New Poems. Excerpts from upcoming collection OBLIVIONIC, WIth 100 new drawings. Launching sometime May.
Count one hundred stones. Or coins. Or grains of rice.
Separating them on an ancient table
spreading out the seeds of countenance and crime.
A flame reckons from a burning altar
a star in hinderance. An absolute monastery.
Count the days of irreversible scenes
the rays that interfere with dreams.
Faces lost in a haze of opium
wounded bodies along the walls.
Count one hundred hours, disappearing
syringes stuck in voudon dolls.
“This is the cure, this is the miracle.”
nodding heads. Agreeable symptoms.
Scribbling in the jaded ground.
Fingernail scratching counting days
Then you find, the elasticity of time is a fake.
Only blood on the fingers is real. A twang. A hurtful truth.
How long before we swing by to pick up ourselves?
The screeching of the tires is like a tired bird
attacked by the cougar of uncertainty.
There's blood draining into the fence.
Building up the wall of phantoms
and we are trapped on the other side
peering into our lost disciples
finding voids where valor used to be.
How we are permission'd.
How we are declined.
Towers sung in empty spaces
lightning brights the valid way
The comets passeth us by
follow the night sky, dramatically displaced.
There are diagrammes by the road side
accidental to the path of vau.
Rabid break through to the south
candle burning in the mire
one more page, one more song to the sands of
one more turn, one more touch by the hand of
slipped away, adrift
“come on, girl, come on, soul.”
She shakes her head and leaves. Dramatis. Mantis. Pray. Heave.
Leap forward a thousand years. The sun is a stalemate, an unworthy whore.
We draw our breaths from deep below
looking down always as we walk
unable to catch the eye of strangers.
Heavy downpour in the dark.
Waiting by billboards of the past
holy symbols overlaid with papers
ads and numbers, porn and hooks
hung our clothes out to cry
a sequence rash on our skins
continents form, we are mistaken
boats drawn in, ready to burn.
“the wind is rustling paper bags.”
“shake them out, empty them out.”
“they have no heart.” she says.
So beautiful as she is sad.
“it's ok, love.” I take the bags from her.
So light and empty like her eyes
she lay her head upon my hands
i feel her weep on destiny lines.
We return to bed. Asleep with the gas lights on.
Children stir with hollow guts.
Insects crawl on coma babies.
“can we feed them in our dreams?”
i'm not sure how to answer her.
It is a thought. So i meditate.
Invoking the lost forms of food.
She thinks i have abandoned her
but i only have power for a grain or two.
The great lightning blinds the night time
the great thunder announces terror
centurions climb a battered hill
sneers, malice in their hair.
Drag the chains
every scar a smile
a resplendent horror
i see the crystal drill bit
biting into the skull
a torrential pain
nails driven through hands
thunderstorm awakes above
prepare for downtrodding
the victim upon us which is the lamb
“you were one of them, you were there.”
my feet are sunk in mud of blood
i cannot look up at the skies
there, the gaze mirror traitor
i too called for the death.
noise comes down from heaven
bleating, beating, battle.
Found us, messeor
fina del abruja
“we cannot hunt on empty stomachs.”
“the fire is roasting nothing.”
“we must eat our children.”
i took stones and killed the hungry. Baby girl crouches in cave.
“it's ok. It's ok. It's safe now.”
she will not leave the darkness.
The art is in the madness itself. Corresponding to the infinite neuron
“you are what you invoke.”
and it is true, coming from her lips.
The rush has no where left to go
but up, she said, but up
and hence the heavens in the head is heightened
bricks in a weakling sack, grounded into dust.
A cup of coffee
the show is late now
and it takes you to the enchanted place
there is moonlight
a distinct past
dim the gas lights
the steam from the cup is thinning
sip. There is a pipe nearby.
The mad is in the art itself. Neutrons in infinite correlation
the head revolves around the sun
but on the other side
for tonight is late
and the show is on. Go on. Go on.
Smoke fills the bar
dough eyed darling with the tea
pouring me some sugar and sweet
she smells of stale sex
a heart cheated by hustlers.
She doesn't smile. Even when i show her my knife.
“you been killin?” she asked.
I don't smile. Unimpressed she lights a cigar.
She eyes the gun behind the counter.
The juke box plays jazz. A rambling tune. Picking up pace.
“Its all in the mad art” i tell her.
She nods. Amen. Wipes a sweat off her brow.
The tunes keep playing. And i know this girl on the radio. She had taken me places before.
Sad, echoey places.
I forget her name.
she speaks of mountains. Eagles. Clouds.
I am old and weary.
The woman throws away the stale cake and offers me sex.
“amen.” i say. “amen.”
The heart remembers your love.
A burning ash on a page of letters
black hole time line,
A dancing girl in the shadows.
There is a marked loss
so quickly the clock turns, time moves backward to a place that once be
out at sea before foreign lands
paintings resume before a net of fish
the sun is scorching like the moon
rising where the whales lay dead
incumbent, derision, heaving final sighs
each hour that transcends takes us farther away
each minute that passes allowed us freedom
as we cut off from the world
as we set adrift to the sea
searching for cigarettes, for toxicity
here, there, scavenging the drawers
of unspeakable words, digging out old tools for new highs
sweeping up fragments, leaves, dust
signing accidental names in the dirt
burning the remains of hair in a china glass
injuring the hand, red raw skin.
Tears are the common downfalls
evaporating into the flame
light the joss sticks.
Empty the cup into a flooded sink
burnt hairs floating.
Drip tears to the mix.
Call her name.
You know this is the way
to make contact
you know this is the way
to remember her love
stir the concoction
hear forgotten laughter in your head
an echo of schizophrenia
a paranoia in vacant houses.
Pace up and down
awaiting the train to the other side.