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.

The Stadium of Forgiveness

I saw my love in the stadium of forgiveness.

So she was, my angel downcast,

Her head tilted in sadness and regret.

He (my tormentor) hobbled to her

Knee braces and torn mind,

Festers on his skin

A joyous blossom for his spring deeds.

I stood on the rim of the stadium of forgiveness.

Strong like a Garuda bird

Poised to attack

Seeing my beloved's injury and embarassment

Her corrupter's urgently honest plea to end the fruit of his karma,

Taken root from the murder of our love.

I saw the huddled and moaning in the stadium of forgiveness,

Endless crowds of victims and their tormentors.

The victims sat with digntiy

And listened to the wails and regrets

The gnashing of teeth

Of what were once humans 

Who had actually -- 

Thought they had won.

Star-Crossed Lover

We are not victims of the stars my love,

But only of our own sins.

Starry posts mark the ways of our deeds

Poking through the perfect shiny black void of space

Like notes of an old tune.

Oh, my love, how I wish we were perfect.

But even that would not save us from the cross.

Star-crossed lovers rail against their fates

And shed oceans of blood and tears

Never knowing why.

Lehua

Lehua, Lehua, Lehua
Rainbow body goddess of Mu.
Bless me with your perfect widsom
As I chant:

Lehua, Lehua Lehua.
Ranbow ridge over Pele's lair.
Aloha Lehua
Celebration in the winds of the air.

Lehua, Lehua, Lehua
Chant my soul higher into your aura
Shining high above the blue Hawaii sea.
Mahalo Pele'. Lehua.