After School

Once a wet fog,

Slid around a bent man,

Who picked smelly paper

And cleaned broken toliets

By the sandy shore.

Far, in my warm car,

Of blue dashboard, trinkets and dope,

Through the fog's smear.

It seemed ...

Something frowned.

It Was Known to Be a Morning

It was known to be a morning, 

That was freeing.

The English rain pounded by the fences,

The farms

And the water cups.

Life is cool

Out of the swamp.

Now I sit and wonder

What will be of reading eyes in 100 years?

Obviously, nuclear particles terrify me.

New York City

Feeling the airy fear,

The silence -- ours

From the stoic spring,

City September-less,

Not in the Los Angeles

Of neon-facsist oligopoly orgies,

The denial of desert peasant mysticsm.

No, here she is obese:

New York City.

Town,

Rectangular high,

As high as dope in a Park Avenue Y.

This is the game the dharma cards play,

As they sway through our 3D illogic.

The scholars, the sci-fi's,

And Marxists alike,

Strut in little canyons,

Where matter is dumb, senseless, frigid,

In this city of romantic MTV

Of the techno-empire West.

I'd rather be in the Himalayas or Harlem,

On a midnight trian to now.

Well no, but everything goes

And nothing is 

In this midnight dream of the city.

The Return of Thursday

Yea, it be Thursday

And I be a crushin' whitey's skull

Until it be bleedin'

All da way to Nirvanny.

You aint' no Buddha til' dat white skull be crushed,

You gotta walk on dem honkey brains

Like dey be grapes 

Crushed in France by dem faggot Frenchies,

Who sell dat red wine

To dose pigs at dem powicemen bawls,

You know, doz nigga-hattin' cop dances,

Where dem big-tit white bitches come

And suck dat pig pistol

While the man raises all dat pig doe,

For pensions and shit

By talkin' all nice and purdy to those scared white folk,

Who tink dey been bustin' too much black head.

Shit dey best be scared,

Dose' proud ole' white folk,

Cause now tings is different.

I be Thursday and a crushin' whitey,

For I been a meditatin'

And a glowin'

And now I be a bad-assed black Buddha

Just waitin' to free my people,

Like dat Moses motherfucker off in Egypt done.

Shit dat' Moses,

He be killin' off dem first born,

Turnin' that there Nile river as red as pussy,

man his goofy ole' walkin stick

Turned into a bad-assed snake,

And shit 

He wasn't half as bad as me.

It be Thursday bro!

And dem white motherfuckers are gonna be shittn'

When dey find out dis black-assed little ghetto man,

Be a Buddha an shit.

Now don' you give me any-a-dat non-violence shit!

You dont tink' Thursday be meditatin'

In dat burnt out crackhouse for nuttin?

Shit all dem Buddha folk come to me in visions and shit

And dey let me join up we'd em'

Since I be enlightened

And dey be some rightously mean dudes dem Buddhas.

Non Violence, shit ... what you be talkin' bout?

I seen dat Krishna dude

All glowin' blue and shit, you know,

The cat those skinhead white-ass motherfuckers go a yellin:

Hari Krishna! Hari Krishna!

Like he gives a shit for dem goofy hippy mo-fuckers.

Dey never really seen him like I done,

Ridin' his chariot in doze holy wars,
He and his main man Arjuna kickin' some righteous butt,

I seen all these magic arrows come on outta Arjuna's bow,

An dat Krishna dude throwin' his third eye

Like it be a frisbee,

And dese goofy Indian folk dyin' like flies,

Yellin' and beggin' 

Cause his magic be powerful and shit

And Krishna,

He don't give a listen none!

He be standin' straight and proud on dat' chariot

Like he bout' to go to Sunday church!

Ha, shit, non-violence!

Dem Buddhas dont pay no mind to dat,

when it be dere time to fight.

It be dat time I reckon.

I mean dem white-folk's time for gettin' shit-kicked.

I ain't no fool,

Whitey been on top to long,

An' we been bussin' dere parties too long.

Shit, I know the score.

I know dat time be right.

Dem Buddhas learn me good on time an' space n' shit,

Dey show me all da universes at once,

Shit, my big goofy head be spinnin',

Past, present and future,

All happin' so quick,

Shit I be suprised I don't have a righteous headache,

Just from goin' into dat Nirvikalpa Samadhi,

An' mergin' my goofy Buddha-ass wit everything.

Shit, I see how da worlds be formed

Outta just a glowin' cloud of dreams and shit,

Just waitin' to become manifest.

I see all dat,

And my past lives too.

I saw me doin' some poweful Zen 

Wit dem' slatty-eyes in Japan.

Before dat,

I be up on dose' pyramids with dem' pharoh's,

Dey tink I be a bad-assed mystic motherfucker,

And gimmie' all da women an' gold I want.

Shit, I saw my soul incarnatin' and dyin' everywhere.

I be on some bodacious worlds,

Dimensional planes an' shit,

Frequencies of bad-assed non-existence,

Before dis' here mudder Earth even been born!

Yep ole' Thursday been everywhere and everything,

Ha, I even bin'a honkey-ass motherfucker on dat' island Atlantis,

I aint' no fool born yesterday,

And now I come as Shiva to dance the World away.

Go Now Softly Into Those Stoned Days

Go now softly into those stoned days.

Peal that facade of ever-clear interests,

pentatonic notes of soothing complacency

That rise out of the US money media,

Selling Hitler as peanut butter,

Or the workers as cockroach plague.

Iraq, shit-faced into puppetry,

Who in their bourgeois mind could have gods

As bloody as our blood, white and blue,

Blue like the Midas class that runs the show,

Bored with 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,

Cloudy as the world outside is brutal.

The sickest technorave is a boot-camp.

Brass and drum on the confused hardtop dancing,

A battlefield of drinks will pour like blood,

Dying herds by the lacquered trough sipping poison,

Softening the masses 

From the love of pure rage.

Flesh Pretends or Dies

I hate this planet,

This nothin' changin' ball of shit.

What can man do,

Besides kill and fuck,

Or maybe love?

Love to kill and fuck,

Love to live in these rectangular caves

Of money induced hell

God-Awful lies of suburban prisions,

Where one rots and works

And of course,

Kills and fucks.

We only fuck to create more,

More rotters, more workers, more killers, more fuckers,

More poets, More babblers.

Who gives a shit what man says?

Who in the hell does the artist want to impress,

As the masses go to work at dawn,

To clutch these green coupons of money,

Money to buy cheap fucks

Or food for our bodies shit factory,

Toys to pass the dreaded boredom of materialism,

The panic of the unstructured moment,

Where illusions shatter

To reveal the pure energy of dispassionate matter,

Destroying purpose, game, and all the lies --

That make us grovel in our stenchy cages of industry.

Man, woman flying by in confused thoughts,

Only a flash, a dream of the cosmos,

Is our species a given?

As long as we identify with our bodies

We can never exist,

Because flesh pretends or dies.

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 death.

Our age is old,

It is weary of death by battle,

By the chant of the carnivorous mammal,

Now gripping his own release,

Fondling the new arrows of thermonuclear resolution,

The thousand suns that my grace the granite,

The thousand billowing clouds,

That soon may unveil the thousand movies, the athletes, the baseball math,

Whose equations we have retreated into like the reluctant ostrich,

Hiding her eggs in Buddhistic poetry readings,

Of matter-centric sexual buoyancy,

The hippy hypocrisy label,

The Clark Gable parties of wine and stale fruit,

The Roman grape-stuffing faggots,

As we revere English teachers and poets

Above the real,

The workers who bus their parties,

Farming their fat faces

For the green coupons of entropy,

Hidden in hateful smiles,

The wanton suffering of the rich,

Sublimated,

And flung like the mud of Hollywood into consciousness,

The droll routines of America sublimated

As a Zeitgeist of flag psychosis,

Commodity fetish.

Now only the kissing and the joy of the ridiculous can solace us;

We have built toys too stubborn to be cleaned up,

The Earth is littered with our excrement,

Mother Kali is calling us,

We cannot hear,

And few that do are too weak,

Too small to cleanse the rivers from our cities,

The wanton droppings of our boredom.

Man is lazy, even beyond conception.

He can only watch the games from the stands,

The athletes running with plastic,

Soldiers gripping things toward imaginary goals,

Leaping for gold over wood and crowds,

Racing, clobbering, frenzied,

As teams wrapped in flags for nations,

Boxing toward the religion of victory,

Until the game is over,

The flame quenched,

In our glorious banquet of extinction.

When Youth Exists in Our Vase

When youth exists in our vase,

And the sun has not revolved around the sprinkled closet,

Or chewed the celery stalk,

After the rilling molecules cool,

In the first vat,

We run on grass,

Obviously green,

Wearing baseball gloves

To catch the circular mother.

Youth hides in the egos of old age,

Behind the stoic walking stick,

And the warming family,

Fireplace ideals,

That stroke our bar-room memories

Purified by the Christmas wreath.

We are family America.

The family is anti-terrorist,

A glorious fear that eases our inflationary napalm course,

Of credit-card sexuality,

Jungian surfing safaris,

St. John Revelations,

Wood carvings,

Dipped in ink,

Then smashed on Bibles,

That burn the conscious,

The seekers and sages,

And what is left of our youth.

The Missiles of Oxnard

And who would have thought that Marxism would lead me to this?

Pale bungalows tremble in the vastness of Pacific wind,

The sand of the Oxnard beaches,

Grace and grind into my shit Oxnard Pinto.

And only now do I stop to recall all of this and maybe more,

As I remember the missiles of Oxnard.

And who would have told me, could prophese this?

Not the nuclear Nazi with whiskey and leather,

Nor the cum-drunk bums of the Belly's trailer.

Trudy in all of her blubber could not have,

Nor the junk worshiping Fred and his Adrian,

Even dream to have foreseen my sell-out to this,

My movement away from New York, New York 10001

Head on and steaming West to paycheck and Zen,

Whose emergence was the missiles of Oxnard.

Who will hear me speak the words of the missiles of Oxnard?

The sea-rotten barracks of computerized hum, Civil servant scum,

The constant drum of grey government trucks and vans,

This junkyard Naval base and I ... almost one!

This old graveyard of war-junk and rust,

This fenced in little brain trust of dying minds,

Civil servant engineers, some friends of mine.

I suppose I don't mind all the scuffle,

The bustle of test-sets and universal test couplers,

The shifting of papers of amendments to releases,

of briefs in triplicate copy, co-signed twice,

All singing the griefs and the singular glory,

Over and over the story, the missiles of Oxnard.

I remember first entering scared bungalow 1220.

I, of meager salary and limp penis, starched shirt,

Wearing grey suite of mausoleum yuppie --

Sauntering in toward the computer room doom,

To gaze at vast oceans of electrons remembering missiles,

And government boon-doggle scams of monies,

Of hammy one-liners and dreary directives,

All clawed-out on terminals in networks,

Reaching Hewlett-Packard and all and all and IBM too,

All groping in greed for the Missiles of Oxnard!

Sometimes the missiles of Oxnard would speak,

Of course they could speak to me and to you,

Taxpayers and all, to us they would talk and chatter,

And cause missile commotion as battleship sperm,

Standard missile and milk,

Spurt from the bows of the Capitalist thrusts,

Complete with domestic spending cuts,

Sinking some well-oiled Arabic butts,

Or Sandinista Liberation Theology coffee-happy nutts,

And then inevitably descend as General Dynamics or Teague,

Demanding swift payment with contract and deed,

From Oxnard to Oxnard to bank accounts all,

Coveting green and spinning by me,

As if the Missiles of Oxnard were all.