Formula

Go to the end
Of the red store.
Whistle in frenzy
Wearing arm band,
Holding club.

Turn to the church.
Kill the priest.
Smash Icons.
Roll naked
In broken glass.

Capture the T.V.
With rifles and truck.
Scream: The truth.
Let your words shatter
Electric stress.

Swig power like whiskey.
Kill generals who won't
follow you and worship
Palaces and crowds,
Twisted steel and nausea.

Send steaming missiles
Across the oatmeal sky,
Playing sun-god,
Sponging up the pools
That you came from.

Reneeism

Renee
No Reneeism
And I was twelve
When the frost melted
To the heat of the early schoolyard sun
Whose beams where forced between the plastic shutters
Exposing dancing trails of glowing dust
Above the classroom wood
The first bell ran
Will and Idea
Reneeism
Renee

Nuclear Joy

There is a joy of image juxtaposition,
Laughter,
To create laughter --
Spanning the depths of childlike knowing
That is splintered in coffee halls
Built by the unionless hippies
That pound nails
From their sweaty hands
Into the impetus woods,
The dead knowing tree.
Those sapless corpses haunt me,
For trees are no less conscious
Than the species-centric I,
That yearns for reassurance
Of art as only an anthropomorphic gift,
A subtle flash
From those ultra-trillion stars.

Stars are H-bombs too,
And if my warm body soils
Are the flesh of dead suns,
Then my sons and daughters
Can die skewed
By the ultra-perceptive sub-atomic release
Of alpha/gamma
Festive contra-quantum elves
And their loving penetrations.
But is star sexuality,
The Ginsberg way,
The final day?
Cannot my selfish soul
Escape the arms of
Energy/Matter
Effusion
That would Bullshit me into buying poetry
Or a Jesuit bible
Simply 

To avoid the reality of nuclear war,
And instead focus
On the joy of image juxtaposition.

Flaming Blades Until the End

Essentially the same,
At least the mornings
But the evenings,
With Zen Master Rama,
Forget it.
Nothing like it in the yuga.

There is really little to say,
Mystery is rumored to name them both,
Form and formlessness,
Air and granite
McDonald's and Maziratti
On and On
Into the babble of tomorrow.

Yesterday doesn't count
Unless you care about shoelaces.
They could have broken
On the sun-poached city granite
Where sagebrush Buddhas once weren't
Or were they?
Pass the tea, like a football.


Light is letting go,
Becoming cursor fields
In the operating system,
The mainframe of dream-time.
The poem is a dream
And so is the pen.
Come on. Who's reading this?
Not you or me, forget it,
Just dry fields of grass
Flaming blades up until the end.

Media

Media is like concentration camp
For those captured Yanks
in the Nam.. .
It'll fuck your mind up!

Tummo

Vitamin C was Cocaine in Atlantis.
Richard Nixon wore clown suites in Tibet
And you can bet your tummo
He froze his balls off.

Zen

Zen is passing out napkins,
To dirty to use,
Yet too clean to ignore.

Foundation and Empire

Foundation and Empire.
Hari Seldon saw the river
But forgot the shore,
And the hippies of Israel

Birds

Birds sing
And cum
In my mouth ...
Image.

This Instant

Can you tell me of energy
Not tired gain-less days
Aching feet, slouched and breathless,
purpose, purchase?

Inside the cement wheel of night
Rotates a fate stoned in necessity.
Out here can I spin the change
Or drift?

A purpose dancing to a linear end,
This envelope of will,
This moment once and now,
Is it a crossword of choice
Or an actors jest in an ancient play?

The Body Universe

Flesh is only dead sun,
The sap of space
Flowing like molasses
Heavy patterns.
Our tongues recite fire.

Blood is sprayed against the soil
Scattered droplets of stars
Nestled in the vase of our growing,
Dreams of mandala
And its spinning center of red.

Marrow was once fire,
Nestled in the hammock of galaxies,
Wove from the silk of gravity
The endless matrix
The quiet womb of the body universe.

Fuck n' Chuck

Some would call him that,
The ancients had prophesied his descent into Oxnard.
They chose to call him fire jerk
And sung of the vomit dripping goddess's
Whose cum-rippled hair was like the dew of Oxnard mornings,
Nymphs who Fuck n' Chuck had in drunken protest,
As he carved their innards with snake and balls exploding
Filling them with the raging fire of the jerk,
The furnace of the jerk's stick
Born in that rod-happy and cum-drunk pussy,
That only the force of vomit could sooth.

When maidens had his glow
And gazed into his fire-jerky face
Flailing their coarse breasts,
They intuited Oxnard before Atlantis brought the sea to the land,
When Oxnard was desert and crow-tower of the ancient elves,
When Fuck n' Chuck rode on stallion and hoed the sow,
Pussy wet with farmers and swordsman's sons,
When goat and sheep would vomit before sunrise,
And profer to him the chunky acidic mush,
Rought from the furnace of their naval chakras
And Fuck n' Chuck would lick the glowing butter
Of their stomach's folly,
Before the rocking and rowing
Of his dog-like entry:
Whomever he fucked would chuck.

Unbridled

Unbridled is how I describe existence,
For its source rushes out as a torrid
Becoming endless possibilities.

Unbridled means no beginning and no end
With an unceasing march of beginnings and endings,
Existence as a perfect crystal,
A shattered crystal,
Refractions without a crystal --
Beyond all heavens or hells
And the karmas that bind them.

Unbridled means perfect control
A bridle to harness the senses,
Infinite etiquette,
Battles against darkness,
A way of courage,
Unlimited probabilities,
In the ceaseless chaos of forever.

Earthly Thoughts So Distant Now

Earthly thoughts so distant now,
So uttered the hell-bound poltergeist preacher
As he knocked on the holly wood of imperatives,
To let the Spielberg horror movie in the house,
Yelling:
We want the angel!

Instead consider hard work
Sweeping wooden floors by the grip of a broom,
A spindle to all the worlds,
A gavel through the koans of self,
A laughter of plentiful rivers,
The golden dust of moths spiraling upwards
Dancing amidst the ecstatic aloneness
Of infinite love.

The Ascension of President Allende In Chile

Where does the string of thought lead?
Is it only the hopeless chatter of crickets
Above the black and white sphere
Of Yin and Yang?

The helix spins out of the sunset,
It's blade slicing 4-space, dream-space, sex-chase,
The rhyme that dances through the casual chains,
Like President Allende's final message
A silver cloud for the future:
Love your murderers
Whose naked light is your own.

Tales About Him

Since youth they told him about him --
The wise white man from Israel
Who could make the work easier,
And who deplored violence
Against the house.

A few cotton-picken summers later
squinting into a punishing sky,
He blinked,
Attracting another white man,
A teacher of the truth,
Whose whip came down
Shredding the tale.

Happy Defeat

The orange paper
Moves me like a lover.
I would never sip the milk
Or spill the language without pain,
A value of my ego games,
My ego train
To third-world grains.

The New York cement isn't as conscious,
As forest dew,
Leafy flesh of Gaia.
Cancerous mother of capital,
Words can't solve our problems
Silence won't help
Yet happy defeat does entice me.

Boddisattva Attached To You

Tremble slightly to my waves,
Questioned releases that mark the leather of my days,
A final curiosity about you my friend.
Your love imagined as brought me to the side,
To the glade of the shinning path
Whose glass bricks I've trampled cut,
As Bodhisattva attached to you.

Marxist Doubts

Could you write a poem about commodity fetish,
The love of those things,
Those days?

Now in the cool forests of rectangular grass
I sit,
Asking you this:

How can you write a poem about commodity fetish?
When your own poem
Is so unrecognizable,
How can you recognize the world?

Plastic Parade

Cowering through the shadows thicket,
I climbed into a plastic parade,
Struggling against the smooth fields,
Slipping off the roofs of machines.

When I spoke her name
Near the sun-lit gate,
A pompous manikin heard the call,
On a list she saw my number
And geared the game so I would fall.

She uttered my demise
Yet I know she is not to blame;
For it was the holiday season
And I was the winter's ancient shame.

Going to New York City Next Year

Going to New York City next year,
Flying in high California
Drinking jazz,
Pedestrian cotton dreams,
Sun-tan L.A. Bunnies,
But...

Going to New York City next year,
Drinkin' Marxist wine in urban cold,
Massive, culture, ancient America,
Big Apple, Broadway, art, death
And none of the above
Yet still...

Going to New York City next year,
Right-wing, left-wing, Madison Avenue,
Wingless executives all dreaming of bridges
And valentines day chocolate commodity trash,
While the blacks
(Poor only because of lower IQ)
Listen to post-industrial funky-town,
Sundown.
They're always...
Going to New York City next year.

I Saw Leaving In His Eyes

White glare,
Dying faces
Bobbing atop ragged bodies
immersed in 4 A. M Hate
Downtown November
Los Angeles season.

One screaming ecstatic drunk
(My friend notices
A resemblance to Oscar Peterson),
Preaching in circles.
Last rites.

With animal certainty
I shiver to his sounds.
My body listens well
And smells his carcass future.

I saw leaving in his eyes
Amidst the frenzied cement night,
Leaving like a supernova
Of blinding brightness
That flickers desperately against the shadows
Implying immortality.

Do Not Claim Me, Oh Disease Art!

Do Not Claim Me, Oh Disease Art,
Compel me to walk aimlessly
Down foggy faded boardwalks
In reverence of the bums
Who are pure art,
Terminal art.

I would do well to catch you, Oh disease art,
Attracting the bright colored skirts of women,
Pretentiously staining Dostoevsky books with coffee,
Sweating against a piano on an early summer day,
Only to retreat into the wilderness
Like an old Russian monk
wallowing in Jesus art.

Many search for you, oh disease art.
Quantum physics is tedious.
Psychiatrists are expensive.
We must instead support the well-bred artist,
As he walks down shimmering hallways
Mopped immaculate by the old Chicano lady,
Starving artist.

To anyone who will catch you, Oh disease art,
No matter how famous their affliction spreads:
Art itself is the grouchy old painter
And we -- its cracked and wilting brushes
That bleed the colors
Onto a canvas
Never seen.

Why Write?

Why write?
Why render that infinite window
To the mercy of a pen's geometry,
Reduce humanity's song
to an equation we call poetry?

I know the quill embalms images
And shelters them from time.
But why must we save thoughts
Like pack rats on acid?
Yes we have Shakespeare stored,
Along with atom bomb formulas,
let loose by the pen.
Why write?

A Way I Will Not

I will not pretend for you
But will be a cluster of stars
Weaving through the spaces
Of our lives.
So many parts I will be for you,
Dust lit against the background,
Blending outward in the darkness
By and by.

I cannot pretend for you,
Tell you that a rope is a snake,
Crank back a water-wheel that filled you,
Or even smile in the edges of my anger.
Yet -- I will be like a string
Wound and glistening on some fine instrument.
I will twang into the careful bellows of life.
You will hear my resonance as a wide open feelings,
Like a field where sounds are sure in the wind,
I shall stretch until we've touched both ends.

Yet, it is true, I will not pretend,
Enter a stage and them point to your immortality,
Show the audiences the changelessness of you,
Yet not the bleached flowers on your dress.
Instead -- I will be one of the flower's worn threads
And curl like a patient river through the heat
The muddy savanna of mundanity and circumstance.
I will present my colors as a mosaic in your days
And will not break to the strokes and turns
Of your metals which led me once through the waves.

California For Iraq

As your bare feet twist
In the sensuous date fields
And your hips sway to the cracked desert floor,
I will drink with you.

My smelly fat brothers
Have defiled your ancestors,
Pumping your oiled land
With steel cocks of industry.

I am obese with guilt
My stomach is full and soft,
Yours, empty and hard.
My house is warmed by the bones
That broke from your grandfathers.
My blankets are wove from fibers
Once the sleek muscles of your youth.

Dipped into my nation's pie
Is the cherry
Red from your people's blood.
My father's guns
Have impaled me.
I am yours now.
I am the poorest.

The Olympic Games

Amidst the Olympic Games,
Beneath the diffused and anxious voices of the air
And the metallic screeches of the toxic city,
We stand to salute the old and dangerous energy,
The fervor of nations,
Divisions, power,
Now in new garbs,
With ancient blood
Do the youth lean toward the battlefield,
The insectual patriotism of billion-consciousness,
Fused minds,
Now cascading rivers
Of bruising astral death.

Our age is old,
It is weary of death by battle,
By the chant of the carnivorous mammal,
Now gripping his own release,
Now fondling the new arrows of thermo-nuclear resolution,
The thousand suns that man may grace the granite with,
The thousand billowing clouds,
That soon my veil the thousand movies, the athletes, the baseball math,
Whose equations we have retreated into,
Like a reluctant ostrich,
Hiding eggs at a poetry reading,
Of matter-centric sexual buoyancy,
The hippy hypocracy label,
The Clark Gable parties
Of wine and stale fruit,
The Roman grape-stuffing faggots
Who revere poets and pianists above the real,
The workers who bus their parties
Who farm their fat faces
For the green coupons of entropy
Hidden in hateful smiles,
The wanton suffering of the rich,
Sublimated and flung,
As the mud of Hollywood,
Into a zeitgeist of flag psychosis
Commodity fetish movies.

Now only the kissing and joy of the ridiculous can solace us.
We have build toys too stubborn to leave.
The earth is littered with our excrement.
Mother Kali is calling us,
To cleanse the rivers and the cities
The wanton droppings of boredom.
Man is lazy
Even beyond conceiving change.
He can only watch the games from the stands,
The athletes running with plastic,
Gripping things,
Racing toward imaginary goals,
Leaping for gold around wooed crowds
Clobbering, frenzied,
Boxing for the religion of victory
As teams, with flags, for nations,
Until the game is over,
And the flame quenched --
In our glorious festival of extinction.

Beyond Conceiving of Place That Is Beyond

Awareness is ambiguous,
If not genuine,
A clear pond changing
In silky union
Of light and dark
Unattached mindfulness
And razor-sharp discipline,
Punching through the senses
Into finer vibrations.

Quiteness is both full and empty.
It excludes the ego babble,
Neuron orgies.
Senators of the skull,
Wrestling in balls of confusion
Inside the arena
That is thought.

Wholeness is both nothing and something.
Nothing is without it
And something must become it --
Something
Small and transitory
Must rise out of the tent,
The rupa-dharma's of the flesh
And then precede
To devour a universe
That isn't.

Musings of a Dharma Bum

Musings of a Buddha supra-consciousness,
Movements in and out
Of the relative
Rupa-dharmic perspective,
Out of the Jiva, Ajiva,
Karmic sticky stuff,
Got enough
For tantric bliss,
A kiss to Kansas nirvana,
Scarecrow and the raven,
Existential horror
Time lights me by
Gotta fly ego
Gotta fly!

The Eightfold Path of Buddhism

And as the eight ways arise in Buddha-time,
A path is constructed out of dharmic illusion,
Rupa-centric babble that isn't.

Right Views:
To view this poem and nothing else
Or to view everything.
Permanence is temporary.
Beauty and happiness,
Dreams lost
like the solid dreams of self.

Right Intention:
To see the existential nothing,
To love everything dearly
So clearly,
To embrace paradox without
Anthrocentric hate.

Right Speech:
To end this poem,
Cessation of philosophy,
Vikalpa, construction,
Publicity for the ego,
Of existence and science,
No more Shakespeare
No more apple pie.

Right Action:
Lights! Cameras! Action!
Eating after noontime is bullshit!
The life must be stone consciousness,
No high beds,
No kick-ass head,
Yes a monk is all of this,
Before anything is said.

Right Livelihood:
No America
No profit
No corporations
No gold or silver
No interest rate
No Federal Reserve Board
No Clinton or Bush
No Property
No Money
No Marxism
No Ism.

Right Effort:
As blindness is to sight,
As deafness is to sound,
As numbness is to touch,
As odorless is to smell,
As dumbness is to speech,
Effort is beyond opposites
Is all of this,
No winning or losing,
No excuses.

Right Mindfulness:
Right everything of the bodyness,
The knowing bliss,
When a breath is like a heartbeat,
Is like a smile,
Is like a thought,
Is like,
Never noticed.

Right Concentration:
Samyag Drishti,
LSD or Zen,
A child in the woods,
Or a wise man by the shore,
A whore at copulation,
Realizing the eternity of the moment,
Beyond the pseudo-experiences of thought,
Of art,
Of religion,
When the moment of total bliss is achieved,
And awareness is God,
Is nothingness and everything,
Then, my friend,
Like a scarf eroding a mountain,
You must fall to the first truth again and again,
And even again,
Still again stream-winner
Now once-returner, again
And some timeless time,
Again, a Buddha.

I Was the Emporer of Pupekea

I was the emperor of Pupekea
Twice, in its gentle bosom,
The green lands west, Hawai'i,
Driving into the sun
Set above
Sailed down and sauntered to a marble ocean blue,
Blue and blue sky,
Hawai'i so blue as she is.
I was emperor of the blue realm.

Of Pupekea I saw with imperial eyes,
Spying the end of the West and the day,
The emperor robed in bright and orange,
A gift of the happy sun untied in the western sky,
Afternoon boon,
On my throne,
Knowing well
The East was shrouded in its dark darkness,
Had swallowed the Buddha,
I learned with crying imperial eyes.
It was a bright hot morning,
My bamboo bong and telephone
Told me of his demise.

I practiced the arts as emperor of Pupekea.
Windy with spirits and divine indifference,
My magic was poor,
But I am not a high priest,
Just high enough to write imperial poetry
And smile in Pupekea
While I wave goodbye,
For I was emperor in a grand time.

Four Corners of the Earth

I.
She is twenty
As the wire handle digs
Into her sandpaper hands,
Walking stingy barefoot miles,
To acquire muddy water
For six dirt-smile children.

He is twenty
And target after curfew,
Head covered beside
Bullet-ridden body of a friend.
When the searchlight passes
He will sprint to the wall,
Cowering in warm manure until dawn.

II.
She is twenty
And with great effort,
Swats flies from her puffed eyelids,
Cradling a bloated infant,
Grasping a tin plate
In ecstatic anticipation of sticky porridge.

He is twenty,
Grasping the dusty jeep,
Machine gun strapped to back,
Desert sands blind the weathered face
Headed for a village of stick and straw,
Ripe with cattle and women.

III.
She is twenty
And sports agile wrist in chorus
With unforgiving metallic lathe,
Peddled and fed rubber,
A Harvest of tennis shoes
Until she loses her other hand.

He is twenty,
With bails of rice
Draped over his hard brown back.
When he staggers and cramps
The reminder is always a whip.
He shouldn't have criticized the state.

IV.
She is twenty
Sprawled on milky silk bed,
Plastic telephone to ear,
Wanting dresses, perfume and booze.
She forgot to take the pill
And Daddy has taken away the credit card.

He is twenty
Inside of stained white interior
Of speeding blood-red Porsche
Frat party with Coors and stopwatch
He's dizzy, no oxygen, a blur.
He just hit someone.

Apartheid

The constructive engagement of rubber bullets
As exacting as the sand against bare feet,
The days in sun-stagnant sweat towns
Where women glide buckets of muddy water
Atop proud shoulders,
The future perched and purchased,
Sticky mud converted into value calculus
Inside the plush white air-conditioned rooms
Of Wall Street-Footsie fantasy profit margins
And white-boy stock market Ferrari cars,
The purring of entropic suicide,
Macho abstraction,
Imported into the nightmare hades of Apartheid,
Enclosing the children playing in industrial rust,
Alongside men stuffed in buses to hunt value expansion
For the modest entombment in Krugerrand death mines,
Times were better long ago,
When the seed and the grasses
Swayed in song
To the dry-baked summer ground,
When the lazy irrelevancy of being was enjoyed,
The dances, sunsets and shamanistic songs,
Inside the buzzing of insect-night skies,
Under the clouds,
Blooming in the afternoon wind,
The airy dharmas sounding out hellish IBM futures
Where electronic prison camp genocide
Fenced in the beauty,
Herded the people into slavery
Of World Bank IMF credit flow,
A Nile reddened
By the dead Moses's of Sharpsville,
Voices that will sing Africa into freedom.

Doomed For the Change

Armpits smell in insurance elevators.
I sit amidst crumbs and compose.
Fear is the milkshake of the night,
Emulating Santa Barbara geneticists and mathematical economists,
Beautiful plant smoke.

I am an image on the screen
Of that coca-cola stained video game
That pushes me toward extinction
Without adolescent quarters
Or ephemeral women.

I saw a film on Nicaragua.
The people are awakening,
Rubbing the profit sleep from their eyes,
While I slumber in the mowed grass
Of California deserts
Doomed for the change,
A draining suburban happiness
That will not end.

Suffering Polishes Joy

Apparently there is much to learn,
Like the whittling of a stubborn but fine wood.
Suffering polishes joy.

Somewhere there is a foundation,
Not that one must find it.
Go onward jerking thoughts
Into knowledge.
Know everyone.
Feel there smiles.
Share in perceptions,
Teachings,
Of our species and others.
One should breath deep,
Recalling the abilities,
The pointless moods of childhood,
The raw taste of life.

We must be as bold as a candle flame,
Students of the moment,
Laughs of the one.

Going Backwards

The day it mellowed out
About the houses cobweb attic
And the artsy market floor,
The bore was
Terrifying.

The day it telephoned out
And you with him
That electronic Avon-lady day,
I would have to say
Wounds with blame.

But hey, it's not time
Crying over spilled milk,
A silk that rapes times curves,
The slur was only clockwork
Hopefully not soul-like
The fright of light.

Night! Tickle the objects.
I protest this surface.
I know of infinite alleyways,
All possibilities
For the dead lovers
And living leavers
Heave me here.

But there was fine,
Watermelon Midwestern rinds
And Oklahoma dreams
Of Dorthyesque birch trees
And seeds of honey
Stinging bees.

Please,
Find me a clock,
With many springs,
That winds every way.

Off Upon the Naval

Off upon the naval,
Graceful upon the apron,
Roll off the roots
Of the apple tree
Kissing,
Off the lad's wet she.

Flow off the naval
Power flowers on, off,
Stop toward the girl's.
Pop off the weighted seed,
Naval through the bough

Sex on the naval
Off and down,
Up and on,
Cross path the mammal,
Off the globe's trough,
Soft walk careful,
Smooth,
Turn on the offs of thought,
Silent now, candle soft
Light off the clouds
Moth on the flame
Mind on the No
Off the laden wheel --
On the nothings
Perfect scream.

Autonomous Not

And turning into the credit card mecca,
The final place,
Shiny transitory illusion
Firmly enshrined
Beyond psychoid.

And seeing the patterns
Of particle waves,
Musical choirs,
Harmonizing in the glade,
Of 3D projection.

And dropping Christ-consciousness
Inside the sticky New York nights
That echo Roman tyranny,
Pagan archetypes,
Of the mathematical west.

And finalizing the beginning, my life,
Your life,
The timeless bubble births
That burst and fade
Like helix's rising into Babylon,
Then crumbling into starless pleroma.

And doing all of this without any trace
Of a doer.

Daytime T.V.

Relish the irregular supper-man,
Superman, stupor-man.
Involve yourself in mid-20th century
Cigar and Bogart lighting
Watch the black
And white
On the afternoon airwaves.

Oscillate around
Dusty studio sets of L.A.-dom.
Finger the rivets
Of the bras
That knew only Joe,
Senator McCarthy,
Father knows bestologist
Of the twilight zone.

Offer highway patrols,
Columbia drug analogies
Which point to a zeitgeist
Of Reagan movies
And racist fishbowl
Community bores.
Hide from this day.

A Cliche'

A quart of alcohol inhibits oxygen,
Window pane of the brain,
The sane,
Sages of teapot nostalgia.
I live in a fish-bowl,
Rich parents,
White,
That equation hums to me with such congenital ease
While the rest must taste smog
And sport
Calloused Hands.
I am a rotting college kid Marxist.
Fuck, a clown,
A court jester of the university
Playground.

Modern poetry is shit.
Rich whites obscure reality
Glorify red wheelbarrows,
As if they meant something,
Something as important as their bloated stomachs
On corporate ledgers
And the sleek war technologies
That poets eat from.

Only optimistic fantasy keeps me going,
Not going to the insurance firm,
A place I might go.
Yet change might be the order
Of the day;
For I feel the restless molecules
And their laughings,
Night spirits that personify:
THE INTENSE GUILT
Of being American
And still
Wanting more.

The Girl and the Guy

True to the lights,
Opaque and final in the dull
Placid chairs of rooms,
The girl and the guy sit waiting.

After the last paycheck
When all the rents have left,
This couple will fly into milky nights,
Embracing beyond their errors.

We all sit by the computer
Pressed to the nausea of money,
Clinging to the bosom of capital
Of property, fear and performance.

The chattering couple will continue,
Man and woman herded into the company,
Two little things oscillating in space
Learning about this strange civilization --
Only to leave again and report back
To the one.

Afternoon

We are afternoon,
Set in line on this train
And we spy Whitman's decay,
The coast where it started
Where Jefferson wrote,
As he once rode winged stallions
And touched the dharma,
The feathered imprint of freedom,
Flustering by Maryland, Virginia
Her forests,
Now do I peer into
The sick trees
Of junk-rusted winter
Cold as the mind darkens.
The empire is falling.

Whitman was late morning,
As he flew over her forests
And saw the power of the land rise,
Rise for the white man
And the bloody war over the slaves
He came
Late morning
Before the noon Zenith of Hiroshima,
Of empire,
Japan's surrender.
America has done things
As power set circulating
Which Rome could only dream of.

I am late afternoon.
The sun is low,
Bowing down to the sunset of the future.
The glowing opening shall come,
The circle from Christ's murder complete.
All Empires from Rome's womb shall fall,
And I am afternoon
As Whitman was morning.
I shall sing of this land's decay.
I shall see lumbered forests illumined,
Hear Elf-song in the garbage dumps
And ride this train to New York
Spanning infinity,
Embracing verse from the other spheres,
For I know the math of the universe.
Whitman only saw the heart.
The morning hard-on of the body electric;
But I see afternoon
And all the moons are spinning
Retrograde --
Back to the fall,
The brick buildings of our cities
Red with blood
Like dying stars
Crumbling
After America,
All commodities pummeled,
Confusion.
The biosphere will
Revenge itself
Over America
After this afternoon.

Manhattan to New Canaan

Motion again, Manhattan to New Canaan!
By the fasting Buddha's so swiftly,
This train moves northbound.
Goodbye to Rome on the Hudson
We float on electronic rivers,
Like uprooted trees
Spinning toward a divine lightening.
Time ushers us on,
A commodity of tragedy.
Man is so close
As to only dream the spaces between.

Underground I write
In the cobwebs of Grand Central Station.
Pointed northwards toward the cooling forests,
September and harvest,
Do these rails tend so painfully stretched,
So buried in this city of cities of cities.
Manhattan is all the cities of earth,
Set aside each other
Floating on the motherfucker of invention.

We crawl slowly above the sputtering rails.
"Faster," I say.
I wish to see the stars open the pathways,
Tunneling to worlds of gods and guardians,
Not these dreary sculptured bricks of low-income housing
The 99th street stables for the black war workers,
Who built the machines that pounded Dresden,
Only to be discarded and caged once more
In the demonic kennels of this Empire.

Economics! Lineages! Chains reaching out,
Reflexes unconsciously compelling,
All directions,
Galaxies of DNA,
Karmas blossoming exactingly.
We are so intricate, like Lazarus,
Who Christ restructured in the desert of a crowd
"Miller Time" for the Buddhas,
Who dance their ecstatic feet upon bloody Tibet,
China's doom --
All present as I cross the Harlem river,
The Bronx,
"Ain't that tough enough?"
Krishna in a 72 Chevy,
No rust for his calender,
His times are both near and far,
According to whim.

The old silver-haired man to my right falls asleep
Resting on my shoulder.
The power leaves but on I write,
As I prop up this great white fuck of a man,
Fuck of my ancestors, of Stamford, Connecticut
Where a Buddha grew to love green fields and girls.
My aura flows into this sleeping testament of life,
A trick of the spirit.
I concede to him my arm and my power,
For into other worlds do I lean wearily,
Expecting nothing less.

I ruffle the pages of this poem,
The old sleeper awakens,
For a moment,
Embarrassed,
Erect against the boxcar air,
Yet again, like a soggy reed,
He lands unknowingly on my shoulder.

Where are we on this evening train?
Have the angels shut the stars closed?
All I see is a nothingness against the glass.
Man's reflections pale against his works,
His great white history and conquest,
Results now asleep against my shoulder
On a train
Awaiting New Canaan.

The City Is the Closing Chapter, Though the Book Will Never End

The city is the closing chapter,
Though the book will never end.
The city is man's new body
Her workers,
Man is cell.

City is the fluid of action
The lid of self-denial.
She is most graceful in the night
When the mother sun has left the room,
And only electrons teach the Highways
The cars,
And hide the sky's stars
To the cool illusions of our work.

Jagged tombs for our wars,
Cities never learn.
Only ruins acknowledge time.

When Satori Appears As a Woman

When Satori appears as a woman,
The dark hue of grass will always sting the skin
Against the plethora of lamp-light Augusts,
As dreams pour their colored mulch,
Like broken cloaks revealing rusted springs,
You must dodge the traffic hate and stand.

Time is state propaganda,
For only the sun has twisted our parting,
Has moved with cold knowledge of the warmth.
We long for simmering mammal love,
While trees grow horny
For sailors and nurses thighs.

Satori and sex are species-less and species-like.
Orgasm is blue-ribboned DNA mothering,
Cookied reward for crashing the billion-year party,
Our satori sex can be mundane or clear-eyed --
When satori appears as a women.

Slim Pickens

For a pint golden of whiskey
Or maybe religious sickness of cigarettes,
Old man Pickens held services
And they came:
Mildewed leather bikers,
Crazed babbling trash,
White, Black or brown,
Ripe-young or rotting old --
Slim would kneel.

At Fatman's trailer, playpen Oxnard,
Slim, stumbling like an old ragged dog,
Bumped into smelly death
Gun-crazed and bored racist,
Pants now soaked with whiskey,
Thanks to sloppy slim.

Our bored minister of hate,
Nigger-hatting nuclear Nazi
Had a smile of an idea.
Revenge!
Slim won't spill again.

That smile made lonely Slim a friend by evenings end.
"Forget the whiskey you spilled Slim."
"Let's go a shootin' up by Rose Valley."
(I won't forget the rope).

He tied with rope-burns that scared pissless old animal,
Hands bound, sensing death, shaking, pleading and doomed
Full of dirty oil rags and tools was that old Chevy trunk,
There Slim lay in the dark,
Feeling the bumpy road to home,
Destined for a hole below the backyard grass.

A cylindrical fine-made model "A" lay below shinning.
"Why this part of Oxnard has no plumbing.
So we buy these useful things.
They only need to be emptied every other year.
You'll be unrecognizable by then."
(Smile)

After three days of nightmare screaming, unheard,
Lying in dark shit and natural warm stinging water,
Slim ascended in his sleep
His body returned to the earth
Now rotting, not missed
In a cesspool.

Citizen Under Power

I live in the shinning acidic belly
Of empire.
Cancerous, I am a Marxist,
Yet still of the body,
And for the body:
America.

My dwellings spring from muddled thoughts,
Monstrous steel wombs,
Woven in the centuries of karma,
Whose rough silk smothered,
Peyote Buddhas --
Indian slaves for the Spanish-Catholic mines,
Christ consciousness for metal.
Movements of the multi-tongued empire
Lapping up the peasant entropy
That oscillates in the dialectic sweat and blood,
Dreaming of:
SANDINISTA.

Yes, we are cells of the northern eagle beast,
Stench of the ego winds
That have filled the bourgeois colleges
With suffering -- dukkha
Doom of the Asuras,
Descending from the power of the air
Into synaptic skull temples
American brain -- Trust
Us!
Exxon.

And the poets still talk about wheelbarrows
And eat Chiquita bananas,
United Fruit Company,
Guatemala,
Indian Auschwitz.
Images develop continuity,
Beyond the Newtonian lie.
Motion doesn't exist.
George Bush doesn't exist.
We do not exist,
In form,
Only events --
Thoughts of ancient ones
Or maybe ancient poems.

Who Doesn't Love Me

The lovers in Iraq have cried,
And the lovers of Bush's oil wars have died in sighs,
Looking west to their beloved homes,
The bosom of life and light,
Now Mangled burnt carbon of uranium babies,
Who confront my suffering
And indeed, I am small --
Only crying for a woman
Who doesn't love me at all.

The Key

I have reached the Zenith without you my love,
Summer solstice.
I can feel the sun washing away our times,
I feel the waning toward another cold fall,
For the both of us.

It was April, my dear, when we last spoke.
Our love now destroyed by this dark earth,
By forces I must face alone.
Your love for me has faded to a dream,
And for you my love is not real anymore.

They killed us with our love, my dear
A black shroud for a fee,
Yet all of that wouldn't matter
If love were not the essence
And you were not the key.

An Age Beyond Love

An age beyond love,
When she becomes a memory.
A drop of dew
falling into a cold eternal pond.

The Wastelands

I am in the Wastelands without your love dear,
In a future unknown
Awaiting a time when I can come to you,
Awaiting the tilt of the earth,
As we set together
Down over the ocean.

What Forces Approve Our Love (My Dear)

What forces approve our love, my dear?
What Caused our meeting
forging us from the beyond
Hundreds of levels deep,
hurling our vibrations to collide?

What forces approve our love, my dear?
Those that oppose us are legion.
But what forces soar above?
I see them now, my dearest,
Indifferent, in shinning armor
Guarding the dimensions of this earth
As they are indifferent now
To love’s death,
To its outright murder.

What forces approve our love, my dear?
Do they watch as we walk away, backs turned,
Fading into the stone cold rain of time,
The hard rain that washes away our lives
Our dreams,
tracing us apart forever.

The Deluge and the Seed

Haunting movements in the soils
The goals of gulls and man
Days, still as furniture
Soaked in sentiment's habit
Habitual futility behind dreams
These leaves, among others
Circle me
Trunk of a tree.

I see the gouging paradox
Eyes wet in the celebration
Musky storm-soaked thickets
A muddy flow from the forests
The nipple and the moon -- before
Cement chilled the puzzled toes
That pressed into the sharpened stone.

I weep in knotted stomach munch
As gargoyles push popcorn postcards
For the beauty pageants of polyester lawyers.
I the wheelbarrow roll awkward
Rusting in the sea-wet stench of midnight
And the beer-soaked breeze of company
Fasting -- amidst the herds' yellowed grass.

Can we obtain rather than describe?
Will we change, not chide, then hide?
I ache from the stairs of slippery boulders
And lap up the river's poison
Flailing my salmon-crystal tail
upstream, blind to the shore
The deluge and the seed.

Corporate Dungeon

As the smelly 1950's floor smothered my pace,
I could see the sun-belt illusion of L.A.
Arizona would have been more apropos
In the belly of the corporate dungeon.

The 8 AM elevator scene is final
It needs no analogy of materialism
Or any Jungian wise-man symbol,
For the corporate elevator is just that,
A platonic thought,
An irrational hypotenuse.

If revolution was an option for poetic cowards,
I would block these freeways,
The blood of the huge glass castles
That thrust into the California sky,
Earning symbols for the coupon clippers,
Pointed results on the degree of exploitation,
Like the brainwashing of Television
That waits for no commercial.

There should be a communist in every skyscraper,
To witness the thousands trod to work,
Buying cigarettes in the lobby.
We need that opposite.
It would refreshen,
Like the loosening of a tie
Around, Around,
My mushroom neck.

A Typewriter

An Ancient typewriter of infinite power metal,
This old desert sage roams the confines of social symbol,
Manipulatory axioms of being,
Captain crunch,
sugar chemical love machine,
The commodity of mother suburb
lamp-post consciousness,
The father of now-ness time,
Spewing forth words in the shitface of illusion.

That is Will

Now in the silent rug
The penny rests as science,
A saucer of power.
I lift the charged disk
And hurl it eons.
That is will.

Yet Another Ben Laden Message

Buddhism and boyfriends,
Bodacious Ben Laden,
Laying out his cockring fantasies
Of Allah in the shopping mall.

Ram You In the Plains

Could we fuck in Kansas without knowing why we we love me?
Could my cock piston to your mouth's hot refrain,
Or is love just a goat grazing in my panties purple rain?
Need me, my angel..and let me ram you in the plains.

Blue and Sun and Marijuana

Blue and sun and marijuana,
Drifting clouds against Pele'

Blue and sun and marijuana,

Days set high against her sky.

Blue and sun and marijuana

Windy times in ancient realms.

Blue and sun and marijuana

Green plateaus above the sea.

Blue and sun and marijuana

Patiently,  I await for thee.

Matter's Time

And not to think this is a dark age,
And not to know the river's silly exactings,
And not to be ponderous of the self,
Floating, floating, floating,
This time is:
Apocalyptic
(Like most others)
Fears of the ceaseless organism
Changing the bells of value,
Strands of DNA slithering in anticipation,
The mirror-like pools of frog-time,
Lilly sighs into the afternoons, swimming,
Wanting to fly.

Ironic that we answer questions
Yet remain idiots in their askings.
Oh so splendid, the structure of conversation,
The muddy movements in isolation,
Canyons of ego-centric pack-dogs,
Smiling in the green violence of money
Those old and sneaky illusions.
Not that love isn't,
But we've been tricked,
That glamor is objective,
The rare TV music of plush-rugged dungeons,
Fooling even the Buddha,
Without fooling him.

Our simple past,
Deep in the soup of billinuim,
Pasteurized bliss rains washing the air into power,
The ancient earth seas of giant-mooned summers;
Our soft gliding flesh is of nurtured dirt,
Molded in the wisdom of dead galaxies,
Flung into the frozen vacuum of forever,
Into this vast networking of dreams,
Biological beards bursting as forests,
From the moist belly of earth and then:
Us, roaring like a train through matter's time.

Why Rodney?

Rodney McBelly,
Sleepy blubber moth,
Awakes from his cradle trailer
To drink of anxieties' piss.

Was it the hand jobs
That he acquired
From a crazed 60-year old homosexual?
Slim Pickens is Mack's man!

Was it the psychotic toothless blonde
Who would ride him every noon
And tongue his meat at dusk
But she ran away with Blacky.

Remember the day Perry up and left him?
Preaching the gospel to hospital audiences,
Holding intimate dinner parties with Jesus,
Perry was a healthy kid.

Could it be those 15-year old girls,
Little fuck rabbits dancing on his fat belly,
Gifts of glowing quarters for Packman.
"Good girl!"

No, we don't know,
Why Rodney
Ever since you escaped
Camirillo mental hospital
In brilliant sow-dom.

You can go back to sleep now,
Rodney.

Sir Throasher

Die man in the kinky hay of grotesque,
Empty copulation.
See the movie
With the Gody Murder marine:
Liquor license,
See, know Jo Blo,
Dionysian cat food.

Apparently the train of the thought is skewed --
Towards Topeka.
Eleven farmers by the road
With tight naughty virgin:
Goats.

Timidly I space-out to drunken catholic professors.
Teach neoclassical:
Economics
The Reagan Pall,
Nancy
ON
MY
FACE
DANCE.

Just say, "Fucking No."
Great Americans drop acid and finish bicycle religions
And that park in San Fran
That ferlinghetti came in,
Come in:
Read Anti-Communist Korean want ads!
Examples?
Yes and sloppy:
Better dead than Red.

Marx is of the bodacious persuasion.
I know international pidgins love grain
And pounce and frolic in the play of change
And revolution!

Revulsion, as this poem goes,
As hope is defined
Accounts define,
Know the priests:
Wheat.

"Sir, the gas-station Christians are ALPHA."
Loaning money to desert acid children,
To young for the war, the whore,
The dropping of Nixon quotes
That are the toilet paper of Harvard.
Go to the streets and see:
LA Greyhound Bus-Terminal Four-AM Hell.
People die without credit
In this part of North America,
Native America:
(Not ours)

Mother Earthling

Now the time will tell.
Now the knower will kneel.
Fire rounds her landscape ship,
Measuring the timber's bell.

Now her rolling grace has fallen
As quietly as the now itself,
To windy, sandy, oiled days,
And muddy miner nights,
Cutting and plucking as rats do eat,
Feeding our corporate sight.

She rejoices in voices to be thrown,
With simple callings, pure,
Cloaked in her soft precision,
Sounds for the cities' ear,
Of easy days and humid rains,
Comfort from her aging nipple years.

Sit with her under Buddha pine
Or willow in your hair.
Know your childish ice-cream grin
Was Eden's pain to bear.

Step up and see the Sun's desire,
The wire to the other worlds,
Now in silent rape for all to have!
As muddy rivers roar,
Racing to the green littered shores,
By melting mountains,
Sweaty from our ape-metal games,
And Chevrolet strains of DNA asshole fame.

Warlock math will never work,
Our science fruits will rot.
Her beautiful rage will burst in red,
In the time when we shall be taught.
For she is --
And we are her,
And that truth shall stay and stay and stay,
(Regardless of our foolish fray)
Her formless windy smiles will always stand,
As her bosom turns the endless day.

Sodomy and Gomorrah

"Who in the hell ate shit while I fucked sheep?"
The question rings in the decadent stables of Sodom,
Where fat bitch-slapped sluts rode pig and cock
Through dark fiery streets,
Whereby strode an angel
Who released a jewel from his eye,
To quell the cream,
The thick cum fountains --
In butt, in cunt, in mouth
Atop mountains of sweat-flesh greased orgasm pigs.

Those fuck wads in Sodom and Gomorrah ate Hades death shit
And their souls without bodies must have freaked!

Narcissus

When love is sin
And sin is love
Oh brawling sin
And sinful love!

Narcissus,
I'm going into my planet,
With mommy.

Anxious of the Herd

Dark between the muddy gate
I hear the candyman call,
To a sun-harvest black-sheet parade.
But near the ancient lamps,
Outcrops neither future,
Nor past.

Take me in your arms parade.
Let me pass those festive gray asphalt gates
And behold the neon entrance of your number's world,
Your ink-stained land of beauty, carnage and ass.
But who am I to Jester?
I once sat throwing peanuts at the birds to.

Sears Catalogue

Swimming colors through green
Guillotined triangles
With red sporting
Turquoise.

Missiles toward rooftops
Omaha roofs of tinted
Orange.
Pink basements and blue,
Very blue bedrooms.

Touching telephone booths
With muddy kumquat glass
And Tupperware spoofs
Also decked in green,
Beautiful bulging wallets.

In the Kansas Room

In the Kansas Room,
The nightingales sing on dusty organs.
Death takes the patrons at the tables.
As they drink the wine of the Kansas Room.

In the Kansas Room
She glides with blonde locks up the staircase.
It's for you to wrestle the night.
She will be waiting above the Kansas Room.

In the Kansas Room
The fat salesmen will gamble green polyester.
The dice are round not square.
You have stepped off the edge.
Your snake eyes will be drained
And your heart will become the enemies lamp,
Until you leave the Kansas Room

State Dreams

Like sand-worn pillars of ruin
Whose groping hands have felt the edge,
I sing only of gravity's darkness
Which hardens particle into myth
And forges us from the furnace of empires.

The more I learn of history
Do I read my own diary.
For I have purged innocence
With a bronze purpose like Babylon
Only to cry alone, scattered
Like ravaged mother Rome.

Waterloo slipped from Napoleon's will,
So have lovers eluded my dreams
Causing me to rise in wanton excess
Like Uncle Sam at whorehouse
Rolling in the chocolate of his riches.

We are all like rusted nations
Embracing emotions that peddle dogma,
In poisoned honey vats
That artists drink like wine
And statesmen spill
Against their sticky bibs
In the nursery of legend.

As our lives flutter in a riverbed
And flow in an algebra of pattern,
So are nations suspended,
Snug in a dew-wet web
That glistens in the morning sun
Of a billion smoldering dreams.

Atlantean Wizard

Look up into the sky
And not to see a wizard.
Look up at the sun
And imagine an exacting turn,
The sun a thought,
A Window left open
And through once the wizard came.

Take the time to walk forever,
Up a staircase that winds through vast rooms,
Rooms full of oceans,
Furnished with islands,
Rugs of green land,
Atlantis,
Walk as the wizard's boot forever.

Say the speak with hands folded to the millimeter,
Say the speak of a thousand worlds.
Stay the week,
One world, one king,
One wizard,
Hold the line
While becoming lines,
Mirrors,
Power,
War.

Kill the death that brought the gods of Atlantis downward in motion,
Incur their fierce envy,
Stop the killing souls and sink the island,
Be a wizard and look up into the sky,
Understand the Wizard's eye.
Fill the time that is already gone.
Meet the people already done.
Hold the power of the temples.
Let the land return to the sea.
Let the geneticists and physicists,
Incarnate again in 1993.
Stop this illusion and stay by the window of the sun,
The wizard has won.
The wizard just one,
Looked up into the sky and saw
Atlantis,
As only a game to be played.

Tooling the Eternity Farms

Tooling the eternity farms,
Their crops of ripe meditation,
Dissolution of form,
Retreating into a non-conceptual rainbow of dust,
Tooling the minds,
Finishing the subject with a polish,
A clear exacting gaze into the orange desert,
The place of power,
The field of intersection
Where the planes meet
In N-spaces of the countless dreams,
The endless dry riverbeds,
Dry with the boundless potential
Of us.

Earth, The, Zeal

What does "Earth" mean?
Why the fascination with "The" or "Zeal?"
I'm here, in an awareness,
Around me is all i can image,
Within me is that imagination.

The etiquette of petitioning the totality of consciousness,
Politely, aware of my energy failings,
The body feels real tonight,
Real phony,
As I sigh in anticipation of entities,
Who I will fight,
Who affect me yet remain fictional
In the centric minds of my people.

"The incarnation is passing you by," he said.
Such little time,
Wonders not even mushrooms could reveal.

Evenings in Oxnard tract homes,
Weekend in L.A. and Marijuana,
The spring hasn't started, has it?
I want to know that things are,
Or that they aren't,
At least,
To know something,
To feel again,
Away from computer offices,
The money,
The dreams of machines,
The schemes of green profit,
Fat, dead men,
Their karmas,
Drive me to India and the Gita,
These currents pull me down.


It is so aggravating to sit in a shit sty,
Atop a toilet,
Taking a shit and knowing,
That on other planes of attention,
Krishna frolics through worlds and energies,
Whose echo's of could transform a yuppies life.
I mean, I am real.
Do I deserve this world?
Obviously it's in the cards,
Whose daughter did I fuck,
What wasted lives,
Have sucked me down to this?
Am I so special to bitch at the toliet,
Graced by the teachings of an Avatar,
Who comes by only once and while,
Glowing and speaking of other worlds.
Is he there to taunt me? To save me?
A taunting savior,
Maybe?

Regardless, this poem will end.
I will leave this terminal again,
Be faced with self.
Perhaps, I should go to the beach
And there,
Maybe look
Into the ecstasy of elsewhere.

Thanksgiving Love Letter

Thanksgiving in late November,
The heaven's hexagram opens,
The deserts reek with power,
As the early sun sets tenderly,
And steel-cold cars move to their deaths,
Do I write this to you.

Darling By You

The sky is thick with dark cool power,
Templates rolling like hills,
Wave forms as they are,
Darling by you.

From Manhattan to Oxnard

I recently walked the Brooklyn Bridge in ecstasy.
The clouds, the humid April wind, the scattering rains,
Knowing all the time that I was in Oxnard.
Oppositions attract.

Manhattan or Oxnard I ask?
Empty being, Full being? Mind? Matter?
Zen Master Rama is LA and Manhattan.
But Oxnard?
I could be in East Village, LOWESA,
Lower East Side,
Marxist being flooded,
Culture, no nature,
only mind full and bright
Yet grey.

I am of North Oxnard,
bleak, clean lines,
People unaware of themselves as cattle,
Racing in California metal down Ventura way,
Turning down the monopoly troughs to Gonzales road.
And then onto the Boulevard -- Oxnard Boulevard!
No nothing,
the ancient peaks above me,
Guarding the Western power lines,
looking down
At the muddy haze of Oxnard dreams
from where I descend.
Egypt and Atlantis!
Yet I have taken incarnation here,
In the dark,
Draining my dreary schoolboy crushes
Snapping my lost powers to this Oxnard dream,
Until broken I must run to the desert
Who like a mother cradles me in power and wisdom
Which again are crushed against the Oxnard strawberries.

Who am I to complain?
How many of you have visited the ancient sacred trailer of Lord Rodney,
Now dead, lost in the dungeons of this fallen empire.
Thoreau was right, Rodney is Buddha.
He has gone mad with Slim Pickins and Trudy,
And Massive Wade has sunken into the earth,
While the Nuclear Nazi and I are locked in this bungalow,
Thousands of years since the Jesus glow from Israel.
I cannot but help but pick up the pen of this sticky keyboard,
And tell you of Oxnard existences.

All is mind but that which isn't.
Oxnard, some strange dead, living mind,
Souls huddled West of those ancient deserts,
Meeting the young and old,
Night-tripping to LA and Ventura,
Sex, beer, and the loss of energy and innocence,
The rings of awareness tight around everyone
Not loose and wild like Manhattan,
No subway people suffering,
(as to go full circle to ecstatic consciousness)
Not the crisp, clear Zazen forest leaves of Boston,
Not the raw dying power of Los Angeles,
Or the crazy Indian nirvana of Marin,
No the Oxnard energy is still by the oceans,
The art and achievement of the west,
Pounded into the stench of fertilizer
And fast-food consciousness.

The energy again shifts into a frenzy of dream vortexes,
Weird women throwing weird powers at me,
Amateurs who probably swept pyramids in Egypt,
Now draining this Sphinx-aspiring occultist,
Speaking to you live,
Shackled to an HP-150 terminal,
Writing to you about these Oxnard incarnations,
The battles I have lost,
The few I have won,
The dharma I have not followed,
That none follow,
In this cloudy heated summer basin.

I meditate in Oxnard,
How could anyone follow with these dreams,
Of huge violent trucks,
Dreams of desert oil wars,
Jungle Latin conquest for the ending,
Which will bury Oxnard's name
And clear the bright colored soda-stains of Manhattan cement,
The subway piss of Brooklyn,
My little dreams,
A flash of light,
Back forever
Other worlds beckon,
From Oxnard to Manhattan.

Oxnard Basin

Again I walk the sacred basin,
Oxnard basin! Ho, to the settlers!
The bourgeoisie gone from LA,
For here I firmly plant my awareness.
The Oxnard anthologies continue!

The End

Forest flies at sunset,
States of mind in Oxnard.
Koans, wars, girls,
This is indeed the end.

Dig the Change

Turn again and glance back
To the paths of impeccable error,
Laughable in the rains,
The roads to war
When they meet and we see the circle's song,
Rushing toward the end of our acquiring.

What were the 1990's?
I honestly cannot say.
A marketing gimmick for the wars of this century.
All the celebration of this empire!
We only care about flags,
The Olympics and Fox News sponsors!

The TV set shows us the master races,
They deliver us football,
Yet do we question America's glory?
Who of you will stop to see
The terrible decay of this young empire?
Who has spoken to the living rooms about our debits,
The forests, waters, and Indians?
Have we arranged all of this?
the World Series,
Superbowl,
The Yankees and Dodgers,
Royals against the Indians,
Marines, Giants, Pirates, Rangers,
Astros, Padres,
Angels,
All of them,
All angels,
The names that call us,
Out of the death of Christ
And the blood of Rome that looms,
Back, Black in the forest,
The opposites of our civilizations,
Who embrace in a tantra of energy
That will spin like luminous deserts
Melting into the funnel of eternity.

This Function Is Onto

Onto this pavement I commit walking,
Walking like a staircase crawls,
Walking as bowling balls
That are hazel in the rain,
The rainbow-less acid rain,
Falling behind the dark twinkle factory,
On the infinite corner dust of 5th and Vine.

Onto this pavement I commit seeing,
Seeing like an onion rind reflection
Of the mad taxis and the telephone poles,
Who would pull tricks on grandpa post office,
And grandma box office,
Black and white,
Equipped with well-weathered magnet sopranos
Who sing of Hitler and Coca-Cola Dali's.

Onto this pavement I commit talking,
Stoner breaded babble,
Starless and buxom black with clichéd' punker spikes
That greased Eisenhower era Schwin bikes,
Whose paint mind-fucked in the sun
And banged the artsy Sodom hun
In underground Iranian-owned Los Angeles
Parking Structures.

Did all this sloppy seeing, walking,
And of course
California talking,
Ever feed the pigs?

Don't Answer

Imperative yes, but poignant no.
Our relativism isn't revolution.
Trees are not always words for life.
Life doesn't need language.
The people are the truth,
They don't need to "know it."
People don't need anything
That can be named.

Simplify the thought value.
Revel in its worthlessness
As much,
As you have dared
To ignore the farmer,
The stupid plants and savage animals,
Who supposedly,
Existed as imperfections on the way to Darwin's man.

Is a small girl
Less than her mother?
Can we measure the word why?

Don't answer that question.

Orange County Outside of Time

Orange County wheels massive in transit.
Gamble and bet on multinational frat boys,
In linoleum law offices, legal clinics
And Vegas whorehouses

Sunrise over California boy beach home,
Accountant smeared over ink-stained arena,
CPA money dreams,
Oil wars,
Middle East CIA screams
Tic Tock, Tic Tock -- the dialectical dharma clock.

When will the knowings of now be known?
When will man correct negation?
When will the social tribe be healed.
Behold the Marxian material dream,
Fantasia of the blissful Maybe's,
Irrational babies,
Parks with trees,
Navajo peyote knowledge --
America's high priest,
Before Europian,
Random-walk energy,
Before the bomb,
The commodity of pure energy
Made its face
Upon the starving yawn of time.

I Remember You

Why did I ever meet your graceful memory?
This decade shouldn't shake me as it does,
With pain of dionysian cages,
In your honor.
The gravity lines have shifted,
In genius of moment,
With no regrets or shrouds.

When Sunday exists in July
the terminal images and lamp posts melt,
Their foundations are blurred.
You fill the physical void like a poison
Rampaging from a cup
Across lips of complete abandon from death's option.
I am free for myself
And new contacts
Within cavernous dreams
And the bellowings of this age,
This once and only claim:
That I remember you.

This Text

Under the fleshy mat of July afternoons,
Calling out the many names of boredom
This text is entered.

This text could offer knowledge,
Or ancient harbor gems, shinning,
Europe on the physical plane,
Reflecting the matrix of vicious illusions
And post-illusions.

Yet for what does our language do?
Is it the ancient DNA nested in our brains
Affording us the pseudo-critique,
The words can't come out right;
They is us, the problem,
The violent and the lazy label,
Lapped up in the rubble of our cockroaches and cities,
Our vacations to smile town, frown,
A flipped-out bunny wearing diamonds.
Die rich they tell you!

We're all sick of these dull incarnations
Those endless lives of cocktail parties
And nipple pleromas in the cocaine of monopoly proms.
We want mountains,
Desert acid-trips,
Induced by the sacred mango,
Juicy weeks of mysticism,
And a wanton hedonism
That is really disgusted as anti-tantric Marxism.

But who cares what we want?
For the wishes have left us.
Hope hides in the isn't of this age.

Bourgeois Art

Self-consciously I type,
Admittedly,
My art is shit.
Compare it to the Detroit art,
The worker,
Whose body will twist
Whose mind will spin,
A flywheel of Euclidean geometry
Computing steel press vector's
To avoid amputation of the hand.

The metaphor of value,
Men
And women
Extract its Shadow,
Squeezing use from matter
Low entropy from property,
Profit from the earth,
The mineral slaves of Chile,
Sculpturing the dialectic death
Of capitalism,
The worship of animal hunters,
Who ate sheep
In the central parks of billinium,
Then fed furnaces in Germany,
Not that we all don't kill,
Man progresses in unison
Holding nothing
But hands.

Buddha Nature

Now again I come to you as a forest.
Only now do I smile at you in the onlyness of joy.

Please don't get up yet;
Let's sit still and strong.
find a way to open your heart,
Below the humming pines
And nibbling squirles
Off atop the sun-warm granite.

Don't hide behind problems
That you think are yours.
Ahhh...the Air.
Why are you smiling?
Listen.
Feel,
Silence,
Buddha,
Dharma.

Is there Buddha nature in my shit?
Well then,
Rub the Buddha for good luck.
Never be afraid.
It's all in fun.
We are here for keeps.

Why Is Love Unknown?

Why is love unknown?
If I were to fly toward unveiling,
Would not the sun melt my future,
Leaving me tenuous,
Waterless,
A leaf against a rake?

To resist love is fear of darkness,
For rising implies fall
And love's defeat lights dark pools.
It's rise is the lifting of mountains
Purple and cool against the salty desert of experience.

Love is the fusion of waring empires
Of multitudes bound by swaying awe,
The harvest of eager fields of wheat,
The sway of the body and the sickle,
Young in the liquid of memory.

Love destroys science.
Logic is but a demented game
Useless and feeble in the shadow of smiles,
Trite to the echo of soft whispers.
Timeless truths are an aura beyond the gates,
We must climb stairs for love,
Even as the marble shines us into blindness,
And slippery marble leaves us
Skating at the base
Dreaming of that solid land
That is actually
Just a step away.

A Nation Past Time

Polished muddy color cement,
Sugar sticky from rivers of black nectar,
Cracked with a well-travelled shine
Dim-lit path to the worship arena:
Baseball

Millions will follow
All types, from all worlds, living in all times.
Murders, artists, kings, smelly bums and children
Creating, as always has been done:
New religion.

Oh that feeling, shimmering from the endless seats,
Dancing in the summer insect air,
A chatter of minds as they sit in purpose,
Purpose beneath the electronic glaring lights,
Lights violating the still, dark American night,
Nights like old Romeo or even Nuremberg:
New empire.

Pick your baseball card heroes of these holy wars,
Sainted archetypes if you will,
Study the statistical scriptures they sell at the gates,
To spread the WORD about those NINE.
Photograph and math omens of apocalyptic Octobers.
Study the men the numbers favor,
Idols for eager boys and smiling girls
All for that one infinite crowd
And the one eternal diamond mind.

Go Now Softly Into the Stoned Days

Go Now Softly Into the Stoned Days.
Peel that facade of ever-clear interests,
Penantonic notes of soothing complacency
That rise out of the US monied-media,
Selling Hitler as child Bush,
Or the Arabs as a cock-roach plague.

Oh that fucking Iraq,
Just shit-faced into puppetery.
Who in their right-wing mind could have Gods
As bloody as our red, white and blue,
Even the Midas class
Must get sick of mansions and wasted sons.

Continue to provide, divide.
Break the workers and the minimum wage.
The scathing sun and the churning sea,
How can they shine on this inebriated kingdom,
Of electronic football religion and beer sacraments,
Cloudy, as the world, brutal.

The sickest dance beat is a boot-camp,
Brass and drum on the confused dance floor,
A battlefield of depleted uranium,
Drinks pour like blood,
Bought with money,
The unit of hell power.
Dying herds sit by the bar
Sipping poison,
That stiffens the masses and keep AT&T
With shiny clean windows,
Free from the love of poor rage.

The Last

We ask what might necessarily be the last,
What last beer and last paranoia will paint
The Canvas Boulavards, who shall roll?
Toll: I have come to economics.

To ask if money is not a funciton of the soul,
Rather what stole me from factory death.
No Williams or Whitman could write in Bangledesh.
Art is porportional to money,
Units of power,
Will-reality, socio-mediators
That have risen from castles,
The alchemsits gold,
Federal Reserve madam,
Fort Knox,
Sit on the face of America,
That smelly old Sam.

Where is earth, that oiled planet?
Whose shit became moss, became fossil,
Fossil man,
Klu Klux Klan
Uncle Sam
Kansas City Acid.
Are such utterances trite?
New York Times trite,
Once in a while
Right.

Wrong,
That song
That bong
That line
That shirks responsibility,
Californians and Avacados
Beome conscious
Of will geared toward home.

Texas

My sweet Texas star,
I want to fill you in the night
and kiss you as I stroke your long hair,
rolling with you wildly across the earth.

Gifts

I want to shower you with gifts,
Not gifts of this world,
But with secrets and with moments,
that are spoken with wild sexy kisses.

Approaching the Asymtopes

Approaching the asymtopes
I lust for the order
A warm herd mentality
Of wrist-watch worship.

Tending toward infinity,
My equations become meaningless
Like garbled psychotic spew
Or dogs barking in the park.

Bending into the plane,
My purpose is flat and shallow.
Fate is a gravity
An endless vector --
Yet if I converge to a point,
Then why am I skew?

Closing Time

Burial of flower dreams, it seemed
Engraved boundaries of chalky parabolas,
Nestled in the crib of metropolis
Masquerading as multi-variable equations.

Value-skin, fission devices
Burials in mushroom dreams,
it seemed such virginal logic
Had painted the curtains iron.

Why must implosion of the soul exist?
The disrobing of bubbly Whitmanesque aspirations,
Flesh red sunsets beyond the bridge
And echoing Indians on the hot-tubless ridge.

Liquid-eyed bus station janitors
And cocaine queues of Coors executives,
Well behaved San Fran Marxist faggots,
And slews of Boston Aerosmith maggots,
I charge you all:

Pull your head out of the stem's nectar.
Cradle yourselves no longer,
In the matter, greyed by aviation paint,
Film noir, and black-magic punk.
Your numbers are up in the shooting gallery,
Quarter-happy archetypes in the midnight arcade.

Amidst Power

I've run and danced in lands
Where the sky has almost pulled me
From my bodies womb
And swung me as a grain of sand
Through the cold oceans of wind
Below the dusted bowing hills.

I've slept inside a hall of pine
Sapped and bleeding in the passover
Of the short summer's beaming smile
That heals the cracked and pebbled land
Scarred of winter's snow,
Lapping up the earth's soul.

I've fled in purring steel
Across ancient desert faces
Cheeks whose sculptured knowledge
Of the hills that were once
The dying mountain Whispers
Heard above the kneeling land.

I've been watched in sacred land,
Faintly singing in the dusk of day,
Of a power that makes me dust,
Knowing as I violate these timeless graves
That if they ever were to quickly reach,
And touch my sand grain soul
I would melt in their calloused hands
Like falling Crystal snow.

The Dark Third

Creased grass enumerates my rest.
A moist body burdens the ground.
Sleep is aching for me, breathless.
I lie as a mosaic aside the speckled shade.

Dreams happen to me, the appleless me,
Like a suitcase I am opened for rummage
Tossed and teased about the sluggish vault
Gigantic tales, the bounty of grandfathers.

And then to feel the coiled muscles, again
The images dissolve into will.
Elements follow and I find the animal
Whoring my symbols to the banality of life.

Luminous Fat-Ass

The luminous fat-ass stared into a fat glass terminal
Illumining his reflective fat-ass ego image,
Physical plane earth.

The fat-ass image of a fat soul,
Juxtaposed the fat-cat island Atlantis
Now fat in Fat, New Jersey, U.S.A.F.A.T.
Captital accumulation.

I can't fatten your disks anymore.
There is no room for the Buddha to land
Fat belly on unpolished melodrama
Television fat has hidden his view.

What more can any of us do?
But diet towards a thin fatless door
Pointing out from the fat circle and fat points
That the derivative of the apoclypse
Indeed exists.

My marrow Is the Carcass of Suns

My marrow is the carcass of suns,
Molasses flowing in heavier patterns
Through the sap of space
the tongue recites fire.

My blood is spray against the soil
Scattered droplets of ocean
Warm in the memory,
wet in the mandala's dream.

My clay was once star
Nestled in the wavy hammock of gravity
And wove from the silk of light
By the calloused hands
of Logos.

Costco

The parties behind Costco tinfoil

Go with me in bells and gown,

While I sip the poison wax:

"Hello sir, will you hire me?

Until Another Death

Yesterday, I was able to sit in my room,
Laugh at the bright Saturday sun with a friend.
I discovered the possiblity of silence.
The frosty grass fields of the mind.
I took a long warm shower after reading,
And laughed more.

And though the final war may come,
I still smiled.
For that Saturday
Something embraced me from the beyond,
Something regardless of myself,
Dancing above my spongy temple,
My organic pillow,
Where my soul rests
Until another death.

Vastness

There is no spatiality.
One cup of water
And I command universes!

Only When

Only when you can face horror
Can you have beauty.

The boughs of the tree outstretched,
Like his Zen-terrific mind,
Concentric circles.
Binding planes of attention
As they weave towards me,
Through the roiled oceans of thought,
Of the sitting,
The zazen.

No differences

Tea

Why does tea attract so many Buddhas?
Why do they ask for suger
And attract so much salt?
Why do they finally sip it
And spin so many wheels.

Ah yes!
That's it.
The tea is the manifest
And without it
There is nothing to ask why.

To a Female Student

She is working
And beneath the young seeded mind
Buddhas rest in lilly hamocks,
Awaiting the end of sororeties,
Appluading peace from the occult,
Auctioning bright toys of carnaval karma
And siniging into her ear
Of infinite mind.

I Saw the First Sunrise

I saw the first sunrise
the band bending like Taffy
matrices reaching from the taunt worlds.
The joy shinning in astere mathematical symmetry,
careening above the first ocean cloud burst.
The young world sprayed and fragile from dream's birth
the first sunrise was indifference polished.

I saw the first ocean,
steaming of its future loose before the light
transcendence in song, pitch, and perfect,
knowledge twanging as the first metal resonance,
of joyous Buddha's bored of this planet's firsts,
their open webs shot forth the first powers,
the innocent birth of lady earth,
a child in a meadow calling, calling,
through the blades maze of galaxies,
a womb laden for souls
some to sing, some to cry,
but not on the first,
only silence
on the first sunrise.

What to do With Christianity?

Where are the freindly suppers,
Warm air picnics with children?
Did we lose them in the wars,
In our Christian hypocracy?

Jesus was Marxist.
"I Am," he said.
He was.

Resin-Filled Wonder

It’s vital that everyone concentrate on bongs,
Homemade resin-filled wonders that make jazz
On AM radio, pump the other resins of air,
In the rainy radio night.

What is Radio? TV is omniscient, fulfillment of the cavity century,
Pumping phlegm into the bored lungs of Middle-class,
Protestant rash, Orange Counties of great Americans.

The piano still rules.
The only instrument that makes jazz and dope
Take on mathematical qualities of discreteness,
A collapsing of the nth dimension,
Whose feeble parameters of ancient loin
Babble incoherently about the post-catholic stars,
And the astrology of fat and wondrous desert prophets --
Yet this collapse, this nth space we search for,
Can this deliver us from the guarded animal of our self?

Well the dope is wearing heavy on my hair,
This jazz is dull pizza music for Barry Goldwater
And his golden showers of brandy, butt, and bombs,
Insignificant to me – the man most go on the field,
Or chained to a blinding computer terminal,
He must stay company,
Until this poem becomes old.

Marxian Primer

Each according to his needs
The fat man in his Cadilliac
Drives by a fire hydrant
That sprays water at the slum children.

The water is cool and powerful,
But the man's back sweets
Until it sticks to the upholstery
Like bacon.

The Desert Is After

The desert is after,
after life,
after us,
after thought and speech,
after silence and death.

When the black crow sits skillfully still
And the aimless butterflies
Dance fearlessly,
These glowing sands
Become windows,
Lessons for the foolish drivers of man,
Schooling for the luminous self,
Our star-flung propellers,
Denied for mammal
Answers to be remembered
In the after,
of the desert.

Mama Wade

Mama Wade,
Mellow mammy of the morn,
Hug me,
Like an old teddy bear.
Show me,
Your humid pores,
Skin of black bosom mirth.

Articulate my member envy
Into your steaming oatmeal mouth
And let me feel the earth folds
For some "tra la la"
On your face.

Mama Wade runs a flophouse.
It's only 400 dollars an Oxnard month
And all their disability checks (mental)
Keep the proverbial kids
By your breast.

You're a lucky lady,
Mama Wade

Arpeggio In Utah

Arpeggio in Utah,
The grey stove of sand,
Wandering entities and wiser bluffs,
Wish me no harm -- but death.

There Shall Be Weeping and Gnashing of Teeth

He said that, the title, I mean.
The company needs room.
I've stumbled in from Atlantis,
Obsessed with hells, power,
WASPy blonds,
But now it's time to tie the shoes
By the lamp
Stand on my head,
While running atop yogurt.

Saturday Night

A lot of bad karma,
A lot of bad entities,
one enlightened guy --
and boy this certainly beats
Saturday Night Live!

These Moments

Stream smooth laughter in computer rooms,
Void and cool deep in the city's trunk.
These are the images of the dream,
These are the trappings that color the story,
These are the moving lines of the moth's dance,
These moments sleep forever.

Separate Entities

Where are those separate entities existing,
In their twentieth century ample ideas of power and fun?
Why do they infer conscious speculation into the negation,
The will, or other vectors of curiosity.
are they to arrive,
Or is arrival to announce them?

Winter in Los Angeles

Ice on Pico,
As the strained heater hums,
L.A. nights and the newage Santa Claus
Whoe mink-drapped disciples
Charge red wine coolers with plastic
The credit limits,
on the solstace of the desert winter.

Nebraska Jazz

All in all,
I like the kitchen
Metling ice-cream
And the Nebraska wind.

The tiles are dirty yet warm.
Outside the sprinkler spits at the summer.
The children and calling dogs
Are like a jazz band
Warming up.

Word Association

Go now cow.
No
Cum
The was goal
Is not all more.
Gunner
Eat the
Is
For
And I know
Winding
Sleep faith
Away to
A Toppled Store.

Prom Rings

Tell the troops to wear prom rings
When they enter the shiny ballroom
Of possible landscape pavings.

Across bars,
Before the Whitehouse
A women in black
With crow carefully on arm
And paperwork all signed
Whistles in atonal grief.

Can a Revolutionary Be of the Spirit

Can a revolutionary
Be of the spirit
Can the agitated
purpose
Of a spliced water droplet
Splash upon the cold granite bank
And make it happen
For very green moss?

Food

This checkbook I hold is food!
No wonder
I pawed for it
With such frenzy
Above my cluttered desk.

Pentagon War Poppies

Load the bong of pentagon war poppies.
Let's hide in Kansas suburbs and smoke L.A. dope.
I wanna watch some nasty cop show about diamonds.
Buy me some Coors, asshole.

Blow Jobs, Earth, Kansas

Blow Jobs, Earth, Kansas
What else encompasses the bands of our awareness?
Blow Jobs are the flesh
Earth is the Mother
And Kansas is the unknowable.

Need I say more?

Jerry Thongman

I want to cum in the god Thongman,
to shoot in his ass and face,
and make his impeccable frame shiver
as my talent fills his mouth with creamy wisdom.

I want to eat the ass of the god Thongman,
to stool him on my face dance,
and take his wrinkled folds
with my cum-cream bathed in the soaps of my tongue-ring.
I want to mouth fuck the god Thongman,
to rape my size into his steaming horny throat,
and the vacant orgasm eyes of his brow
staring at me as we cum with the stars.

Revenge

The earth is an interplay of light and darkness,
Of love and hate,
Spinning in lines, intersections
Grids meeting a matrix of dreams:
People in buses,
In love,
Fucking,
Sucking,
Trucking
To Bagdhad,
To Rio.

The dream,
The factory workers in pennslavania at midnight,
The movies --
Flashing the earthly paradise.
Hollywood the dream within the dream,
And the desert beyond
And the seas,
West to Mu
I shall make my stand.

I Was In a Network Like Hers

I was in a network like hers,

And it was pathetic like hers.
I was in a network of theives
Who smiled amongst the leaves
Of our Buddhism

I was in a network like hers,
And it was disgusting like hers.
Glitter dome dinners,
Being the chosen ones
And looking down at all of earth.

Diagonal Bishop

I am a bishop waiting
In diagonal patience.
I sit on this boring dry square
Oceanic with a desire to slant forward
or back.

A Bishop,
In diagonal patience,
I sit.
It gets boring.

When is the battle?
What channel is it on?
Am I a minister of death praying for war?
...some sort of diagonal patience

A Bishop
In diagonal patience
What a concept...
My home suburbia.
The dry lands of mind,
Wet in the Western rains
Whose winds, with that diagonal patience,,
Fill the land with a gray gay infinity,
Patiently in the diagonal.

When does a bishop move?
Who counts the nodes of the galaxies?
The min-max trees of karma
Dimensionality?
Wessonality?
Is the spirit marketing?
To evaluate green rectangles,
Diagonal patience
Horizontal profit.

With money thus, the patient Bishop of Diagnostic is:
An ecosystem,
A Capitalism,
A Schism,
A health food store,
A whore.
The Diagonal Bishop of Bore,
Glued to Desert Storm laser-guided Christian patience.
With grace may he watch as we consume races.

When is a Bishop supposed to die,
Trade himself for his counterpart
Or maybe a lowly pawn?
Does this diagonal patience reek of stalemate,
Necessarily in that order
In what future?
Does a bishop die,
To be reborn as king?
Or is simply this diagonal patience
One of many rings?
We are many things.