3

Fertile Imagery

Put a star on the top of your epiphany

casting inverted clouds on the blackened

pouring light upon the bones, blessed in filth

put a sword in the stone of our emotion

play the dog and the snake in the afterlife

play the puppet and the crown of the future

lick the paint off the face of your pantomime

wearing syllables coarse and acrylic

pleasure god in the sight of every star in the night

flush the demons hiding from the shadows

ascend the stigma to the voice of shame

essenic swine trace the path of nothing

cast a drachma to the fish, wait for violence

cast a storm into the eye of the sea

scrape the walls of a fertile imagery

leaving nothing but ghosts of abortion

2

1

Whore in East LA

Them there monsters ate the satellite that showed me where you live. Spewing out the flotsam for the vultures in the hood. Their fins begin to congregate the magma in their spines, boils and turns to venom in the one eyed pirate’s mind. Look around and tell yourself that evil isn’t good, where would all the vagrants spend their homemade apple wine? One sip on the table three drips on the floor. Just another sleeping ghost who busted down the captain’s door!

One! Two! Four!

Cinnamon and sugar-y the lips control my tongue. You don’t know where to find me and behemoth bought a brand new gun. Just to set the matter straight the monster’s that I saw, left a variation of your map upon my stall. The surfers ride the testament of ministers in drag, searching for that catholic-save-me-from-Gehenna-store! There’s not a jack-knife in this world who wouldn’t snatch your purse, just to buy a pint of that there stuff the monsters purge.

Three! Four! Six and!

Bumblebees and armored tanks began to climb the Berlin wall, till gee I dub you idiot found vengeance in a can of war. -/- It left the vagrants starving, the vultures feared to fly, the monsters bit the legs off every guitar player’s wife! Forget the past you rattleheads the future is today. Remind me I’m supposed to meet a whore in East L.A. We’ve butchered immortality we’ve sacrificed iced tea, penguins flock to Africa to see the nobel laureate serve acid to the free!

Ten! Nine!

Five!

Four!

Three!

Two!

One!

Killer Bees

It’s more to me and the world,

these words. So much elite and languid,

reverent and soiled by my faith. Where the

army is only ants and the killers only

bees. Where love needs only to be tasted

to be found on the tip of your tongue

to be found. We trample through it, tasting

nothing but agony, spitting our

acidic love on the ground. Killers and armies

we are. We gag on our own words

and wicked curses, seeking to consummate

our carnal lust for the world, lust for

our vengeance, lust for our freedom from our confinement

to humanity.

Brain Stew

Note by note you learn

to play along – Goodbye

Pork Pie Hat -  Brain Stew –

Flight of the Wounded

Bumblebee – Word by word

One fish, two fish, red fish,

blue fish – We – The – People –

In the  - Beginning! – Numbers

Philosophies – Prayers and

armed conflicts – RBI’s

ERA’s – Faces! - - -

Carved in stone –

Stamped and printed on

currency – Heroes – Leaders –

Oppressors – All dead –

Or dying – We learn – We

remember – Pinch of salt –

3 cups of sifted flour –

We remember – The first

time – My eyes – Met yours –

The last time – I held –

Your hand – The first time

doing something right – Was

worth more than doing what

you were told – The first

time a fight was worth

fighting – Even though you

knew you were going to

lose – We remember – We –

Build – The notes become the

song – The words become the

speech – The colors –

The painting – The wars become

the world – The faces become

skulls in the rain –

transients in the crumbling

waves – The notes corrode – And

we find we no longer desire

to play Brain Stew – But

to sing our own song – To

write our own story.

Glorified Pelican

I had it wrong, misinformed by a

pelican. Stuck his head in

the sand, clamored on and on

about glorified violence. Something about

the letter G but I couldn’t

understand. So I sent the bastard

home with a bag of weed

and clipped wings, so the beautiful children

could learn to hate.

Robin

Not Anymore

and forest rain

and bludgeoned seal

but nowhere - not

here

and promiscuous wife

and serrated blade

but nothing - not

this

for daylight orgies

for holes in the knees of my jeans

but someone - any

one

and ceilings of ice

and stained glass prison bars

but never - not

now

and ferris wheel divers

and 151 and valium

and now - not

anymore

The Garden G'nome

Woe is me, a little too

late. Barking at the cherry

moon. Hound dog in the kennel

crying “Ain’t that bastard’s

singing sweet?”. The garden

gnome still stands alone

spitting watermelon seeds at

shooting stars ‘cause sunshine

doesn’t clean his dirty soul.

Yet Another Pigeon

Drip Drip

Drip, drip, drip,

one little drip can’t think,

can’t check my oil.

Bop-ba-da-dop, bop-ba-da-dop.

Too much for plastic wrap, too much

to throw away.

Somewhere

in the Netherlands a man lays back

and cries “Help me! I can not drink this drip, drip,

black, rum, coke and bloodshot

button up tie.” In the after life

Geronimo walks

with both eyes closed. Through pip-pap-tink-

tink-tink-pap graves. God bless

this Holy soil,

this rain.