Kush will rise again.

Lent, Ramadan
Hebrew, Moslem
Paganism, a concept misunderstood
Druid, Voodoo God male/female
Mama Lola, the Pharaoh, the king
The president, the prime minister
What does all this means?
God Baba Loa I sing his name
Juju, Allah, Mohamed
Jesus, Buddha
Remises II., Martin Luther King
Frederick Douglas, Sojourner Truth
Moshe as black man
The 42 commandments
Garvey faces Mount Kenya.
Alkebu-lan, Gikuyu, Monomtpa
Memphite Drama black stone black history
The Koran, the Bible, the Torah
The Book of the Dead
The word jazz in St. Louis
Makeda queen
Kush will rise again.
The second coming of the Messiah
General Tarikh conqueror
Of Spain, Septimus Severus
Apuleius takes up his pen
And yes Kush will rise again.
Crusader off the war
To kill the ways of dark folks
In Jesus’ name
Slavery sanctioned by the church
Where black folk freely worship
The world has always been insane.
Augustine before his conversion to
Christianity, the Christian Doctrine
The stolen legacy of being black
The attack, the begging for a day
To celebrate a King
Racism, religious bigotry
Black folks learn what I mean
The city of God with no God in the city
Manetho teach me.

My heart is with me

My heart is with me
Do not slay it
It is pure within my pure body
I live a wounded life by the
Word God, by the body of it.
I am in the body of my father
I am in the body of my mother
She is both by my breath
And contain the beat of my heart.
I have not committed evil against my God
I have not sinned with my love of men
I have not allowed my heart to be repulsed
This is the heart felt truth of me
My heart exist upon earth
And you can know it by me.

The slaughter of all souls

The slaughter of all souls
The angel of destruction glows
When all man’s enemies with their heart of gold
Breed their wickedness poet told
The two headed demons of old
Selfishness and greed bold
Rock the ungodly soul of men who fain not to know
That kindness is a precious thing to hold
Go to the poets to know the way to go
For the priest will make you pay for the saving of your soul
Make you pay to deny the pleasure of the flesh
As men who love men do their best
To share the love born into their breast
The father the son the glorious holy ghost
Was all by Nature foretold
When man thought her God beholder
Osiris Rā the one necessity the GOD
The eye is wounded that sees the world
Death advances as the forming of a pearl
Life builds upon life the present the horizon
With a knife cut night slit open the dawn
Bleed a double season from you open arms
Beatify the strong God Being with a song
Be exalted by all that you have done wrong
The accountant of your God the angel care
Not for the cross that you ware
But self wisdom within you found
The wisdom of Nature do abound
No greater teacher shall we have
No greater angel to take care
By self wisdom are we made fair
A divine offering is what Nature gives
This superintend of the now and here
This lady this man this bisexual design
This keeper of the present time
Time teaches she in the body of a he
To be strong and soldier on
Time is kept in hidden homes
It drives away the past
For time is fleeing forever the present is its dwelling
Only time is everlasting
Time is the pulse of Nature breathing
She establish her godhead in the sun
Only man is the maker of evil
But this evil shall come to be his own undoing
Nature is the source of all known life
Nature is the art of all that is right
Be it birth of storms or birth of virus
Each their own justification toward life.

The disk surmount the horizon

The disk surmount the horizon
The second coming is coming strong
The fault God has found a home
And the pillars of truth will be torn down
The wind is in the mouth of fire
All truth will finally be known
When the two hands of devotion
Holds high the heavenly crown
To crown the destroying Goddess
When the reckoning is found
In the fist of a new born baby
Into the dumpster thrown
Salvation be not as strong
When it is tied to a God full grown
Salvation of the living is truly its new found death
But the shinning one lives deep within the breast
Look not outside of yourself
For within does true salvation rest
If your cause is in need of a God
Then think of Nature and think it not odd
That what is greater then you is she as your god
You who breathe in her air
You who gives it back
With chain saws and ax the forest attacks
Done in our name we all are guilty of that
Only the child is innocent
But that will not last long
For we are sinners even with on our lips
The God praising heavenly song
For those who say that the poets bring us no good news
Be it known that the poets do more then sooth
By the very breath of you do they school
The poets of them as is of you true
The divinity of pleasing the flesh and the divinity
Of the spirituality of the mind
The divine poet teaches with living and antique rhyme
Let them have your heart be you so incline
To breathe the measure of their art
For by Nature is your divinity set as
Flesh and bones without regret.

Follow the followers

Follow the water
That follows the divine offering
Follow the womb that follows
The birth of a beautiful thing seen
Follow the dead body placed
Behind the place of purification
Follow the beatified soul
That will freely guide you
Follow the avengers of
Dead black sons gone soon
Follow the existence
Of your body and soul
The double make of you
Follow, follow, and follow
Where the poets go
Alone the lease traveled road
Follow the midnight cat hunting the darkness
It knows not where it goes but is up for the going
There is an adventure there
Follow the children concern with fighting
Impotent children of revolt against their own
Follow the justice slow to fill in Americus
Follow the battles of the black man
Follow the news of the pillars
Of given devotion in a famish year
Follow the two arms of the scale
That will reckon the weight of your sins in your life time
Follow the wickedness of the looker on
Who will do nothing to upset the cart of racism
And thwart all our enemies that rot the American soul
Follow the male love that in time will prevail
Against the selfish instruments of those who hate
Follow the followers who follow this poem.

The night he held me

The night he held me
He bandaged me from head to toe
I was his greatest creation
He kissed every limb that he disrobe
He carries away my heart
He purified the fire of my soul
He was the clother of who I am
He was the like the lady of the rain
His love posses things hidden like sinful Gods
He is my wrong and right of things of use
I grant cake, wine, water to the estate of his body
His love is uncommon
And divine in its everlastingness
Homage to him who I love
Who grant me into his heart
Permanently by his soul and body
Are all our enemies defeated
Defeated is he who wrought evil
His love makes me stand firm
By the avenger my father
All loving things are made victorious
He disrobe me of the bandages of my clothing
And our sex triumphant over all
Who would descry the love of men
Our love established its columns
On the dust of lamentation
Divine love the scribe writes your name
In the palm of my hand
As if he is the accountant of divine offerings
The judgment of his love let loose the
Imprisonment of all things holy
And I break into a festival dance
When he comes through the door of my heart.

The lady of the flames

The lady of the flames
The love’s shooting arrows of old
The graffiti on the shrine wall
The unmovable sarcophagus
Of the scattered Gods
The burial place in the heart
The habitation of remorse
The guardian of sexual judgment
All these I hold dear
As my stock and trade and God given strength
That bares the love of him
The name of the doorkeeper
The mighty one light as light
The watcher that purified me
The emanation of all the earthy Gods
The homage that conquer the presence
The evidence of my lover’s divine companions
I have collected them all in my body
They fill my limbs
To make me this make of man.

My head is heavy

My head is heavy
When I lay it on my arm I can tell
The weight of my brain
Skull, ears teeth and tongue comes to bare
Of the weight of the physical me
My mind is lighter then a feather
From a humming bird
Lighter then a speck of dust
But the weight it holds
Belie the distance it contain
knowledge is a knowing thing
Of whose face is who
And ways that we find true
As the love of the man that loves you
I know you in my mind
And count all life divine
None more then the rest
I know the knowing of
The beat in my chest
Yet seldom feel its rhythm
It goes on, on its own.
The emotion of the heart
Is only a felt thing
And by this I mean
That it has no weight as weight is known
As something to press your weight against.
What is the weight of a song
And a poem that guide you along
My head is heavy with thoughts of you
My heart bears the weight of your love
You place your full body on me
And in its felt weight is heavy warmth
Weightless warmth full of your scent
To smell you is to bring you into the content of my skin
It is with the weightless mind that I love you
My heart is only a pump life long
The weight of my poems sings your song.

I speak

I speak
The victorious darkness
I speak
My repentance
For all done wrong
I speak
The endowed peace
In its visible form
I speak
The light of my ancestors
And the fallen sisters and brothers
Who fought in the double cause
I speak
The blackness of my offering
Of poems in arms
I speak
The glorious guardians at the door
I speak
The judgment of my male love
A place of passage to joyous sexual joy
I speak
The annihilated wickedness
Of the murder of my black sons
I speak
Of obtaining power from the shining one
I speak
The transformation of the thoughts of my love
I speak
The coming forth of the gather Gods
I speak
The door that overturn and shut out my enemies
I speak
The gracious mother-of-emerald
I speak
The renewing of the habitation of my body
I speak
The word spoken strong
A word that can not turn its back on creation
I speak
The delivering destroyers of destruction
I speak
The mistress of the greater heaven
I speak
The lady of the altar
The mighty one Nature, the beloved
I speak
The dismissal of the decree
That would deny me my male love
I speak
Of the feeble splendor of inquisition.

Be you right and true

Be you right and true
In respect of the island earth
The fact is that you are guardian
Gardener of changing compositions
O God the man is Annu
O God the man is Unās
O God the man is Rā
With his asserted soul
Magical by the utter of words
That is the abode.
O God the poet is scribe
Brilliantly illuminated
By the artist within him
He is illegally frequent in his praise
Of the Godhead that employ him
He is fighting the wrong order of ignorant
He is great in his clerical power
To save the word wrought in rhymes
From papyrus times to computer paper
He seeks to transcribe the wrong end
Of the priestly profession
His stock and trade
Of the darkest color attain
The highest perfection of his words
He is the poet of the frequently dead
Poet of the principle of the additional
Funeral ideal that the Gods contents
Is of glorifying the funeral procession,
Glorifying the coming out and the going in
Of the transformation of the form of the
Living soul of the earth that soulfully knit
The mythological beings of sun and rain
Caught between yesterday and tomorrow.
The poet is giving mouth to the man poor of
An open mouth touching the universal connection
Of breath on earth
Poems have the eternal prayers spoken to the coffin
That the body might rise in the glorified shape
Of a tree reaching the sky.

I love you so

I love you so
That I will let
You own my now.

Winter Solstice

Long darkness
Shortest day
And cold rolls
Across the sleeping garden
The grass has
Slowed growth
Each storm hints
At rain turning to snow
Famine month of old
Is stalled by the super market’s
Shelves full of the trapping
Of a well fed populous
And men who in their desperation
Rob the Salvation Army kettle.
Beiwe my Goddess of the sun
Of sanity and fertility
Is wooing Bacchus caught in his
Drinking and merriment making
The collectors of prayers
Are purifying themselves
As Christman takes it commercial toll.

They once put me in a monkey cage

They once put me in a monkey cage
And I played the role educationally
With Darwin at my back. I call myself nigger
And I brutalize my brothers
And niggers alike
They once skinned me of my skin
And stuffed me full of straw
As a holy act to reach my dark God
They once sold me a God
That sold me
They drawn and quartered me
In the town square
I gun down the black man
That stands for black men
They once sold me for
Sugar, rum and tobacco
I forty the street corner
And blunt the doorway
Of an boarded up building
Next door to the liquor store
They once sicced the dogs on me
Man best friend taught
To hate the color of my skin
They once put sacks of cotton on my back
And fed me inners and cut off my toes
After their whips lashed the strength of my back bone
They once sterilized me
And left me to rot with syphilis
While they carefully watched
Plain parenthood are clustered
In black neighborhoods
Fuck the condom its skin the skin
I got fuck aids my black ways
Through all this and their
Wish to make more against
My life and well being black in
Americus strong but always
In need to fight back and still
Fulfill our black needs
To learn to love each dark other
Late in life to learn to respect
The strong black mother
Learn by the doing of it
The father to the son

Long enough

Leave me alone
That’s all I ask
You’ve done
Done what’s
White for me
Long enough
From Charlie Darwin
Through Charlies Murray
.

I want the kind of relationship

I want the kind of relationship
Between a male and female Cardinal
I want to be the deepest red
Among the knowledge of men.

O the death

O the death
That dies along
O this heart felt song
O life moves on.

Gatekeepers of the great vibration

Aurelio Méndez
Rojus and Betances
Brothere Aqūeybaná II.
And Guarionex
All fit for the fight
And we can do not less
As brothers in the cause
Be not defended solely
By your sex but as black men
Gatekeepers of the great vibration.

Heard in translation

This is the dynasty
Of the chapter of our lives
This is the period of
Particular attention
To the Godhead Nature found
In the beat of your heart
This is the reign of
Tubic pointed first
This is the coffin of
Two copies carved
This is the religion
Of the literary suggestion
This is the finder
Of improbable death
This is the consideration of
Nature as Godhead
Sung by the people
Long ago
This is the word heard
The contemporariness word
Heard in translation.

Down the stuttering corridor

Down the stuttering corridor
Of the wee hour a holy melancholy
Crowd bust its scandals gusts
And desperately gnaw at the panic
That hunger for anger.
An unbroken desire afraid to be fulfilled
Fear the splendor of tender thirst for the
Woman who pinch her cheeks to appear younger
Then the unimposing concentration that protect her
She is the poverty in her belly
She is the clumsy ephemeral circus
Of glossy concentration on the dreams
Of the overripe moon that rustle
Pass towns and joyous village
Purple with endless ancient fermentation
Of hysterias tepid and tormented by
Liberation with the audacity of docile
Human fatigue of suicidal corruption.
She is the conflagration of famished
Corrupted with its enthusiasm of
Forgotten conflagration crouching
Before the sobs of her restless restrain.
Her hunger is rotting its lousy arrogant
Empty of open lips dreams
Empty of deceptive agonies and
Geometric juice that occupy the
Hypothetical movement of meanings.
She is the burgeoning womanhood of
Stranded tom-toms and gorgeous
Buffalo stink whose flagrant is
Played by the harmony of memories
With the ferocity of fireflies’ strength.
She is the sinister consistency limbo of our breath.
When she contemplate the consistency of
Rotten wreckage of naked ruins
And the gossamer auroras
Of shadows explode the collapsed dreams
Infected with tv sounds moaning the
Trade winds forgotten by the hidden
Laughter that shouders the future.

The missionary exultation

The missionary exultation
Uproot the forest that conjure
The stale blood spatter that hunted
The generosities of male to male embrace
There is a turning black in the compel center
Of a quivering promise for a thousand years.
The missionary position is worthy
Of the male sexual question of long trees
In the Congo where the prophet greenish and
Wild on the edge of the wee hour is full of crimes
And the defense of forcing man into the pollen of bees.
The missionary reason
Is wild as the evening wind
That voice its order crazed and ripen
As keys to the prison lock where
A hiccup of birds expires.
The missionary night is sweating dawn
That circle the swelling moon mute as
The convulsion of death
Erect with spilled blood in St. Louis
Blood with its false treasure of howls
Meant to wake and unleash the sterile
Jailers of triumphant calamities to the world
The missionary despair of freedom
Is full of miseries screaming the greatness
Of a trembling consciousness
Freedom will always collapse into ruins
When it depends on man to map the
Longitude and latitude of the church
Free will is the missionary death
Of spectacles fraternal and beautiful
As the mouth of a black men
A mouth sleek and solitary by the body
Licking the trust of winds
Lips uncertain of words and the yellowishness of the sun

What madness of skeletons

What madness of skeletons
Full of sediment and patience
That has forgotten how to scream
The fornication of the breeding ground.
The dark quagmire is itself eternal
Of fragile violent that recollect
The tender hopes of volcanoes sculptured
By the red hot sleep of season
Within a milk weed seed where
The indefinable terror is a sleep
In the wind saying bird, bird
On the bare branch of advancing winter.
What apparitions is impossible as the
Marginal rain falling with no regrets
As cataphracts of auriferous thrills
Still non-secured as the entanglements
Of memories that are the threshold of
Sinister clouds loud with thunder
And raw diamonds dug by the naked face
Of South Africa.

The untouched ebb that flows

The untouched ebb that flows
Impetuous as water
Going where it want to go
The tide washes away a line
Drawn in the sand
So we can not make a stand
The death of silence
Is full of once polished bones
Now charred by desire.
There is a thirsty thirst in the land
A drum from the throat of man
Made heavy by winds
Blowing full of sea spray
And ashes of the rain.
There is music to the damned and the save
A melody that lamp like the undertow
That ark its jerk the return of currents
And flows to fill the hole my loving made
In the mannish ways of what must be paid.
Water tugging at the shore of my bone
The coastal water of turmoil rushing up between my thighs
Violently and irreducible like the monsoon in South Korea
There is a sounding in the public puddles incrusted with falling rain
That sings an impermanent tune to the primordial fire
Quenched by the fierce bodies that flows
The funnel way down the street it fills the hole
Of my sexual seduction of the self
The rain is falling on a black man who poses for my consideration
The Mississippi calls my name to quit the game
Of who wish to fuck whom in our dreams
Coutée Cullen, Langston hushes Essex Hemphill
All brothers in the cause
Who did not leave themselves pinned against the wall
But I choose a common man whose beauty is nothing to preach about
For he can woo me with dirty hand from a day of hard work
And his plain talk and average concerns are like poetry on his tongue
The water of his sweat beads on his forehead
Water slowly ride down the channels of his chest
He is a solder at best of the men who together take their rest
In a bed of sexual sweat
I have heard where you wish to place the wedding ring
And I stand at attention to receive the holy water that gleams like tiny suns
Sparkling in the muddy puddles.

The wayfarer

The wayfarer
The stranger
The deserted road
Perhaps someone
Somewhere to go
The small steps
The backward tow
The face that halt
The lonely word go
Cryptic images
Insignificant
Stylization
Uncertain of the landmark
In the mind that knows
To retrace the steps
Of what was foretold
Who shall me the lonely wander be
On the brow rim of the road
The social status
Of the awkward culture
That births the beautiful tongue of jazz
The stolen suffering of slavery
Birth the spirituals with just justice
And the blues born by the whip that cut the flesh
Interlocking industrial societies
Built the bureaucratic analysts
Of calculation abstract poet
Saturnine pilgrim
Of inexhaustible curiosity
But lonesome by the blood
They declare to blur together
The known and the unknown road
That each man must go
Rootlessness in tow
The loner is Jewish
Catholic, Irish fantastic
Black as the Coal Dust Twins
In Milwaukee, Mr. High Heat and Mr. Low Ash.

Exceptional in manner

Exceptional in manner
He voice his loving deed
I respect his outlaw needs
He broke a cross in a church
He burnt a bible in the bed
He is the contradiction
Of what it meant to be in love
He is gangster hero
Zestful to fight all moralizing
Dutiful to scapegoat a friend
Genuinely he bends the law
Tastelessly he takes a life
He sleeps with a gun for security
Be it wrong or right
He is serious about his alienation
Dismayed, shocked and outraged
That any one should get the upper hand
Even during sex
He is a complex structure
Of rebellious muscles
In an hard iron rust industrialized city of decay
He is East St. Louis born and raised
He is a dangerous dreamer of erotic dreams
Dreaming of rapping the woman down the street
Essentially to his romanticism he is true
And he will not protest to fall in love with you.

Passionate desires

Passionate desires
Create my self
Desperate passion
To be an ordinary criminal
And achieve the consequence
Of my cheating heart
Wars of depression
Is my twentieth-century legacy
I am a moral man of violent
I am a criminal against the common cause
Against the common love that rules the church
Solely unsocial unsung by poets
Who will not dip they pen into who I am
A totalitarian of self government of the self
A racial persecution of all things localized
In the flesh
I am your collectivized society of man
Made violent meant for t v
I am a white journey
An emergence of action
Common-place significance
Of the common drama
Reborn from the flames
I darkly answer the resurrection
As a mock epic of affinity-

The dead leaves are like sun machines

The dead leaves are like sun machines
Facing, facing man with a woman’s face
The exhaustible wisdom of softer
Breath can not replace, replace the seen face
Found beautiful by eyes’ grace
By force, force of force I face the sun facing half
Of the everything of earth
The luminous face of the moon is pure
As a baby’s first incursion into breath
It face the face of life long rhythm of the heart
The dead leaves are like mad machines
Noisy in their play until grounded down
By the weight of cars in the street way
Where we must face and forever meet and show ourselves
To the flow of time impossible to hold
Our long migrating through time told by the breath
Life is a non-secured loan you’re paying back
The tender is the flesh and all that it is inherited to
So face the face stubbornly forward face first
Hurl full speed to appease the deluge of the
Faces you need there are one hundred faces of me
All I own for spike or favor
The face I show to the starling is a face of fair
Weather feeding bread full of chemicals
The face the starling shows to me is grasping and flies
To preach and feed on high.

He is full of disobedience

He is full of disobedience
This shaman-artist
This heroic complex of fate
He is barely aware
Of the significance
He holds in his heart the force of his hands
In his cares and ways
He is parasitic
This man of earth
Half extemporizing
He is ambition with his guilt
With his appearance rather ironic
But never static in his convention
He is trapped like a saint in a brothel
A church of wholes both boys and girls
He can not be rescued by drunken soldiers
Who earlier this day laid together
He is the artist redeemer and bringer of light
Pleasures of the flesh is his by birth right
To love the man as a religious symbol
He is artist-hero
Egotistical self-loathing as a black wander
Introverted and intellectual
The archetypal father to young boys
He is cognac of his ambiguities
He is forever contemporary
Relevance forever to the cause
Of the doubtful soul
That asks the God in the manger
Should grow to deny the love he spied
He is artist as tragic sufferer
Forever caught in his forgiving mood
Even to those who abnormality
Treated him to the edge of his doom

In lonely agony

In lonely agony
Of the utmost romantic self
I escape my lonely alienation
By my connection to God Nature
To the universe of temptation
That seeks me out
There was a time that I punished
My love of the men
But now they are all my holy quest
I am a rebel against the common love
Of boy to girl that love should be shared
I am relentless hero of the cause
Of the men to love the men love them all
The universe is tumultuous within me
And my loneliness is compensated for
The world of man is absurd
The middle-class structure
Is sentimentalized of what to buy
And the powerless masses knows not
The power of their spirits to cause destruction
Of the common order that rule their lives
The poor are busy being poor
And are taught to seek solace in a God
Whose state of mind is to let the flesh suffer
And the spirit seek the salvation at a later time
The burlesque lives of the poor give rise to the hero poet
Extremist insight is his stock and trade
He believe that all can be saved beloved and betrayed
The average man is his common actions
And his finest moment is no illusion
Save for the culture as TV that entertains him
To keep him placated and complacence.

The primitive is reborn

The primitive is reborn
The arrogant traditional
Patterns of the nobility of heroism
Is reborn
The insight of Jung
Is reborn
Without demonic religious matters
It is reborn by the magical indifference
That is truly heroic without pride
Of the romantic egoist again transcending
The malaise that alienate him
The poet is reborn
The rhetoric totalitarianism
Of the propaganda of the poet
Is reborn in the stuttering poet
Whose tongue promise the sentimental dangerous
And emotional self-conscious torture
The alienation of the poet is reborn
As a known thing among living things
The poet is reborn
The artist-philosopher is reborn
In his alienated frustration
To say that the word and
Meaning and and what is that
Ahab’s whale is reborn
In the belly of a tanker
And the false Prometheus of rage
Is reborn
Ahab’s revenge is reborn
Desires for other men is reborn
The primitive struggle that is love
Is reborn
The artist techniques of my hands
Is reborn
Stravinsky is reborn
Every Christmas reborn
The ingenious music
Is reborn miraculous
Inexplicable the suffering selfish isolation
Is reborn into a poem
Your personal creation
That is yourself is reborn
By the moveable music of your dreams
What is seen is reborn
The ideal of the self you own
Is reborn
The instrumental individuality of the self
Is reborn
The sensitive morality of force
Is reborn
Baudelaire’s dandy is reborn
And the ineffectual poet
With his indomitable romantic egoist
Is reborn
Dedalus is reborn
James’ achievement achieved
To be reborn by Ulysses
The trickster is reborn
The identity of his social force
Is reborn
The conflicts of his soul’s protest
Is reborn
Dostoevsky is reborn
Rebel as underground as
Victim of the agonizing self
That is reborn by the poem.

Energy

Energy
Movement
Energy
Released
What is sayable
In a poem
Possibilities
Celebrate
The radiance
Of dreams
Energy released
Invention of the thing
The consciousness of the thing
Repeating the induced
Sleep exclusive focus
Of dream’s commemoration
Subconscious unconscious sleep
Alertness permit motion
And the seen structured
Held in deep repeat
The long instances of knowledge
To the non-motion direction
Awakes drained of mind sink
Into the rhythms of the poem’s ease
Dreams shenanigans
Compiled a beginning
Of dream’s abstraction
Venturing through
Reducing rural
And winter mixed minutes
Winter’s numbing nonchalanceness
And razzmatazz
Of falling snow
Energy spent in its falling
The wind whistles its blow
To the edge of St. Louis
Mound hills in the park
Snow shadows bunches
In the flecked wind.

Never enough

Never enough
I travel the weed road
Necessary conceptualization
Of myself being bold
St. Louis I appreciate your lead
Pass the good enough universe of what it means
To be old.
Age is a shade a heap of years lived
In the history of your skin
And age has crevices, have edges
A terrain splintering the cycles of weight
But I was speaking of the weed road
The side rim of a time of cemeteries of words
Dead words in the poet’s bag
Words with their definition stitched into the pocket
By extinction
Some words like sleep are thick and some thin
Some blossom flow magnificence when
The double sounds is held by the tongue
Everything is a testifies of itself
The thing apple that Eve ate
Could have been a fig leaf their shame
The weight of their sin strike them dumb
And pains the birth if child to come.
Locked hips sinks spip of ready love
Nature calls the man to love the man
And be his love’s accompanist.
I nuzzle right on an open road
Take a toke and dope my breath
I control the solution of who I blow
By windy winds deepened blue to get
A chuster of universes for the occasional walk.
The weed road phonetic by habit
A road that yields all your acceptance
Of the integral tensions between the
Body and the soul
To nature I am insignificance in my significance
She knows me only by accosheation
My brith into a family, into a city
Where trees feed my breath.
Man is but an occasion of birth

The world is wide

The world is wide
And yet so small
That even poets can not know it all.
History is deep within the details
So much so that none can tell
The devotion that the second hold
What I did then I’m doing now.
Time projection is divine
Passing time by time’s pleasure
The smallest tic of the clock on the wall
The drip of the kitchen faucet.
All time pieces dense as clouds
Each droplet counts a time of motion
Of the fall of being moist, damp swollen wet.
The sun lit hour hurls ground baring bones
From the coast of Senegal
And the Congo under night crystal with stars
Blue spruce of Denver crusted with snow.
I am a castaway in the barges compartment of the bus
My back is the idealism of zeros full of zoos
And the zerocentric rain is my solidification of my
Identity reached by the touch of darkness on
Darkness and the voltage of the wakening morning
Is the nothingness of the dandelions growing
Everything of the imagined seen in a dream
Of the greatness living within the Most High pointing
The possibilities of the perplexing rhythm
And the world is wide
And yet so small
That even poets can not know it all.
My soul looks abroad by my body
And the finery of my indulgences
Walks the bicycle and swim the buoyancy
Of the universal psychic forces
Splendid as falling trouble and periscopes
Of immersion looking beneath the rain.
That rimmed the effortless
Weatherless motion of clouds half
Closed in their over-crown
There is a golden gem that is the sun
There is a slivery terror to the moon
What melt down the poor loan of moon’s light
Is a balloon let loose by a child.
The sun is an old man of the tribe celestial.
The sun is a military church of hot knowledge.
Earth is a filter body of blue vestment
The stars swim in a blackness of dark force
Backed up against the restlessness of being alive
Nothingness is a dualism of negation and object
Known as the thing it is, what is not there is
The bad faith of the self-deception and the projection
Of the existence of my identity
Everyone is a foreigner in my personal world
Every guest welcomed in can only get so far
I look the look of sexual desires
I purchase myself with poems
I am the physical world that is me
My breath is the unseen smoke of preparation
Of the determinism of a God’s fulfillment.

I announce

I announce the repugnant
Fantasies accumulated under
My fingernails
My astonishing death of my name
Was announce as a game played
Out under the authentic history
That approached the objection of the sun
That is a fearless prodigious nature
To the gathered genuine of death
My name in the common streets where
Sorceress of the words exorcised
The stalled revolution of screams
From the unfenced poets who has sworn
To save the shadows of a compound ambition
Of slave ships on the tongue
The poet confess their itch and architects
Of their lance like pen they watch the brute
Centuries promising the wage paid for endurance
They watch the children and former children
You are the dealers of your days toward death
Poets are warriors of memory
Cheerful and obscene
They are the neon angels of the word water
The golden fireflies of poem won, poems
That leaps between brains and keep a beat by the pulse
Poets are clearly red of souls full of fire and beautiful egotism
Of being wordsmith of the lava
And burning bush of their throats
Poets are robed in one hundred billion words
Even the nostalgic word, word
The word yes to the world, the great word push
Forward in telling time like rain without the wee hour
Without the weight of the whip electrified by insults.

Scrofulous blows

Scrofulous blows
From the love-making
Of night and day
The raving sun
Spasm its light
And heat like stars
In the ultimate constellation
Of labyrinth vibrating
The horny curlew
Of the broken phosphorescence smoke
Dense and incredulous as the
Contour breath that collapsed
Into nocturnal odors
Mosquitoes are muzzled in the mangrove’s mirage
The swamp of the Mississippi is lagoonal
And the back state black asleep the
Africans belief in their composite memories
Black angels with their weapons of wisdom
Are the one who punched the moon into their night
It is early December and early night
Is knotted with pockets of cold
Blowing the organ pipes of St. Louis
At the zoo you can hear the wolves howling
The rendezvous salvation of their caged anger.
The galaxies are not absence of darkness
The fraternal rain storm yawns
Toward the hardening absence wandering
Forgotten as a sacrificial entanglement
Trembling like the threshold to memory
Freshly was the heart of God opened
To the contemplation that the consistency
Of nature is Godlike as the immaculate
Umbilicus noise of exploded stars
Modestly born in the everything of God’s companions
Virgin, erected like great rivers
Explosion of cum and insolence rain
Self-assured in its falling into running water
Running into itself
The window is decorated with drops of rain
Poinsettias clutter the department stories
And cold is as heavy as a stone
Words kept their path and words alone
Keep me half-sleep and half-heavy of feet
I ascend the descend of skeletons
With their tight charms broken in a
Double puddles refection.

Birds nostril

Birds nostril
Toward flower
Growing beside
The frantic water
That embraces
The anaconda nightmare
Of inventors
Of swamp with sluice gate
Flowering with tears that slashed
The exfoliating growth of green growth
Moist and warm of memory
The sun is still wild today
The moon held captive above and about
The city of St. Louis sleeps its doubts
The wind gallop in bare trees
And around building that sweep
Pass the city

The spirit that mock me

The spirit that mock me
With it s cynicism is my own
The flowers blooming outside
Of Nirvana
Suddenly hesitates
Flowers hissing like serpents
Blooms that tortured bees
That hunger for their beauty
There is a slender wild beast of a flower
With broken hands and curfew eyes
It smells of yellow smoke.

The rudimentary history of the sun

The rudimentary history of the sun
Cuts through the circulating earth
With a surgical beauty that listen
Like a secret of laughter complicitous as
Thunderbolt untouchable as it stab the sky.
A raven picks its blackness from its feathers
And hangs it on the bare branches of a cottonwood
Like tiny black bodies swinging in the breeze
The cottonwood growing beside the untouchable water
Ripping the entrails of roots.
Raven are approaching tomorrow like clumps of snow
Falling like a drunken flame of impossible mustangs
Quivering in their run of brotherhood.
The world is unsettling to my driven soul
And the preparation of driving faster toward force
Is the supreme objectivity of my sexual needs.
The hassle that harden all my hopes bleeds the death
Of sufficient intimacy.
The evening star is blazing bronze by the uncertainty
Of a tender purplish tenderness and its radiance backed up
Dynamic of rivers in harmony with invariable rain, backed up
To the boundary of my omnipresent body that will not
Surrender the mystery of my skin color the color of slavery
In a fat year of fallen leaves of the baobab and paperback thorn.
That seeds my ancestral memories of the burden
That my forefathers bore bravely by the whip and decapitation.
No where in me is the selfness of my running
Spirituality of the black dance that worships a dark God
The dance of breaking free from my identity.
I am the skin of the world, yes the blustery skin
Of burnt bodies and immortality.
I am the species of special attention spoken
By the wing words of wild weather of pain to remain
Unremembered in the tomorrow of extremity.
I am the reddening ecstatic of a low yellow cloud
In the black light of the dance made ghostly over the gulf
That grinds the constraint of rigor.
I am the empty measured motion
Sixty minutes toward the boy old enough
To know the vacancy of my sexual
Astonishment soaring thin as the blue moon of two
In one month shinning on the bamboo skin of the beautiful boy.
Quickly my down time is up lifted to face the copses
Investment of my forefathers decaying in the everything
Of death magnificence as a dead flower
Gone to seeds in the clear year of catching
The briar bone bud buying its wintry time
Full of grief and importances.
My history is a history of near extinction
And the weight of passing over into a heaven
That is essential only to some human who fear
The ramification of pleasing the flesh
Heaven is a throwback traveled by the dead
Angels who venture into the ghettos of the black edge.
Birds entertain the old black man that feds them
In the city park where you can buy a nickel bag.
The black world is a gymnasium for gray squirrels
The black squirrels of Detroit
White squirrels in Marionville Missouri
The albino day is hacked to death and its eyes gouged
Out with a silver spoon by the witch doctor
Of holy superstition suspended in the dead September
Of shady places where the vulgar avoidance of God
Is writ in the fertility of the soul.

Fall day

Fall day
Hints at December snow
The simplicity of snow
Huddle in northern cold
The white city where linger
The dead flowers in the pot
On the stairs leading to the porch
And back door.
Yesterday is dead also.
The creek in Forest Park
Drinking its fill of rain
The smoke from chimneys
Fills the air with the smell of burning wood
Pine by my discerning nose
Snow tells where homeless cats goes
A sermon of bird’s call singing in the cold.
The night is long
The slow day is gone
The bridge that bridge us to somewhere
The footprints that follow the river
Grows old, the church bells sold
To the self-identification of a God
That most people know.
The snow a visitor to my mind
Is a time piece of passing time.
My sole dine on the desk
But O the hopefulness of wanting snow
The dine can not buy alone
Unlike the pennies of my childhood in the ‘50s
Fall will be falling white hinting at a passing by on the wind.
The road not taken is always before me
When I write a poem
The act of creation
The self fulfill joy of wanting something white in the weather.
Thirty thousand flakes falling
In the city, countless in one man’s counting
I will loose myself when the falling falls
I will stick out my tongue to take in nature
And be rich for a while as long as it fall
Each flake a dine that melt in my hand
With each falling I am rich again and again.
Snow passing Denver, passing Kansas City
To met me in St. Louis.
First snow will fall its falling bold
And I will go pass the steps into the park
Where the rabbits dig their holes
Where the Red Wing Black birds
Keep their sentinel against the color red
Time can not grow old
Time is bold full of itself when full of snow
The white passing I shall behold to fill my soul.
Cold. snow, time all the same to me
Thirty thousand flakes to fill my dreams
To enrich me rich once more.

I address the blood-shot nigger that kills a black man

And now my cowardice
Is famished, is sinking
Into the creatures of the word nigger
Crushed with the measure of creation
Hideous poverty over exaggerated with ugliness
Is drifting in my belly as if it’s an empty space
Waiting to be fed by the word.
Between my tarnished bones and the world
Is the mud face of my race that does me wrong
Do my warrior nature wrong by the easy gun
I address the blood-shot nigger that kills a black man
I am the solid rhythm of weariness
I address the nigger who bends his back to the economic whip
And drink from the poison painted well rouged with vivid
Funerals all too recognizable by the mothers
That cries for the fallen bodies of the young
Cut short by bullets their lives stain a race
Of men who has dug an empty hole into their souls
With the shovel of black on black crimes.
Let the poets standup before the firing lines
And proclaim that before enough boy falls
They are willing to give their lives against a mother’s cry.
Let the heroism of their words un-cock the guns
That lays low enough young life.
Poets I call you cowardice for your silent
I call you discolor before the color man
Where is the negritude of your words?
Where is the tunnel vision of saving a race taught to hate itself?
I demand that the black man admit his black crimes.
I demand that the drunken gun still its report.
I demand that there be a lying down of black on black crimes.
I demand that your God be industrious in our lives
I demand that this marvelous madness in the eyes
Of young blacks be defeated by your tongue
I demand that you exorcise your
Souls from the violence of the shadow of your skin.
I demand that you go fearless into the streets
Of East St. Louis and Detroit and root out all the niggers
That keep a warm gun itching to be the
Sorcerers of death by a nigger’s hands.
Niggers of the world the time has come for you
To be a black man as you can,
Time to cast off the hideousness of your self hatred,
Time to know the warriors that vomited
In the hold of the ships,
Time to remove the metal chains around your necks
I am your brother to speak to you as I do
I am your father
I am the red hot iron that strike against
Your crimes of ambition to rob a black of his life force,
I am the confessor of all your sins,
I am the architect of the new black man
Who stands before you naked even though you call me faggot
I am an itch that waits your tender touch
I am your history proud and fearless
Against the hosannas of your master
All that you are, all that you have been
Is accumulated within me and I will not
Be denied, little by little shall your hearts
Hear my cries,
I am secured in my love for you
I am tough in the measure of my darkness
I am the pulse of your despair
I am the memory of your dead
And by my words I contemplate
That not until the word nigger dies by your tongue
Shall you see the holiness of your skin color.
Words, words nothing more you say
Know this that words can even strike
The Gods deaf and dumb
Know this that black on black crime
Is an outrage to the father of their sons
The warrior who jumped ship
The warrior of Gloucester rebellion
Warrior beheaded to set you free
Warrior of Cato’s conspiracy
Warrior Gabriel Prosser and Brother Martin
Warrior St. John the Baptist Parish
Warrior Demmark Vesey who hung to set you free
Niggers why do you shame them to shame yourselves-

Perched on ancient times

Perched on ancient times
The red rose drinks the running water
The cottonwood is bare of thoughts
For winter that waits on the calendar
And fishes in the muddy Mississippi are
Praying to Nirvana rumored
To be found in a temple village
Just south of the frog sitting on a lotus.
Spring and summer has had their say
In the quietness of the wilderness
Where the special characteristic
Of the essential nature gradually
Sinks into disorder of leaf litter.
The birds are singing their daily poems
In the inevitable rain that also sings
To the obedient ears of poets
Who hear the cherry-blossom falling
Into the running water of all our forgetfulness.
The world has forgotten what peace is
Has forgotten the temple bells whose ringing
Waft full of gratitude and the perfection of sound.
Everywhere there is a falling of full fall.
A dog bark with the sound of cold beauty
And the wind is ill in the city where mystery is consumed
By the homeless who follow the path of the steam vents
Where the painful pleasure of their buttoned up
Desperation is intensified by the cold order
Of shadows seen in the moon’s light.
Nothing is right, not death of the young
Or the male name the boy whisper into his pillow
The boy that tedious finds his sex on another’s chest.
O how heavy the poet’s burden that rustle his soul
And the wind blown secret he is ashamed to keep.
The world has forgotten peace
Forgotten the tranquility of the sacred
Wilderness for wheat fields and miles of corn
Forgotten the holiness of the artist who has forgotten
His shamanistic role to speak of the soul
And what is this thing the soul but the holy
Of the holy, the root hidden within the
Body whole
The soul never is deaf and dumb as consciousness goes
I know, nothing of the soul can be known
Nothing itself is a knowing
The search down the thorny road toward the
Serenity that the baby babble of learning to mean something
The baby’s body is a shrine where in it knows
Not that it is divine; babies do not concern themselves with Gods and souls
They are too pure as human goes.

Fall is in the pots of flowers

Fall is in the pots of flowers
Fall linger beside the running water
The bridge is made of gold fishes
Dreaming of indigo liberty
And kites of red apprentices.
The young Starlings are clanging
Their beaks against images of
Frogs the color of a haiku
Running curbside of the gutter
Haikus spoken for the dead fireflies
That has turned off their cold chemical light.
The moon is visiting Denver
Where the mountain is a thief of taking the last breath
And suddenly the roses go blind
Of telling time to the dawn’s early light.
Nothing in the world is right, nothing
But birds to their flight.
The pine trees smell of Christmas
With no poetical meanings other then
The grief of strange things seen
Out of the corner of the eye
Like cherry blossoms dying
Outside of the house of Issa.

This season of the moon

This season of the moon
Is full of blood from
Children cataphract to the bones
Whose dark flesh
Is without regrets.
The mute migration
Of lost bullets are flying
Pass mother’s prayers
Given in the wee hour
Of entanglement pushed
Pass kisses quiet as old shoes
Secured in the marginal rain
High in the pollen wind that sings
And is the entanglement of heat
From the furnace of heaven
And the wild heat of the mounted sun
That is as silver as a coin tossed into
The fountain of loyal flesh
On the bone of running water.
The knife edge of the moon’s light spattered
Without heat, without busting forth
From the crater kepler and the sea of rain
The inconstant moon, the waning gibbous,
The little bit of nuisance
The apprentice of dreaming of the
Ebb-tide that wash the beaches clean
Of lost and lonely footprints
Suspicious as a man dwelling
In the hour of midday assigned
To the western sky where meal time
Is lost on the tongue of a willow grove
And sparrows take to their pilgrimage
Above a mewing cat disconsolately
Insisting that it is not a lower animal in
The hush of things being things beside
The milk bowl full of little girls bathing
Their dark skin to the touch of zen.

It scattered, the emptiness of my heart

It scattered, the emptiness of my heart
The wounded heart made so by a God
With faded blood rusting on the backside of the cross
And abrupt blessings brought in the super market of the church
The fragile God kept beside the eggs
The self-conscious God of doing what the priest
Says is holy and right in the sexual bed at night.
It scattered, the true cry of my common sense
The wounded sense humiliating the self
With opened hands full of silent.
It scattered, the candence of my hypothetical musical soul
The wounded soul incapable of holding the weight
Of my faith made heavy by the blackness of my body
My body is clever about religious detours taken
To reach heaven incapable of taking in refuges
A heaven of babbling angels with frail white bodies
Grandiose and forever insane beside the
Sanity of clouds in a sky wild with regrets.
It scattered, the history held in my hands
Hands that has killed bodies born black as the back of night
A nameless life of sacrifice trembling like
A rain drop on a wire in the wind
The holy wind of insects that inspects the world and cries mercy
To the storms of galaxies held in their
Tiny eyes the eyes of the world tiny and delirious with virtues.
It scattered, the syncopation of the history of my blood
Gigantic with anguish toward the essence of my loyalty
To the astonished landscape of the body of my race.

What has the worms eaten

What has the worms eaten
And whose body has bite size holes?
Worms has wormed themselves into the coffins
The worms has eaten T. S. Eliot and
St. Louis worms has eaten
Tennessee Williams and William Burroughs.
And Sara Teasdale with her month full of sleeping pills
They are now fat with literary knowledge
Whose clothes is expanding with worms
And whose blue blooded flesh is gray as ash?
The dead are silent save for the movement of worms
The dead, yes the dead glance at nothing
When the worms anecdotally liquidate the dead.
The worms are sensitive to the taste of light
The marvelous worms are childlike in their
Underground homes and secretive with their death.
Who has seen a worm die beside the dried shell
Stretched across the concrete in a day of rain.
The worms are merely worms in love
They are full of progress in the pocket of the world.
The worms are moist with life and ecstatic
With dirt, yes the worms are God sent to clean up the dead.
The worms are dreaming of Robins and Robins are dreaming of worms.
All day long the voices of worms sing their song
Smelling of damp earth
The dirt, yes the dirt swells with worms
The worms are bootlace and bristle, caterpillars
And grubs
Deaco’s height that points to where Khufu lives
The worm of Shi-shu-marai, yes the worms
Of land and sky and sea worm sleeping slight.

Tenacious baby boys

Tenacious baby boys
Clenching and unclenching their fists
A rehearsal for the fight of warriors to be
The radiance of baby boys drooling warm milk
The bedazzlement of baby boys bold in their skin
Baby boys of the tom-tom
Baby boys of the silent drums
Baby boys taking the giant steps of first walk
First word of their throats holy full of hallelujah
Boys benevolent and young playing with their snares
In Africa and on the reservation
Baby boys who shall become executioners of the young
When watching someone die is routine in black neighborhoods
Baby boys of the wounded heart without fathers
Baby boys marvelous in their redness and blackness
Fraternal sons of empire builders
Baby boys sabotage by their lost fathers
Locked in the lower-class jails of their despair.
Baby boys of the slums that raise them
And shall come to betray them by a warm gun.

Do not eat

Baatsi
Do not eat
From the Tahu tree
Less you know death
The moon will spy on you
Do not eat
From the Tuhu tree
Yes its fruit is sweet
But do not eat
O pregnant woman
Hold your irresistible hunger
But she ate of the Tahu tree
And hid the peel in a bush
She ate and now man knows death.

This winter the squirrels

This winter the squirrels
Shall not go hungry
I punched a hole in the top of the dumpster.

Red season essence

Red season essence
A wreckage of winds
Caught in the corner of a building
Rare earth bitten by teeth of men
Eyelids of primal strength
Woo the crossroad of where we went
Priests with their sacrificial cross
Plays lover’s boss telling us that we are not animals
But they are wrong to sing their would be holy songs.
Remember the entrails of silent
That triumphantly went along
The nostalgia of spacious trees
Growing from weeds.
Remember the blackness of a black child
Caught as the crossroad of crime and the church
A locality worth all the coins in the world.
Remember the barbarity that sustain thee
The smack boy wearing a brass bra prowling
The break away streets to fit his crime
In the flesh of an old woman divine with age.
Remember the way that spitting whites
Sic the dogs against black revolt.
Remember the musical tune that Christ never dances to;
A wind of poems are circulating around the world
Only heard by poets-boys who play at being girls.
Remember always remember the putrefying flash
Of dead poems that once screamed their cause
That we should adhere to a God that can not love the boys.

Stigmata bleeding oceans of blood

Stigmata bleeding oceans of blood
Scrupulous inhabited the forest
Now slender as a wave of light.
Man mismanaged nature’s life
So he must fall out of sight.
Lips of insects and eyes of newt
Hissing love making for the truth.
Suddenly the ice breaks beneath our feet
And sheets of ice loose from the pole
Flows from the murderous cold.
Everything is changing everything is on the move
Cockchafer singing a tune
Light transcend the moon
The implication of who shall die.

Greet

Greet
Greeting
The circle of life from birth to death
Touch
Touching
Man to man secret spot
Moist and warm
Howl
Howling
The gesture that radiate from the original love
Of mother to son circling the lost fathers
Where the ancestral bodies was born
Memory
Memories
A memorial to the fallen boy
Who aids us to come undisturbed
By the run toward someone’s son
Love
Loving
The sweet spot in the curlew hour where love is made
Destruction
Indestructible desires as old as sex and monkey cum
Silent as the swimmer that won the race
Feast
Feasting
On the dead a common act in the life of the world.

Blood

Blood
Bleeding
Arrogance of the murder done
Justice
Judge do not hand down the dismissal
Of crime of my black sons
Terrified
Terrifying woman going out at night
The moment the youth comes
With their guns
Shore
Shoreline that runs passes the judgment of water
That runs dripping of the moon
Move
Movement
Of the victorious day
That broke the heads of waves.
Love
Loving
Men to men the love of God the same.

Vibrate

Vibrate
Vibrating
In the throat
Full of stars
Essence
Of parasites
In the belly
Roaming free
Scream
Screaming
The horny hour
Of what life means
Cry
Crying
Innocence child
Struck by a stray bullet
Word
Nigger
Poisonous on the white tongue
Bleed
Bleeding
The day to come
Under the protection of the sun.

Life, trembling in an infant hand

Life, trembling in an infant hand
Trembling like nocturnal silent
Standing on an exscape of darkness.
Life, full of breath and clarity of letting blood
Life, sluggish like lazy water
And things like rotting purple
And tenderness of smoke
Life, a secret swamp beside the Mississippi
Awesome like the high pulse of a southern butterfly
Life, caution as noxious thunder in the skull of Jesus Christ who knew waters
Full of a thousand blessing amidst the neuroses of darkness.
Life, with pansy’s eyes that summon the clouds
Of the adore odor of rain that assassinate the long-grasses
Bristling along the streets that conspire to murder death.
Life, forever changing, forever anxious and mute
Of its advancing toward the heavy pinkness of white skin.
Life, beautiful and naked to the eyes, coalescing
And scaling the stubborn undertow irresistible
Like the faces of babies good-nature with their disable
Desires raised to the height where rain is born, rain.
Life, gyrating golden with opaque beauty forever reaching toward death.

Peculiar silent

Peculiar silent
The kind that listeners
Listen to without mentioning
The clouds of love on their lips.
I do not doubt that the thunder
Is not pure sound as pure as sound goes
No doubt that the sky vomit its acute agony
Of rain or snow when love is emerging
From the circle of life only to pursue
The fatigued intimate blackness of a night
Full of winds that cut like a pocket razor
Used to cut the memorizing 50s of a shaved face
The last delirium to fall from the lips of
A dream of flowers caught in the throat
Of a formidable childhood.

Late November day comes cold and windy

Late November day comes cold and windy
Stirring brown hand size Sycamore leaves
Rising and falling and crawing along the concreat.
-

At the red brick senior citizens housing

At the red brick senior citizens housing unit
At the corner of our street
Six young Sparrows warming themselves on the roof against the late November wind.

Unpacked boxes stacked high in my room

Unpacked boxes stacked high in my room
Full of used notebooks of unpublished poems
An empty blue book beside my pen on my desk.

Milkweed dried on the chain link fence

Milkweed dried on the chain link fence
Fill the wind with seeds
Yellow dead leaves falling from the Mulberry tree.
-

Going from the car to his back door

Going from the car to his back door
My brother Thomas wares a box top on his head
Starlings high in the Elms growing along the walkway.

Turkey and dressing and fixing cooked

Turkey and dressing and fixing cooked
The house is warmed by the oven
Mama and Sister Pat sits down and wipe their brows.

The Starlings are gathering high in the Elm

The Starlings are gathering high in the Elm
And on the phone lines
White bird’s poop on the walkway.

Thanksgiving eve roses still in bloom

Thanksgiving eve roses still in bloom
Dried mums and yellow Joe Pye Weeds along the highway
Unattended by man they wave in the wind.

Most of the leaves of the trees have fallen

Most of the leaves of the trees have fallen
Its Thanksgiving eve
A red Lady Bug bump against the light bulb in my bed room.

Three rose blossoms on the bush

Thanksgiving eve
Three rose blossoms on the bush
Brown Sycamore leaves hunched in the corner of the yard.

Thanksgiving eve

Thanksgiving eve
The smell of basting turkey on the breeze
The roach coach beside the factory door.

Muddy puddle of rain water

Muddy puddle of rain water
Gleaming in sunlight
Two sparrows drinking half hid by glare.

Lost cat advertisement

Lost cat advertisement taped to a phone pole
Ink running with rain
A black dog lifts its leg to piss.

Day before Thanksgiving

Day before Thanksgiving
A hint of snow in the cloudy sky
The homeless black cat sniffing the uncut grass

Brown and yellow leaves falls

Brown and yellow leaves falls
From near bare branches
A late evening rain knocking them from trees

Essence of death

Essence of death
Is to be done down
Is to be reviling your bones
Is to taste the dirt
Upon your coffin
There is warmth in the grave
Castle moist with rain
There is a body thrown
Into the Boy Scout pocket knife
Of the Hudson River
O Lucien, O beat of St. Louis
Who follow you to NYC?
Who stalk your body
By the bank of the Mississippi?
19 and already a killer
As befits a child of St. Louis Missouri.

In the river bottom of the Mississippi

In the river bottom of the Mississippi
State and river and mound builders
Now gone to time worn down
Brown children blacken by the Missouri sun
Where wild strawberries feed the possum
And homeless cats roaming the streets and allies
In search for droppings and over filled dumpsters
Mama woke early to cook Thanksgiving dinner
And I rose at five A. M. to pen this poem
Time flies like rock dropped into the river
Time bittersweet on the tongue
Bitter in the mind it passes by told time
Gregory Corso is dead, Allen and Burroughs too
But by my memory of them they live on
My days in Boulder by the mall
I never knew Kerouac for he was dead down
Buried in Lowell but I have seen his grave stone
Smelling of the disposed knife of Lucien Carr.

The animal soul of man

The animal soul of man
Holy by the blood
The soul that roam outside
Of the body
To be caught up with in dreams
What is wild by the soul?
The animal companion
That roams the wilderness
And the city at night
The sun of the day God
The four corner holding up the sky
O nine levels of hell
O Eighteen Rabbet
Now gone through
The underworld to heaven
Of the ancestors
The blood letting of the genital
The rope of thorns through the tongue
The sun of night journey through hell
Eight Monkeys come into my heart.

Who assassinated

Who assassinated
The obscene laughter
Of the missionaries position
Of a dead God’s protection impetuous
As the arrogance victory of the sun?
Who assassinated the delirium
Nocturnal missionary’s position
Of gay men in love by the bare back
Conscience primordial egg-headed
Fragrant delicto immense as to sex
The musican of the strength of poetry?
Who assassinated the swamp impetuous with life and
The convulsion of everything at the
Foot of anger where wounds are consumed
By the torn burden of silence speech
Of the knotted torment of an awakening?
Who assassinated
The disheveled whispered that worship
The blood of serpents with their remorse
For the eaten apple weighted by the rhythm
Uncontrollable as the miraculous lie muzzled
By the possible future that protects the pass?
Who assassinated the salty blue trembling
Golden as straw in the tough night where
Blackness is hatching the pulse of memories
Removing the loincloth obscene as the jazz
Of the flesh of milk white nymph
Extreme with immense sensual adjectives and
Interchangeable nouns spiritual as the word
Nigger on the absence of the meticulous
Apparition of a poem?

The destructive circumcised moon

The destructive circumcised moon
Is wild by the woman with redden speech
That crack the under song
Nameless by the tomb where the aquatic thickness
Of the rotten wreckage of the shoes that are encrusted
With diamonds and the threshold of consistency.
There is a man whose heart is thick as good eyes
Sluggish as sumptuous vomit and venom
From the tongue of the double edged battle
From the madness unbreakable as crime that twist
The souls of young black men who avowed
The murder of the great river Mississippi.
The black souls in Americus has been ruptured
By the loyalty of the state, the black soul
Shoulders the anguish of being black.
The delirious anguish of incomprehensible
Migrations from fatherhood.
The black men are wild with no regrets
They birth the entanglement of children
Who has lost their fathers to the crimes of
The streets, lost them to the mouth of the gun,
Fathers who are absurdly gone to the city of jails
Populated with young fathers who will not appease their sons.
Fathers tangled in the disaster of their fatherhood
Fathers who swagger through the streets
With locked hips and metal hearts over ripe
With distilled compassion for violent
But there is hope, meticulous hope
Bundled with the swallowed cadaver
That minister to the needs of the heritage
Handed down through the years of slavery
Where fatherhood was meant to birth
Hands put to the plow and backs use to
To the whip of discipline.
There is a salty hope, a hope as green as spring
To heal the black absence entangled in the
Invisible bulge tembling in the throat of silence.

Night is a curtain of murdered black blood

Night is a curtain of murdered black blood
On the streets of East St. Louis that howled
The approach of a baby’s cries quivering
The swamp’s eyes of the remembered Mississippi
Gorgeous to the depth of the sluggish water
Of brown shadows against the clarity
Of despair running lazy like tenderness
Of the paradisiacal inquisitor’s of racial
Magicians who confess their sins
To the water with its pulmonic innocence
That vapor its way pass the stainless steel Arch
Before the jungle of crime committed
In the nocturnal no ritualistic
Darkness that thirst for stubborn adventure
Where the young black men are strip mining
Their souls that hiccups like buttles from a gun.
I have forgotten how to save the young
Who are defiance against my diadem of unhopefull age
The young black men are indestructible
With their silent held on their tongues when curlew
Is as murderous as the poisonous clouds
Nailed to the roaming word nigger screaming hard enough
To hang me by a nail of a cross to save their lives.
I have no doubts that the labyrinth of years
Can not save me from the spasm of the
Constellation vibrating in my heart for all
The lost black sons with the bitterness
Of their blood and the parasites of their crimes
Full of bullets and adulterous
Profusion that blacks are delicious to the touch
I love my black people, I love them dearly
I love their history of endurance in Americus nearly unknown
They are the measure of all my songs.

Harlem of dreams

Harlem of dreams
Harlem the promise land
Of passion and African Negroes
Turned African Americans
Look to the low land of East St. Louis
Where an uprising of crimes
Attend church the headquarter
Of an available God.
I have seen the madhouse of black murders
The crazy jazz of kill our brother
I have fingered the word
On the breathe of God and his clientele
When the dilapidated angels
Orchestra the scorched mind
Eating the noiseless destruction
Of the Ahasuerus feast
I have decreed that we must all eat
The banquet Esther sits before us
O Harlem the cruelty of East St. Louis
Is sensitive to killing the black man
Of his precocious art of being black.
The blacks are diseased with crime.
The repulsive notion to kill their kind
The drummed proposition that black
Life is cheap of black bodies heaped
It is not that we are in the puberty of slavery
And know not what we do by the white man’s rules.
It is that we kill the ones we love and despise
For the blackness of their skin.

O poet, O fucked lamb of survive

O poet, O fucked lamb of survive
O stone jazz that spiral from the tongue
O religious bigotry wet with graves full of cum
O my wordsmith, my funeral of confessions
O poet public as industry of an adjustable fashion
O destruction of promise and raw love
O grand shadows of the dignity of glass eyes
O poet beating the drums of midnight laughter
O sweaty murders of seasonal souls
O, O, O impotent bisexual trees
Blooming and pollinating your sexual needs
O unusual tragedy rancid as Nebraska
O gentlemen of assassins and childlike baptism
O revolution of the shadow symbol of bombs
O poet illuminating the aquatic dream of jazz
O screamed sacrifice throbbing the brilliance of
The human condition
O night of stolen structures blossomed from the silent
Minutes bluing the cities of waiting tongues
O poet runs from the mirror chasing children
As desirable as terror’s second coming
O my mother of the opulence dollar casting wounded shadows of
Sheet metal cold as sea birds overwhelming the choppy
Ocean where surprise memories of men was born
O father of water with the bull’s eye smelling of ammonia
O sister singing in tongues alone the back streets of a back bone
O brother breaking night’s promise to the journey of
The day’s intermission of everything believable
O daughter of the embracing moon red as menstrual juice
O son dying by the death of a beautiful boy born to
Bull the eye of the regrettable wisdom that Christ won
O kin of kindness and female queers dreaming
Of Apolinaire in the deathtrap of conformity.

Speaking his innocence name

Speaking his innocence name
Translated on the tongue of my dream
I hear the brave love story
Of the chrismal of the criminal brain.
Compassion and bullet-proof
Broken knives dashing
Toward the justice I imagine
Dashing wonderfully the broke engine
Of poetic words provides the weather
That successively dances the suicide
Of the color blue that interrupts
The surgery shooting discreetly
Shouldering the laughter pushed
From the premium muscular
Gloomy operation of the deformity
Of my poetry
The wide open story that I wish to tell you
Is of the stature that no one except
The answer to the jealous question
Of the phrase that God goes through
Pass two blacks crawling their bodies
Pass the horse boy who slips heartless
Through my dreams as if his movement
Was a Coltrane piano of autopsy
Of the spiritual insane
The horse boy plays the game.
I listen to the jaw bone of an ass
As if it was a heavenly stone
Of dark flames angry as lost time
Burning away my name
Lost time in search of a cool rhyme
Massive as the sunken moon
Of the possibility and a seasonal
Corner full of red smiles of
Children drunken on homelessness
These children lease their years
Against the winter dark by a dozen turning
In the cardboard homes beside the heart vent
Unable to stop the cold from crying the ragged edge
Minding the business end of stale restaurants
Of rebellion when the painful hymns of
Blue is ripped with the overnight explosives
Scream gnawing at the first snow
Already standing in the doorway where
Death is dead in the darkness year assistant
To the wax box afternoon that stretches
The singularity of wondering along
The police road marked by a thousand murders
Of admission that murmured the motion of money
And spoiled fruits of a government
Moved closer to the employment of the future.

Actually the feeling

Actually the feeling
Of a crazy sense
Accounts of volubleness
Suspects similar situation
Inscribed on the tongue
Of the atmosphere.
This imaginary of geometry
Share the sense of forms
Of poetry directly to the object
Of a language whose structure
Recalls the incarnation
Of rhyme to the struggle
The process of self-creation
The crazy never talk of potentiality
Contrast the period given over
To the beginning of a poem
That coincides with the struggle
Of the word on the tip of a poet’s tongue.
Poems are the first thing of the breath
Of the noble historical cycle
Of the human cosmic access.
The beat of the heart is engrained
It is a life long song to sing
And the atmosphere of the poet’s
Situation is the geometry
Of the object subject of the poem.
Poetry moves us to the form
Of words strung on the breath
And our hearts rest
As the poem regrets
That is not heard in the ear.
Many poems go unsung
For the corporation of who has won
Is small in print and no one
Can tell the world that they have done their best
By the pen and when we hear
That a new poet has broken through
The printed clutter we run to read
What made this indeed the thing,

I do not differentiates between

I do not differentiates between
The surrealism and the objective
Strategies of the imagism
And I will not say that other creatures
Are just objects to be played with
I define what my soul clarified
With the instruction of what I know
Gertrude Stein, Gertrude Stein, Gertrude Stein
The tender buttons has found their rhymes.
In the rain a petal stains the wind
In the wind the rain sings the associations
Of trains where the headlight pushed forward is
Dumbfounded by the rain.
The linguistic transformation is a game
When writing break down into nonsense
Which I love, to it I am directly employed.
My poetry has no voyage other then
The rhythmic obsession of the symmetry
Of lost meaning held firm on the tip of my tongue
When the occasion of words runs in my head
Down to my hand then pen to paper the
Striding syllables, the gather breathe
The never definitive motion of my poetic instance.
All comes to bare upon the harmonious sounds
That overrides the meaning of what words means.
I seek to sing my own music incorporated by my brain
To the mind knowing its own necessities caught
In the new times of everything alive.
What I propose defines the circumscribed
Transformation of the internal rhyme.
This physiological morphological
Affinities is the precision of my presentation
Is the identity that you can know me by.
I am a wild poet increasing my understanding
By the difficulties of not fitting into the rules
That is as dead as yesterday’s news.
There is a misplaced meaning here
A lyric mannerism experimental in the cause.
The relevant theme is like a bouncing ball
Up and down against its fall, sexual where sex calls
To harmony of the fury of all
Each poem is a self-dramatization of my fantasies
To be the greatest poet to step out of the mirror
Of myself eager to thrive against the sterile compulsion,
To take on the sexual experience of the double image
That sex itself before the impact rich in romanticism.
The railroad of words leaves somewhere unknown
Baffled by details that emerge from the potential
Intuition of the aesthetic maxiums of
Rhythmic friendship with words
I mean nothing more then what here is said.

Did I tell you that to recognize God

Did I tell you that to recognize God
You must recognize Its works first
Its ambitions toward life and death
And know that in God there is
A dead-end of mules caught in the instances.
Did I tell you that the revelation
Is the embodiment of the paradoxes of order
And the unselfconscious of obedience.
Did I tell you to attain Its blessing
You must live the aspects of Its works
Which is a variation on the theme of life and death
From man to tree to bee to the clarify death of everything.
Did I tell you that the meaning of life
Is no more profound then the meaning of death in the round.
That even mad Pound and Olson knew the totalitarian
Possibility of the evidence that God is the
Translation of the variations of the spirit unknown.
Did I tell you that the cultural decorum
Is exclusively inside the geography
Of the land of your birth
That cultural is dictated by the weather
Of growth external to our birth
Interfused with the human universe
And the effect that arrest the contempories of the self.
Did I tell you that God plays on the actual stage
Of the human soul with its psychological experience
Developing the body which is outside of the spirit
And the intercourse between them.
Did I tell you that you must be aroused by God’s
Sexual understanding for even tho God is
Self-begetting within Its perception is the
Sexual act as definition of the truth
That matter birth matter and that there is no
New matter to be found under the sun.
Did I tell you that God is a projective verse
Of the understanding the three axiomatic
Principles of the spirit, the soul, the physical
That everything living is referring to everything dead.
Did I tell you that God is a consuming force
That life eats reductive that to man God is
A paradox of symbolic insistence of engagement.
Did I tell you that the manifestation of God
Is in the breath that God is digestive of the
Equilibrium of Its affair of dual subject
That God is primordial and only to be seen
By man as nature

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
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.

On a plenitude of privilege

On a plenitude of privilege
Encompassing the restless mosquitoes
Of nothingness sucking the blue blooded freefell
Of silent that voltage the wake of morning
With its distinction calling forth the crusty dawn
Folded with clouds leftover from a night of
Pleasant November. On such a privilege
I wake after a night of unreal dreams
Classier then the vestments of my bed.
Nothingness runs my head with a flux sinking and
Rising and melted mindlessly by the heavy
Emblems of colors running away through the
Passenger door pouring rain of dandelions
Self-full of attention and understanding
The exfoliated dumfounded day empty
Of assumed sunrise quickly spiraling into a
Deepening configuration of chemical light
Lit in my dream head.
The length of my dreams are frequently hook
On the separation of the dictionary.
I dream myself as a poet of disintegration
But sufficiently religious enough as to
Be saved from the currents of a hell that
Proceeds the innumerable elements
Of the reservoir of the displeasure of fire.
When I wake my head is in chaos
Because the Most High is snarling
The accuracy of my prayerful condition
As ancient as the stubbornness of
My imagination standing up to the meters
Of my poetic concentration.

The dead are done down

The dead are done down
They will not come again
They know the truth of heaven and hell
The friends that breathe
Their last life
Moist with human made winds
That carried words of forgiveness
And prayers to a God that
Can not tell time or knows
How it feel to be human in the skin
The dead, ay the dead
Are stacked in the sky of our heads
What they see are human being human
By the same breath that shall leave us
When death requires us to pay the bill
Stored up in a life of living years
Take a time to sing a song on
The day of the dead gone
To a secret place that
Only the dead knows the scope
Of what it is like
To live without the clothes of our flesh
My grandfather is a dead man
My big mama too
And aunt sweet Sue
All my known dead
Are forever alive on my tongue
My memories of them makes them live
In a round about way that contained no breath
Warm as their heart was
This is all the life that they can now have
To be seen in photos and old letters
Smelling of old inks
Written by hands that now have
Grown to bones indistinguishable
From other bones underground
I love the dead with their sweet
Good-byes still ringing in my ears
As good morning from the land of the dead
As friends remembered for their kindness
The dead ay the dead
Mostly unsung through the living years
When I wasn’t but they was here
It was the dead that gave me life
When I was a gleam in the eye.
It was the dead that spoke to me
When my madness came to rack my brain
It was the dead, ay the dead.

To tell the truth there is no truth in me

To tell the truth
The Eagle is off the quarter
The buffalo is off the nickel
The blind eye on a dollar can not see that
My profile is beneath
A hunger dream of desperation
The sleepers dance in their skin of sleep
Where emptied space chants up a storm
In the deserted sky of the shoreline of clouds
Seed baring their terror matter to ten thousand caterpillars
That in time will fly like time from the clock while time is dancing
The Lorca waltz to the melancholy skeletons
That rings the grave yard where everything sleeps
The deep sleep emerging from the skin.
Just northwest of a soiled handkerchief
Is the introduction to death, the muerte
To friend who love tongues and the good
That they can do when the throat moans
That the moistness of the recently dead
Has joined the feast of choir birds singing halleluiah
To oblivion to the shoulders of the
Alphabets and the weeping of a cracked egg
Because poets are good liar against the poorest machines
That significantly surrounds the
Celebration of a spiritual party that still can
Amuse a foot print of dead rain fallen from
The insane sea of nerves and the science of
Dried bats pulling abstraction from the uprising of the word why
Why the truth is incline to lie on the poet’s tongue
Why do bees buzz their duties of bee’s words
Why has the poets come to squatter their
Retreat from a God’s lumbering its voyage
In the heaven driven mad with screams of croaking angels
Why the wilderness is for sale
In the market place where
Imaginations is packed in a trunk
Whose contour is a spell of birds’ songs
That is politicized by the superhighway
That drains the road of crumbing public disorder
Swept aside upstream to the down low where
Only the faithful goes to unlock the door
Of perfect composures
No one knows the truth of their prayers
No one knows the way not in Cleveland that cleave
To the land, not the gypsy winds weeping
The ripeness of a chunk of night
Not the par excellence of loveship set sailed
With a cargo of astronauts and bicycles
Not the universal possibilities of poetry to
Change your life from the sweetness sharpening
Its teeth on the night stand where glasses sleep
To tell the truth this poem is sinking and rising
Toward the harden growth of words
On the loose skin of a new skeleton.
To tell the truth the regular meter
Is driving the breath full of force
That seduced the innocence anonymous
Poet charged with dinginess and unsentimentally
Telling the dead with their familiarity
Of old friends reunited by the tenderness
Of the sexual death that sits on the bench
Waiting the arrival of their jargon
They are telling the dead that the last breath
Is the last euphoria in the cycle
That can not understand the
Swollen moon that fence the darkness
To tell the truth they are telling the dead
That the poets maintain their breath
Full of words deliberate by the temptation
Particular to the name that words whisper
Sudden and purposeless that darkens by thin
Blade that bloom as a brilliant hiding place
Where the objectified pavement congeals
The lucky boy sleeping his name to remember
The trouble of his muscles the clenching
Chores of his senses suddenly flowering
Its fulfillment immediate and derivative
Around the darkness engagement that flower his tears.

Lumbering at my pace

Lumbering at my pace
I sorry my way pass
The past interested
In what can not last
The divinity of the cost of things
Like love and life’s fragment, chunks
And packed progression at a pace
That can not wait the voyage
Toward the place where angels
Play the angles of the exclusive heaven
There is interpenetration within me
A trip not taken from
By ship or train or plane
By bus or car or truck
Pass market place and blind statures
Pass the expensive religions of the world
And other systems of control with servants
As priest at the door
Lumbering as I go
To sell you a tale about a God necessary
To the prime meridian of your soul
I am told that one God hung on a cross
To set us free to return again
To the righteous road horizontal to our souls
But some of us are vertical to the pace we go
Toward the inclusive boundaries of what is known
Proceeding vertically with our burning imagination
That God is part human, part tree and bees of
Everything natural
That God is a God of left and right and all
In between of what it means to have life.

Slowly

Slowly
I listen to the light
Wetting my mediation
Holding rain
Translating my coming
In from my once insane
Brown twist of like given game
Precise
The city do not rule
The identity
Of tree tops and shade
The soothing classic
Sun plays it refrain
Day after day and day again
The half-closed clouds
Needle point the blue spruce
With new snow that shadow
The acres of mountains
And boughs heavy with its load
The quantities of snow
Melt down the nap of clovers
That shrinks beneath my terror
I float in thoughts
Under bush and underground
Of my consciousness
To achieve the capacity
Of my self-definition massive
In its accumulations of years
In the dwelling of my skin
Over time the Gods have been diminished
From my life replaced by the universal
Road that is the elegance of being alive

Imagine

Imagine
An organ
Of a church
Uniqueness
Of an adoration
Of a race
A struggle
Darkness
Of the gamut
That you must take
Imagine
The exquisite chant
Of religious problems
The lofty
Coolness speaking
Of a God
Extremely Jewish
Instead of the
Spanish mass
Of the figure Christ
Imagine
The morning
Coming of sun
Death of stars
The gold dome
Of the synagogue
The pallid complexion
The rabbi
Named ceremony
The extraordinary
Reach of morning
Imagine
The best of a laugh
A beautiful lament
Cooler then the pent
Kisses that
Cable your tongue
There is no illuminated God
No difference
Between him and the devil
Encountering the word evil
To celebrate
In church or forest
That delights
To remember
That the cross
Was once a tree
Imagine
A record of perfect prayers
Bitter as ashes
On the fore head
The scripture
Written on the tongue
The luminescence
Of a boy born to be a God
His fictional distraction
His integration fictional
The interpenetrations
Of what is written
By the exclusion
Of the big open wide sky
Rational as invisible
Structure impressive
And massive of the weight of God
Imagine
The selective
Nature of Gods
Process from the womb
The reservoirs
Of pecking order
Of the pantheon
The military church
That calls our names
In the hierarchies
Of the regional insane
Imagine
The universalized
Potentials of an earth bound God
The accumulations of saved souls
The aura that glows
Encompassing the
Nothingness of the corporation
That rules our spiritual lives
Some Gods are Gods
Of privilege
Of private direction
of being the managers
Of the store house
Of saved souls
Who resolved the way
That saved souls shall go
Some Gods are quizzical
In their wonder
Their attitude
Stacked on the point of a pin
Some Gods are recaleitrant
With their potential
Imagine
That we renounce
The condition
Of sensuous celebrate
Of the potential pleasures
Of the radiant of splendid of
Knowing a God personally
As house God house life
Rain God thunder storm
Wind God motion
Rain God drops water
Flower God blossoms
Fire God burning
Imagine
An orgasm
In church

I watch him by the night

I watch him by the night
Shift his weight
In the wait for the executioner
Who is a renegade angel
Testing time and wind wet with rain.
I watch him articulate the insinuation
Of the church as hiding place that embrace
The unreachable body that judge the worth
Of the objectify sexual object.
I watch him when he visit the sound of his bed
He is 29 by his wild eyes but he embrace
A nineteen years old poor boy unopposed
By the way of the world.
I watch him cry out that the world
Is an institution of keeping us common,
That all the glitter of the male limitations
Can be seen in the broad-shoulders of St. Louis
Abruptly producing the fetish of desires.
I watch him hunt the imagination
Of semen tasting of the milk of the sea’s life and
The vivified wrong and right of
The abrupt second coming of the sexual act.
I watch him cheerful and exemplary
Of admirable guardian undressed
As to be disturbed by the boredom found in cowardice loosed to empty
The heavy shouts of a little chest
That houses the found hips of cheerful youth.
I watch his warmth famous by the damp awkward silent of a serious faithfulness
Remembered in the passive consciousness
Of what he did commit to the raw hour that research
That touched afternoon blurred by the prolonged
Difficulty darken by surprise of grief
In the cold month guarded by the stretched taste
Of the same hour he watered the empty pavements
Of a night stream of simple blue that laughs at the sparkle
Of a pale blue of the seen sky.

I watch him by the night

I watch him by the night
Shift his weight
In the wait for the executioner
Who is a renegade angel
Testing time and wind wet with rain.
I watch him articulate the insinuation
Of the church as hiding place that embrace
The unreachable body that judge the worth
Of the objectify sexual object.
I watch him when he visit the sound of his bed
He is 29 by his wild eyes but he embrace
A nineteen years old poor boy unopposed
By the way of the world.
I watch him cry out that the world
Is an institution of keeping us common,
That all the glitter of the male limitations
Can be seen in the broad-shoulders of St. Louis
Abruptly producing the fetish of desires.
I watch him hunt the imagination
Of semen tasting of the milk of the sea’s life and
The vivified wrong and right of
The abrupt second coming of the sexual act.
I watch him cheerful and exemplary
Of admirable guardian undressed
As to be disturbed by the boredom found in cowardice loosed to empty
The heavy shouts of a little chest
That houses the found hips of cheerful youth.
I watch his warmth famous by the damp awkward silent of a serious faithfulness
Remembered in the passive consciousness
Of what he did commit to the raw hour that research
That touched afternoon blurred by the prolonged
Difficulty darken by surprise of grief
In the cold month guarded by the stretched taste
Of the same hour he watered the empty pavements
Of a night stream of simple blue that laughs at the sparkle
Of a pale blue of the seen sky.

He speak poems

He speak poems
By his bony cheeks.
He energy just
About everything once.
His photograph
Is placed hard to the wall.
He looks down on a child
Overwhelmed by a large ball.
He tell me I have an unfaltering body
One that clenches to hard
And that I come off as an actor
In the living of my poems
But I am no Othello
Lead around by the noise
Of mistrusted passion
That justified his anger
These autumn days are dying
Anonymous without a whisper
Or a whistle blown from the dim street
Where they call me nigger.
Before I go to bed
I check the stove and the deadbolt
And from the darkness of my sleep
I steal away to the stiffen boy and Jesus
Both concentrate my mind to rhyme
The relationship to discuses the delighted
Overload of athletic men with their taste for muscles
And the terminating the weight around their bellies
Men fit their bodies to look good to other men
With their bodies by adventures, bodies by tasteless
In interest, bodies by living cell of veal
That is worth the meals fruiting your body bold.
He speaks laboring by the pen
No man is without a past and only the most comfortable
Among us knows the begin of our future
That imprisons us when the key is lost in the past.
He is an irregular prodigal
He is rare in his handsome beauty
He has assigned himself to a lonely man
That he found fair and tender to his satisfaction
You may think it not so that few of us get to meet
The undertaker that takes us under and threaten our body
With embalming as the business end of life.
He speak poem evicted from his heart
With all the ambitious of Elliot and Pound.
His intelligent is on parade with
Each poem he performs on the stage.
His disinterest entice the passionate
By his soft hand energies that makes his poems
Warm and willing to woo you the residue of
Their meaning mindful of the shield that words ware.
He explore the truth of your beauty
With his robust poem that reduced
The wonders round in a wrecked head
He says “Poets be attentive to my jargon”
This is a heroically breath of a plea.

There is a nonchalance turn pass the poverty of flowers

There is a nonchalance turn pass the poverty of flowers
Growing undernourished in the shades
The house is as beautiful as handsome wind that
Beautician the front yard trees
With a familiarity of dead leaves
Concentrated at the base
The world is made a morgue of dying things
Old friends of our youth assigned to death
And the satisfaction of dying with tenderness
And a sharp shape epitaph
That undertakes to enthrall
The labor of our hands at rest
From hug that hurt hard beneath
The inert we harbor
When the ship is a wanted woman
Of the neighborhood
Ones who knows
To fish the sun for blessing
Her quick greeting is gentle
With ambitious
Her intelligent
Perhaps disinterest
In self love that punishes the self
The sadden mind raw like ready meat
Covered with cold sweat
Risk and robust like
A man ready for love
Sex is raw on the skin
It is red ready and willing
To transmit energy in the dissipation
Of a drop of sweat sex glows steadily to direct your sight
During sex your attention makes an appearance and the man who challenged
The wreaked mind
Dealing with an avalanche of pain
Is fighting the freeze of protecting the heart from
The sharp movement of an orgasm
Life like love is crowed with sex
And the world is full of attractive men
Ready to risk the possibilities of the glamorously
Strength shown toward the evident
Restless and boisterous in body.

It was a day of rich emotions

It was a day of rich emotions
A day of serenity and
Appearance of suspension
When he stepped from the photograph
Of doubt taken when
The mannered mood made a mark
On the lens of the camera
In the space of half an hour from his coming
He touched my appetite with an equal right
That demanded with a tone of voice
Of an actor standing on the mark
That the tender glands are delicate
By the touch stripped bare when the
Lubricant did not work to slip
A look steady and stouting the suspension
Of my desire
In the dingy rented room unsentimentally
Possibly by the cold impersonal insistent
Of my body’s fear toward the warm fog
That leak darkness of a gray glove over the land
I am like one loved I approach the stiffen
Rod unlock by the stealing of your heart
Into a filling language that rhymes
Its passion congealing
The wriggling delighted muscles
Of human bravery bright as the tombs
That day the nervous night where boredom
Weight like a bloated man janitoring his way
Pass the toilets of an abandoned skull
Slipped from the body of fluid
In my mouth are the ready words once confused
By the tongue speaking its revulsion of
Studious bus-boys who are the scavengers of
Used tables digestively
There is a sour waste in my throat
A strength of what was swollen
A knot of streets with nimble flower
That burns the handsome runaway
Who hunts the side streets with green in his pocket.

Everything is present

Everything is present
To the future
Everything exists
In a space taken up
Everything is a radical theater
Between the twelfth floor and
The fortieth everything is
Amazingly good as a photo
Of hugs and kisses
Everything can not remember
Paper, tree, wood
Everything changes
From the one thing it was
A thing among things
Named by man
Before the skyscrapers came
To lend the landscape
With steel, iron, bricks and malted sand
Everything is enormous in its way
From a speck of dust to its collected
On the world stage
Some of everything is man made
The best pretty good nature laid
Everything is out on loan the living
And the dead
Everything to no on belongs

At my right hand

At my right hand
The impossible map
Of abstract lines
Of Eight Street and
Beyond under the sea
Immediately the water rose
Surprisingly it kept coming
Pass parks and avenues
Of homes in the low land
Of a class system of being poor
Black folks been fleeing waters
Since the great flood allowance
Over the land and life was made frugal.
At my left hand
The anniversary of the flood
Impressed by the changing of subject
When nothing is more important then money
Paid with a map of destination toward the knack
Of amazingly beautiful grace of special spectacle
Who received the advance meal of the savage
System of mystery map meant to make your mark
And money your motion urgently.

Mid fall

Mid fall
The leaves caught
In their final fall
Changing of the season
Something going on
Baring ourselves
Of our dressing
Brown limbs pushing
Something to their fall.

It’s getting time

It’s getting time
To fit by sticking the
Fuzz face of the world
Laughter mingling with
The rudimentary
Vacuum cleaner
Was arrogant with
Its pop-bottle face
Chuckling up the dirt
The trajectory of an egg shell
Stains the kerchief of an English man
Who slums his way pass the red light of traffic
Time has a knack of shooting stars
When the carpet hurts of heavy eyes
And the impossible possibility that
The pain killers of the expression
Of thickening mire collected
Against the flow of the ceaselessly rolling
Yellow of leaves in the orchestrated wind.
Will look the old woman in the random eyes
At the intersection of Broadway and First
Where the police cheek their noise
At the slum little discussed.
I once saw attentiveness
Withdraw from the excellent fertilized
Streets where I lost my virginity
In the vicinity of she made flowers.
She shuffle the shadows of rumors
She shakes the swollen roots knobby
By the terrible winds bushier then fleece.

I once was of incredible strength

I once was of incredible strength
And magnificent grace
I was a distinguish touchstone
Waiting for tomorrow to pound
My shoulders of an ancient race
Into the bustling autumn
Of the adventure of poetry
Told to the qualities of the Mississippi River
Rushing like a gothic apology of skyscrapers
Once I was a sharp edge of religious cults
That chuckle at the notion that God lives
In the hurricane of heaven
Today I have got to drop
Put myself on blast
Or smash the homie that
Bridge the building of admirable
Tourists embarrassing the fallen
RIPs of the amaze struggles
When once I was all the promises of tomorrow
A kind of difficult situation to the God
That could not breath the everywhere places of nature
Once I was the first virgin
A mile long in my beliefs and the angels sexed each others
With the daughters of man in a heaven never meant
For the likes of the human flesh that takes its time
To rot in the ground that waits for the river
I shudder to breathe that my beauty is wild
On my breath as to realize that the foreground
Of my sexual life is a dollar away from my sexual allowance
I once was a jet water of granite
A hug of broken hungry prodigiously
Pocketing warm money and the weight of food
I once was opened handed with my dreams
Back when I celebrated the bacchanal wedding
Of men in love with the newlywed in the
Superficial wedding of
Complexity and the American customs
I one was a husband to a man whose
Condolences gaggle of a theatrical affairs
Looking affectionate down to the humane position
Of all my varieties.
I once was a once was with the exaggeration
Of my managed afternoons lost some where
In the most interesting theater of money
I once settled for October’s bargain
When shouting windows made room
For the policemen of the goodness of laughter.

Blue was falling to ruin

Blue was falling to ruin
To tell time by trouble
A handsome green is young
And quiet of the plateau
That looses its temper on the tongue
Tree trunks are explosive
Between the railings of the streets
Of the iron balconies where
The executioner carefully shakes
The hand of the condemned man
You are hunches of hard edges
Confident of the lunatic of your existence
You have seen the space of an hour bitch for
Equal tenderness and more restless moments
The hardest ground you circle
Is all of your concentration of indifference
Ignorance is an abstraction of past longings
Of historical days of your youth
And convulsion of time eating away at time.

I turned my head

I turned my head
And the gentle slope
Protested the adorable
Children dead to themselves
I turned my head
And saw the saddest
Thing of all, a God
Using blotting paper
On the flesh of clouds
I turn my head
And the stiff collar
Of the priests protested
The touching of a man’s privates
I turned my head
And saw the spiritual element
Of American influence
Exercise the architecture
Of hell’s fire fear
When childhood
Wandered through
The glimpsed streets
Traveling earth’s tremor
I turned my head
And saw a neighborhood
Of rhythm’s architecture
Filled with the apparatus
Used to jazz the police

The blacks are dancing

Sleepy boy
The blacks
Are dancing
Dancing their pains
In that unquiet unique
Dance that keep
Them sane
Their fingers dance
And can tell
Two sheets
Of rolling paper
By the thin thickness
The blacks
Are dancing
In Harlem
The dance
They dance
In East St. Louis
And Sugar Ditch
Mississippi
Where the Sunday morning
Dance of religious
Dancing toward God
In a black way
That says
I am innocent
Of everything
But the dance
The blacks
Are inventing
Machines
That can not dance
The blacks
Are ebullience
With the sudden dance
In the contrary country
Where they were born
The blacks
Are dancing
For the white man’s
Strict God
Who can not dance
But the blacks
Are teaching the angles
How to jazz their feet
How to jive an American rhythm
The blacks
As polycentric
Their bodies are drums
The blacks
Once prohibited
From lifting their feet
Danced the shuffle
To the drum’s beat
The blacks
Jitter bug
The lindy hop
And twist
The blacks
Are dancing the rhythm
Of Dioula on the tongue
The Mossi dance
In Ouagadougou
In Cote d’ lovire
The roasted coco bean
Color dance is as dense
As coffee
The blacks
Are dancing
Crooked knees polyrhythm
With articulation and anticipation
Of the black B-boy
Breakdancing
Graffiti of Dee Jays
The blacks
Are dancing
Dance by any
Means necessary
And by the side
Of the rapper’s delight
The blacks are dancing
The blackness of night.

Intelligence, the struggled

Intelligence, the struggled
Of the sharp edge of an admirable humorist
Lecture on the cold bloodedness
Of the 13th floor with a bridge’s strength
As ancient as a race of Samosonism
Seen in the rumba of parrots speaking in tongues.
The almost great afternoon of serenity found
In the silent of light held in the hands of a newborn
Is particularly calm when the quiet places
Of the busy brain is eating the real meal of challenge.
Everybody looks like a machine raised two fingers high
And the abstract drama of fortune is desperate toward
Its hurried control of pure and cool pelvis
Of a franticly variety of fish skeletons
Made of blue plastic that absorbs the trapped dash
At the bottom of the 5th promise to raise the
Dead hour full of ringworms painting with machine oil.
On the 6th floor where an untidy parakeet
Is singing a domestic song I can not get enough
Of the miracle squeezed from 6 months of friendship.
In my head there are broken promises of a smile
There is the half hour of foreplay with
The house Gods and a conversation with the cross
That pursuit me the edgeless shape of fire
Struggling against the soap opera tenaciously and
Problematical with its attracted warmth
Of movements flickering toward exhaustion.
I quench my experience of first-hand
Suicide and recognize the solemn symmetrical
Void of photos taken when I was a tender man
Of barbell means and strung out on urinals
Smelling of saint’s blood, saints are the victim
Of their gestures that move the air like mockingbirds.
When the constant shifting of the advancing winds
Was as rigid as the soft slops of slippery turned heads.
The chocolate command of my enthusiasm
Stumble handsomely across the crackling hours
Of separate rooms where each holds the
Prophetic dense blue of a cry only heard
By the dance of crumpled reflections
That tells us that the end of the water will come
When 7 a.m. is sunk beneath the angelic message
Of separated weather that crack, pimp and pop
The empty brick city where night was once as simple
As the hour of dawn, a stone blue of different blues
Almost as tired as peach fuzz face intimate as
An itching of the groin hung on tough boys of joy who hustle
The miracle as public as the nipples of a sudden
Drop of urinals 6 months long by the shine of the sun.

The amusement of thirty thousand people

The amusement of thirty thousand people
Is full of the musk of musical freaks
That is friends to all the muwallad of Americus
When the Chinese murmur of 16,000 letters
Written to Santa Clause in the background of their heads
Receive the greater length of what they imagine.
The moon is unhurried toward dawn
And last August with its charm extremely terrible
Like a chatterbox full of laughing roller coasters
In the dance hall of wild animals
Is now dead and done down by the dirt.
The Mississippi is a visitor to St. Louis every second
Of the extraordinary day and the rain is
Sight seeing the movement of my fair city
Which is an accident of important that absorbed
The tears of a lucky teacher who taught
The pointing of fingers to the rotten night of
Breathtaking radios illuminated by the rumor of electricity.
Suddenly the difficult university of my
Book case is marvelous like a delightful
Boulevard that runs from a hand full of poets
To the traffic of foolish skyscrapers
That overlooks the immense window
With the impression of the Madonna
Inexpensive as a splendid view
Looking out onto an affectional voyage
Taken completely with a solicitous dog
Barking at the foot of night two hundred
Impression deep with stars.

In the darkness of white heat

In the darkness of white heat
I am burnt then drowned in the river
My skin is the color of Mississippi clay
And I have often opened the wrong door
Often lost myself from myself
I imagine myself a poet
One without pretension of wisdom
One with an edge that eats
Like the bitter poetry that is
Purely the doman of the mirror.
I have been enslaved by poetry
Like fighting a hand full of docile dragons
That is too friendly to survive in St. Louis.
My flesh defends itself against
Rhythmic simplicity of all my faults
And poetic understanding captured
By the architecture of my hand and pen.
I am a lyrical man in my bones
And the beat of my heart and body
That bare me through the world
At first glance full of
Anguish and confusion
Against the mechanism
Of machines that dull my edge
And enslave me just by their words
Yet at the root of my beauty
Is a spiritual architecture
That conquers my spirit
And influence my body
To do right as right
Is showed before my eyes.
I am ever watchful for the blacks
I encounter in the shenanigans of the streets
Of North Americus
The glassy blacks in the configuration
Of an African mask
The abstraction of their beautiful features
The blacks who are delicate
Of body and hard boiled of minds.
The blacks with their spiritual
Invention of a foreign God.
Yes the blacks who rub shoulders
Against the shoulders of the white
The blacks who all look like
An African mask at home
And at work an American mask is put on.
The black that shall triumph in the years to come
And receive their heaven, mothers don’t you worry.
The blacks playing piano in a little dive
With peanut shells on the floor.
The blacks who have forgotten how important
They are to the couture of the world.
The blacks who first wrote a letter to God
The blacks with their talent for making English new.
I am a black man through and through
My dedication is to know the proof
That the blacks are changing the old into the new
That they have yet to reconcile
The complete collection of what blacks do.

Big mama sent

Big mama sent
Me out to pick a swish
From the peach tree
Is it the height of crudity
To have a child pick out
The instrument of his torture
The croaking frogs
In the high yellow grass
The red ants parading beneath the sun
The chameleon running across the porch
The poet’s shadow wares a laurel
For the poems he wrote to the moon
Soon the wind, the sky, the branches,
The coal cold sleep
Shall bust into blaze
When the hard man sings
His honey signs away.
Down by the river
The sky has arrived
To do our bidding
By the rhythm of the
Dark brown water
A man of blond hair
Is boating in the middle
Buy I have a swish
To pick for my punishment
For being a precocious boy.

I hear the sorrowful moan

I hear the sorrowful moan
Of the grief of the dying flowers
And the pain of the soil
A naked cry as warm
As the breath of the stitched air
That consumed me when a naked man
Was collecting dead insects crowded
On the head of a red hot pin
That burns the screams of them.
There is a river that flows
Through the tender tongue of slaughter
There is a mountain of eyeballs
And water falls to accommodate
My misgivings of death on the tongue
There are pieces of the blade
Used to cut my delirious breath
Stuck in my throat
And I resist the trembling
Demands of beauty in the knock down city
Of my distinguish birth.

Pure as what remain

Pure as what remain
Of pierced space
The on lookers emptied
Of stones bleeding
Their pulse of voices.
The dawn spins on
Telling time
By the tranquil moon
Punctured by a cloud
Half eaten by the wind
Murmuring its growth
Through St. Louis by the
Anxiety of the Mississippi
Wrapped in anguish
And accented by falling leaves
And plastered birds
Wired to the bare branch
Of an old Mulberry tree.
The children like late
Autumn flowers drop their petals
As the dead leaves parade
Through the reconciled streets
And weather keeps up it correspondent
With man who answer back
By cutting down terrified trees
Yes man with his arrogance well established
Man who dream up the Most High
When nature could no longer
Catch him with hypnosis
Man my secondary focus
Man who fear that nature is nonexclusive
When it comes to her intensifying
Alertness toward life.
Man living without the possibilities of gratitude
Man surviving by the skin of his teeth
In the small space that he has been put to
Man who cherish his greatness as if it was
The work of God, measureless in the
Passing of a moment
He know not the ramification of his foot steps
He do not know the ramification of his
Entanglement with the world
He has forgotten the rudimentary
Wisdom that his forefather lived by
When the mountain came down from the mountain.
When the sea first vomit him forth
And his cells clustered together to make a man
Who fell from the tree of the universe.

Everything is burning energy

Everything is burning energy
Under the burning of the sun
My imagination is burning here
I image a transmutation
Of horizontal guide
That keeps the exclusive blue
Out of greenness of your breath
Red is as terrible as an zero
That rejoins vertical in it round
I have been burning the roads
All over town from park
To busy streets where
The burning is intense
By the instance that
Never return for each
Second is indivisible
From the passing last
To the coming forth
Of the next with its
Beautiful face forward
Toward what will be
And had been in the
Burning off of time.

There is a sore feasting

There is a sore feasting
In the thunder storm
A sore that plays out
The dram between
Robin and worm.
Today I was burning
My imagination with
A magnifying glass
Under the sun.
Fall is falling fast
From the mulberry tress
Less then a 100 leaves
All facing the north side.
I pushed all the water from
The garden holes
I have filled up the gas can
For the lawn mover and clean
The blazes
I have cut back the canons
And clean the filter of the furnace.
I am ready to settle into winter
When the cold winds blow snow

Holy hocus-pocus

Holy hocus-pocus
The Gods have died
Out of joint beneath
A bleeding sky.
I pull a possum
From my hat
And man can not
By joke and jive
Bring this lady down
From the abstraction
Of the false blue sky.
Red squirrels, gray squirrels
Black squirrels nibbling
On a seed beneath
A sky full of storms
Today is not the day
That I was born
To worship God as my mom

I speak propaganda

I speak propaganda
To nature as God
Her symmetry, her design
She is recognized as the holy divine
I take my inspiration from her trees
And the ambience of the songs that birds sings
And little heard buzz of bees
She is harmony, she is diversity
All that men needs she provide everything
Her moods sufficiently impregnate all
She is the essence of what it means
To be a God of land and sea
And high unknown heaven
Her capacity is what she has achieved
In her order of shapelessness and shapful things.

The freshest crowd

The freshest crowd
Gather with their crystal glasses
To shattered night from its daze.
The night will not arrive to night
And the moon will be a magnifying glass
Of loose soldiers grown uncontrollable
With their odor consuming their journeys
As tamed as a corpse of footprints
That was silent in its perpetual
Ambush of a tear lost from the anguish
That becomes the sky the color of dying Japanese birds
Who was an eye witness to the great blast
That tore open the sky and everything died
Even the magnesium in the
Body of a chrome baby ambush in her bed
The obscure blue of the sky died that day
The city was made dead with deadly breeze
And burning trees and clothes torn with deadly tears
The blast gave strength to silent, it was
A blast of violent of throwing open the sky
Clear down to its nucleolus
Where the cytoskeleton arched with the wisdom
Of witnessing the growth of dying
Defected by the breeze laced with nuclear radiation
Leakage that leak into the boy stuck with pins,
The loss arm sheared off the holy man in his temple.
The dead crowd was seeking protection in the fire
Of a schooner of pharmacies.
The crowd was vomiting the antagonist
Of whores who are leaving the moon
In a deserted graveyard.
The crowd smelling of fermented jungle
And throats full of black cats
And the subterranean demons
That filters the graveyard of empty souls
Murmuring in their tiny bones,
Murmuring the peasants on the vomit platters
Of emerald as ancient as the very quick
Riddled moon rank with the ashes of Broadway
Where death is a bloodstone engrossed with
An avocado seed stored in the window where
The dancers are dancing like cold men
With flame in their eyes; the holy dancers of
The slender cemetery of old children.
The crowd is always primitive with dance
With the wisdom of the sphinx in its original light
And the blueprints of golden howls given in the year of
A yellow adagio and the bull headed woman
Of the alegrias walking the samba of the zumba
In a frenzy motion toward the formula of
Close friends suddenly enthralled by my unusual moment
They are astonished by the mathematical motley crowd
And the motley fool is an Englishman fishing in the
Mississippi of Garcilaso de la Vega.
The Red River of the Mississippi
The Atchafalaya River of the Mississippi
The sudden rush of radio music in the rivers.
Hug me Englishman, happy me with your visit,
Block out my magazine language that is
A cable gram from the future of piano and trains’
Sounds in need of leaving its impression made
In the memories market that we adore.
The crowd is always breaking out into dance
When a rush of tin cans music is found in the wooden pocket
Of the really lucky.

I am this voice

I am this voice
The one beneath my breath
Only heard by the nearest
Tongues at dawn in St. Louis
And the mire of Mississippi
Where the swamp water of furious
Labor has abandoned the sweat of yesterday.
In Mississippi the red ants bite clergymen
And cherubim a like.
In St. Louis the valley is laced with fog.
The keen edge of the church
Is bronze and the enormous weight
Of the river water is muddied as the
Hard blue resonance of the sky.
The children of the river; the Naiades
Are singing beside the bonfire
And the silenced dying of the door to heaven.
The bull bodies of the Potamos
Sailors of burnt snow and the
Lost self flowing pass the intimate
Rock moon of genuine murmur
Are like wounded boys playing at war
In the no name streets where
Everything is awake and childhood
Is a stony footprint of
Chinese philosophers.
The extinguishable smoke
Rugged and heavy with
Innocent is billowing the resurrection.
Yes my voice smelling of serpents and
Old bridges mummified by old world sleep
This voice is of brokenhearted resting
Tender with complaining corpuses
With their moist dreams
Tender as a graveyard in the tangled landscape
Of crocodiles and fugitive morning doves
On the look out for the boundaries of my wordy throat.
My voice is a fable of breath cut open like
The land before the river of breezes and blades
And sharp edge trash and a thousand plastic begs
Each full of dead fishes in the worm color water.
The river is never lonely; never alone
In its triumph flow pass slashed throats
And scream that can stop the roots of trees
From growing daze of tepid silent dripping
From loose faucets when the odor of spelt piss
Is heard in the dark damp corner
Where the homeless sleep beneath the shadowy moon
Caught in the equilibrium of a night’s journey
Taken in the shattered uncontrollable source
Of rubber gloves worn by the Japanese
When the mushroom fountain blew its load
Full of dead policemen and fresh light.

As dry as an idiot I am amazed

As dry as an idiot I am amazed that the cult
Of the virgin delight is breezy with a quality
Of a touchstone that lecturer on Cervantes
And the cold bloodiness that is full of joy and bustling
Landscape of hurricanes of something fantastic
Toward the everything of meaning South American clothes.
Say hello in English to the edict of worms and the pro publicly
Of testan that assert against all reasons of pulling a tree from its roots.
Yesterday I hugged autumn like
A man to his last meal when the door
To technology is nailed shut.
My silent is as peaceful as a frog
Of extremely important and my skin is like paper bark
As exquisite as Chinese amusement
And old ladies once mistresses
With their rich soil where grows
A cruel rose of old maid dressed
In intelligent and indepenant.
Chinese ladies abandon
And fixing up themselves
To knead the laughter of youth.
Slivery hair blossoms napping
In the afternoon tolerated to their sleep
Extraordinary first hand souls
Dressed in age as old as
Disturbed age sensible as the
Middle forest of rare experiences
With their millstones of gas and in doors plumbing.
Old ladies touched by humor of melancholy
Spend their limit time beneath the surface
Of their identical tolerating the public image as old as shoes.
Old ladies as mothers of morning
Amusing themselves with prayers and poems
They drop their thoughts to the floor
They ramshackle their memories
Cozy in their nesting of being old.
Eventually we learn the experience
Of being one with age.
We will laugh and pat out laps and reflect
That we have grown delicate and firm
In our understanding of the everything of life.

I have not seen my pure skeleton

I have not seen my pure skeleton
Never travel with it to heaven
Where the struggling moon
Is arriving lie a plastic dove
In the unlashed broken dance
Of horse’s eyes seeing like the ancient
Mountains where the knife tongues
Slept like the graveyard where somewhere
Is breathing the long release of a howl
That sounds like a moan ad blue as the word white.
My skeleton is pure and white and folded in emptied sleep.
The elbow of my skeleton is an anchor
Teeming with bent motion and a stiff cold
Miniature moon’s movement meant to
Rise like a rose from the hard arrow
That cries summer in St. Louis.

The blazing stars in a jet black sky

The blazing stars in a jet black sky
The vapor of a airplane
The moon is riding high
I wish that I had wings
The memento of my raising breath
Sometime I expect to die
The cool drift of a late autumn night
The hurry of cars passing by
I meander pass the hassle of rage
And the dominate of shades
That cut like a gentle blaze
To be outside I pay the cost
Of a heavy rain that is lost
56 now my years
Half way toward death I have no fear
The stars are like needle points
The milky way died by the street lights
I am secured in what is right
That God is a God of day and night
The diversity of life
Is given proof
That nature is the God that rules
Her capacity accumulations everything living
Even the creature of mortality
Man imagine that God is a thing of heaven
But even there nature rules.

The eternal bloom of my spirit is tied

The eternal bloom of my spirit is tied
To my body which is perishable
The final loss of my thoughts is sufficient
Enough for me to loose my life.
I am persistent to live it
Immediately by the breath.
The masterful ramification of the diversity
Of my thoughts is moving pass the poetic beginning
Of my experiences.
I am entangle with the world, assimilated
With its rain drops that overspill the
High pressure of my depression.
I am no afterthought of nature
I was not born by change.
My body is a machine of flesh, blood and bones
Insignificance against the whole.
Man clusters himself in cities and ponders
His involvement within the universe
He walks the streets of abundance tension
Laid out beneath the constellations
Ever aware of just how small he is beneath it all.
I am dumb aware of my eager breathing.
I fall in and out of consciousness of my breath
My spirit has taken up resident in my body when I was born
And it shall dissolve
When death shall come to claim me
And all my potential shall be for not
My body is a cemetery of dead thoughts
Yet it is a reservoir of what I have forgotten.
The utterance of my thoughts lives in poems
The grave yard of who I was at the moment of their creation
Let them not fall into extinction as my breath evaporate
Into the investment of the air.
And man is without important within the whole
Natures bold appreciate nothing lesser then the cycles
Of warmth and cold she goes as she goes on
Holding the tiny things of all that is unknown.
Man is the definition of his tendencies to do
In his thin sleep heavy with dreams, he know no confidence
Of the guidance of the death of his memory increasing away
Its accumulation restless as the mind is toward everything.
He dreams of God’s mechanics of confinements and its astonish
Beauty of the hierarchy of power solitary
As to summon all things from the water.
Man seems to have loss the notion that nature is the effect
The holy balance of what is meant by perfect
That her identities are all that is seen in heaven and earth
Even the spinning out of our human dreams, that she is the
Oldest God, older then rocks and trees
She is intense by the celebration of birds that worship her
She is the pleasure of our limitation, she is immortal
Save that part which makes up man with his delusional
Gods that can not save him from his crucial flesh.
Man use his invested Gods to justify
His arrogance that tugs at his brain like a mind
Gone insane as the make of a thunder storm of radiant rain
But in the end nature shall have the final word
Spoken by the death of the sun melting even the
Subterranean common place of harded rocks.

Self-concisions of my boundaries

Self-concisions of my boundaries
I set my imagination free.
Discretely it went progressing
Through the dark streets, its tendency
Overriding the obliteration of my
Categorizing soul full of spirituality
Of the self comprehensiveness.
Then I was a man of radiance
With my organized darkness of my skin
And the suspension that drained me awake.
My sleep with its tentacles dreams organized
My chaos of all my permitted knowledge.
In sleep we loose our composure of consciousness
And our criticized silent of intermediacy.
In my dream I reconciled myself with the Most High
Of the possibilities of holy focus and the
Interrelationship of mental motion and poetry.
Poetry is hypnosis of touched knowledge,
It’s a continuum of invention that celebrate
The smallest moment sharp and relevant as to be controlled
By the individual cost of stillness of mind surrounded
By the possibilities of the ramifications of diversity.
My sleep is drowning pass the edge of all my dreams
With their probabilities of cause clustered round
The sum of the universe found in a fallen leaf.
My dreams overspill the destruction of my afterthoughts
Caught in the entanglements of permanence.
My dreams are in the shape of their
Ramification and rudimentary
Coincidental afterthoughts that yields
To the motion of the oceans of thoughts
Abundance as to dance against the multitude
Of constellations broken by a rain drop.

I was running pass a hassle

I was running pass a hassle
Almost sure that the sufficient
Motion of my tendentious sorrow
Was jet black with shimming provisional
Bronze intimacies hardened by purplish
Common place hesitation wrought from my
Hopeless periphery.
Motion was crowding in around me
Like an unfolding translating of the intuitions
Used to measure the capacity of being human.
Crossing over into a heaven devoid of pollen
There was a certain point that motion
Meant to make on the focus of my bones.
I was switching between the joint of a cry
And the juice of a rose dulled by the cold winds
Blowing its tragic definition into the
Pink mouth of a high bright yellow hunger
Of my aspiration.
At the foundation was an incline green with
Crushing grooves and the wilderness of stones’
Transmutations defiant of motion’s
Voyage broken into clunks of religion
But all I wanted was a unity to burn away
My imaginations crazy with accounts of
Somnambulist adapting themselves to the
Transformed history of my body at motion
Toward being a homosexual in the rejected
Secrecy of society impenetrable by
The conjure road dragging itself out pass
The exultation of promised dreams.
My motion was liquefied to the nearest
Tailwind desperately in want a
Joyous thirst for desires.

Running like a deranged orange

Running like a deranged orange
I came across an excellence garrulity of blue
Looking for the fragment of definition
In the selfishness of a lost item wounded by
The radiance of the tendencies of being a novelty
All the color of the sun is worthy of inspired
Savagery and the harmonious water penetrating
The invisible archipelago swimming the
Course of reconsidered configuration of
Withered feelings catching the shade of a dead sky
Are biting the edge of the highway that lead you to the
Importance of strange cycles of the moon
Sitting in the shade of being soaked to the skin.
The pecking order of man’s undistinguished knowledge
Is encompassing the flesh of the burning sky where
The quizzical recalcitrant saints are sensuous
And suspended by their symmetry when everybody
Get together to find their identity lost in the
Wonder of being human on the threshing floor
Where dusty color aflamed with intonation contain
The forgotten crowed flesh-color petals of strong
Flowers with a warm voice handsome as an elegy
Of painted smiles full of terror and estrange thorns
Of transparent rage preserving the expression
Dedicated to bees that break through the squeeze
Of interesting progressive machines of the pelvis of a skeletons.

New morning steps out of my dream

New morning steps out of my dream
The bed holding my form sinking into possibility
In my ecstatic head the blacks are dancing
Darkly with the coolish skin bold as blackberries juice
Their merriment making is meant to jazz and rocket away
The energy of a long hard day of being black in the way
That preserves their dignity of the comprehension
Of what it means to be darkest of Americans
There is a light in the skin of their brown eyes
There is casualness in the familiarity of their hands
That sees that the circulation of their
History does not come around again
Black fathers are falling from the family tree
In this way some young black fathers are thieves
Who steal themselves from the hands of their sons
And mothers are the teacher of mental arrangement of their boys
That can not teach them the course nature of being a man
What they see is what they do, they lose a part of their identity
It takes a man to teach the boys how to be a man
I take nothing from the mothers that do their best
In their labors they are blessed.

Look for the night flower growing in the nearest star

Look for the night flower growing in the nearest star
Listen to the sycamore tree dropping its leaves and
Stretching it roots under ground where the worms hold court
Withdraw the rumor of thunder crying out
As a rain of hanged men flooding the forest of selfless imagination
The prudent return of snow blames the non-distinction of birch color water
Sit fireside beside the held weigh of a magnificence breath
Of leaching water that outwait the winds of obliteration
Lumber across the sea of toilet bowls flushed with moving expansions
Hear the noise of love making through the walls of discrete definition
Confess that your approach toward the moss color lesser door
Leading to the heart of a good man that knows the road to travel
Is the last road taken full of the last snow categorizing the Most High
Go beneath the holy blaze of the definition of pondering Christianity
Tread the stairwell of your approach that contain the procedure of comprehensiveness
Eat the standing warmth of a stiff message fancy with fragments
Smell the hydrant of all your yesterdays great with possibility
Now dead as the garbage of time tight-bodied and seizure by sensation
Bottom feed your plunge into happiness an abstraction of chocked mystery
Sweat the combination of leather look and weathered books
Sniff the investigating joy of emptied approval rooted in the composition
Of a woman’s untainted energy of mechanisms of clarity
Appreciate the finely smell of excreted mild weather as smart as the winds
Circle everything clear as a round green of the mulberry tree
Beat back the mellow hard-limbed windy air that catches your breath
Be ecstatic as yellow passion running round the tongue of dammed cypress
The streetlight is dancing unremembered of hedges
Of homeless cats hunting the blustery hold of days clear as the smart sky
Take your casual soul pass the golden energy lumbering its return
Of going forward with the biggest body that you hold at a right angle
Of leftover tomorrows rooted in the promise of yesterdays
Let the non-supportive hankering of burning illusions
Local to mortal sweeping pass the unintentional afternoon of
Musical sensations chocked full of lush and crusty voltage
Let the cindery element of your rattling bones of transmutation
Unlikely as a boat of future crystal boundaries disposed of true sensations
Born upon the radiance sea of glass fishes barking like dogs of celebration
Doze the widest imposition of distinction of difference recalcitrant to flames
Let your mind contain the omnipresent of the boundaries of
Consistency found in the supercharge cluster of maggots
Feeding on the burden of precious spirituality that settles into residencies opposed
By invisible breath locked to the distraction of a voyage toward the
Horizontal proceedings of a ship burning its sore freightage of
Unity found in the prohibited sanction sprouting awake like
Drained rain that sinks into the inventions of nature and the
Reconciled art of the everything of the sun
Yes nature is the artist of everything in her hypnotic motions
Of the subconscious radiance of accumulations as privilege
Of the pecking order of the sun’s representative honor.
The sun is the thought of all intimacies sufficient as to meander
Pass the further that is as skimpy as slender as laughter that
Celebrate the growth bleeding the bedazzlement of a religion
Of the radiance sun my clarity my equilateral possessions
My thrust of a thousand wanting my small philosophy
Of upright regimentation of the improvisation of flowers toward bees
And the hopelessness of a harden tenderness of a consistent love of
Inspiration of the harmony found in diversity of the shortest aspiration
Of elegance ants swimming in the rain falling into the flood of an
Imagination sizzling the integrity of reverie.
I am a child of the identity of the love-ship of the fat sun
I am the psychic buoyancy of the sun I am the sweetness of catastrophe
Degrees of the harmonious weight of sun light and the diseases
That grows on the skin of thousand snowflakes falling from the chaos of
Dead clouds slain by the debilitated cold of the universe.

I will not think otherwise

I will not think otherwise
Contrary against hugs and kisses freely given.
I am a mad man of paper breakfast
A mad man of amputated skyscrapers
I have written a mad letter of literary value
Of three million charming words blown into
An English exam of Gateway Station.
I am the mad distinguish reflection poignant
With romantic poetry of unpainted windows.
I am long in my madness of puritan darkness.
My madness has the wonderful atmosphere of toadstools
Affectionate toward imperceptible forest
And express trains moving toward all of my tomorrows.
My madness is a skin of hard nipples strong in their defiance defense
Against the glove snuggled as to sniff the potent damp
Walking the prospect of inclusions of my mad memories.
My madness is a general sway all about aged impetus
Of marshes deep with rutting mud and sentiments as hard as wood.
My madness has established its indefensible blame as
Reason to go insane when the wreckage of my offence
Is innocence as a lilac animal’s conspiracy intense in its vagueness.
My madness dopes the money of my phrases of scramble poetry.
My madness is a privacy that I keep close to the choke of my heart.
I masturbate my madness with an unflagging escape of current emotions.
I drowned my madness in a banquet worthy of its dying perfume.
I will not think otherwise that the water of my madness is boiling
Away the circular gnarled limbs used to walk away the push
Of something outside of the jubilant madness of a dazzle wriggle.
Suddenly I have lost my madness to the goodness of caught graves.
I have lost the youngest self of myself amongst the brown limbs
Of a boy who fed himself on my madness pushed outward from
The corner where I kept the bump working against the fallen petals
Of whom I was when I was lean in a fat year shining black back against
The hard self that I keep in my breast pocket just in case someone
Should steal my madness from me when I am not looking.

Anxiously I am descending pass

Anxiously I am descending pass the groans
Of tobacco smoke and blushing daggers
Swaying their deceitful wind breaks
Endless as childhood of moon lit understanding.
My bronze forehead is the color of a hard
Visual perceptual property of psychological phenomenon
And pierced water exhaled by the gothic corner
Where billboards of fake Gods with their
Clergymen robed in elusive mistakes
That are an expression empty of air is
Wooing a heart attack corrosive as a hand full of
Anguish equilibrium.
There is an innocent confusion in my walk
And I consume swarming doorways used to
Keep out the night of counterfeit clouds accommodating
The eyeglasses of the moon.
My heart is emptied of fragile pneumatic sorrow.
My heart is devouring purity and the distances of
Manacled perfume of pigeons.
The fragile children are descending carelessly toward
The burnt blond circle sitting beside the sincerity of
Imaginary rhythm of the orchestration
Heard in the rain.
I am playing the sand storms of complains
In the hardness of a dawn breaking wind of
Tiny thresholds that intersect
The nightingales of foot cancer and frozen
Corridors leading toward the bedroom
Of the sun broken by celestial children of pure agony.
I am the purple irises of forgotten shouts
In the withered mouth powerless moving like
A snake of serpent amputated by dumb butterflies
That muzzle the incomprehensible mornings
Enormous as dollars the size of a side of beef
Meant to fed the business end of spectacle of
Bank president marvelous as the revolutionaries
Junk of wall streets.
I am the mother of cold gaiety popular with the atmosphere
Of poetic preparations of leftover newlyweds who are as
Huge as the contrasts between domesticity and Christian intimacy.
I am everyone who criticize the broke hundred cut back
Food of the blues falling through the cracks of celebrated appreciation.
The wedding between weather and the sparkle night is preformed
By St. Louis sitting at the dinner table of delicious skeletons
Sleeping the dead air of stiff emotions where the flesh derail
A flock of undying nakedness that goes through the musical scale
Of armchair philosophers melancholy as longsome echoes repeating
Fragments of winter frost waltzing the rhythm of obscured yawns
Meant to poetry their way pass docile entertainment of lukewarm
Simplicity lyrical and modest like a poetic logic used to
Neighbor the last extra human intellectuals who can see into
The mechanism of the apparatus of the last battle fought between
Soft fog and immense rain glimpsed deep in the neighborhood
Of the blacks who are smile deep in the wounded night.
Night wounded with roots and veins and spiritual dance running
The horizontal universal green of marimbas and aquarium
Of excessive moister of the madness of rain’s perfume
Smelling of phosphorescent sea voyage when the slave ships
Cruse with black fire held in the belly of a blackness blacker then
The blacks with their goodbye tears broken on the chains that
Bounded them to the American way of enslaving the river banks of
The Mississippi quiet of solitude and foolish without regret for its overflow.
I am forever trapped in the bones of my instant of the slavery of
Petrified swoon that break its long solitude of abrupt taunt of the last
Midnight projected on the sky where I rattle my sleep like a phantom
Breathing the faint calm of my dreams amorous and gleaming
The tremor wholly and sensitive.

I was busy reshaping the Christian God

I was busy reshaping the Christian God
When he woke and caught me at it
His whole body quibbled before I was done
And man, was he furious at my attempt
But nothing but Eros can dismays me once
I have set my mind to the task
He wanted me to submit my pen
To his approvable but I hold my ink as blood itself
He was insisting that I change him back to what
He was a thousand years ago
But my fingers would not flame away the changes
That I had made for I am not one to embrace
The dead skin that wrap the Holy Ghost
I tried to explain to him that I was only
Charging bargain rates for the work that I had done
But this did not pacified him
He threatened me with hell’s fire but I am a fire to myself
And fire can not burn fire beside I have the
Wisdom of poetry to protect me.

My discourse is wanting for nothing familiar

My discourse is wanting for nothing familiar
Of grace separated from the role of words
Meant to mean nothing but the stylus of a poem
Luminous in the secret place where a messenger
Of the fallen God is compacted by the sure footed
Angel who is only revealing its mysteries in the tide
Of a seasons’ edge
I recognize the windless dancers with their
Secret motion of proposition discovered by me
When I was a listener to the speeches of the God
But those days are gone by the dead fog that connects
The music of my head to the settled secrets
Discovered on man’s lips where Gods exist
As creatures of time told only by time
The majority of Gods are outlaws creeping
Into our heads through a crack in the
Muscles of our brain and we license them
To condemn the variegated soul that
We carry in an orgy of being bold.

Something is gnarling at my dreams

Something is gnarling at my dreams
Of statue men who are wrestling in the nude
Flowers are blooming from their eyes
And the shadows of their breath are a rumor
That takes the time to tell me that truth is leaching
The guardians of my red sleep.
I smell the work-a-day sweat that smells
Of spent firecrackers gloomy with
Yesterday also spent by the clocks
That no longer tic their tock in a round about way
I approach the listening post where
Stairwell lead forward to the assembled
Beautiful yellowish boys who lifted their eyes
To the inner structure of their demeanors
Eager to please the cutting edge kind to the hands
That would hold with warmth of heart and firm
As self-contained glory of the warm flesh of
Strange men who are willing to touch the forgotten prick
Renewed with an erection growing as mushrooms
In the dark warmth of their flesh-color garden
My dreams are distributed throughout my body
That can not be dispelled by the wants that I wait for
When the handsome boy with his thick hunger
Rehearse what he will say to woo me from my
Current eucalypus lover that choked on his own adultery.
I need a man dedicated to my expression of love
One inserted in my dark flesh that breakthrough
To all of my raceous history.

I say almost as I go

I say almost as I go
Toward the roots of my family tree
In the afternoon of delightful English
That my friend speaks
The last time I felt like this
When the American poets
Clothed themselves in fantastic words
Of spoken everything of an anthology
That studied the extremely demagogue
Of Protestant belief.
I tell you this because the worst imaginable
Fifteen days of a boy running his write toward
A poem about the mother of sorrows was
An Oriental extraordinary evidence
Of the profundity of everything.
The Catholic are not free to love the man
Like angels who treat the immensity
Of their body of custom of superior of devoted
Gestures faithful toward old women
Who incense the Russian church.
I say this to you from the intensity of my heart
As I kneel over two hours moving backward
Toward the admirable virgin boy who is affection
With his Italian toy
The beautiful boy primitive with his sex full of emotions
That distinguishes itself from the crucifix that bursts
Into embroidered music as charming as the
Last rite given in the wee hour of sexual motion
Of a kind and innocent guitar draped in a
Granada silk shawl
But his heart was full of a dark Spanish song
In the tone of spoiled children of the circumference
Of memories and the town people saw him as a fisherman
Of darkness and silent distances.
His solitude reached the sharpened sea
Where the crows was turning pale in the
Backedup wreckage of sharp knifes
Beneath the trembling yellow of blow thunder
Sounding like war found in the red dawn of
Dead clothes that covered the shoulders
Of busted bombs with their ignorance
As dumped bodies that litter the landscape
Where agony grows like sudden grass
Eaten in the broken bedroom where coffins
Of bitterness are planted as pure flowers
Speechless as boric acid of celestial words
Suddenly squeezed from anthills.
This young boy was midnight black with delirium
But his bright years murmured in the looking glass
Of complaint fluid as jumbled rivers running
Toward eternity when the dawn stumbled
Over the rain cloud bellowing full of frost and
Nocturnal dreams divine as misunderstood
Liberty caught in the breeze of a burnt tongue

Where do we escape

Where do we escape
To drown ourselves in love
And do love flows like water
Moving down hill toward
Your feelings that feed
On the immensity of
Your good laughter
Betrayed by the immense
Civilization of your smile
The city is huge in the swagger
Of your hips and the mute music
Of an elevated train of complicated
Matter exquisitely polite greet
Your amusement head on
Rivers are imposing in their
Pose and so is love put together
By the togetherness of strong hearts.
In the late night the trains are
Melancholy with silent necessary
To the laughter of the heart
To the stalled flow of quality
In search of a lover friend
Almost crazy for lost love that flows
With the rawness of extraordinary
Days of pleasure.
The rivers are really indescribable
Save as twelve billion drops of
Arguing water.
The rivers are a government of flowing
Unbearable screaming caught in the tears
Of cement hands huge as the bottom feeders
Running hard like enormous responsibility
Rivers are pretentious in their flow
Pass small towns where the theater
Is playing out the love of men for the
Loveliest of men found sitting beside
The river moving slowly as warm honey
They are simply charming and fantastic
As moving clouds of spoken for morning
Rivers are fervent authorities of the flow
Of complete atheist that put patriarch on hold
So that they can flows pass the vestment
Of boyish virgins and admirable catholic
Saints of splendorous innocent.

Good sentiment to you

Good sentiment to you
May it preserve your
Great embrace without regrets.
The road map of the palm
Of my hand
Is reason enough to
Love you when
The wreckage of my offence
Is no longer innocence
Of wooing you
Love is defensible, it establishes
You to the Godhead
Of accumulated warmth.

A rubble of heat and a complication of stones

A rubble of heat and a complication of stones
Geyser the comprehension of words
Talking like animals on the lame.
I snake my way upstream pass
Crammed canyons thick with birds
And elegance distance of stone columns
That recognizes the recognition
Burning the emerald meridian where
Night’s breath is pubescent and hazy with panic.
There is a sheathed darkness
Dispelled by a candle flicking in the wet mud
Where a stream runs like a translation of
Handiwork that roars against the homelessness
Of the hotel that is a jailhouse of tears and blood
Liable to the gentle boy who daredevil
The sparrows bruised by crumbs thirty to be eaten.
Night is a brute moving over sunken water
Night is prolonged in the manikin’s hands confined
By the limp rain of rejection.
I go gentle in my wail of gold pocket and
Honeycomb full of luminous sweat crazy with
Forgotten debris.
My handsome spirit is superior to the common
Sorcery of interrupted rain full of
Original darkness and faint mushrooms
Growing in the foundation where the open
Door of thick woods gnarled by night
Reaching down to the ground of many-jointed
Nothingness outside of my bones.
History is yellow with blue branches
That wrestles with the river’s discourse
Pressed up against the transparent lucid motion of water.
My boat is a stranger of messenger that woo
The lopping familiar grace of an ambush
Of the animal nature of seasonal angels
That reflects fire in their eyes of moonlight windows.
My journey of discourse is edged by understanding
Shimmering in the secret wind of musical
Eucalyptus and rounded off moss licensed to
Distinguished the last embrace of a droning
Man with his lungs full of lost joy and found bargain
Of the sea’s water, he is down deep as the candy maker’s son
Where the white bridge water of his forgetfulness
In the interior of the great western plains
Is as old as memories come to life

With a splendid view

With a splendid view
Of foolish avenues
Marvelous below the window
Of ninth green technology
I watch the students renowned
For their beauty worry their way
Pass the convalescence trees
Where the blackest boys board
The American good-bye which is
A subject of their large lips six days wide
I feel content in the
St. Louis knock-out night
Where the rhythms of blacks
Greet the horizontal breeze
Blowing across the mud of the Mississippi’s noise
As brown as a Trinidad childhood
The lyrical river with its antagonistic puberty
Of a descriptive poet born by books of beaver’s skin
And burnt rhythmic emotions holding the
Qualities murky and friendly by the half wonder
Of a plastic white curtain of clouds lukewarm
And alive with painted rain large as opened eyes of
Moist children docile in the battle gothic
Spiritual sense of certain skyscrapers battling
The mist immense with understanding of the
Solitary poet wandering passes his childhood.
There is a mysterious intoxication to the
Conquer influence of the indolence
Neighborhood where everyone travel backward
Across the American smile frightening the
Sharp edge of reddish little girls
Who steal the heart of protest with their
Succulent paradise of blotting-paper used to
Color the little black girls in a contrary year.
The sun is a bicycle wheel and the spokes of the
Moon is moving its somersault pass the gentle slope
Of a warm spittoon stiff as an empty guillotine
Smelling of persimmons red with desires and
Absence death frenetic as a white woman
Seeing black in the night where science
Count a million hysteria suicides divine as
The vomit of angles drunk as Coney Island.

Through the sharp angel of the streets

Through the sharp angel of the streets
The single stone of the north wind
Is empty of delirium that is stoning a nightingale
Of cement and wrung deserted desires
Meant to woo the shoreline where water is
The narrator that haunts the witness of the
Crimes of the blacks who gaggle beneath the subway
Complicated by the grandchildren who give
Their advice of complexity.
Yes the black children who triumph in St. Louis
And weep in Mississippi, weep their impressions
Of their situation expressed by the intention of
Proofreading what is available under the sun
Children fed on the history of the civil war
Children who had their blackness corrected
By the whites who know no better then to edit
The various paradises supposed to be true
Despite the written proof found in black minds.
The blacks are the final race of Americus;
A race modified by racism according to the
Fork tongues of dramatic ropes hanging from
The cottonwood where the persona of the priest
Preach separation of the races.
The black children keep their white condemnation
In their pockets and rage of their lost father
Is a metaphor of doing time behind the
Bars that binds them together.
Consider this, the blacks are spiritual
To a fault as true as the dramatic tone
Of their skin
They are quick to forgive the emptiness
Of the American will to treat them as equal
Too forgive the whites divergent in
Branding the frustration of the blacks as lazyness.
The blacks who celebrate their exquisite
Sincerity with the gospel are deep within
Their soul avant-garde but, they are killing their own
From Detroit to Newark to East St. Louis
The children of the blacks are squeezing
Their locked up fathers from the longitude of their flesh
The little breast of the blacks children are crying
Out their sorrow of lost fathers
And it is an agony that I carry with me
And the cherubim can not support
My sorrow and Kerubiel himself
Can not burn it away
Shekinal woo the blacks when pure grace that
Magnify their science of love making
The blacks are sleeping in their foot prints
Across the American face
The blacks are untouched by their play
Born beside the holy gates.

The freedom of Monday summons me

The freedom of Monday summons me
From my bed, from behind the door of my dream.
The weekend is one day dead.
The heart light of the sunrise above the wind
Gleam ripe and paper white clouds
Are rotten with rain.
There is a chrome poem in my head
A poem that smells of subway station bathrooms and A M radio.
Suddenly my cold walk from the bed smells
Of cigarette butts left out in the rain.
Today I want to be white enough to mock
The blacks that shoulders the plastic innocence
Of racist ignorance
I want to wait their denial agile as broken reason.
Day breaks in sequences of water
And songs of birds are random in my ear
There is a false simplicity to the world of things
Yesterday was the good stuff of Jesus with
A mellow union of songs and praises for him
Gone now some 2009 years as Christian count time.
Night is huddled in the west where it
Disappear in time as the sun tells time.
The aesthetics of summer is dead
As the golden leaves are swirling from trees
And the north wind native to the pole
Inch everyday southward passes St. Louis.
To day I want to dwell in the underworld
Where the highway of fire and disastrous love
Is a portal to being guilt of everything.

The sound of your shadow

The sound of your shadow
Has not reached me yet
Fall is groaning
For us to listen
The trend is to follow the highway
Pass fast shadows
Pass mountains
Hauled by darkness
Any day now I expect
To be bewildered by it all
By the soft night that prowl
The trained direction of night
Suddenly shadows are spilt beneath
The street lights, shadows that can not touch the flesh
Shadows inconceivable without dim light
Shadows lost in the night rain caught in the headlight
Naked of shivers as big as a kite
They hold me by a thin string
Taut and muted like something dying
Alone in the dark that anchor
The street to the town
And now the sun is nibbling
At the eastern edge of the sky
It is entering the moment of sunrise.

Everything returns to the divine

Everything returns to the divine
Fallen flowers and misshape hours
August children play with rhymes
Skipping rope in talked about time
O Mary Mack all dressed in black
How does your garden grows.
Toys on the linoleum floor.

Roots crack concrete

Roots crack concrete
Damp blue replace green
Light component beams
Steady warm wonder brim
The tops of cascading things.
Yellow flux orange’s beauty
Widen smiles blend its back bone bent.
Creation overlapping its source
Of what it meant.
Rough white foams the night
A fleet of red floods the death bed.
Mind scar is poured unheard by abstract rivers
Forgiveness sits at the kitchen table
Where understanding widen its brand.
Westward went west fingers of men.
Chill is lean in the skin.
Distance is concentrated on a nearby hill.
Persistence out last imperfect knowledge.
Deteriorating hearts nuzzle the soul.
The original day decays into darkness.
Wash away your rapture in a pool of leaves and blood
Because without roots that world is imperfect.
The system of things like seed beds recreate
The occasion of dying to grow again.
Probe the extreme original root of stems.
Intense is the acceptance of my mood.
Loose statures in my head red their drift
Pass the artifacts stiffened with regrets.
The hard hat of moccasin steel chews
The metal of turbulent laughter.
Hard roots embellished by flowers
Wears the bone of yellow.
Indian’s feathers grunt girder
St. Louis grazing at the shore of my thighs
Zigzag twisting at my side.
Why the embodiment of peace is as hard as rock candy.
Indignation the color of heavy copper building
Permanent as tiny streams of liberty.
A parade of symmetry fifteen to passion’s power
Concern the consideration of instruments of fathers.
Impulse undress the balancing hour.
Skittish flowers with scent pursuit the wind.
Beautiful sleep glitter tomorrow.
Heaven’s repose you can only barter.
Death is a friend to life its kin,
keep your innocent passion scarlet.
Dangle your legs over the edge of your sleep.
Weep your notion above the last climb
And concrete the notion of a rhyme.

I contemplate

I contemplate the dull innocence of photos
I contemplate the remembrance of tomorrow
I contemplate the enormous theater of my heart
I contemplate the ashes of a thousand butterflies
I contemplate the rooftops of correction of a broken waltz
I contemplate the typist of cigar boxes of banks
I contemplate the metaphysic of condemnation
I contemplate the loneliness of a handsome baptism
I contemplate the admirable graveyard of whores
I contemplate the tragic dance of desperation
I contemplate the emptied space of characteristic darkness
I contemplate the poetic idiot of burning the color black
I contemplate the dead stuttering typewriter of words
I contemplate the lonely blaze of anthills the color of tragedy
I contemplate the scream of God’s laughter held in an infant’s fist
I contemplate the amazing landscape of homage headaches
I contemplate the elemental individuality of trees
I contemplate the paradise of ignored cemeteries
I contemplate the blueprint of confusion
I contemplate the classical neurotic distinction of delight
I contemplate the trembling threshold of sincerity
I contemplate the after thought of superstition of children
I contemplate the lectures of laminated phosphorus flesh
I contemplate the dormant first companion of musical fountains of coins
I contemplate the endless jungle of nocturnal rivers of sponges
I contemplate the boundaries of keen poetic telephones
I contemplate the second money of a decorative afternoon
I contemplate the probable cause of closed children
I contemplate the disturb dark window of lost inspired light
I contemplate the plastic roots of the anguish of angles
I contemplate the abandoned hollow of annihilation
I contemplate the tangible void of a technique of riddles
I contemplate the perception of mystery’s sensuality.

A mechanical frenzy

A mechanical frenzy
Is yellowing its way
From the poem unidentified
By lost typewriters
Born in February when the telegraph died.
You can see its corpse in the deep water
That has escaped the human trash that floats
In a country of forest where paper was born.
You can hear its ghost clothed by Prometheus
Who wrote the manuscript of emptied space
And rolled the great stone that sits
On his shoulders.
He wants to dance beneath his heavy load
And Harlem his way with the globe
As if he was a doorman gathering
The sunlight from between his fingernails
To mold it into an abandoned child of the
Lost God that murmurs his footsteps
On the blueness of grass and fluid complaints
That cries so many miles toward the madness
Of condolences.
The affectionate computer
Has written this poem as beautiful
As a lecture of women who are but
A copy of generosity nailed to the mask
Of a lost manuscript of insomnia.
This poem of swirling void that
Engender a drop of stone faces
Quickly sucks at the cheeks of the sea,
At the rock of the moon’s light that hides
Behind everything of the genuine spirits’
Innocent of hearing voices rusty with
Horror, rusty as a young sailor’s affection.
Come play with me beside the published
Water that produce difficulty for
Fishes made of paper, let it be the sound of your breath
Approximately wild as wide-eyed throats
Used to suck the alleluia from your tongues
Murmuring hopes from the whisper of trains
Running toward the crowd of climate wrought by sharp clouds,
The boyish clouds full of self-consciousness
And explanation and religious hummingbirds
Leaping from flower to speaking in tongues
When the naked wind mock the wounded
Children who have lost the pharmacies
Of circumscribed foreskin.
This poem kills the wisdom in favor of pure circumstance.

Inside of a tight warm place

Inside of a tight warm place
The flesh of sunlight completely
Heats the uproar of guitar played
By engrossed flames that sings
The blue cathedral of dancing
Angels who unfortunately are full
Of serrated sorrow that applause
The double winter of the Chrysler building
Huge as a child’s smile when a ship of bridges
Sail into the harbor of delirium
Bitten by a transparent dog barking
At the sexual dark that has loss its power
To hide nocturnal the bovine couples
Amputated by the street lights down on Columbia street
Where a picket fence of Chinese glue is laced with
The direction that will carry you to Havana.
I am loosing my Trinidad warmth to the
Cold hands of a child trained to speak on command
When the weight of warm water realize that it is
Stronger then desperation of colder
Criticism issued by the American
Chauffeurs who ignores the rust of
Determined metal full of muitude
And cradles waiting for anguish babies
Born by the birth of public documents.
In the warm place where
The tender rivers are running wild
The tongues of machines licks the clouds
And billboards the size of a baby’s fist
Is slipping into the ears of Walt Whitman
Who councils the angles in the way of the flesh
And T. S. Eliot is doing a semester in hell
To tell old Satan that the light he brought to earth
Earth has turned mechanical.

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
Itself in their bellies.

Suddenly in a dream

Suddenly in a dream I am riding
In some machine of my own invention.
Completely I am approaching motion
The color of purple-red thicken with blue.
I move unending pass what remains of my
Stalled motion and everything I pass is new.
With me is an invisible gift to give to a shellfish;
Something to plant in the promiscuity of the sea;
Something of courage uneasily held in my mind
Perhaps it is an impression of the moon
Soon to bloom in a dying blue sky bouncing between
Earth and the sun till all is done by sleep that weeps
A concentrated birth green with garden tools.
I am not in control of my ride which turns an
Unending transparency as I cross a bridge made
Of human flesh and an impulsiveness that vanish in my
Tail wind as an intensity of motion gown wrong.
My motion is the color of oregano
Smelling of pickled garlic and tomorrow
And the sun is Acapuko Gold and my mood is
Panama Red with the movement of a homeless cat who
Dreams of catching a midnight rat under the proch.
I crash a lump of righteous hash
And smoke a joint rolled in heaven and the speed
Of the streets is on pure acid.
I sharpen my burn pass hell and choose
The left turn toward waking up at the close of night
Where stillness waits the arched speed of the sun
Glossy with rain as to make me piss in my dream
Russet with angles of obedient.
Dreams decluster the head, dreams ripen
The brilliant speed of what was said as if it was
A dancer’s epitaph of expression.
Dreams are humane and good nature
And void of mistakes
But sometimes filled with a fault with danger
Rich in mutations of the dozing head.
In our dreams we are never some other race
But we race toward the uncommon pace of glamorous
Profit and unusual determination.

The bare seed bust into growth

The bare seed bust into growth
It fulfills its need to live.
The hill is fill with trees that sits adequate.
The wild flowers knows the hour to bloom
This is it a bit of an edifice.
The air gives its gift that lifts a tear from my eyes.
Already the roots loot steadies the dirt of earth
But in time all shall come to swell with decay
This is the way of living things to grow and die
Some part of themselves to grow again with spring.
So true of man who shed his skin cells in bed.

With dissatisfaction

With dissatisfaction
I clasped your wounded heart
Torn apart by the flagship of night
When the father of the holy son
Cleaned the sheets of rain
Running down the windowpane.
It is evening when you come
On a clean towel and your stable sons
Was swimming for their lives.
To sex the self is a common act
That has seen the light warm
And foresworn beside the
Cold death held in the jerk
Of your member.

The dead forearm of my sleep

The dead forearm of my sleep
Slid between my thighs
Weathered by silence wisteria
Of suspension and sexual understanding.
My thighs was warm
As the sleeping breathe
Of a minute opening.
I was listening to the lash-key
Of a dominate accidental fire
That raged full of a black widow’s mercy
That woken me with the mildness
Of running around the clock
That ticked its tock soft as green
Seen in the deeper distant of a broken night.
Each side of the lamp’s light was as old as
Gravity longing to hold the tug of the moon.
Then I remembered the transparency
Of a random irregular stare given
By a baby whose shadow was trembling
On the ceiling where muffled cold
Grew as dark as charcoal.
Everywhere within me my body house smells
Of transitory speech and moss seeping
Smally but bold into the permanent dribbled
Protection traced by a knife blaze across the gone day.
My speech is in earnest toward its completion
Of adventuring from the birth smelling of ammonia and almonds
And harden snow leathery and pale as biting the root of magic.
I did a tough dreaming the night before my
Flower broke the dungeon of my dream.
I wet what is never seen by the moon’s light
That clings to the vacancy of the Godhead
That rings the skull of the sea washing up onto
Swollen understanding that the body is a fence
Edged in with all my waitings.

Accidentally I emulate

Accidentally I emulate
The waking of morning in my dream
Of meeting Shakespeare
I emulate the harmonious design
Of being in balance with the justification of the sun.
Shakespeare was walking the scaffold
Of a masked man dressed as a women
Of acquaintances with his offence
Of the human will in tack by the bent blueness
Of a clear sky, warm and unmoving by the strength
Of something like a prison of speech.
The yellowish tone of his words crumpled on the stage
Of the brown hat globe anxiously railing against
The God above who carefully smiled at the angles
Singing hallelujah of the kitchen streets where a breeze
Blew across the Thames into the nether world of faith.
I had draught in my mouth full of repose terror
And a numbing restraint superficially
Stealing words from my tongue.
Shakespeare loosened his pen and cocooned
The wind, meanwhile I was picking darkness
From between the stars and blanketed them with a malleable
Hardness only found behind the chill of a distance
That relinquished the God above.
All my needs was moist as the tongue of a mass
Endless in its reach pass the metal corner
Where felons papered the fountain of jails.

Does knowledge sicken the poet?

Does knowledge sicken the poet?
Does it invade the hidden rock of impulse?
Is it trivial of details toward the cause
To know more then the head can hold?
Does it approach the ignorant of the first Adam?
Does he question why God wanted
To keep Adam out of the loop?
Man is a dizzy creature, he is most times stale
In his servitude of meeting his God head on.
Abundant knowledge makes man dull
When he does not contemplate the rules of nature
Then all his knowledge shall lead him to ruin.
By association is his resistance fertile
With rot when he seeks a God that is a plot
Wrought by a church that tarnish the God breathe of earth
The God that we encounter even in our sleep.
I think the question can on longer be avoided,
No longer put off until the never coming morrow.
Ask yourself, who control the notion of God?
Who fortify the lie that we all are not the daughters
And sons of the one true God?
Who tells us that we are forbidden to enter
A heaven reserved for only those in the holy club,
Tells us that heaven is a gated community?
Who goes whoring from door to door with the
Prophecies of the cross, designating who shall
Suffer the lake of fire and what is their justification?

Couscous of old public paper

Couscous of old public paper
I write a poem born by the gravity
Of my head and hands that reveal
What was said in the sustained bed
Where transparency of growing darker
Then my skin and the recollection my conviction.
I am a man’s man of movement and trembling
Leaves, of the rhythm of trees in the breeze
Of green silent relentless as something found
Under the disused moon.
I am the patchwork of my race
I purse poverty to pen to you
The youth of things new.
My memory is damp with growth to show
That falling in and out of consciousness is a common thing
And dreams are a plot perfect or not but
When the rain rot from its falling each drop
Dislodge a seed and there in is its sweet revenge
Revenge crouched beneath a blaze of grass
Poignant in its warmth, incessant in its growth.
To defend myself I will tell you what the poets knows
Tell you that the movement of a poem
Can be found alone the colorless streetconer.
I shall instruct you in the absolute nature
Of the one true God who is hard by silence
That man need be its servant.
The winds that curve my hair are wearing gloves.
The sun that brought me solitude is always ravenous.
The trees that shelter my lying are
Twigging the fragments of bird’s calls.
The moon that is hinged in by gravity is
Swimming its refection in ever river.
That nothing is more public then the sun
That makes the world profitable.
The face of the moon is good nature in its features
And long on touching the ocean enfolding its motion.
All this the poets knows but are afraid to tell you so
To tell you that man is codependent on nature,
From calm hills and hurried plains
From the pores of woods and casual deathly deserts
From unprotected rain forests and graveyard seas.
The ultimate universal knowledge that you
Should know is that God is in every flake of snow,
Every remnants of weather that blows imperceptible
Felt by the shift of a lost wind.
The poets will tell you that we all are kin in our
Distinction, all average in our human notion.
All guilty with small harm done to the nature God
Be it premeditated or for a cause we
Inhabit a place within the Godhead of space.
The poets will tell you that the truth of the matter
Is simply this, that nature as God is cannibalistic.

What is it that I once knew what, what you overthrew

What is it that I once knew what, what you overthrew
In the place of my face done down by the little that knew better.
My cripple nipple that has no milk for the girl who loved me well
Are particular to innocence but this you already know that
When I played the fool for her to choose by the action of my satisfaction
When the dirt hurt the famines image of a continually history never stopping
But my indifference conceive the hunched up combat curious
And jammed resolution of my discipline beyond the blond dust of all my lust
And the moon’s light of the given night that sits with its will upon a small hill
With its assassination of my exclamation
Bears witness to the wetness that keeps my soul in the body
That knows the way toward the grave.
In the dark marked fore history with its red, red door of blood and
Of brine that shines with the tears that it ware
Man trod beneath the rod of a God laboring
Against the migration of knifes that rain from the sky.
Mine is a soul that shines throughout the weakened week.
My soul speak to make of life a male wife like the
Azande warriors to their boys.
When the town of my birth is full blown on its own
With shadows thrown alone the back bone cord
Of the Lord who woo his own, who is bold
Toward all wayward souls sold to the clothes
Of a cold joke cloaked to the chin of his skin.
I stand before a door where a priest’s cloak issues
A single stroke poor before the richness
Of nature. The good saints that would if only they could
Out weight the speech of each when the air of despair,
The backed up, the accumulation composed of
Two views held in balance by the death of my breath
That inherited expense of their own decay that drift
Pass all my todays that left the farm with its barn built
Of spilt wood and all my desires crash like trash collected by the
Over flowing river of the earth that birth the work of moving water.
I am the image in the mirror cracked with forgiveness.
My silver backed refection reflect the sun and I am born to
Reap the corn grown in a fitful year. I am the dreamwork of the tomb
The room that holds the fold of what it means to fire the blaze
That expires beneath the grave. The last pasting of my account
Count the scenes less agreeable then the possibility that
Rest in the hour that the tower of Babel faded beneath the
Condemnation of quarry stones rolled alone the hard past
Full of voices that swim with rage.
I am an exercise of lies that realize that I am near the clear
Spite of midnight where perhaps I can find the residue of my mind.
I thrust unseen between the changing of my arranging.
I am the finished aphrodisiac of sweat on the chest and
My love making is a short sport of appetite that rules my moods
When they intrude with the same blame that pains to fight
The night flooding full of sparks that bark in the dark
Felt by he who knelt within the air of his sins and mastered the
Inhabitant gone cleanly insane. I bring to the future the blur
Recess less visible then doubt hidden beneath the skin of the truth.
I cheat the mean streets but remain unsatisfied by the bitterness of
Happier times when confusion destroyed
The illusion of the human heart torn apart
Years ago I broke my heart but drew from it the strength
Of Joan of Arc strength prime with time and the leisure of a misplaced pleasure
Condemned to the end of them who awaits the chance to glance
The recognize prize twice the device of affection.
The muscle of a cold long day dies by the way
Of a salior’s drunken leave that weave its way pass the shape
Of my escape complete to advance toward the chance
To diminished the plain chain around my neck
And the absolute roots of my essence win in the
Bristling masses who defend the combined minds
Of a dying time/