Blender

Words like bugs
swarm around
for we are all outnumbered
etymology, DNA-- our roots
our cruel cold hands
made to move
ticking off with thunderbolts--
think of the stitch
and of the cut
and centrifugal bumble-puppy,
think of dissemination,
and of learning, or not learning...

One monolith for everyone,
the keys ticking down love,
a genesis thunderbolt--
the tomato in your back,
in your wrists,
or in your head.
this is a blank page,
and the note it makes when we break,

my teeth--be bitten,
for you were born to cry or bleed.

Bullets

a firecracker in a munitions tent
kills thousands accidentally...

civilians rise and fall,
their water washing
the moons and skies.
the earth groans and shows her belly

while we, sleepless,
make bullets all night
to shoot into the ground.

Oxidize

If ever was
the price of daydreams seen,
and the crowds of background fragments
released through splintered skulls
a cataract...

Against the congealed rag, reality breaks
though classic american shakesperian apocalypse ensues
and all your baby seal shoes,
cubed greenland icicle theives,
and breakbeat-lined vegetable cubicles
belie your purpose, saving I's of the sun.

The icons polarize
small minds
and peach pit cyanide
flows in that sick pulse
real blood has
when her stand-in is injured
by the "doctor"
while everyone stands around, pretending
and the cameraman coughs when
nosferatu arrives late from chinese make-up
and it's like the way the sun
and darkness charge peach trees
over a great distance.

Hydrogen Maser

another sunrise to smoke and ghosts,
the saccharine song bleeding over
sleep to let me know that even though
i always forget the dream
i still got something...

and all your awkward fiber optic paws
clackclack no blame like
presidential teleprompters
whose keys are too small--
gibberish erupts, meandering
backways and sideways to echoes of some
awesome hunter's dance,
while the nation laughs

ticking grass, silver linings
loose and unbound by skies
bleed everything UVB--
the lines dissolve,
and the sort-of-almost cloud--
fear burns off in agawam sun.

Bones

This amnesia thread unwinds--
I don't bother bleating,
or speeding to kinder blanker skulls...

The gunshot hole chrysanthemum
and great walnut escape are only over glass roads
and boxed boxes waiting to be broken down--
remade into bags, cheap children's furniture,
and idiot robots who can't tell the difference
of the mini flowered assination
and the deep ice of wild geese mountain

but no time to be a bug of thought
as the future worry wars and real wars
precede the 15 minutes and internet drone,
"expansion!"
to assert spare cogs by flying by,
welcome to the machine.

The 6-Cylinder Home

when the now has come and gone
a fuck and run that lasts the stretch
of stretch

and then dissolves to brighter fears
and smaller murders--
death the parked car, only

in cages concussions dwell and chug, abandoned
with jobs they hate and objects wasted
always on the edge of something with wings
that never leaves the ground

i'll let go first, in my dreams
my fist will open
and the thing will fly away to wait
for the day the snow comes
and never stops.

Fall Fleets

Legions of leaves stoke
armadas,
burning autumn coronas
around everything
that speaks a different language than you.

The pile of televisions
stutters to itself
and telemundo sails off--
a midnight ride
to tell the world
about how theory
can stop a revolution...

and the sun-bleached weather-dead land of southern california agrees.

Vapor Egg

Fall fleets quit parades for ghosts grown
under socketless ache of blue vaulted ceiling.
Their war with the clouds was fruitless
and they had to retreat before the cold...

for napoleon advances always
like love evolving death
and the sparks of the bitter tumor-seed
proliferated to tie up the sky, or
whatever was left of it after it had killed
the green with cinders and smoke.

It rained then, and the leaves could be seen jiggling
a symphony out of what water remembered as they fell together.

Hold

it strikes me particular,
_your silent eyes captive cycles,
neptune and saturn's claws
_catching traces irridescent--
green to blue sketching light,
_the emerald wings breathing,
the cut and stitch locked in hum
_just so that the ice melts and
the light scatters in all directions
_like butter flies in august heat.

Black Narcissus will have to wait...

it centers on the wastes and sociological truths that tear everything apart...

not going to be easy, but it starts a new collection, for sure.

Cold Tree

A mine disaster,
a naked tree,
the stark surreal jag, covered
with moss and saprophytes
recycling...

It crawls through me
as sundown's ice dances over
the locked limbs of these
restless dreaming trees,
and either sings,
or dies.

The simurgh's egg cracks,
the scary black one this time,
menacing empty.

Through the shell
the mountain opens--
a black narcissus
bigger than the sky.

Frame Story

Why did I reflect your red?
The flames just meant to burn
and not be read so deeply,
because beneath could be seen
through illusion, a shape--
a man.

The trees could feel it--
the electric blast from violet fire;
it split one of them in two, and
one half fell one way right away
but the other took weeks and weeks
to fall the other.

There there's a boy who waits
and waits
and waits
for the end of days...

A Paper Lens

Here's where the soldier burns his chains
rewriting every loss--
a frame of mind,
he focuses on fusion
igniting life to flare up fear
around whatever else there is to burn.

In the trenches fear was the little death
we died ten thousand times before washing
in total obliteration--
this lentic strange wave sea change grows tidal,
furious when the inner eye is blind.

The nightvision scope reveals hurricane
after swirling storm after august tempest...
He is enchained by the hum of the
bomb as it devours him and free.

Is everyone then the Other
just waiting for America
to say they know how things are
and make them to be true?

An Incomplete Moon

I am no buck--for before I was big enough
I was torn apart by icy teeth,
a hoof remained.

I was hay, once,
back when I had things to grow,
but such ideas are fleeting and far off.

The thunder I am not rolls out as weakly
uttered words of no recourse.

All this denial
toes curled under,
circling fingernails...

Love leaves either lost or found--
the cracked glass of paper lens
shows pieces of the desert
past, but not the full scope
of light and water.

Excavation 1

Inhibition
made-up words
orbiting hum
Things like gravity
obsessive thoughts and
Money, sand...
silent tiny pieces of the sun
we can bend the light
into the Time slip
gasohol
the spice
nihilists
accelerating across space
to wake up among the magma
religions.

when i was deader
in the storm of armor plates
i had no matches.

señor chameleon
dark matter and
a single,
isolated,
graviton.
shove nothing
I hate it too
television
the pink moon
whales & volcanoes swim and burst up
from oceans to speakers
leaving twisted fragments
of underground city #4
7 kettles singing
"the power is out"
and the deader than dead walk...

thank god for generators and shotguns.

fear haiku

when i was deader
in the storm of armor plates
i had no matches

A Layman in a Monastery

today i held a book of rumi
in translation from arabic
and fell headfirst into a mosque

at noon I imagined a phoenix,
a mosaic of irregular canvas
cement and such a solar color
with 'apocalypse wave' in the tail...
but the feathers
disintegrated into seasons
and 'house on the hill'
and 'i remember the road' are there
so small at the tips you can barely tell

in the sideways sun
one of the more random rounded showed
the mind of the mind choking on sand
and the movie spread to the other pieces
corroding the reds
the oranges bled
and the yellows--dust to the dusk wind, but
'I remember the road' persisted,
away...

an excavation awaits.

blueberries (the uncertain quality of light)

the light explodes across ultra & 8 minutes--
8 thousand trillion more,
charges out to flare the biggest wheel, uncertain truth,
and burns chlorophyll to feed the bush like a flashbulb

the great grope in the dark for more than is there
compels dissemination oblately
and the deep blue of the what if machine chugs
dry air into a tiny city on a leaf.
a globe on a stem spins off into my hand.

in the city my perilous love song goes unanswered,
it plays in empty rooms and people turn on their radios
as they slip quietly out of cars
so that it may defeat itself in silence--
junkyard boomboxes blare it
from garbage barges on their way out,
but the only thing that hears it is mostly water...

somewhere between all this light, water...
i'm alone and free and alone and free
and all the cool sweet froze over--
something i could see in your eyes caught me with blue.
your heart escapes me triumphant with closed ghosts, but
you once said everyone is already dead
and i didn't call you a nihilist.

instead months later i'm in the field picking
blueberries for you...
the globe falls past the cut plastic rim of a maine spring.

everything senryu

here is money
nothing is everything
here is nothing