Poem to Padmasambhava, Lakshmi and Her Daughter.

It felt good to be in the garden of her heart,
In the grasses of her curls
And the sun of her smile --
For a moment
It felt good.

The Earth is my lover now
And mother as Lakshmi.
Brother can you spare a mind?
Vacuous, void, unpredictable Thatness --
It felt good.

Like a fountain in the sky,
Good and evil, it feels, just are.
Like a star, or an Iraqi scar.
The Inquisitor
Its ajar,
Time,
And we move the wheel.

The Flowers In My Garden Bloomed

The flowers in my garden bloomed,
Ages ago for you, my love.
Rushing from a rocky high place,
They sung of Atlantis colors anticipating your shine.

The flowers in my garden bloomed,
One spring so long ago, my dearest
And as the years pass in rain and tears.
Only the green of wisdom grows there now.

The flowers in my garden bloomed,
Below a warm earthly sun of love, my wife.
And now I notice, through the sheets of grey,
A lone flower so brightly innocent,
perfect beauty,
Anticipating spring.

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!