You saw me at the life boat
screaming cartoon whimsies
at you, the golf power driver fiend,
the sports jacket green wearer,
the straight Jack of voter suppression ...
And as you said, "Tisk, tisk, tisk ..."
even as your grasp of gorilla Democracy
is lost in the mist of electronic blue,
the perverse fortress of your sins
awaits the storms to come ...
Back in Chains Thieves
like their favorite
in "Breaking Bad,"
noticing no cash
in their trays
Pawn shop kings,
bold brows, bald heads,
eyes that don't blink,
mouths of fur,
teeth, all covered
in scales, lips
dry and straight,
Nothing in the tray
They frown at you,
they mock at you,
at your worthless
treasure, same as
all of the other treasure,
they have in the place,
but your treasure is special,
because you are extra worthless ...
A toothless smile
They pluck a man out of a river,
which has flooded, quite suddenly,
in a flash flood, and the media mouth
coos a bay sound: "Stupid motorist law,"
tisk tisk, tisk tisk, tisk tisk ...
Should stayed outta da' way
of that hurricane ...
Tisk. Tisk. Tisk. Tisk. Tisk ...
Man crawls out of the New York harbor,
scared to death, fish outta water logged,
hypothermic, climbs over a wire fence,
starts to bleed but relieved,
his survival hero, a gold-medal winner,
scurries across the tarmac, a rat amazed,
dripping cold, the Raytheon eye
slipping as he slips through nine kinds
of surveillance studs, creepy crawlers,
twelves dens of bicycle chain thieves ...
Another miracle ghost walker
wandering through the shredder,
unscathed ... enters the terminal, saved:
He's looking at nine to ten today,
with parole, for finding a hole
in Homeland Security
Pawn shop man.
Pawn shop man.
Putting his misery
on you ... his failure,
Nothing in the tray,
pawn shop man
Your lost secret
is ours ...
Pawn shop man
Pawn shop vulture culture man,
nothing in the cash tray ... nothing in the cash tray
How can I put you to shame today?
We are all ...
combinations of aspen stands, of psychic monkeys, of leaves of grass, giant barking prairie dogs, grey ants, and leaping lizards, which is why failure to help, feed, house and dress one another in glorious white linen robes, acts murder, genocide and failure to listen to one another are timeless sins
and also why resistance is so futile
Don't Fear the Green Men
(To be read to the melody
of Blue Oyster Cult's
"Don't Fear the Reaper")
Once on Mars but now we're gone
Hear this summer song
Forgot about moon madness
Returned to Mars with gladness
riding motor-bot bad ass machines,
out of the dark, for one day's
thunder, burning atomic plunder,
every day I wonder:
Where did we go wrong?
Could have played ping pong
Could have wrote this song
But didn't stay on the Moon
too long: Blew right on through
to Earth, right on!
Walked ten-thousand years
through the snow and rain and sun
built up the pharaoh to kill the pain
Now he rides a dressage horse, top hat,
and the whole rest of the world
has gone insane ...
Don't fear the green men
Don't fear the green men
We are all on Mars now
good as any place to be
Find some humanoid landlord
or just sign the long lost lease
We are not just broken toys,
live long in love at least
(Editor's note: As far as we really know, this death guy was actually an alien who told Goya to make cartoons to throw the whole paradigm into a weird revolutionary spin because, well, you know, these things are necessary during every solar cycle or so ...)
In weasel words of May,
of might, and lite,
of sub-areas in meltdown,
with enough loathing and
forced dreariness to make
Michele Bachmann's village
a town for invisible,
clear clowns, dark alleys
to run around, the vision lost,
all lost, and the Mayor
of Shark City, sounding
so world-weary: Here's
my theory ... a returning
to ghost town roots,
where the chiron cimarron
of suns, moons, fools on hills
are setting, how bad,
can it all be, with each day
a wedding day beneath a sudsy,
budsy sea? And what has changed
over the new century to make
for curfews in the park, where
Miller hi-life was once a lark,
where blues is bruised, and every
chiming riff and noise is intended
to drive people, like cattle,
into the bars ... O how old sound
gets louder in corners so sharp!
And how can a ruling body,
unable to even get a phone call
from an interested party wired on in,
supposed to rule on a "disaster"
to capture the unheralded howl of the wolf
after dark? And how can a ruling body,
hazy as horseshoes, sanctions on air,
water, and silencing speakers energized
as they sound more empowered, speaking
to power, as old sound gets louder
in corners, and ol' Sam Bush is witnessed
in the mayor's bedroom (Boy, was he lost!)
Old sound gets louder in corners.
Old sound gets louder in corners.
Old sound gets louder in corners.
In time, and sophistication,
a senior-made nation goes hard
of hearing ... and so
the real-time question
becomes who is so cardinal square
when you can't dance anywhere?
Why can't a baked man even define
"food," be it doughnut or whole?
And who calls the lifeguard
when the bucket of booze,
enough for a swimming pool
is nightly emptied into the brain?
Old sound. Old sound. The owl, that's who!
We the People,
in order to get out from under authority's boot,
have been politely wondering,
for some time now in the streets of America,
where is our militant's parade,
our cannon shot of glory, our right to file our own single sheets of official government paper,
to put our minds at rest, knowing justice will be done for all ... Why is there no Memorial Day holiday for the innocents lost, beaten or chained on the war currently fought, every single day, on battlefield America?
with a vacuum cleaner,
after we just wept and cried and hugged,
cover my body with it
to go flying out
hooting like an owl,
flapping my wings in the air,
running to the first cattle yard
I can find, or, better yet,
swimming in the Pacific
to Catalina Island,
shaking open some angry locked gate
to let all of the buffalo roam
to return, like baby turtles,
to the foamy sea
If that's what baby turtles do.
I want to forget how everything works,
especially clocks, cashiers
and internet cache dispensers,
... how ten pennies make a dime
It's not that I ever knew his name,
Maurice, but the phrase, itself,
"Where the Wild Things Are,"
echoes in some lost and unrealized
chamber of my soul,
where I still think Captain Kangaroo
and Walter Cronkite are the same person
and the dirt I threw in the air
thinking it was making fire
Here's to William Blake, that lone voice in the wilderness
of man's wretched over-thinking mind: Here's to Rachel Carson,
Edward Abbey and the holy holidays in the Sun,
to Puff the Magic Dragon, the silver spoon,
to everything with wingspan that can jump over the moon,
to every last shining shred of everything decent
and alive and eating the technology zombie
out from the insides, that thing still awake, aware,
pure, human and unspoiled in us all,
the innocence of miracles,
the mysteries never to be solved,
to pancakes that finally get cooked
at the high altitudes, too much syrup, too much butter,
to cabin mice
that keep your feet from the floor,
terrified in spider webby dark corners of creaking wood
during forgotten vacations in the Rockies,
to birds, tweeting things I imagine
are words ...
I want my mommy.
I want my mommy.
I want my mommy.
What a blindside! Wow.
A little child isn't
lost in me: It is found.
of the Land
Cars & Cannon
I scribbled a few now-forgotten notes,
before I jumped with no parachute
down from Satanic skies above New York,
with nothing but a Chinese-made compass
and somehow I found myself up a tree
in Concord, Massachusetts, and I crawled
to the Milldam cobblestone street square,
head aching, General Gage on my tail,
too much God & cannon coming up the road,
I scourged for food sleep love, my long-lost
treasure trove, my cannonball tea, my peace,
in the spoiled woods of fabled Walden.
I made a roommate of the DNA daughter
of Henry David Thoreau. We shared bed, bread.
We were in love at Thanksgiving ...
Now Plymouth Rock leads to
a bloodline of highways with no horizon,
A string of tree-lined tunnels, dirty snow,
beer cans and cigarette butts
sans a sniff of smoke for a soul.
You, the cool clear impossible place of my desire
became my jumbled and jumpy New Jerusalem
of steel and stone. The pond was surveyed and sold.
Henry David's daughter, she became a bit of a bore,
What's worse, she snored. Now she's a new shoe style,
Sturdy and rubbery and oh so dysfunctional,
just a cautionary tale sold over the electronic Web of Life
via a mass major national megastore
From sea to shining shore.
Came and went, she did, as an angel of light.
So I moved West, following a tattered map:
Where the Tasty Freeze is going to be,
next to soon-to-be the Banco de Post-Democratica,
next to the next nouveau salon of old Saint Lou,
next to the yet-to-be named municipal zoo.
Still I trudged, and entered a golden Anasazi ruin,
sun-baked brick and clay, a chimney for a tomb,
a below-ground tunnel temple to the last great escape
for threadbare me, impossible though rational you.
Somebody, some angel, fell right off the map,
and left me here to consider both an arc of light
& the fly-shit tempest of a teapot domed scandal.
They left no other marker, but a megalith of rubble.
My compass spun wildly, and the wind swirled up a scare.
And now we pass through a narrow port.
From Concord to discord ... eventually ...
Ah, I know this much: There's no such thing.
There's a long-running song on an ever-running string.
All ripples, soft or made of jade, will eventually still.
I moved further up the hill, following a wire.
The wire led to a hook, and the hook led
to a phone. But the line was dead.
Finally, I thought: Paradise, silence.
This last great emptiness is my consolation,
This last dime I spend, a mere dollar in a donated nation.
So let us learn from our mistakes
on lands south, over the range, down the road past
Ralph Lauren's ranch, the sandblasted expanse,
the holy lands ... Arizona looms ...
a dime in a dollar nation.
Hear the rumble of cattle trucks at 3 a.m.,
the tumult of Ohioans fleeing tornadoes,
bankruptcies, divorces, economic forces,
see nickel-made cowboys on false horses.
In Chicago they read magazines about Sedona roads
and they run there, trampling the Navajo, the Apache, the Hopi,
who are holding back the end of the world.
Feel the hot winds smooth the sandstone,
the cold river California drinks.
In another time, they'd be a happy, redoubtable people.
Count the three million men, women, children,
dogs, llamas, circus elephants ...
When the army came to imprison the Apache
they left experimental camels
to wander from here to Harqua Halla.
Get a good price for a skull
in Skull Valley. See the hollow nostrils,
blood fright, little white lies
about real estate & the fourth estate.
Touch the bomb trigger that killed Don Bolles.
Feel the dying pulse of Goldwater Republicans,
the furnace of God that makes churches and cannon
Glimpse the ancien' regime, the descending gyre
of infused Northlanders from New York, Minneapolis,
Acropolis, too (by two, by two ... Hey, buy two!).
See that man is a city
& the city is a man.
Kiss the fine girl there
with a Greek name, buttery desires.
Read her awkward green eyes
on the way to her dead-end job
in the half-filled office complex.
Analyze her weakening resolve
at the touch of my hand
on her smooth brown knee
-- her shudder engendered there.
Then see her drift away,
seeking younger men,
who keep coming, coming
which is pushing east now,
which is pushing pestilence
like a salesman,
carbon monoxide in winter,
the angel's breath in spring.
have gathered and school busses pass on by
along winding roads
lacking sidewalks, lacking
thoroughfares for little children
who would be O such a shame
if run over by said same school busses
because there's only one pond
now and empty electricity boxes
still haunt the highways lined
by properties illegally lot-split
by old Ned Warren; he who
made a mint, who sent postcards
back East promising paradise
to a lie, no, overstating,
but nevertheless sold out by some
now laying duck in Washington D.C.
But you are that walks, talks tax-paying duck
now, that Walmart greeter,
and today I found
the most previously
nasty thing I'd ever written:
That senior citizens
were considered to be
the most dangerous
creatures on Earth
because they have
a piece of paper
from some laying duck
in Washington D.C;
but this book, see,
(so now I have independent confirmation)
also made a mint
with such carefully
versus senior citizens,"
thus making its mint
and, of course, target market
We walked toward the duck pond
wolf hairy, feathered, lined with brown scum,
candy bar papers, car parts,
beer bottles, broken plastic
parts of Pez dispensers,
left by school children
who could now give a fuck
because their daddies cheat
on tax returns sent to other
cheating fucks who could
also give a shit about you, me:
I've got one blank sheet of paper
downloaded from a Web
made of ether, all created by
one lying duck in Washington D.C.
The pond is peaceful now except
for honking echoes of bright green mallards
who haven't yet turned greedy by little old
ladies who run the world,
throwing out bits of bread from porches
overlooking fenced in portions
of an artificial landmark, made of water,
promised to them, or, people like them,
who were once promised refuge
by long-dead Ned Warren
that such villages along the Verde
lined with steppes still cluttered
by Apache hand bones still clutching
single pieces of paper signed by
some laying duck in Washington D.C.
Property. Property. Prop. Prop ... er, Tea.
I've got a stack of papers
I can't get to because the one
I love goes into fits of grief and rage
over invisible digits of cash
that disappeared into said same ether
and now those lone gone meat locker loins
must be beefed up again to make up
for the losses caused by greed-head Bernie Madeoffs
who lied to little old ladies and mere millionaires
also rendered lifeless by empty promises made
on eight-by-eleven sheets of paper
signed by laying ducks in Washington D.C.
and not one damn sheet on the dirty old paper pile
will ever work in my favor, so why bother?
Property. Property. Proper tea.
And turning off the rounded lanes,
we have ourselves a polite little party,
laughing ourselves into parties
celebrating the quail who slip in and out
of artificial worlds
lacking sidewalks, where we find a well-worn
trail trod by anarchist atheists misled to believe
there is no god when in fact there is, but, hell,
they are actually referring to the demiurge churned
into trash lining the bone-dry portions of the pond,
perfected into a beautiful life-saving reality
made easier to believe by some duck who lied
in Washington D.C. ... but the dead can be brought
to life no easier than the muck can be raised
to rinse the once-clean waters of the Verde
And off the road, where the Mustangs and Escalades,
speed on by,
rolling on gasses, endangering
school children, lacking sidewalks; who run
home to play on point-and-shoot games
because there is no place to play
in the faux hopes made by grey old men
who promised paradise to little old ladies
in Washington dee see of we sing ... off the road
there's this well-worn trail only misfits
like me can see or be and she now crouches
to peak into the weeds and sage to hear
the cackle of pheasant hens rendered
accelerating life force made mad by the Sun,
which is overheating now, in mad pulse paces,
mixed in with Venusian skies, pitiless star gazes,
and we move on between properties, made proper,
by little pieces of paper, now lining cages,
feeding parrots who repeat perfect truths
made so by Madeoffs advertising safe acres,
security mom spaces, relying on promises
made perfect by little pieces of paper kept sacred
by men who lie daily from remote high places
in Washington D.C. ...
Property. Property. Proper, E.T.
Among the many mistakes I've made
in my life is turning right, instead of left,
up this well-paved hill leading to
a manicured driveway ... So she,
who hasn't been outdoors for a month,
who might start screaming at any point
of the day because she, made of soft flesh, saintly blood,
is roiling with so little electricity in her head
her once-brilliant mind can only meekly protest
my attempt to blaze a new trail up this steep incline
leading to a canyon, along the steppes, along the Verde
And this Walmart greeter pops out from behind his usually locked door,
now doubt interrupted from watching Poppa rail and bleat
about how property is the momentary might ruining
the likes of me because only I ever saw the truth of a possible
pathway that, if placed into the hands of currently more
enlightened civic minds might form task forces
to imagine places where children might play
and both little old ladies in electrified golf
carts might pass as easily as javalina family trios
and rolling hungry hordes of courtly coyotes, but no,
the Walmart greeter has to pop out, a Jack of his box,
to ask me, "May I help you," inferring later, in review,
masked hostility, happily rendered now at me, a happy target;
and now I turn my back on his perky little puppy
barking out orders made possible
by a little piece of paper signed by,
this shit little paper signed by ...
this fucking shitty lie made perfect ...
I turn, the sudden wolf, and Toto runs away,
and big Him me, who saves the day
has his own damn sheet of ether now
along with the memory of this proper path
where there is a canyon made of crayons of what I know
about eight-by-eleven sheets of paper
signed by ducks who lie daily
in Washington D.C.
(Editor's Note: This guy above, in addition to serving as the perfect pictorial segue, is also pretty damned mad about the fact he has a $250 water bill when he, just a month before, was paying maybe a little over a tenth of that per month ... but he lives in some Southwestern desert, too, and he is indicating in the photo how angry he is that the last water he'll suck down in America is going to, in the future, going to cost him more than a pretty penny ... See inspirational story ...)
Piggy Taking Inventory
Thou earth mother whose art made a heaven, hollow is thy name, hollow as a doughnut hole downed by Dunkies sugar suckers Across this dirty BVD they come in, unsalted and mean, sucking dry for purple and orange styrofoam cup containers, cattle car crates of doughnut holes, great salty sea-vats of caffeine, alkaline and molten H20; See their blood boil Tremble at the knowledge: To know is to burn High blood-sugar zonks the dust of freedom moldered in solo doughnut hole clusters. They cram their gassy gutter rollers up to the bar, slamming their BMW brakes, coming to a halt, dead-walking out of the morning light into the Orange Coated Cluster Pill, pulling Dunky air in behind them in gentle whorls of ache ... Piggy needs to take inventory, Piggy needs to take. Not so lean and snaking mean, she sucks down a doughnut hole as her last breath and testament to the desert ...
I dreamt of your skull & crossbones and it read me like an X-ray machine as you lay there, the master, in our silence and slumber: I skulked about the place Lightning last night; It licked the world mean and Piggy called six times, six! Just as we had discussed the ghost dancers' return, the rent of the buffalo, the assassination of Sitting Bull Just as plasma fields, unified, rippled in the chemtrail orange sky as it tumbled up and angry roll of pressure and purity friction and dread. Piggy called six times, six!
You said the desert sheds us of our vanity as the wind blew a scare up the trees. You awoke in a stir of anger and vengeance raving about "The Law Of 3s." You awoke in a stir and everyday I wonder, why Gaia? Why? So nurturing, so pure. Why so angry? Why! Tremble to know the angel of vengeance: To know is to burn ... You said something about the dark, but light was everywhere in a system of pretty pearly stars
Piggy crossed the desert in a Humvee moving eastward fast, loaded down with software and stolen sacred relics, as her brother Jacob threw beer cans along the long, twisty road, northeasterly ... Piggy crossed the desert and the mirage followed her: A man made of metal, in a mod fright wig, shreeking laugh, a blast of gunmetal, modal fire, schist, plaster, a blast of rock. O man, you left a mess, tore it all up out of spite, what a waste, this scorched earth, bedding tossed like a body into the garbage pail pile
Knocked to my knees but bleeding clean, Man rises and thunders! Three a.m., O son of Sam! She didn't consider that castle re-enter When all is dark. The message: Clear. Clear out! Gaia scooped me out, sucking the cold, even, out of the refrigerator!
Piggy needs to take inventory, Piggy needs to take. She leaves Ulysses on the shelf a misquote from Sir Thomas More ... flower petals on the white tile floor. Then you hear that sucking sound Then your hear that sucking sound Coming down the highway, Whoof! The missing inventory includes but is not limited to: Three red maple leaves from Walden, one copy of the Grapes of Rats, one moonbeam, one bolt of light, lots of lights .. "I am the light taker of the world! There shall be no interior lighting without me!" Light bulbs missing. More than just three.
Ozo sam Urizen Man! Christian saint, O, house full of pain Twisted rock upon the oak the river bends, it bleeds and dries See them, over the expanse, the hot rubber wheels, the Holy lands: Of e-mail shouts, the doctor is out Piggy has left the building crossing state lines, crisscrossing America O house full of pain! Urizen man! O Christian Saint! A road made of sand!
"Go," says the angel in disdain, "give yourself away ..."
The sublime country of ownership
is now in possession of the Mutual Dread Inc.
angel of the night, who mouths out the sorrows
with avowals of "How?" and "When?" and "Why?"
Agent of ill winds
Angel of Anxiety
No matter how bright angels beam
We can't stare down this melt
of frozen stone nor satiate
the silence of the sun ...
Energy is fire and fire is everywhere ...
You are afraid of fire, but do not worry:
A fire hydrant stands nearby
Controlling mechanisms are everywhere
and public safety is ubiquitous
The fearful want to burn us both
Hot and cold is the Way.
Walk the stones, simmer down,
walk the soured broken grounds
weeping, sweeping up categories
as well as the lies swept away above
these basements of regret,
these closets full of tough old rules
forever present on the earth
Stripped to the bone,
The endless reductions
You make of me,
Becoming time, money,
The pain becoming sheer
Needless fumbling in the morning
If I spend another minute
In your hallucination
I will dissolve into many planets,
Tiny orbs ready for wars
Against the wind
A Brief Visit
to Ballpark Earth
First thing I've got to say is this:
I'm pissed I never got to play
Major League Baseball
Second, and this is a big one
She looked so good
in her fishnet stockings
and we were in sixth grade still
and I still haven't
been able to keep my eye
on the ball
Third ... sure,
the whole thing
more than half wrong
and these are bad
and you paid
the bill to guard
the lunatic asylum
and it sure doesn't
bring all of the dead
dead doggies all back
Fourth, equally unimportant ...
Just who is keeping
score, Dear Lord ...
Who has all of the stats,
Stan the Man,
and who is keeping
the big statistical
law book of life?
I mean shit, shit, shit ...
I can't even spit here
and I have not looked
at a box score
since last spring,
when I still had hope
for the Diamond King
and sure, forty thousand
princes and queens are seated
in the stands now
text messaging, waving
to their kids back at home,
but they aren't watching anyway,
since fishnets are back in style
and so are their fuck me
I'm a ho tattoosies
on the telly and the Jumbotron,
which caught them kissing
doesn't even record,
then flies on by
The hurricane journal colonel
meets the wind at the Porterville
train station as birds fall
out of a fallen tree
Shoeshine wet steel along
a busted up railroad line,
heading to nowhere
in the eternal now
Isaac Smith took the first
bullet train away from the coast
and the pellet is a richochet
from sea to sinning sea
Storm riders in white robes
lost the battle but won
the water war: The one-eyed leper
watches the stain running up
the wailing wall ...
Meanwhile, back at the submarine
boat show of snakes running
beneath the floorboards of Boston
to the Milldam corner of Concord,
discord cannot carry any cannons
across the creek as history repeats
each and every morning, twice,
and the ripples still by morning light.
The Secret Report of the Night of the Last Knight
He was once
a young man,
in a blue shirt,
red tie, driving
a green Jag straight
down white lines,
but the T-shirt underneath
wore a pirate skull
which he only threw
into a laundry bag
maybe once, twice
a month, and his pockets
were only full of change.
He was the last knight last night.
He was swept away in a summer sandstorm.
He was a seven-tweet non-talker.
He was definitely not the lady stalker.
He was more of a pre-planned thing.
He who came to get one key,
was found to be missing,
like dinosaur chasing
a lightning bolt gone crazy
in a Twenty-first century
And we were all watching the war.
And we tied ourselves down and faced the wind.
And we were all watching what water does.
And we were all claiming the key was gone.
And we were all eating the Tin Man's heart.
And we all threw the bones to Toto, too.
The sea was dumped into a pail
and then wifi came, he began to sail ...
and then whiff, whiff, whiff,
the water sank ... and whiff,
whiff, whiff ... wifi sank
into cracks in the earth,
and mud gathered in the corners
of the earth, and the high school peak
of alchemical man all fell down the hill.
A detective was hired by a private firm.
A detective was hired to learn all he could learn.
A detective returned with ashes in an urn.
A detective said sorrow was a golden tax return,
that the guardian was gone, had run away,
and it definitely was not a pre-planned thing.
So we rebuilt the modern world.
So we went up and down, burning it all down.
So we fell in love with the dragon girl.
So we stole the thunder and lived in rusted ruins.
So we made the waves to make steel shudder.
So we served the sheep dog meals of bones.
So we drank the waterfall down to fountains
of dust, stunned to sleep before the golden dawn.
It was O so definitely a pre-planned thing
In Memory of a Lady Judge ...
Met her once at the end and beginning of a solar cycle, and now I'm humble, in awe at the news of her passing. It was thirteen years ago. Her vehicle had slipped off of the ice between Ridgway and Colona. I had just arrived on the accident scene from New England, in a white truck after hitching a ride to T-ride from a well-loved Ute leader who seemed to know everyone in Montrose and my phone worked and hers didn't and she said she was thankful for the rescue and it seemed so ironic then that a judge, under those circumstances was thanking scrambled brain me, who at the time, needed more rescue than I could ever explain: Though I tried. She thought me odd. Later, after the Chocolate Lover's fling, we spoke again, but never after that. But she tolerated me, kindly, and I thank her for that. Can't imagine why events take us so young, at fifty eight, in Baja, California while doing what we love: Tender consolations, to all of the Telluriders who are able to pass while on international adventures because that's what we always say. Humble, in the mystery of her passing, at the ending of yet another sun cycle ... Humble in the thought of how difficult it must have been to be a judge in a small town, a fish bowl, where you can walk down the street and meet, you know, the accused, damned, and so on ... humble in the beauty of someone you never spoke to again, because I was odd then, I'm different now, so was she, must be ... but I remember, every now and then, we'd pass each other, and we'd sort of just acknowledge the passing, and in acknowledging her passing now, I am quaking, in deep sorrow that more wasn't spoken between now and then.
The Reformed Presbyterian Church
was hit by a thunderbolt
and Morning Sun, Iowa
was rendered back to the year
Nineteen Fifty One
And brother Jesus
sat on his Cardinal corner
with the ghosts of three gauzy
British colonial columns
behind him, more than twice
the height of the man
who lives four or five
times more often in life
than in death,
but who's counting?
Meanwhile, the local fire captain,
Tom "Torch" Lawyer
sits as the Grand Poopba
in the unmarked Oddfellows Hall ...
He, a Big Brother, of the weather map
and he sings, "O Hey, Gaia, what did I do?"
"O yeah, there was that, and that and that ...
I'm so sorry angry sun, sorry for this,
sorry for that ... O Kracken King Igor,
heavy weather hanging from across the plains
to the mountains once made pleasant
from Denver, Colorado
to Bloomington, Indiana:
Where John Cougar Mellencamp
is still wearing his hard hat ...
"Please, O Kracken,
spare me your change
and please spare
me some of my favorite
old mason bricks,
and spare me
from my brats
"Leave me one
and at least three
for six hundred
and sixty six
and please sponsor
my one last storm rider
so he can broadcast,
like Paul Revere in silver
my long last broadcast
on the Weather Channel
on Ruppert Murdoch's
Blue Ray Disc-shaped
magic Thunderbird carpet,
so that music can still be
piped in like rock'n'roll
in a cowboy hat
at the local Wal Mart
"And spare me your golden
spike in natural gas,
your January jolt
in coffee prices,
and spare me your sanguine
advice on what to expect
and spare me your photo radar
lanes used by Fed Ex,
and spare me your
weaponized Pineapple Express
as it tingles a trio
of water spouts
across the forty eighth parallel
"But please remind me later
to use a higher quality
white ashy paint
so I can smile upward
with a stun gun kept
quite safe behind my back
as I move beneath overhanging
chemtrail inspired clouds
to keep my doormats dry
when you try to reclaim
your honestly inward saints
"And tell that bastard
Mr. Ringo, he's running
out of time, and though
he bought a Wal Mart sold
Chinese-made plastic compass
that we have him lined up
in our electronic eye sights
and he'll never get across
King Henry the Eight's
magical river line
"Because, you see,
Medicare doesn't cover
especially his supposedly
secure bright and sunny
horizons, or bullets
or my elitist religious conceits
because he can't use his cell phone
or even mark a fully mastered retreat
with the sunspots buzzing up auroras
against his great hope for liberties
because they will always cost him more
than his lonely Roosevelt socialist dime
"Say a big hello
to that second toughest
man in America,
that next-to-last Templar
because I can see, feel and read
the second coming of Joan of Arc
sleeping in her shrine ...
'Coswe all know there's nothing
more exhausting than inaction
and his sacred pen as shotgun
won't bring his dead doggies back
"So hey! Angry Solari,
let's just say it was all
a good old boy's
and even if the anointed We
run the risk of getting heart arrested,
or if sanctified gloomy We
speed through our Freemason made
towns, rocket launched
at the speed
of thirteen million
miles per hour,
and even if Johnny Ringo
can teach himself
to silence the two stormy
coasts in the centered
silences of his mind,
we can cut off his touch
to Taiowa her in Iowa
in order to remain in Tombstone
to review the cannons loaded,
in the late afternoon aspenglow,
as they are pointed
at Cochise's last stronghold
so that we, alone, can enjoy
the bonny bones of Norteneo
from our weaponized
plastic transistor radio,
nor can he enjoy sweet
Maggie Marlowe, sleeping
in nicotine terrified migraines
without a tweet in our jail-baited
basements humming up thunder
from our cold dark basements
down below, so we can
keep up our plans to sell off
glassified dead scorpions
to the last of the plutocratic
touristas at the high noon
military movie show."
Shyla is Blue Love Now
for Shyla the Sheriff, 1998-2011
You will find her
beneath the stairs
staring at your feet,
but seeing your head,
all white-masked and wolfie
Ordering in, ordering out:
You'll find her naked,
running mildly about,
rocking chair and bouncy
When the pizza man
Arrives at our doors
You'll find her lighter,
mightier, than the most devout,
far better than fighters and dividers
in Las Vegan, New Mexico,
Keeping me company
When you, my love,
Have gone insane and winds,
Solar in nature, terminating
The phones with crackle
And invisible light,
Make it impossible to speak
They find her in Las Vegas,
at two a.m. times two,
turning toward the TV,
With ears for radar absorbing
The stirring sounds of the Earth
And growing sicker, each day,
For debates about the deadbeat,
For laughter on the sell-out shows,
Her old lady fur coming out in tufts,
Ready for the door to open,
Mouthing the words, “out, out, out.”
You find her brilliant, lit,
deviate with experimental DNA
and sane, still as death: listening
for the Jefferson Airplane
To land on ice,
for the sound of scraping,
for the blue-shift echo
of the first sounds of defeat,
for the skeletal sleds
in British Columbia
You'll find her in forty eight
states of being on forty eight
motel room keys, thumbing dumb,
The door monkey: O, if she can
Only solve that one riddle,
The door nob, then she
Won’t need you … we, us;
Because she only needs
The scent of roses,
The yellow pedals, in a slow,
Elegant walk, a well-timed
Roll in the grass,
The one thing you can depend
On, like the rising Sun, the spring,
The Malamute shepherd wolf-bred
version of the moonlit Angel of Mons.
The Solar Bath
shapely but shaken
And I watched her bathe
In blinding electricity
Beneath the solarized sky
Tiamat met Zeus
Were unable to reach
The porch to punish her
And over the cornfields
Of Republicanated Iowa
Thunder a’ trumpeted,
And Tesla’s lightning
Failed to defeat her,
And solar light bounced
Off the feet of her
Off the earth, to fire
Up the weaponized,
Quite culinary clouds
On the ninth
Of September Eleventh
She awoke shapely but shaken
As the neighborhood watchers
Faded away like gargoyles,
As the Ta’ Iowan
The winds sing
A new day, and all
The old fucked up
Old ghosts all
But ran away
I watched her bathe
In electricity last night
As we watched the watchers
And then all of the watchers
Started signing in Morse Code
And before dawn we chased
Each other around
Wondering which one
Was pretending to be
The scariest and smartest
of them witches on
the mirror ball wall
Viagran huntsmen fumbling
For newsy spells to foul
The electrician’s switches
As the shapely but shaken
Wake up call doomed up
A first breath of hurricane fires
Churning up in the earns of the earth
And I imagined how the tectonics
Of the globe might burst
Sending more seawater, yes,
Up from down below,
Way way way down below
More even than
the moon can send
if Zeus ever came back
to toss that old rock
And before dawn she bathed
In a lake of fire
Sent down from the sky
And we all chased down
The shapely but shaken
Without causing a ruckus
Or a Venusian star
to start screaming
About her long lost
Gothic Civil rights ~ Morning Sun, Iowa
Two lovers shared
a broken tree
to burn a fire
to stay warm from thee
while the knight
took the queen out
for a dance
beneath the sun
the military marched
to the frozen One
and success, and strife
rode a chariot
to a star
to make happiness
at the oxygen bar
and I told you,
"I can't boil oil now ...
I'm kinda in the mystic
just a little bit;
in circles, in pinwheels,
and the FBI,
in the lLamb
darkened agnostic sky ..."
as the lovers dreamed
and the gargoyles stood
in summer corn stalks,
in frozen wood,
within a circular steam
within a steam
and you laughed love,
come back to me
Were I but a byte hermit
I'd sing of thee from distant shores,
but God was just a comet,
no Martian, no comment,
nor mere baseball dream
...from some Elysian Field
of Soprano Land, Idi Amin,
but a stellar dark star dwarf,
who rules now like an oaf
on Egyptian soil, living off
your sweet sugar's gasahol,
your machine asp ass sugar loaf!
might history be
if Hitler is able
to take a three-hour
nap on a certain
New Year's Day
of America's choice?
If he had been able
to feel the cool alert
behind his eyes
that his view
had been a bit
cross and yes,
maybe a bit more
blue oil paint
would do and yes, yes,
that Leonard Bernstein
cat is groovy
and yes, Custer,
that guy, had turned around
to let the sea
of the dispossessed
catch up on their own cruelty
and consider to let just
a few of those bastards
live to tell a real story
of mercy to the newspapers
back home, that to win
a war of genocide
was no mercy
and the cornflakes
in my own head
were nothing but alcohol
stains upon daylight
clouds of peace?
Say what you want
about the low lifers,
at a very high
gosh darn it
beating my guts
is very high praise,
because what you call
a Tea Party is really
not even dinner,
because ancient drums,
the many tom tom toms
are just the steady
pound on a tenderloin
of the mind
turned into a tender drum
sweet and kind and pure
and even if Walmart
broke the place up bad,
one more purchase
at the near-dead
make just enough
Where Sir Freudo Lost the Ring
The morning began
and never ended
quite unlike many others
as I stood like
one of those granddad old
who guarded monarchs
at their pearly gates,
in next to last Templar mode,
poised and posed, metalurgy
realized to be hurtful treasure
for TNT people, useless as they
come and go, now rendered,
once again, quite pointlessfully,
as a word picture with a blue sharpie,
purchased in San Francisco
by Saint Francis of Assissi ...
upward, turned back toward Zeus,
his challenger ... Him who once
maintain in Spain great
bloody mountains of gold
taken from small brown men
who knew of nothing more
to see Sheriff Joe Arapaio
as nothing less than
an avenging Lord of Death ...
He from across the sea
failed to learn more beautiful
things than bad code scrolled
by a false fundamentalist God,
false single immutable sword,
a word that can't be weighed,
in a Bible black brick
by burn barrel people
who, iron cast, in their rejoicing,
instead deciding to send
the Ring of Doom
back to his maker
at the foot of Father Washington
in a statue beneath the snow
Arizona, I don't recognize you anymore
Your creosote roots lie beneath
the perfect piles of McDonalds parking lots
Arizona, an unequal symmetry
of rubble piles collect
Ten thousand miles from here,
the angry sun awakes, a lion,
the wind pulls sacred smoke
around the window
and out the door
I scream into silence
Arizona, you are responsible ...
The middle-aged businessman
with expendable income
sweats for pleasure
and I feel
by it all
Arizona, when can I stop swearing?
I swear in the heat like a pizza oven
Arizona, you are a car part store
but you got no glass to see through
and the beige collection
of air-conditioned caves
are conditioned to respond
in all the right meets wrong ways
The forests are in ashes
as the governor gapes
from a helicopter high
for the diversionary tactic
of the the unrael politic
and asks the spotlight
to "move on"
The spotlight will not
"move on," the world
Arizona, I can find no fluid,
no friend, nor car phone
to lean on
for company ...
The wolf is watching
By GPS, without your bullets in fistfuls
you can find me in the living room,
darkly lit, with rayolight flashing
bible black blurbs
cursing your name
Arizona, not even Ginsberg
would gripe about your tripe,
so blurred with anonymity
hell hardly matters anymore
Arizona, my life's belongings
are melting in a storage facility
and there are more things that beep
here than I can count
my frozen assets
of the heart
Arizona, you haven't hassled me for a while,
though I'm a loose cannon at the mousy mouth
... The world is flooding, bleeding,
burning blinding in high winds from above
as you dry up and blow away
Arizona, heart patients are being denied,
a kid got crushed in your parking lot
and I went to one of your social service buildings
and was amazed about how many homeless lurks
were sleeping in the lobby,
dreaming of Mississippi burning
Arizona, I can't get assistance at the cash register
and the mountains are closed, cats run free,
the lizards have disappeared,
to plot secret revenge
to assuage denial
Arizona, you are sucking in souls,
eating them, spitting them out,
at very low wages ...
of sin ... I suppose ...
and six are dead now,
How long? How many more?
Arizona, I think you should
battalion the borders with snow
and big bad bars of soap,
painting you headless
telegraph cross with wires,
tin cans of TNT
and a sacrificed fox
also known as "truth"
~ Douglas McDaniel,
Iowa City, Iowa
Beepee City Blues (Forgive But Don't Forget)
Awake in a captured American city,
wide awake, uncommon and conquered
by Beepee, of thee I sing: see the greenish
star sign, flag of my new queen, no king ...
And so this is the new valley, forged
by a poisoned sea. You see? I stared
into your dark and bubbling gurgle
of gore, too long, and now I have lost
my heart, owning my death, drowned
and alive, in little bubbles of grease ...
And yours, in these hours, drifting back
into sleep now, uncovering the brown loam
of anguished grief, in the Paris of the prairie,
dreaming of the fairies, who bleep my name,
cursing my overdone disinfected dysfunction ...
but I'm awake now, pumping into function
At discourse with the junction of light and dark,
on my electronic ark, loading the animals now,
my music, your now now and my then then, to thine
angels we seek truth, cruel, my belly, your barrel
of hell, spelled out now in the sweetspilled spice
of good medicine, served in a box of Davey Jones,
containing my heart at the bottom of the Gulf,
and birds drop out of the sky
between me and you ...
America, your Tombstone, Arizona,
stands out, in memorial balloons,
talking heads of post-gunfire analysis,
in anguished memories echoing
gunfire, in flowers left upon
the furnace of revolution,
in the mixed up mindspace
of mistreated man-monster
assassins, in creature comforts
shaken like broken tablets
given by Moses, by the mere
shattered jerking around
of horrifying images
to television commercials
where we are asked
to ask our doctors
We the people are capable
of so much more: Capable
of surgeons able to render
miracles far more healing
than moon missions,
from deep in the sky,
from quick stock fixes,
dialing up foxes,
connected by two-year
contracts on cell phones,
by unholy secret armies
unleashed upon the world
but now rendered
in one sick sad baldface
mad hatter joker fuck,
who decided to make
history by shedding
your blood, and your children's
children's blood, to make
that point, old pointy,
that no one else could give
a hearing to because,
old shriner shiner,
it pays too much
for the talking skull,
to answer the one question
it can't answer for itself: Why?
The map is fully dotted now,
with hands holding hands
and yet we can't all seem
to becalm the energies
flowing from the angry sun
because, dear masters,
the amplified drug lords
of commerce, offer more
ailments, sick sad treatments
that have nothing to do
with love, just money,
just time for bull markets
We can dream,
point to our heroes,
of our sins,
only as long
as the car ride
is doing its damndest
to show us our faces,
our spewing missed
places as fomenters
of foul foams
from the bottom
of our beer bottles
and polarized teas
Listen to the water,
for gentle silenced
sounds, in cattle cars
racing by, in delivery
trucks chasing us around
with backwards beeping
to greet each morning,
to failures to answer
the myriad echoes
of grieving sisters
for suicide cults
set too hard
on logic chopping,
on passions, on reason,
to the revolutionary
flavors of the season,
to rocket ships made
for secret mission masters,
to lies sold as truth
in penciled in televised
image makers, harbingers
of false light, false words,
of plans against you,
America, plans beyond
pure reason, just plans,
authority zones of controls
intended for our sponsors
of capital gains, tax dodges,
miniscule media channels
to jail up the Jonahs,
the Joans, arching , marching,
moving forward to nurture us,
to set love right, for Job,
so he can no longer suffer
in the error of St. Paul's
jealous rage and error
Fear, no mind reader,
can open our eyes
for the first time, America,
open them, now, read see feel
your own bodies, connected
to the whole earth,
not just your slicing borders
for the first rotten time