Rememberance Of Looking At The Moon

I remember names
strange words shouted
as though I were meant to understand them
a sudden state of disorientation
the pavement suddenly curled up around me
boys arms pushing;grabbing
pulling apart.
my head landing hard
the smell of the street
warm beneath my face
the taste of the tar
and my tears there
in the otherwise
beautiful midday
summer sun.
I couldn't hide.
I couldn't stay in one universe then.
real life was where my head floated around
at night, when the medication wore off
and real ultra-vivid life came
lunging back at me.
there was no where to run.
boys chased me in the day.
I could never run fast enough.
at night, if I ever did manage to sleep
I would be chased again.
I could never run fast enough.
upstairs, downstairs
houses with a hundred haunted rooms
filled to the brim
with ghosts.
with dead men's faces
talking in the walls.
talking all night long
talking about the watchers
and the black hands in the darkness
in protection I built up the sheets and the blankets
like a fortress.
the pillow rested on my chest.
forced to stay awake
chin resting on the clear dream mirror
breathing fear closely condenses on
windows.
my fingers were dream machines.
drew me past dangers
to a future better remembered.
the glass was like a message
scratched into the beach at low tide
destined to be washed away
just the moonlight, a few bright stars
an a aimless childhood fantasy...
a place to paint, to chart a course for escape.
design a space ship, or a doorway, a floating sphere
or just some way to get the hell
out of here.

Hell Itself

there are no more games
no stained class architecture
blasting up into the sky
for flames to laugh at
from hell itself.

One more face in the gallery
of perpetual evil
swindled by Poseidon's
watery wailing sea
one more martyred
failure where there
shouldn't be.

But somewhere the nights are twice as long
Somewhere the hole that's left behind
sitting like an empty canon
corroding droning entropy withers
fascism fighting against
chisels ringed with
phony thorns singing
like barbed wire
round the lonely hearts
of children.

Coals Just Like Corpses

forced down in
forced down town
waiting for you
the light is stilled
by his acquaintance eve
she takes his hand
and starts to mislead
she is a domino
she really wants your soul
she wants to learn what it
takes to control


everybody makes mistakes
only you were raked over coals

All My Sleeps

might
[psychosis over white]
all of those memories
turned over into territories
of the forbidden
the house is ridden of the live mice
they crawl inside
the places old boyfriends hide

let them have the chaos
them them be sea-tossed
dried salted lips,
hung by the neck
with an albatross

just give me an easy life
why won't every single thing be easy?
why do I have to turn on my brain
to fix the same problem over
again?

where are the luscious baskets
of young boys for my endless fantasy parade
when my soul is so ugly
like fruit that never ripens
truth in your life
needs a stipend
to even exist at all

in all of my dreams
in all of these dreams
there was never one so
dishonest-but who deserved the sea

Lift Off

two blood cells
pull together
and swim away
like two dolphins
beacon dreamers
in the lost streams
just a second in time
in the clock of the day
ticking away forever in my mind

you remember
new water arms
waves kiss shoulders
shuttled by secret heroes
aloft in the wet blue wind
wrapping itself inside itself
so no one will ever hear it cry

dry winds whips
over circles carved
out of earth over and
over the stars shed milky blankets
we poison the sky into invisibility
money cuts through the blood of the jungle
like green saviors made of crosses,
etched in stone walls in some distant place
that fill strangers with wonder, kisses the heads
of newborns casting shadows down to you in the sunlight missing
mated with slogans cut deeply by graffiti washed away by rain

On The Very Eve Of Supper (In 3 Parts)

the scent of myrrh and lilacs
musing musically with movement
the past pries through the wilderness
wielding weirdness with the humming timbers.

static empty fields vibrate on white
broken telegraph signals repeating over open lines
broadcast via train in the gardens of England
drum lines defeating paint peels
from the Holifernos canvas

dreams of Bocklin
Romantic era literature aloud
the gas cloud rising over tea kettles in winter
whistles over Donatello's shroud
antelopes stitched in lace and mesh
gray before the last hesitation
post-war brown cotton down dress
for all the eyes on viewing day.

Spilling Fire In A Phoenix

what did we ever do
listen for an answer
in the notes
in the music
in the shadows
amongst the raving
when the mad voices
were on the fade
and the magic
of Teddy's arms
were waving
from something
astounding
you were lost
and found by
the words of strangers
actors, musicians
voices of music
in the darkness
of notes, solitude
take it home
right on
the big woman
on the stage
screams
and is gone
mercy
what is she
and how lost in the
story you are
back in the pages
of a teenage magazine
wasted hours
yearning to be free
to spill out of
private agony
in your head
the dreams
that you thought were dead
or dying
like a phoenix
teach yourself
to reclaim them
mercy
mercy, my fixed anger
weakens in the face
music that helps erase
all the tragic memories
of the past, and the future
holds more, bookshelves of sorrow
but I've read it.
I get it.
hollowed out hollering lifts
moonshots in winter
silence when eyes
close.

A Limitless Fiction

keep drinking till the words run
like fire from a gun
like kettles simmering
western horizons
orange setting
sun.

Permanent reward
bible fictions and redress
arms open to chance
'must love animals
and chess'

blue lightning
in the dim haze
din, the noise complicates
rhythm and evaporates
struggle with consciousness
and trouble
life is a maze.

ears wiggle
like sea lions tails
nails drag coffins
from watery graves
baba tiki mercy
back to the freak week
noise drummers hum
frequency demons
the blue doesn't match the red
instead
I light candles
illuminate the vandals
in the night

-----

the pirates cross oceans
ascribe antiquated notions
the fountain of youth
(he dances in the waning moonlight with pearls sprayed on the sunken chest)
like the deep sea dried out
and turned inside out.

This Is The Modern World!!!

There are stacks and stacks of McSweeney's behind me-taunting me with wonderous riches. The computers are relocated and I just have to sit down with the PC laptop and see if this is just one of those "viruses" that require you to purchase software-the equivilent of extortion-in order to fix a hard drive that I don't think was broken and FAR from full. Some thing is fishy but I want that thing OFF the network until I figure out what hell happened=and get it fixed hopefully. Fingers Crossed!!!