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.

I Am a Goat:

I Am a Goat,
and Walk like one down to the brothel
by the cobblestone, I the skeptic, turn
into the flesh of bestiality,
fly-ridden by the death of chemistry
I take my goats as if I deserve;
power is only a coincidence of incarnation.
Does rape not exist beyond language?
Are the forests no less ravaged sweet
than are my goats?

I am a goat
and await the complete violation of some higher species
who will come when I do not ask
with a language that renders me mute
and a sexuality as brazen as the darkest industry,
that will pump me like the earth for a fuel that hides,
In my stupid mammal expressions
which convey no more than I am a goat.

I humped all of life one morning

I humped all of life one morning,
as I lay by my excellent goat
whose radiant beams where as emerald grass
and whose twinkling eye
was the dew Eden's oceans bore to surface
which shown like waves into my silly mammal face.
I, scraggy homo-occultist,
was humbled by the morning goat
and her twilight stare
beyond the setting suns of my carnivore sins;
seamless was she,
goat and God Capricorn,
whose orgasm cries
could set the world asleep forever
as does gravity sing of silence
with circles that trace creation.

A Goat Named Babs

I had a goat named Babs
and banged her until the sun exploded.
A five billion year smile
Stretched the galaxy's course.
Each star an Orgasm,
Each electron raved
as we shook the very core
of sentient rhythm
and the grunt of duplicity.

Mother

I want to do my whore mother
she has created all of sin
and with her my cum can reach galactic volume,
incestuous roaring oceans of milk to cleanse the false religions
and to make cocks spring from the planets
against the springing nipples of mother creation and her blouse
soiled in the illusion of self,
and the stench of hate.

Desire does not free us now,
Or make us cum with a smile.
Orgasm will burn with fire this fallen world
and fill the little girl mouths with endless cocks
like bibles opened for song in their dripping mouths,
this is the mother I see coming.

Eastern Hawai'i

You have taken me south and high
to the rain forests of Pele'
deep in the burning mists of creation.

I have stood perched on these cloud heights
rimmed against the mantle of unknown oceans.
Oh blue is your East, Hawaii,
Wrap me in time and rainy weeks.

I am dying in her rainy beauty, Eastern Hawaii.
I am living against the lava fields and lines of power,
Perpendicular to what I call body.
I now lurk in this deep starless land and cold heights of snow.
I dream in the East,
Yet lie in the bluest West.

The Goats of Kansas

The goat of Kansas seduced me on a hashish drive to the west,
where the plain is brown and the earth invisible,
out there you swim with stars,
alone, between the lines
that only goats connect.

As human pumped up dark water from the well,
the spiked raw grass dug into my feet
the goat on the hill tilted
her head so gently
I came inside of her kicking
infinity.

Joe Kansas sung of women in neon bar,
I drank the Miller thinking of her,
knowing Joe had her to,
out here morality is dry as dust
and the goats rock the land
and the man.

I almost had a human woman in Kansas,
She was fifteen wearing dirty white,
her eyes shown like murder only
the psychosis of Christianity;
I turned my back and wheeled
onto the Goats of Kansas.
Impeccable sanity.

The Year of the Goat

The Year of the Goat
my friend told me in my fat,
The year of goat began to ring to me at sunset's edge.

The edge is the year of the Goat,
think of all the parameters
that this year has.
Me and goats could curl the sun's strands
as we hay away the questions of thought.

Thought! Goats don't think, don't you know,
It is their year, ownership and aura,
commanded from their dusty thrones
It is their time as Jupiter rings the stars this year.
For goats the karma's lock,
how they are, how they fuck.
Most see but the shadows
of these things and times
and rivers
that move the soul to Goat Incarnation,
or goat love,
The hum of bonding energies,
unseen,
singing to me in the grass,
Beyond the Television family
Banging awareness outside of society,
of time, of man, of thought, of money.


Money and Goats, what a concept!
Value Calculus and the rent of goats
Goat whores who labour for me for no charge,
Infinite exploitation!
Surplus-less goats,
who tax me in our perversion
Society would levy this sex
Into prisons without buttercups
where rape of the giving goat
becomes the butt of the unloving man.

Man, kind goat he is not.
Why are the chromosomes so still,
matchless and reluctant to form the Goat-God man
whose hooves would drive Mercedes
and gallop into the silos
To press the mushroom button
Ending all goat, man, and grass
For the Nuclear Winter
goatless and black
With hell bikers roaming as rectangles
The fields of dissolution
The fall of Earth into the Kali Yuga
Where no goats are taken for sex or love
But become lines of death
for the Capricorn return of Saturn
and the Christmas Crucifixion
Against the horn.

Horns, blow out and call for the goat with wings,
who shall fly out of Saturn's rings
and bless the peacemakers
for they shall bangith the goat,
and the computer hackers
for they shall render the goat
As multi-dimensional perfection
whose milk will yield, to the drinker, doors to goat sex,
bestiality and late Atlantis,
Where Monkey and Spacer
merged into man.
Again it will happen
As I bang the goats
the occurrence improbable
will incarnate as goat-king
to eat the nations,
like grass
In the spring of the year.

The Year of the Goat,
better to ignore.

The Goats of Spring

The hoof in the marsh
Sinks as I pump from rear,
alpine air, thin on the goat.
As I span the worlds I notice a flower,
By her ankle.
Spring has come!

I, The Goat Ecstatic

I, The goat ecstatic
extend an elegant hoof into your mainframe
And forge the rivers of this Internet
Singing of my violations
via man.

I, the goat ecstatic
offer the ancient symbols
promised at the last tables of Atlantis
Which weave orgasms of reproduction
into blood
via consciousness.

I, the goat ecstatic
roam the fields and the buttercups,
and rage like a river
pumped by the art of poets
and the lusty tools of celibate monks
via innocence.

I, the goat ecstatic
offer you the fuck of immortality
for there is no time inside of me,
and outside there is only the canvas beneath man's palette;
Nirvana is Samsara
via the goat ecstatic.

Circle Living

Why do we dream these sad dreams
In civilizations of fallen empires,
And heroes of baseball steroids?

Can the TV set deliver us from the boredom of the box?
Can the living room substitute,
The ferns and forests of this earth,
Whose wood was dried against my box-house life?

Is there a circle beyond this earth?
If I roam out of my box,
Am I still not a prisoner in this grand fishbowl,
This windy sky and ocean land of earth?
Am I not just circle living?

Sit and Listen

Is it my language becoming unfolded
in the high of my days,
that this jungle lush shall gently
tear my mind to an ocean wave
rippling in the bongs of time?

Does the existence of time imply
anything more than that I am in a movie,
the speed of the reel, the zeigest of what time is.
Death the rewind, birth the credits and DNA?

All middle-aged white men should be dead.
That is the cruix of the mid-life crisis.
It is the adharmic-bumb-waves of Bush and Cheney,
Chasing this great sinking nation into the shadows of oil,
The future of man's dream, man's movie.

Does the existence of space imply life,
Or just the energy of matter,
Nothing more than a dream of nirvana,
Do I sit and listen,
In this sinking titanic world.

I Think She Will Call

I think she will call,
The pretty wahine of the night,
And take me to a land of nipples and belly rings
far beyond the quiet jungle
and the roaring blue oceans.

I think she will call,
And the sounds of orgasms and laughter
Will fill the lines,
the spill on her belly
The tilt of her hair,
and arched waist.

I think she will call
And repair this impossibly broken mind
That has humped steel and created robots
Diving into the darkest light,
Or the lightest noon sun.

I think she will call,
And the Land will become complicated again.
I will grow hard with her in my lap
And dance we will on this southern point,
That perfect wet moment,
When she calls.

To Cum In the Specter of God

To cum in the specter of god
And shoot in the mouth of her smooth life,
To pin her down and fill her watery leafs
And run her wet combed hair against me
In those worlds of pearl and moan,
Of force and acceptance,
Orgasm,
Wet, sweet, fleeting,
In the specter of god.

No Matter, The Common Man

No matter the count of generations
Of kings past,
Sitting on glowing golden thrones
Eating grapes
Above the smooth marbled floors
Of their cool palaces --
This joint I role as a common man,
A pleasure they shall never know.

Oxnard and Boston

Oxnard and Boston,
the form and the void,
endless movement along the wheel
As the pages of time flip across the great plains
The airplanes,
The impossible MIT mind train,
All aboard for Oxnard and the Western end.

It is futile to deny the connection
Oxnard and Boston
are ripe for the plucking and the smacking lips
Our strawberry field professors of Emerson, Brandeis,
Lake & Palmer.
Fenway is a freeway in Oxnard
The farm workers sow the ground balls
and pitch quarters by the waspy crates.

The mist conceals the minds
Traveling through their brows diamonds to the pyramids,
Oxnard and Boston,
The mountains, the mainframes, ocean and the bay
gulls cawing out the confusion of unity
students sprawled out by the open books
like Nietzsche's excrement
falling into the West
oblivious to the Avatar's incarnation.

It is this voidness
that one sees the connection
the Indian trails beneath the interstates
Oxnard and Boston
taunt power lines between,
there must be a connection!

Wisdom

Our lover has fucked our brains out,
In a time,
Long before we ever existed.

I Can Do Anything

With this pen I can do anything.
I could again be Marx and change an age,
or a student of Jesus
leading you with fervor
To the time of castle,
cold wood and stream.
Or Perhaps, for all you know.
I am a student of a master
and with a few different strokes,
I could dissolve you
with words that are not just words,
beyond this silly Internet.

The ink has the power,
of the one who draws from the well.
The one who draws the water of the pen,
has all moments and eternities dripping from the tip.
How is the transfer made?
How do copies of Walden transport me through that jeweled lake,
Under, and through its many doors?

I postulate to you that there is no time,
all has ever been written is happening now,
Marx is still scribbling in his musty London flat.
Peter will always be in Rome un-sainted, and working on his scroll.
And the Buddha sits outside of time,
in a lotus speaking quietly, gently, slowly,
to a scribe, although he may be speaking equally to us,
as all infinities are compressed with each careless stroke.

My Goats

My goats would never have you.
They would buck against your smallness
and amplify the frustrations
of your even smaller world.

Japanese Soul Fantasizes Restrictive Goat-Love Verse

I am in the goat.
Ahhh, this is the Begining!
I am as the goat.
Oh Yes, this is the Ending.
Tree and Stream, my ears singing.

The Goat's End

This is the end of the goat poets,
I ponder,
while the sun paints the cement orange in frigid wind,
how many deaths will this cold angle cause
As the goat bows and rears
turning away from the city of cheer?
Spring is near,
And the gods will watch the sun,
Watch
As goats walk across Walden Pond,
Through the mists of snow powder
beneath the lake,
to a Vortex of other worlds.

Yes the sun birds will shine
Zenith and the I Ching will sing in June
London and Alaska
shall be revealed in White Nights
As only Dostoevsky could suffer in,
but maybe,
he knew of the goats turn.
For the Buddha's are leaving this world,
"Be not said, be like sun at mid-day"
the Ancients warn us
man and goat-god alike,
we take our leave when we must,
oppositions to Marx,
Mitsubishi commodities,
and the Eclipses of Eternity.

How will I stroke my Prick
As only goat memories fill the must of my mind?
The She-Goat is gone
And our humping rhythms
have spread to Adronoma,
Maybe a warrior in hyperspace will someday see the shine
When I reared my goat from the rear
and was revealed the buckling, rebirth of life,
Return,
No-Self,
And the timeless bump
the hump,
of Bestiality
In the Night.

When the civilizations fall to the dialectic
of Capitalism
And the Karmas of Christ's murder,
Where will my goat be
To fuck the crap out of my nuclear rubble winter,
as my toxic eyes,
watch the sea's die,
And Walden evaporate with Thoreau books,
worn and wrinkled,
cum-stained pages of my goat memories?
What animal will give me solace,
solstice,
and more,
When the goat turns
Away?

The Pain, My Love

I can't describe the pain my love,
To suddenly lose you like a death,
To have been so close to your heart,
watching as mystery sweeps us away.

Bush is a Push

Bush is a Push,
Is a wus,
a child of the corporate death wish
at the end on the river Euphrates
the oil wars that have soiled America,
and her orgasms
to the cheap Viagra thrills of corporate bubbler boys,
and their toys
of endless noise and
Media Ploys.

Bush is a Push
A movement down,
a Shadow cast by Ben Laden
and the 9/11 Wus Bush,
who failed to save Buddhist fish
for his star wars wish,
and whims of the big cock Cheney
pounding Americ, grunting, into the dung.

The War of Life

I am in the war of life.
I am in the war of strife.
I am in the being of sickness.
I am in the time of doorways and cards drawn,
Tilted against the rays of light from high,
Sparkling against the large shadows of this festering empire.

My Bud Glows Above the Soft Dark Earth

My bud glows above the soft dark earth,
Flying Raven,
Her wings beckon an end to this age,
Her blonde hair leads me above the clouds,
Filling her astride the sun's rays.

Blue Moon Hawaii

Blue Moon Hawaii
Sing to me your deepest
Transcendental glow of the blue moon.
Hawaii blue,
Coo for me now,
Coo that jungle fever sickness,
through and through.
Is the roof of night those tingling star pricks,
White and close to the blue Atmosphere glowing
Circles of energy around my hue?

Tell my ego
that I am temporary
yet beyond this dance of spheres,
tracing small and large courses around me.
sensually
with another,
alone on drugs
with so much around you,
Freedom within so many forms
blue Hawaii blue.

Your moon is cool
I can feel that I am on Earth
Not a shopping mall
Or a Television Internet Home Page.
I am not an advertisement
but the support of it,
Consumerism.
I can see the moon burn bright like a sun,
Societies games will be its games
for it adorns in smaller circles
than the councill of these blue moon Hawaii blues.

I secede my nationhood
to the Blue Moon Hawaii Blue.
Let us return to the Earth
time enough for that in the grave.
But to return a simpleton better!
In the Tao of the blue Moon
and her
blueless happy
Sunny green days.

Blue Hawaii

I am in the hinterlands,
The end of the West.
Hawaii the edge. not like a John Wayne Sunset
But simply the dreamy end
Of the Western light,
Echoing yesterday’s East.

Bluest of Hawaii sing to me in the trades,
Whose air and cyclical wisdom shape time.
We could talk about the wind,
Sailing through her bluest of blue sun rays.
The earth has a dazzle to it.

Perfection without perfect mind,
That is why she is so blue,
An older dream
Slipping into our awareness,
Something that changed,
But not the island,
Which sails past the colors,
Past the blue,
To something we cannot yet see.

She Wants

She wants to suck your cock, like rock,
And ram your socks up your navel docks.
She will tramp you with her vectored power,
And make you give her cum-stained flowers.

I Love the Earth In My Pants

I love the earth in my pants.
Big Al took me like a school girl last night.
I feel his spirit in the dung of my musings,
A king now with Sue, 

Hunking in Heaven.

The American Jesus

Who is the American Jesus,
There can be only two?
Does he walk with the desert,
Violin bow playing the lines of power,
strings, fugue, and rave,
Playboys and infinite orgasm,
MTV and Samadhi,
Christ consciousness,
Silk ties and Bentleys ...
Or is the American Jesus fat,
bullhorn yelling,
Programmable,
Red-faced clutching a Bible,
With a Chevrolet up his ass
And the resume of cow incarnations.

Does the American Jesus
Love women
Or hate them?
There can be only three,
Indifference,
Egypt, Atlantis, that cold power
Of woman’s matrix,
To collide with child
And make me hard.
Does the Yankee Jesus take their pain?
Or does he hate pussy that is free?
The unexpropriated puntang,
Lesbian and underage,
No living rooms,
Ecstatic abortions,
Out of control Jesus,
Daughter fucking,
Nigger-Bitching,
Pro-life,
Chattel and the Church,
A hunter of women
To bind them in Tupperware realities,
Whose piss is the Jesus lemonade, 

The fear and trembling of the Female Buddha,
And the power of her orgasm
In juxtaposition
To the solitary penis
Helpless and forgotten
Amidst the steel grip of civilization

Does the American Jesus love me
And is he coming in my mouth when the ridiculous cows come home?
The minutia, my God!
Will this gringo Jesus rise out of the Euphrates
As the Cable Television genocide that Jesus promised,
Santa Claus in Iraq, sweet crude and hard-ons for Catholic boys?
Or rather,
Am I at a club with Jesus
Drinking golden jazz wines from Spain,
In London,
Central Park,
Circles swaying gaily within circles,
Smiles so wide as to swallow nations,
Remembrances of galactic war, execution,

And the pyramid karma
of our beloved capitalists.

Jesus,
We need to know,
Who is the American Jesus?
There can be only one.

God, Death, Impeteus Kansas

God, death, impetus Kansas

Take me in the impartial way,
Join me now the meters of grass,
And the points of this earth.

I love the imperfect,
The ruined ape earth after Atlantis set in our memories,
And the Egyptian gods
Trampled the doorways out of this world,
Leaving us to the age of the iron eagle.

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?

Earthlings of Kansas

Earthlings of Kansas in Night,
Come to me in the abridged time of this island.
Tear me into the womb of all spaces and places.
I don't know why,
I like the blue sky.

Without Qualities

Did the instrinsic time machines
take me to the place I needed to go?
Where is the form of timeless hands,
Or the soft bands from her hair?
Our paths are something strange,
without qualities.

What Do I Know In This Apache Night?

What do I know in this apache night?
from starlight, my flight too bright.
Tunis -- the shores of impetues blue sight.

Do the origins of this time meekly take me?
what favor, what flavor, do the birds sing of my future?
What past illusions fell from form,
Stillborn in the darkest hours of my selfishness?

Who told me of the simple guitar,
The fullfillment, yet the need for other,
The two sides cast in intricate opposition?
Capricorn and Cancer they ask the question,
And the horny hermit cannot answer.

What bright waves affected my time?
Is losing, to write poetry?
Is her hair that smooth?
And where are my dogs of war?
Hate not, I hate, I have sunk low in this Terripan of my love,
True accounts are but dreams and dreams only truly real.

He Knew the Goat

He knew the goat,
And took its dung to a star.
The Alpine meadow and the heaving calf,
All to fuck an animal in place of man.

Earthlings, Darlings

Earthling crack whores emaciate me in the times of our love,
Startle me in samskaric cock ring dimensions,

Darlings...let me give you all backrubs with Vishnu's arms
Beyond your doorway is the fun stuff.

Questions

Did infinity ever give you head in Kansas?
Could I go to bed with Christ when Atlantis sinks?
What is the ecstasy of failure?
Is this the path the Buddha’s tread upon?

Could the turning Earth be a flatness of mind?
How does its spin, seem so alive to me, yet so indifferent?
How can she house Bakersfield and Haleakala?
Why is the sunset so fucking groovy?

Can Kansas affect me on earth?
Where are all the appendages of time?
Is the knowing of wind the silence of God's mother?
Who am I, dummy?

Can I append to the retractable knowledge of fame?
Does the inward jejunosity of time retard my knowing?
My fleeing, to other worlds, are they of gouache nature?
Furloughed for me from the dreaming perhaps, my love?

No and Yes

Artists clays framing nay's.
join around the Internet sponge,
but don't get to close baby
or your mother will cum in my face.

Trace me into the ray.
I say, nay again to the war,
The whore, the bore,
Intractable health of the common self.

Artistically arrange my atoms,
In final chaos for time itself to abandon.
My own future is uncertain, so what,
I stay on this prison planet at the wardens pleasure.

It intended me into the flaming yes,
The water of life drunk from the sky’s volcano,
Blue in their leavings and cloudy comings.
Fragrant green nothingness of complexity, roam with care.

I’m a stoner. I'm a boner. I'm a homer,
Curtail my ways but then let me randomize her panties
Sir hungwell does not fancy skanking outside of Kansas.
Ive never been so offended by barroom whores.

I don’t want to keep typing it,
I want to keep saying it.

Thank You

Crackwhore attack me,
flame me in the impetuous nights.
I needed my own timing
to attract vermin sliming,
across my angel's face
and the whole human race,
Some are scum,
some run,
some go to Iraq for fun.

Did my knowledge of time preclude fantasy?
Are the skanda's fragrant
in the light of dharmakaya friend?
Crash gently into my flaming fruit
of earth-time cum buckets.
Thank you
as the rational mind explodes gently to the THC.

Interrupted Mind

I have interrupted mind without knowing who is crazy.
Often taken to my infinite crashes of crystal dome Internet girls,
I fling into the apocalypse of the future stoned and undiscovered,
arm in arm with the wind, scurrying beneath the forces of Hawaii.

The Fall of the United States

This is the fall of the United States
The course of empire,
Her armies now being crushed against the Euphrates
and driven into the sands crumbling
with the cries of blood and oozing black oil.

To witness the fall of Lady Empire,
America, her liberty now an echo of dark hidden cement banks,
the dream of value and rectangular cubes of commerce,
towers now dusted by fire into the serene Hudson
Weaving their echo out of the North and the dying Atlantic.

President Gore does not exist for he is mentally divergent,
The Hitler child Bush has plunged us into a mundane yet divine fascism.
America is retrograde now, her armies burning along the Tigris,
Dark blood drips across her flag from slugs of our boyish weapons
as they pound like cocks into the brown desert children of Arakis.

To ask me stop writing this would shame Whitman,
America has fallen into the spidery sands of the East,
This land is corrupt with prison planets and pizza sluts.
The Rich of America have betrayed their own karma,
Their Gucci handbags are now heavy with the dead young warriors in hidden caskets.

Can I drink or get stoned to any other anthem than America's fall?
A house cannot stand against itself, nor can it stand against the earth,
Nor can the lines of power accept this genocide without plunging and snapping.
Like desert reeds holding the old glow as the cities drag the lines towards Hitler's hells,
Towards concentration camps of slow corporate traffic jam wool-suit death.

America was not designed to kill her own.
America was not able to keep its slaves nor its bitches under my white thumb,
And now America must somehow rise above its people
who have been brainwashed by TV newscasts of this phony war,
She must vomit forth this blood and bile that is the Iraq nation swallowed whole.

- April 25, 2004

Shelby

Shelby, let me tie you up and fuck your mouth.
Let me kiss your back and neck
and hand you a flower for your hair,
in the morning.

No My Love, I cannot

No my love, I cannot come to you.
For you sleep in the tower.
You lay deathly still and pale in its upper chambers.
Seduced by the Siren songs of its trumpeters.
You sleep in some unknown place
and I kiss your lips gently.

No my love, I cannot think of you.
For you lie still in the shadows of its great rooms.
You shine in endless reflections in the house of mirrors.
Yet you sleep beautifully still in the tower.
A tear of mine falls on your cheek
And you do not awaken.

No my love, I cannot know you.
For I cannot climb that high
I cannot bear the lights of the tower.
I shall not ascend bloodied and dying
Only to find you, still,
Beautifully asleep.

I Am the Divine Ground of Your Heart

I am the divine ground of your heart, my love.
Wherever you search,
You will feel me,
Like a raging unknown ocean beckoning,
Yet soothing with a hard mist.

I am the divine ground of your heart my love,
For I meditated with you in Los Angeles,
Atlantis, 

And Forever.

Jolted

I was jolted,
Bolted
Molted
To my arrogance,
Steaming engine
South point hawai'i.

I was bloody,
Not too muddy.
Jolted by the crash
Airbags what a rash!
On the Big Island
Of Hawai'i.

Song of Soul Mates

I. ATLANTIS

When did first our dreams intersect so smoothly,
And did our minds sew that web?
As the sea watched that once cry stalled-blue isle
Did we not detect a light, casual,
As I strolled by the temple of suchness,
And you in wisdom's folly peered inside the orbs
Which bore assembly languaged Flowers
Whose pedaled instructions fell lazily
In endless refractions,
of the trillion-folded blades
That burst from the armored breasts of the random gods?
Their chariot spokes still glisten, my love
In the unseen windows of sunset, of ocean, and Atlantis.
They sigh, sigh, and sigh again, waiting for a perfect love,
A champion transcendent
Of stick and dew,
And Oxnard sky.
A Whirl-wind of two hearts,
The two soul worlds,
Of man-Women scattered across the steel maps of universes...
Once we curled fingers to light the touch of tips,
the white-hot and Fiery collision
Of sex and fusion melting opposites
Into the still and full zero
Of all.



II. EYGPT

If that was not first time,
Calculated by mind unfolding mind
Then was not the wind curiously hot on your sandy black hair,
As you fled in diamonds and body
to the graves of the Nile’s triangles.
We dreamt the knots that bound the pyramids, my love,
that pulled forth our marriages of sword and pharaoh’s blood.
Did not I sleep with goddess's whose fingers fired
And pushed, and heaved,
The billion marbled hills of Isis & Ra
Strung as taunt triangles
To bind fast the globe's tremor
A stark simple conduit of pure power
A memory of worlds where pyramids
Floated in the red of sunset,
Above Edens, in feathered spaces
Knowledged as harps of all the chords
Of all the worlds sung
And folded back on each other
Set in eternal progression forged and cut,
For the sphinx’s passion,
Played
As if it was me and you,
Rolling a love of all the Eastern wine's,
The African sands and grasslands,
That marked the steamy creases against our robes
Our jeweled red eyes,
Kissed by extinction itself...
When we were we,
My love
And other forever.



III. JAPAN

And as earth contracted,
Back into the solid weakness,
Simple in the moist ooze of animal reasons,
As the ancients left on ships of silk,
And the darker shadows stole their metal flowers,
For the patterned lands of Barbary
Did not we sit among cherry-blossomed winds,
Sure in our navels of the Samurai
and the tea-ceremony?
The brave Buddha smiled of California, my love
And lifted only a finger
Sending us off, off,
Off into golden soft spheres of light,
That filled the temples of our zazen,
Our kisses, your lust for my brothers,
Mine for the whores of ancient Japan,
All dissolving in morning silky sheets.
Our eyes remembered,
We filled Kyoto,
Her ancient cedar floors with our musk,
And our awareness
Child and steel
Vibratory,
Longing to span all custom,
Longing amidst the disciplined tree's,
Longing until the temple Bell struck,
And let us swim her sharpest moment
Forever upstream
Beyond itself
Twice
Again!



IV. OXNARD

And now I in flesh and food and night,
Trapped in the womb of this billion-souled grayed planet,
Remember our final collision,
As I ran aside the Aphrodite’s surf of Oxnard,
And again gazed into the metallic patterns
Of Navy and computer and our coincidences
Meeting again to only slash in this arena,
All lineages with and against us, my love,
All of us falling down into time's entropic fatigue
Again we tracked each other,
Dumb and nothing
Like rabbits
Curled up over the
Jewels of our past,
The times when woman and man
Melted armored wings
In the blinding unity,
That whirls now before our eyes,
The once and will to be's,
And again, like a dancer,
Has grabbed us
Cheerleader and Marxist
Aside and at attention once more,
Hands folded
Awkwardly in the furnace
Of the Avatar's sharp white-hot folly.
He looked past us, my love,
Past loss and gain tumbling down, down,
Down, when you slept and fucked with broken men,
And I filled the frightened patterns of women.
We hated this bonding I now see
You screamed deep inside against the pain of man.
1 ran to hatred's spongy pools in fear of vast womanhood,
Close as we clawed for each other's death spot
As we have done,
As we have named our moments, only, only,
Only to be weaker than Rome's rotting apple.
We, my love, are killing for sleep,
Slumber, separation's safety;
Us against the Yuga's of recollection,
Our sellouts have chosen,
We struggle to forget
That time, my love,
When we stumbled upon
The vacuumed vase
Of all origins
And found
Its mighty whims,
Still between our eyes.

What do you see in those canyons

What do you see in those canyons, might I ask?
What knowledge can you touch that lurks in those mists?
What can you pull from those canyons,
with your night eyes that run with power
away from day shores,
lapping up the dreary minds
into golden glass crystals
whose reflection is all of this?

What do you feel in those canyons, might I be an asshole?
What might can you wrestle as Jacob did or the witches do,
in cock-cum gushing and clitoris graveyards of Boston?
what knowledge flutters from moss green rocks,
and pulls at your white-boy navel like a violent harpist,
intent on the death of Mozart?
Might the wind have warned you of the Ally and its
rectangular indifference?
Or does it slide on whistling of the too many centuries,
the too many canyons whose might has crushed the curious?


What are you in those canyons, might I know?
Are you me, you, the Egyptian eye of Indian summers?
How do you shift and simmer in those quiet pine-happy gullies?
How do you split the self again and again, dreaming,
exponentially dreaming the trillion you's that emerge,
that bristle like threads along canyon's woven walls,
along the dream intersections of each granite change,
aside the thousands of worlds that canyons call,
atop the glowing gaps of rough river falls,
who are you to command this canyon to dissolve?

The Goat's End

This is the end of the goat poets,
the sun paints the cement orange in frigid wind,
and how many deaths will this cold angle cause
As the goat bows and rears
turning away from the city of cheer?
Spring is near,
And the gods will watch the sun,
Watch
As goats walk across Walden Pond,
Through the mists of snow powder beneath the lake,
to a Vortex of other worlds.

Yes the sun birds will shine
Zenith and the I Ching will sing in June
London and Alaska .
shall be revealed in White Nights
As only Dostoevsky could suffer in,
but maybe,
he knew of the goats turn.
For the Buddha's are leaving this world,
"Be not said, be like sun at mid-day,"
the Ancients warn us
man and goat-god alike,
we take our leave when we must,
oppositions to Marx,
Mitsubishi commodities,
and the Eclipses of Eternity.

How will I stroke my Prick
As only goat memories fill the must of my mind?
The she-goat is gone
And our humping rhythms
have spread to Andromeda,
Maybe a warrior in hyperspace will someday see the shine
When I reared my goat from the rear
and was revealed the buckling, rebirth of life,
Return,
No-Self,
And the timeless bump the hump,
of Bestiality
In the Night.

Back in the Low Lands

Back at the cardboard apartment
In the low lands,
With the incubating misty surf
And the Oxnard strawberries,
I can only wonder about the collision,
The moment when again light is magic,
And power is love and mysterious empires.

He is ridiculous, this Zen master,
Walking H-bomb from Connecticut,
Thought he'd drop by for Brahma's day,
Ran around in sporty cars and pyramids,
Until the Kali Yuga nuked it's way to
Uncle Sam and the Karl Marxed-out snow honkies.
Now it will be a little software
and on to the next dream.

I could speak for hours about the falsehoods of science,
How those elementary school movies of butchy boy's
And their goofy old test-tubes -- can't chain the mystic.
Right now I could lift the reader out of his chair,
This poem could turn into vegetarian steak.
Someday we will all know this type of freedom,
And forget the illusion of space, time, and matter,
Self, being, and awareness...
Without this I can only offer you tea,
Or tell you that your already there.

God, the forests we have destroyed for the Republican track homes!
This Zen Master I know can't take that.
It just isn't chic to slay wisdom for boredom,
like human beings do,
As they shop for glittery trash and build weapons
To stamp out the mammalian perception vessels they got in the Astral.
I've got to bring a few other of these liquid-carbon bound souls
To meditate in the grace of this Master's golden fans.

But until then, believe in the Sci-Fi.
Never say no to the Miracles.
You think I'm wrong and the universe is as it is,
OK, I'll wait.
Time will prove me right --
Gone without a trace.

The Return of the Goat

The Goat walked through the Kensington Gardens,
Contemplating Marx and Napoleon,
Drinking the jazz of the Buddha's,
Making an ass
Out of miracles.

So the Goat has returned,
And could sing in orgasmic splendor
To those shepherds who would violate her thick coat,
Of worlds past
Folded underneath the veils of space-time
Ape memories,
The goat could sing a succulent fugue
Voices echoing from Tibet,
Atlantis,
Oxnard, California

Changing like the rolling seas in the heart of the goat,
Or the endless sky against the goat's brow
Where he could see his return
And yet,
Be smiling blindly
To mountain's crashing
Against Man's empire of Karma.