Page From The Past (Popol Vuh Dream)

the sound of every car
going by with their radio
on with their window
down to chase away wolves
ring through the bells
and small devices

to challenge envy
remember what gentleness
was like
before you watched the guy with the wheelchair
get kicked over by girls
on scooters
with tattoos

and the cars go by
the wind is blowing still
like be bop
and wild dances
in the evening skies
it smiles, in the cloud lines
like azure, like sunset, like champagne
spilled into the Van Ellen belt
for dreams to bounce off of,
all those hands and sans serifs
waving like a bonfire sunset
full of pages of the *Book of Community
fiery ideals and victory
cast into the standards of past ideas
then forgotten.

Jupiter Meets Moon, Sings Song

dreamy seas and singing girls
lashing waves like cirulean arabesques
protean harmonies drive sailors mad
hung by pearls even in the shallows
left to feed the creatures of the reef
dissolved by an ocean's absolution's of sand
kicked into the rift of concrete.

Corner of Hampton and Hastings

the train is coming
to take you
snake through
and come out
the other side.

strings carry dreams
chords that dip in winter
splinter lyrics
into Pinter
played at
33.

heavens magic stardust
sprayed on earth
becomes rust
precum is just life
ahead of its
time.

here comes a glow worm
to guide you from
harms fateful path
evolution in
a droplet
expressed.

Blues For The Divine Flesh (in 3 parts)

chasing sensation
the notion
of floating
across cities
escaping
what's left of
your imagination
suddenly
a bright light catches
your eye
and you're
hoping that this
flight gives you
the truth.

-------------------

castigating wretchedness
amongst scores
of butchers
hooks, crooked
in tandem with the
dreams of
the damned
sides of bacon and ham
and the last tiny voices
of an animal's
death rattle
and cry
the elixir against
the unknowable,
the toast to all
trapped animals
small pens
like us
trying to escape
but running in place
those forgotten faces
the final solution
of the master race.

--------------------

and its
transitory
50 is the
new forty
a shortage
of exploratory
courdoroy rivers
racing across
acres of tundra
wonderful mountains
caught up in wales
and the winds
of this beautiful
august.

Sounds-Like

Silvery metal spikes
pierced the darkness
of an unlit mind.
And in blackness,
Where all thought forms
A hand reached out and down.
Hands made of silver
and hands made of fire.
Disappearing over and over
like silver arrows in a stream,
like brushstrokes that paint away
the years of confusion
and lost desire.
demons banished to limbo,
defeated by 10,000 guitar notes...
or one Durutti Column solo.