Angels of Our Misgivings

1
 Down fell I, face to earth

Down fell I, face to earth

And with great rejoicing among the people a deadly griping it was that took
me with cruel torment that tore off my wings and burnt them in the town
square.
A great fire roared up to light the heavens and by that light I saw for the first
time the faces of my enemies.
My enemies have gathered together and they boast of their strength to
overcome me, to bring me lower then the hearts of human that must muck
about on earth.
They would have in the heart of the city my corpse to lie like dung on the
ground for the passer-by to wonder just what was my crime.
While the battles were afoot news came that the speed of my demise was at
hand but I could not let it be so.
I mustered my strength with the wisdom of my muscles behind me and
called for a treaty of alliance at large.
Fain would my confederates and friends enroll in my aid still I took the
upper hand by speed of being a man of constraining power who love for the
battler is legendary for I have fought in the company of uncircumcised
children who cheered for my conquest.
The angels that rebel against me care not to doubt that I have been
successful against the suicidal act that they wish to use to beat me down,
they are powerless to defeat my spirit, my will to live as one in the dark skin
of a man.
I fight them to know my father’s sins, by it am I a guilty man but his sins has
strengthen my resolve to win for man a place in the heart of the natural God
of stone and bark, wind and fire, water and air, such are my cares.
Do not take pity on me nor call me brave as one who battles the angels.
I will bring my enemies low; bring them to nothing, bring them to know me
as I go victorious over the bodies of my foes.
The angels have God on their side but I need no such deity as I have nature
as my aid, she will defeat their flesh and I shall school their spirits with
defeat.

2
 Angels are painting Poems

Angels are painting poems

On the inside of my skull
They are amazing in their artistic creation
With their eternal joys charmingly
Pricking the crevasses of my brain.
Retired in the darkness of my head
They are, thank to me, well read.
They shake the tree trunk of my spine
And rhyme waspish words.
In their half reveal is a soul
That knows to keep me wrap against the cold
That would enfold.
Sufficient, generally bold
And struck with a peculiar smile
They answer to no name, not even their own
Which nobody knows.
Their master is my soul throbbing
Like a wounded half uttered sound
That possesses the talent of the old.
They will rend until the end.
All subside the infrequent word
Painted in gold laced with a warm red
Unraveling the web slumbering in pleasure.
What is the meaning of these poems,
So full of labor toward a satisfied needs
That inspires with strength in the crowded hour
Of a dream filled night that fight to keep its hold
On the unconscious mind struggling toward consciousness.
Down in my accusing heart there is much to do
For the grief that I felt when I was in a younger skin
With smaller bones and the telling beat

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Of a heart that foretold according to
The plenty crowned thrills worth the
Childhood knowing that each day it grows.
When I sleep the angels wake and go about
Their business full of color,
They are my Constance friends, within
And I love them most, love them all
Toward the knowing of a God I breath in day by day.
The vapor of their breath is an intoxicated thing
That drunk the mind and make me dream of wordy things
That rhyme in a time fit for dancing and I let loose
Toward the motion of their wings, I let loose and sing.
I sing till the heaven ring in the sounding of my voice
And the angels beside themselves join in the praising
Till all are drunk in the making and began to write in an ancient language
that even the angels have forgotten to understand.
We become one, angels and man, then we are called poet in the land.

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 Angel’s Tongues

The word was on an angle’s tongue

It loved it long and well
More words was round its neck strung
As if a secret spell.

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 I Question the Spirit of the Angels

Spirits, invisible to mortal eyes

Do you mark our action?
Are you immortal spies?
Can you reward with glory
By the power of the divine?
I’m spitting out spirits to woo
With rhymes.
Spirits, spontaneously sponged
From forms found falling full of
The founded fluxing fluid of the golden
Children caustic with the angel’s breath tinted
And toxic, touched
Spirits, in full form spying is all that you needed to do you to do me
Are you caught in the yoke of the flesh?
Can you defend the angels of our misgivings?
By the holy power pulled and pounced upon by angels who piled
their pale praises by what comes between the me and the I and the
spirit that inherent my flesh, by that power am I nothing made but
by that spirit that sometime mind the make of my muscles.
Spirits, angel spurned, angel spooked, angels taught the language
of the tongue.

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Angel Of My Desiring

I wake to find you raining in your face

Our bedroom have known many storms
The maple outside kisses the window
Your thorns puncture the pillow
Why do you cry when the spirit of drought
Is in the wisdom land?
Black bellies swell, the rivers are dried
And ravens do not feed he who will be the next king.
You ware your love as a child in your belly
Your body is lean as a man in need of his water
In need of bread
I shall gather some sticks to fashion your wings
With oil from my skin will I smooth your prays
My sins remember will I hang in your hair
Go, show yourself in the wisdom land
Strike rain from the God‘s cheeks
The hidden prophets lay in wait beneath
The sand they wake in the sounding of your feet
Your lean body is leasing to the eye
But I have drunken my fill
And time will come to drink again
Go, show yourself in the wisdom land
Where pain holds its counsel
I shall bake you two cakes of mud and grass
To eat and give back to the land

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Between the cradle and the grave

Between the cradle and the grave

You loose yourself on the gentle curve
Of poverty and the mother of crime.
When your life is a criminal act
Waiting to forgive the fondness of your heart
That comes winged with death to give
Then will you be saved by the cruel hunger
With its glorious worth sleeping the happy sleep
Of trumpets of angels soft of flesh and pensive grace pent up against their
wings.
Angels with their hasty power flung away above
The ethereal sky where strong flesh and blood
With its innocent wisdom
Must wait the new death that sheds itself of flesh and
The bitterness that has spoiled the flesh baptized
In the river of forgiveness that nearly drawn you.
When the angels stood on your chest to make sure
That you got the message,
When the grave is the last thing that you have to pay
For you your life lived in the shadow that hides the wickedness you did in a
time of grave needs and youth
Then and only then will the angels free you from the flesh that brands you as
an animal.

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Angels are no longer confident

Angels are no longer confident

That there is a God.
With their excessive goodness
They wait the coming of man
Into the heaven that keep its honor
Tight by the public purse string
And they lip the breath pass adoration.
The angels of idle brains of men,
Of one mother of summer and sun,
The angels playing soldiers of the good war
Fought for the souls of men,
The angels of the old domain
Request that the breast of young Cupid
Wound itself in a show of faith.
They are whispering peace
Forth and foregone by saints
Of friendship under the sun.
I have seen the angels wake
Dead and shameless.
I have seen the domain of their beauty for the cross.
Seen them prolong their hymns of praise
That widened the sky with rage
Against the hypocritical nature of man.
Seen them embrace the ardent perfume of spring
With its sweet suspiration of force
That takes us away.
They are the breeders of all good
That unfurled the frolic that one plays
Its worth with the adorning
And gentle encounter of darkness.
I have seen their breath blossom
In the April breeze and break
The falling tongue’s consent.
I have seen them be soft and gentle,
As lazy rivers rich in their amazing
Brightness, purity and truth to their rushing.

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The angels show their breeding spoiled by the
Affirmation of a doubt with its beauty of revery.
I have seen their love broken by the holy spear.
I have heard them say
‘Let the trial of our bloody
War waged above the pale face of the moon
Be of worth to man.”
I have seen their brave health bedazzled
With a delicate yellow stolen from the sun
That dwells in the paradise dejected by the Gods
Born on a green island unaware that it is time to birth
A new God when the old can no longer save us.

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Angels blow your trumpet loud.

Cupid, dear Cupid

Sling forth your bow, shoot your arrow
To every man that loves a man.
Sling the poet’s heart that can
Summon the enduring love of words.
Strong guard thy pointed spear
Shoot from your lovely hand
That we may account for our love of man.
What is writ in a boy’s age
Will not fit in a man’s skin.
Within the frame that invades
Render current what time efface.
Angels blow your trumpet loud.
An eye for an eye just in place.
And what are angels?
They have no skin or wings.
They do not fly like birds
But glad and can be inhaled.
From the start they do believe
In an eye for an eye
And the promise of hornor.
They can be bruised by the breath.
O Cupid, dear Cupid
Shelter the angels under your wings.
They can be dangerous when they sing
When they swell swept by age.

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 Ode to the Sadness of my Eyes

My eyes do not know

How old they are
My heart still keep time
Like the old Seth Thomas
Or a dripping faucet
My eyes precede my mind
When it is looking for a rhyme
Sad eyes such as mine
Can see an angel out of the corner
Where tears collect
My eyes are as fine as scramble umbrellas
That once was lonely
Because the rain
Ran away with the wind
These sad eyes of mine can not keep their history
They are always only about the now
What I see not what I have seen
Even in sleep they have been known to weep
What the mind keep as it midnight secrets
My sad eyes can be dug out with a copper spoon
And roll down the cobble stone streets
Pass curb side trees and little shops
Just turning on the light
Pass store front churches
Where the jealous pray to a God never seen by day
My sad eyes has seen Gods picking pizza crust
From the dumpster
My sad eyes care that there are eyes
In which to compare that the thing
I see is really there
My sad eyes has been known to be nocturnal
But never solitary they see in pairs over lapping
This with that to make the thing whole
My sad eyes are forever going where I goes
My eyes are never cold, they do not know just how old.

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 Come to poetry to day dream

I’m living my life

As close to the bones
As I can get
I take my dares
With a kind of grace
That will not break
But bend
I twist myself
Mentally
My body is fit to defend
I get high at night
And in daylight too
To understand
What makes things real
I have seen the light
And beheld an angel
Of a man, I am
Poet to my pen
Bold by the ink that I smear here
Tell me your fancies
And I will put them to poems
Tell me of the man that you love
And I will woo him for you with poetry
Out side the thunder calls
The promise of a small rain to fall
For there are holes in the clouds
Where the blue of all blues is seen
Come to poetry to day dream.

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The great seat

The great seat

Is where the great one
Fettered by restrain
That takes possession
Of the shade where
The dead shut out
By darkness coming forth by day.
My two legs was walking
About the earth in search of
The walking forth by break of day
The passing through the perfect eye
And deliver the Gods
That shall not dwell in the
Existence that exist there
When it is found to be false.
Count me among the Gods
Living after the death of the moon Goddess
The moon’s death among multitudes
Of shining ones.
The soul of one mighty by it valor
Vainly I have seen the netherworld
Beneath the skin
I have dispelled the night
To his beloved that has stabbed
Open the heaven of every make of men

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And the prince and the pauper
Returns to himself nightly.
I have passed through
The belly of the horiron.
I gave homage to thee that
Overthrew the war
That rage in the
Beauty of the streets.
Homage that peace
Will be gratified
When the beautiful one
Has overthrown heaven
In homage to a peace
That sit among the coming forth
By day, by peace in a boat
Made of clay by the hearts
Of overthrown enemies
That rest their praises
In the established
Queen of the Gods
She embrace me with a
Double season
And my heart is at peace with my hands
My tongue has tasted the sweat of the Gods
The angels have seen me coming
And ran to wing the host of heaven.
Homage is given to the acacia tree
With its sledge of friends
And the maker of moments
The mighty head of eternity
Is found in the source
Of the maker of the Gods
The season has been gracious
And truly spoken about
As the knowledge of a
Motivated second.

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 My brown body baby

My brown body baby

Is half divine as the angles
That climbs the stairways to heaven

My brown body baby

Is half as gracious
As the angels that look after the Christ

My brown body baby

Is half in love with the
Love of he and I love it

My brown body baby

Is as brave as Cortez
He ware it as his hair

My brown body baby

Is as brown as the brownness
Of Simón Bolivar and
José de san Martin

My brown body baby

Is as brown as el cimarrόn
Hiding out in the wooded hills

My brown body baby

Works the sugar
Plantation of Cuban

My brown body baby

Remember Domingo
Dragged through the streets
Drawn and quartered
And his parts tossed into the Rio de la Plata

My brown body baby

Remember who was called
A bozales, who was a morisco or lobo

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My brown body baby
Suffer the zafa, he tells me
That the tiempo muete
When the fields rest and the angels
Could not feed the slaves with milk and fruits

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 The Lord is a disposer of a leaf falling

The Lord is a disposer of a leaf falling

Into the crack of knowing his name.
The falling leaves is the song he sings
He has punished me with a dark beauty
Of forty-two names
He is the punisher of children
Computing the disposition of their sins.
I have brought to thee
The iniquity of mankind.
I have brought you their wickedness
Done in the place where peace was slain.
There was a time when I wore sin in my hands
And did despise the God of man
Causing misery and affliction to the
Abominable God that caused me harm.
I am the servant of causing pain.
I carried off the offerings meant
For the God when they did commit
Fornication against me
For I did steal an apple from the orchard
Behind the temple to increase my weight
In the balance of the pasture diminished
By the cutting of water in the preserve
Where the Gods piss out their blood, red
As tramped offering of pomegranates for their body.
I have violated the manifestations
Of pure time but I was one with
The purity of making the wind holy.
All the days that passes in the ninth season of coming forth
Can not make me mortal that I may
Do evil to the land that feeds me.
I am an angle; I have the confident of the Gods
But I have betrayed them
For my love of man.

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To create an angle

To create an angle
Press your back against a tree
Let your soul enter the tree
And the soul
Of the tree
Enter into your body
Then an angle he’ll be.

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They say that angels

They say that angels

Are angelic
O, O contraire
An angle can be deceitful
They have not the flesh to care
Angles grant wishes
If you treat them right
Angles brings misfortune
When the time is right
Each of us has a personal angle
We can not know their names
They can grant us crumbles
And sometimes poems
When we treat them right.

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Once upon a time in Denver

Once upon a time I was walking

Home from a long night’s work
Worked up to mid night 30
I passed under the branch of
An stately oak tree
When with out warming
Something started pissing down on me
I dodged here dodged there
But to no avail
When the thing was done
And I had change to open my eyes
I could see there
On the handsome branch
Was an angle
Why did you piss on me!
I commanded to know
Ah, take it as a blessing
Was its reply.

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The primordial water

The primordial water

Of everything lives within me
The frail swamp
And the landscape of broken cities.
I am the inheritance of her
Who grows victorious by the breath of God.
I am the purity of the voice thunderstruck
I am the desperate dawn reborn
By the contours of thirsted communication
Of birds that welcome the dawn as fragile as sex.
I am the irrepressible armor used to shield us
From the boredom as green as the breath.
I grow immortal as the history of the sun.
I conjure the winds of icebergs damp
As clothes on the line of 1953.
I am the vexed violent apple first eaten
By the beauty of the forbidden artesian
Of the garden where the red instant deprived
Of the dialect of the Gods was spoken by the lullaby
Of angels caught in the prehistory of everything mortal
I am that I am the disaster of thrown up
Bewilderment extinguish soiled vegetation
Of the Infant tomorrow.
Water is my weapon
Dead hours are my sons.
I go like a woman carrying a gun to her bathing.
I go preposterous, unbreathable, untelling
Of my complacenencies.
I am as gentle as the lethal virgin
That assassinates the dead without mercy.
I am hunting between life and death where is found
The execution of all things.
I am a pocket full of dreams
And when I dreamt the violence
Of the world came into being.
I am the son of the mouth piece of the Gods.
Against my breast night takes its rest.
Against my sleep the angels weep

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Against my thoughts the unbaptized
Build their empires full of nine hundred years
That can fit into the mouth piece of a telephone.
I am the housekeeper of barren fields
Where waits the descending swelling cardinal points
Embracing the deliriums weeds that has
Not known slavery.
I am your coalescing expectations that conspires
To dance in the overdressed streets.
I have been love-struck by mute indifference.
I have been bloody by the Milky Way when
Life first came to the skull of a God who refused
To speak Its name in the city of big shoulders.
I am older then old, older then the copious laughter
Of being born.
I am the son of everywhere.
I am the departure of coming forth to nowhere.
I bathe in the sluggish water of a lazy eye.
I spy on the rotting God of the pulsing sky.
I am the be all of the sun’s collapse.
I have raped the threshold of all your sins
And yet I can still sing my song to the unknown ears.
Hear me for I will not come against until
The nameless garden is rebuilt.

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Angles

Angles
Bewildered entanglement
Meticulous art of lying down
The penis from it erect height
I am immersed among
The skin of the rainbow
Where at its end is a pot flesh
Of black men’s foreskin full of pink penises.

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The angles came pacing the floor

The angles came pacing the floor

Like Pintos of speed toward
The race that overlapped the finish line
I stool on the platform of my vanishing point
Full of stillness beneath their brilliant
Experiment of a God with blond hair
And narrow features sharp as the bough
Of a fallen tree that none heard fall
In the obedient forest where dark-haired dogs
Supervised the feathery bloom
Of the seasonal moon flashing its stolen light
White as being alone in a play garden where grows
Earnest horns that disappear when you look at them.
I am awake like a real dream stalled in the head
Of my freedom bed where the pillows has
Mastered the art of shattered hour caught
In an orgy of pretend violence that I recognized
For what it is, a pale fantasy hard as
The fenced in sky of heaven.
The angles have been reduced to greed
Swollen with green and a fellowship of pain
To the governed heaven of the birth-hour of their birth.
I love them with a blind faith
And I fit into their sockets obsessed
As the rain is to its intense falling.
I love them all with an edge as sharp as
An understanding of onion skin and the muscles
Stable and polished by heat of sweaty ghosts
Who haunts the oil lamps of a lost hour.
I am beating back the 56 years of my life with
Consciousness of my innocence lean and round
With warm multiplicity in the city where
My hard bones were broken.
I love them all as it they was hot stones
That sharpens the bones of my nakedness.
With them I am never alone, with the pebble of their songs
That guard my soul disclosed and uncomposed
As an outline that blooms in the weight of their waves
Hunting at the second coming that lose

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Itself in their bellies.
I am surprised that the composition

I am surprised that the composition

Of my radiance visit to dream land
Has reached its height of mechanism
Frigging the gospel of composition
That invokes brightness by the structureless
Of the energy of my clarity.
The yakety-yak of my mind’s resistance
To mother the intermingled problem distinguished
By the diversity of undifferentiated squeezed
By shocking the abstract of my circumstance
Is always enjoying the old dirty truth of brightness.
I am untainted by the chocked resistance to be normal
Normality is too much of a mechanism used to
Muddle the separation of my identity that I place
On a pedestal for the world to see that I am a man
Of accommodating compliant.
I am the stripped weed growing from the cliff, the blunt cliff rigid
With rigamortis, the fit rocks of roots of weeds growing
The repository of all things forever advancing
The wildest configuration of lilac’s breath.
I am a wild man who takes a chunk of my baffling
Poetic that has no recognition of the history of poetry
And I play no sloshing attention to the economy of words
I am long winded in my sleep, I am grace
Participating in the aspect of poetry
I dream everything with the everywhere of words.
My attention is inevitable toward the trench of a poem as spell
To woo you, too move you, too set down the spirit you hold.
Uneven angels woo me by their wings
The ragged edge of their wings
The everything of their holy wings, the unattended baffling oncoming
And reassuring wing that they keep hidden from man.
I have drowned my tongue by the lean flesh of angels
Hidden the effortless gravity of walking
With the angels who are splendidly afraid
To make love to man; afraid of falling
To the marvelous earth where they must tend the dirt
Unafraid of the poems that grows as a consequence
Of the angels’ tears that are as plastic as mastication
Of the womb where depression is born by the abundant
Mulberry leaves overlapping the shadow of the
Northwest winds from the breath of angels who hide

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Their nakedness under the hair of their wings, under the
Shadows of their substance which is
The scattering substance of the evidence of their scripture.
My dreams straddle the ravine broken by the sun’s heat
Broken by the brunt poem gone wrong with shock
That God is of no rational mind, no stable mind in the mind of man
No coherent continuous discrete with its sex
Held in my dream head where everything is
Fictional under the eyes, the abstraction of my
Dreams are written by the playwright we all are
The long loop of my dreams pour the
Deep water of liberty, the long brown reach of my dreams
Relax its escape, they flow downward pass the
Curve of tucked under water as blood under the sky
The blue blooded water that dart nimbly
Between the angels that dream man’s life alive.

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 The giver of food

The giver of food

Is the annihilator of darkness
And killer of light the black hole
Guardian concerning
Your soul the angels have eaten
As sure as death is the guardian
Of your fleshy entrails
Those angels are hungry
As sure as churches are
Chambers of the holy order of torture
Houses of devourers.
It is the poet who can protect you
Offer you light lived by the knives
As their pens.
Poets be pure by nature’s judgment
They know the ape of their flesh
They knows the burial place
That purified the soul’s habitation.
They triumphant by their shining mouths
Their words are a moveable feast mindfull
Of the strength of being poet in bone
That shall bend weak in the keens.
The poet has found himself
Spread-eagle before the scattered crows
They have cut their hair in the super market temples
Poets, no more mortal then your meat
Poet, who wed the man of flames
For a taste of the holy phallus
Poets are the doorkeeper, watchers
Of the sacral chore song to conquer
The hallelujah and give Amen his praise.
Poets open the way to the gates of heaven
Where we want for naught among all the wanting
Needed in life.

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I want to suck the cocks of angels.2

I want to suck the cocks of angels

Of course I want their seeds
Planted in me they grow
To poem about what the angels knows
And in the world what the hell
Does all this shit means.
The angels are my main boys
Mindful that I am only human
Still they treat me rough
With their wild abandonment
Of the way that the world works.
Angels have ghostly flesh
Hard to hold on to
A flesh of whiff around
The tameness of my own.
There is something to be said
About rough sex that tie you up
In the feathers of the angels who
Wait to lick the drops of sweat
That drain from your skin.
Men easily let the angels in when
The time is right for sex
Yes the whole damn thing under
The sun is the way of men.
Mindfully mindful of what it takes to teach
The angels a tongue of wisdom taught
Tight places moist and warm thought about
By the sweat of the body

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The giver of food

The giver of food

Is the annihilator of darkness
And killer of light the black hole
Guardian concerning
Your soul the angels have eaten
As sure as death is the guardian
Of your fleshy entrails
Those angels are hungry
As sure as churches are
Chambers of the holy order of torture
Houses of devourers.
It is the poet who can protect you
Offer you light lived by the knives
As their pens.
Poets be pure by nature’s judgment
They know the ape of their flesh
They knows the burial place
That purified the soul’s habitation.
They triumphant by their shining mouths
Their words are a moveable feast mindfull
Of the strength of being poet in bone
That shall bend weak in the knees.
The poet has found himself
Spread-eagle before the scattered crows
They have cut their hair in the super market temples
Poets, no more mortal then your meat
Poet, who wed the man of flames
For a taste of the holy phallus
Poets are the doorkeeper, watchers
Of the sacral chore song to conquer
The hallelujah and give Amen his praise.
Poets open the way to the gates of heaven
Where we want for naught among all the wanting
Needed in life.

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I.

The cultivated love of

Angels will develop strong
Muscles in a man’s throat

II.

Some angels are simpatico

And plebian with their shenanigans.

III.

Angels want you to get to heaven

So listen to the cymbals and maracas
Hear their voices as clear as tambourines
See the formation of their pointing fingers
Practice the movements of their holy dance
Accompany them in the chant
Angels are like little apples on the tree
They drum their wings in sequence
And game the circle of the dance
Angels are double hearted
One heart for God, one for man
Count the familiarity of their holy dance
Pot and spoon their movement with your motion.

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Angels are everywhere

Angels are everywhere

They have no personality
Till human give them the comfort
They can not give to you.
Watch closely how they grove
And use their tools to move
The God that lives in you.

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Defiance order from angel city

Defiance order from angel city

In the suburb section of heaven
Angel’s lips to nose in wind.
He came composing clouds salad
In an earthen bowl
I offered drink from my suicide
Tea pot of pure gold.
The substance wasn’t so deadly
That eyes from a time standing still
Can not look away to smile.

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My first angel

My first angel came down

Unexpectedly and we were lovers
In the worst way.
Saw each others every day
Never spoke or made a prayer for our own salvation..
I strummed him, poemed him, named his
Homed him, a green toothbrush gave,
Reading glasses for his new human face and
Aged him with grace.
I was young enough to keep his pace
And his strange weight upon the tip of my aches.
Who was I to care from whence he came?
When he left I stopped dreaming in color.
So shock I forgot to memory in ink his passing.
I planted a red oak in a white bucket
Last seen growing strong in Denver.

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You are the answer to my last prayer

You are the answer to my pray

That I have kept caught in the cupped palm
Of my hands.
With the wind at your back a sparrow
That live on Wichita St. is singing good-by
To the lost winds that once, just once, caressed you
With its hands of encrusted bitter blood.
It goes whispering in the however and none-the-less
Hollow of your ears.
It is only your memories that I am stealing because
In a dream I told you which way to go and
Reluctancely you went and found the intersecting
Path where the origin of consciousness and the
Hallucination of birds meets.
You are the alpha male in my apartment where you
Used your strength against an unknown voice
Preaching the holy ghost of the now forgotten fight
Of angels that raged on the tip of a pin,
But I can see that you are weightlessly wrong
With your cover of lion’s skin stretched over your
Needs and wants that you keep in the pocket
Of your heart.
Without you I have nothing to do with your saints
And sinners who are your friends.
With your hand on my arm
I can feel the artificial tan of your serpent swarming skin
Dreaming like a rusted razor blaze across my throat.
My mother never told me about men like you
Only because she never knew in the tiny room of
Her only knowing that the likes of you in a shadowed
Room can be told about.
When the sun goes down you are a hard one to figure out.
The self that you keep for nights outing can not tell time
Because saints put an angel in every one of your dreams.
The night comes on like a Leonard Cohen song
Whishing you well in the Chelsea Hotel where
You write your name on my dick
As if it’s something that you own.

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This is my last song coming strong in a flash of pure
Destruction.
I have learned to weep for the end in a sentimental key.
You have got to love the way that I sing like Bob Dylan’s
Bucket of rain, never mind that it’s not the same.
My bones are the story of me not you.
Over the sea the gulls are on their own
In finding dry land in which to roost and
Raise their young you tell me.
The sum of your longing is spent on the angels that
Will look after man when they can; if they find the
Time away from their eternal merriment in the
Stronghold of heaven where gay love is not welcomed.
You are the last sin that I have committed against an
All knowing God that stands behind you.
One by one you have discovered the last wisdom that
The sleeping head keep to itself when time has
Done all its telling; when the last telling is all told.
You can hear the freight train from where I stay
In its blow there is the quietness held down in the
Pine tree’s dispatch where there is a whisper about
The milk spilled on the surface of the ocean.
I can not tell you even one truth that will keep you
From falling into a funk of disuse.
I leave you on your own where time is told by the
Gesture of your terrifying heart that have forgotten
How to weep for yourself when your body is in need.
You were my last lover; the last to discover that I
Will fight with the angels with words that comes on a
Discarded breath and falls heavy with meaning like
Shards of glass that sparkle like a surgical needle
Sewing the voluminous wounds of sexual
Misbehavior.
You are the last dream of the weight of night that
Sneaks away into the darkness of my head when the sun’s light
Full of innocence spreads its vapor over the
Streetlight’s hum.
You are an island unto yourself surrounded by islands
Unto their selves that connect in a spoken hello
Passed between strangers.
Only the poets can help you for you have forgotten how
To look toward their wisdom now collecting dust in
Books that are clothed in the skin of words telling
You where the angels and muses have retrieved to
Gather their breath and sharpen their tongues on
The right hand of God where the noxious evidence

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Of power struggle to keep man in his place among
The living creature of earth keeping their arguments
About the feritity of dirt close at hand.

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