in the smoke of my watery
thoughts swimming in my head of no other here in the
methamphetamine state of Missouri in small countries
and back woods the labs are set to produce the
manufactured high of getting by come fly with me die
with me ride the wisdom of being high in the haze of a
light buzz be it weed or Colt 45 open your mind to the
wonder of your preferred drug make me your poet of the
buzz for I embrace the attentive mind of drugs and make
no bones about it my breath smells of a roach rich and
deep smoked in the midnight hour to inform my dreams I
bear no sane shame I hide not my meaning named it is
said don’t bogart that joint my friend pass it over to me
and I agree when my tears are high on weed when my
mind fly in the high smoke of a deep breath toke when
the warm face of laughter thrust itself forever into the
face of violent and the whole sky torn and loudly tatter
splatter itself into a wounded scream insolent to tare at
the enormous spasmodic triumphant river running
through the regal river of machine anaconda and
sycamore roots permitted to overflow the banks of an
open nightmare henceforth the liquid beauty of destroyed
water rush and ride the solemn nocturnal serpent with his
public apple of indulgent that if eaten will divide the
saints from the sinners the awesome antique passion from
the newly born visible voluminous mutilated middle
contour of the invented notion of love forever cut into the
lingering light of the moon closer then the stars of a
damning dream collapsed by the forgotten words that
answer the forgotten question of the trade winds deep
within the invented time infected by the motion of an
intention to do as the moaning flayed and dismembered 363  
nocturnal triumphant that rule the rotting roost where
pigeons play with the tail wind of their wings where
homing birds are seeking for the lost paradise of a far
away exclusive heaven fit only for the righteous who
believe in the one beloved God of Abraham they shall
meet him there once set free from the holding place of
souls waiting for the second coming of the holy ghost
waiting on pins and needles scented as pines growing on
their own accord up the mountain rocks of the Rocky to
the krummholz stunted alpine timberline

Go pass the slavery of a dictum dithyrambic diamonds

polished by the daring darting death of vigorous villagers
and the black war of black on black war on the finger of
the bullheaded bride that’s the way it goes when war slip
away and pretend to sleep in a photograph for seven years
is it found guilty of unkindly killing but it was only
fighting for its insanity for its murderous monstrous glow
of feeling holy in war life litmus little leak out till
moment memories is all that there is left memories held
in the head of others when the bride see only the
spirituous sparkle and bright brilliant of facets without a
history without a struggler without sweat and bold blood
in the darken deep mine where the spark is found once I
loss my mindful meaning in a dingy way I beforehand
forgot what I was getting at in the saying of something in
the mind of my brain stepping out of the game playing
without aim wondering through a though tide’s side of all
found that fall from the furthermost form of the meaning
of the running rhythm of rhymes once there was the
tumble down tremor on the future as the red flower
subduing the humming bird with its fragile beauty Gods
smells like flowers like damp decomposing leaves like
rain like human musk cupped between the arms some
Gods with dirt between their finger nails are not afraid to
dig in the earth some Gods keep their distance from man 364  
and wait to store their bounties only on the dead the
worshiping is your to choose you have nothing to loose
play it safe the brave have chosen to wait to get by
without a God pity them not nor raise the rod concern
yourself with yourself for yourself know that each alone
must meet and make their peace with their maker one
man’s God is another man’s demon one man’s demon is
another man’s Shiva once encountered both shall burn
away the spirit from the body burn away the desires of
the flesh that can not enter into the haven of heaven can
not be reincarnated the flesh is forever of the earth even
in death the domain of nature she alone have use for the
breathless body she alone can save with breath feed and
fest upon

Go pass the sacrificing of human brotherhood for the

remission of the sins played out in the segregated heart of
a country staggering for a place in the perigee penitent of
a manifest destiny where an elder Lakota Nakota sits with
sweat dropping to the dirt of a reservation where the
White Buffalo Calf Woman calls to him nature for sure
calls to him with the bat’s death and rebirth on a personal
level the horny honesty of the bumblebee the moveable
mobility of the caribou the swept swiftness of the cougar
the followership folly of the coyote the mighty migration
of the crane the personal persistence of the woodpecker
the familial fertility of the tadpole the simplicity
symbolism of the spider the cursive curiosity of the
raccoon the dredging dreaming of the lizard the truly trust
of the ladybug the far seeing foresight of the hawk the
dreamtime illusion of the dragonfly the pride of the
chokeberry eating elk the spiral spirit of a feather the
knotty kindness of the dove the transmittable tranquility
of the lion the assertiveness of the moose the attention to
detail of the mouse all call to him to be one with them I
am that I am one in the soup of life a man set not apart a 365  
drinker from the same earthen bowl the old Mississippi
runs in my mid-life veins for nature provide the sudden
discovery of an elegant element of a disaster against the
low ceiling that the old have to go half my live is gone
and so as all poets should do I keep no secrets from my
poems I am done with the tummy turmoil of the souls I fit
in my skin in this season of knowing all is well when we
understand ourselves understand the irreversibility of
speech understand the legality of poems the infinitude of
language the theatre of the poem is laid bare each poem
mean what you mean in reading it the poem is a
conducting conduit in which you bring yourself to its aid
without you it is just a pregnant thing waiting to give
birth to its meaning slap this child on it bottom that it
takes its first breath in your breath here it cry out in your
heart poems are not innocence of anything they carry
their loaded load to wrap you in the safety of critical
force the poem’s ornament its luxury its blazing leisure
between the unbearable waste of water its nevertheless
music passing into the season of the ear it is a deliverer of
things it sings the irreducible brocading musing of a mind
gone mad and blind to get at the deep emotional longing
sometime clumsily dreaming out loud like the wind
wandering over a river wind without shadow wind
sometime tender as the notion of a slender flower that
knows not its own beauty sometimes roundly rough it
thrust forward with force foundering flowers and brackish
bricks breaking them down to red dust mixing with the
wind of your breath it brush its unseen beauty by the
innocence smile of a black child wild in the maze of the
city in the wind driven dust proud of displacing the dry
earth the smile of the wind can open the heart’s vault of a
liar as it greet a God of wind blissful back blowing
against my black blear my beam a God to glorify all the
while meaning to meet on the early morning deserted
street where the wind greet the sun cup your hands full of 366  
wind as if to pray that it will blow all your troubles away
listen to it shake the leaves of trees as if it is a choir
singing alleluias of please please please see it pushing
trash alone the hunch back of the street as if it is an
animal fleeing from you feel it caress your face as if it is
a long lost lover recently rediscover from the tug of a jazz
scented wind lost in the canyons of the city where the tall
building spit the wind into an updraft fit for eagles to soar
some broken wind whining down low to ruffle the flower
heads of four o clocks blooming in the night the wind
dost appeal to feel the strong long arms of the sun these
knees of trees on their own success the bold hold by roots
conceived the wind strain vein of leaves the heart’s
forsook that look the rung tongue of Fall flame flung
grieving for the wind leaving the older colder wind that
can not lie can not sigh will not answer the question why
so we who guessed to express what is this life that we
have been given to long to know a God who will except
and leave us all our wickedness forgiven forgive the
brown down foam on the ocean of our earth the bound
home frowning on the drowning in the waste that we
make on the earth

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 367  
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 mold 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 368  
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 does 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 369  
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 370  
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 thousand fold 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 371  
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 does 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 372  
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 373  
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
rules the hypnotic man crying stop the pain of the original
sin that explain the curious healing of a terrifying illness 374  
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
 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 375  
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 anthropomorphic 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 376  
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 mulatto
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 377  
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 378  
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 eater 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 379  
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 eptomic
pentomic giving penance with all of its pendulousness
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 380  
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

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 381  
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 elongation
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 382  
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 383  
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 gestations 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 384  
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 385  
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 revolutionary 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 386  
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 387  
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 paper 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 388  
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 rhythmic 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 389  
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 O poet heroic in your resolution you alienated
from the culture that will not accept you look you deep
into the mystery of life with its revolutionary distortions
of an abstract ideology and bureaucratic chains it
ideology of metaphysics inequities urging on the radical
raucous of racial reform unaware of it own undergoings
and doings in the dark conventional region of
conventional religion O poet of the sacrificial communion
save man from his alienation from nature and a sense of
his whole self join you the people’s private morals to
their public society and transform the arguments of
religious belief to solace of serving the greater good
against the corruption of state and church with their
inflexible parasitical ideals of the masses meaning
nothing more then to make their way along the road of
life with a full belly and a roof over their head for man’s
fate is fixed by church and state woven and stitched into
the fabric we make of living in the skin O sometimes
sentimentalist sounding your necessary wares for those
overwhelmed by the brutality of daily labor and the
escapism of the holy solution of the eternal condemnation
O poet of the radical honesty that both church and state
fear for the raw flesh reeks of the persecution of the
masses O poet priest of the new martyrdom of the
persecuted homeland of the heart the hero is again an
exile by the power of the triviality of the godhead 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 390  
shredded grass under 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
391