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The Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear David E. Patton chalk editions || 2010

The Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear
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by David E. Patton
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http ://chalkeditions.co.cc 2010

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text-© 2010 David E. Patton design-© 2010 Peter Ganick art-© 2010 Jukka-Pekka Kervinen

The Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear
Ere I wander wild and free in the forest of poetry Ere I sing the music heard in the wilderness of words Part I. Go my friend to where the weak words wounded by its growth upon the silent thin skin of the particular poet’s last longing to tightly teach you with his tongue tied to the words that teach by the breath held by the rhythm of wishing words the way of being at pious peace with the whole of the wounded world with the warmth willingly worshiped and whip-washed when water weep wontedly and the sincere secrets that you seek and you keep for fear of being along lingering as the lost son of man abandoned by the Gods with their grand glory that once people the world with its final formal females of minor Goddesses and the personal God of the self replacing the major Gods as hybrid human-animal fighting the demons we keep beneath the sweet sweat of our skin poets are the soul of people they pen purely poems that put you in the mood to be mindfully meaning to make a more mortal of you as one with the whole of the world surely as we keep our keepsake secrets in a silent bony box beneath the silent skin of our anger losing its meaning till the poets as protested prophets tell us the stories of our myths to defend us against Pazuzu and Croucher and the truth of

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Satan in our heaven bound place of the eternal song within the internal self where the holy song is sung as if suing in the heavenly mystery revealing itself to the evil divinities that have earned to call itself a child of the earth the dirt the universe the deep mystery of the Gods of the self that we rebirth within ourselves again and again earth is a woman and each man is in part soul wooing womanly till the end of telling time but modem man seeks to kindly kill the woman working wildly within himself to exorcize himself of the earthy Goddess dressed in the growth of the world full of the folk myth of deep thought on the small milkweed deed of the seed with its precious promises of the greater things in its need to twine in links of the chain link fence he seeks to buy by busy bodacious muscle and military mind of might his way into the haven of heaven with heavy headed coins he pepper the holy plate but treat the homeless as lepers leaning long against the wall when it is his acceptance of the naked self of the flesh that we are meat in the body of God within the worry wrapped world that is the price to reach the newly prayed for heaven that we carry with us we need no prophylactic amulets of coins no cross carved by a bushman for we have the spiritual currency of the spirit to endlessly spend before the sortilege the tossing of our bones and stones to divine the answers of the Gods you are that you are a kin of the Godhead of the world the only God that you shall know by the breath that is you rebel against crimes of the couture culture that birth you for such urgency is your inherences drop out to tune in if you think that you can not win the more you seek to change it the more that it is fed by your enticing legacy do not alienate yourself from yourself nor the cultural that despise you and despise no man for his weakness for he is only guilty of being a honest human being of being as so many are lost in the insignificancies of the masses they follow the rut and routine rot of daily

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life to save the world you must save yourself first by the feast of the laid table you must render unto the self what is the self give to the body what is the body and unto the world what is the world forget not that even our flesh is an island of thought for the meat of the divine mind is taught to befriend even if we all are an island of bones and skin I am that I am is the simplest truth of the self told by the pumping of blood or sap it is by the precept of the falling of rain that I am sustained by the discarded breath of trees the light of the sun fulfill my needs the island of the self is an illusionary thing for we are hard wired into the working of the universe and yet our world is insignificance to all but what lives upon it a fact that our Gods can not change for we are born of the big bang still we quest for the authorization of the Gods to save us be they earth bound or of some distant range of the sky and the priest must be paid in souls the poets must sing he is paid with words the politicians must promise what he can not keep the prophets must prophesize his supernatural divine prediction the philosopher with his love of wisdom must explain the mindful meaning of being man the pushers of religions must engage the scientific knowledge of the day and Gods must change not so much their ways but what is believed of them if they are to hold their stay hold their way in the hearts and minds of modern men meaning to mind the store of the body there is no other way to be save but by saving others who wish only to kindly keep keen and clean to the predictable flow of being one of the mindless many of the state meeting head first their dull destiny with a lost dignity as defined by the pushers of the capitalist God greedy for greenbacks you can not spend your way into the heaven of the Christian God you can not grease the palm of the righteous purist priest that molest the chorus boy beneath the shadow of the golden cross gild and glittering with it cold glow meant to catch the heart of the

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fitful faithful Gods have no bank accounts in which to store up the souls of the faithful against a rainy day ever ready to reek of rot and the rank of flesh in the given grave rot is a-foot in the belly of life evil is defined by action most times full of passion it is inured by a goodness that seeks to protest us the goodness of the Gods are tools to fortify what goodness we hold secret to ourselves as the traveling water nature of rain knows not itself the rhythm of it reframe the evil that men do will remain with us deep within the history of the grave where we no longer ring the bell of a false death who is it to say that this is a good or bad thing when we finally fed at a measured leisure nature as a pay back a rake back a take back of our flesh to the great rest the last when even the soul is no more its daily duty done the great sleep pulled over its eye and it goes back into the nothingness from which it was born replaced by a younger soul time kills all weather or not they consistently knows that they live such things are true of trees are they soulless with an assigned value as tree as wood that linger pass the time inherent in the flesh as the age of bones we all leave something of ourselves in the flow of the world although something of the self hidden but represented by a heavy headstone hard in it hurried sat upon the ground

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O go your way above the waste in the placated plated and pleaded place of the phosphate pyridoxal day where the coenzyme citalopram olanzapine pills of the sun bleeds bloody full body bold dirty and done dry down deep by

the minute mildew red rowanberry ready and weeping from the minute ocean of your eyes bound around the crowned home confounded in the gloom tomb of the inbred shroud covering your rivers of tears that lights up a fiery night fit for burning away the labial spoken by esthesis lips seeking to see the sea saw second sounds swaging its swag in a wag where the grate betwixt state fixed and mixed before the inanimate gate and the broken smile that is held upside down and inside out orange ore and old as an odd order of odor owing to treat you right but can not know what it is doing during the doing of the done thing for the righteousness right warm red bred in a weak watery bed with its sea-swill will caught in the everywhere air that saves with waves the cold mould curse of a worse of the grace that the race toward the thumbhole thump of thunder down under the thunderbird’s mythical wings make of the reason of a season of the honor the thin within the wind the sympathizing sizing that the waves make on the lakes with its exultation of salvation of the rebirth birth of the watery earned earth eager and edge on with an egg’s egotistical growth toward where the land stand where the Gods once trod with the grace of their face a watery face of grace bestowing its overflowing consolation to the rationality of portending endings on the day that comes with its disappointment when my cries roam the home of my face with a strain pace pale and proud that loose and gain the forward treat of the Godhead divine and dauntless and tautness for a taste of tautog on to a fine edge quickening pass the cry of a plea on the corner of my lips on the edge of a smile that is stalled by the warring words of a wayward trip to the quite bright rare wondering air where the goodness of goofy Gods give glory gladly gaily the Lords sleeping in secret that is sure to show a slow slide into the sure shine seeking soul startled by dreams that battle the brut that bodily bump us

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O sleeping Lord O season of men’s lives lead toward the great wound open upon the earth that has birthed a thousand fold madness dreamt by the age of running water gigantic and incorruptible with its rainbow mimicking the syncopated incandescence indifference bubble redden by the large scattered laughter of lighting encircling a wild bitter death done in the downward bristling wind without sins the song of the angry storms of the sun sing their harmonies to a hum long lasting in the heat parochial protons bombarding the face of the earth with its shield of atmosphere the thin blue jailer so soft that it can not be seen is without a seamed without an end from blue to black the distant back up on itself holding the stars we know by sight the light of a far off worlds the air is a wonder wonderful and forever wild willing to be tasted on the tongue it tug tight in the lungs it tool till tones tunneled tell that it can not be conquered it can not be hinged in it does not loose or win it just is moved by the wind that gather it and blows it everywhere it wish to go on land and sea and skin inward I fill it with a fragile murmur it fills my lungs deep down to the cells of my bony being and I am fulfilled again and again eagerly with each breath I share with the trees the greaves give and tarring take of living like the hero that rudely runs in his sleep he is longing for normality he shall come to find in the murder of his diabolical madness that finds no more the rebellion of his fears toward a peace that is calmly submitting to the necessary anti-society of the illegitimate homeless exiled by the very society that despises the man searching for his dignity in the city of his birth in the dumps he throws away his hunger he hears the echo of tragic grandeur he does not knows that he is the absurd normality of the city that he is caught in the reutilized routinized shorting outs of modern life like an ice cube on the hot grill he dance his self away in a ticket-of-leave tightly tie dyed by time telling the tales of

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the throw down for the misplaced rime that run round time so am I told to be bold against the bully that buys his time under an old elm tree of the heavenly order till all the leaves leave the tree and the sky weeps its warm wet warmth willingly where the Gods whisper the last wisdom wounded by the light of truth youth is let loose to woo but age will sue the Gods with a noose around their necks and handle down the level with a nerviest laugh when the last of our youth is well scented by age and the wrinkles of our skin is as deep as a valley in the mountain range in South Korea with it silent tress around the fat stone belly of a Buddha among the fall colors of leaves falling in the forest that rest for want of nothing among the silent noise of birds that sat on Buddha’s head and shit with out regret what is it that birds know of the Gods that man have fashioned birds are to busy being birds likewise bees do not concern themselves with the human fashioned heaven of a far away designation this is their blessing their ignorance in the playground of the world the ideal of heaven is the curse that human must contend with must come to grip with in the body of the soul that do dabble double duty toward the body and the spirit to hold them in equal toll this all children should come to know who among us will teach their child that there is no God other then that of trees birds and bees and creeping crawling things and the creatures of the fishy fluent deep all that live out their lives in the belly of a God without a name this nameless one can by degree be called nature but only such a thing is up to the non-to-humble human for as far as we have come to know in our insolent innocent trees have no liquid language longing to call themselves by and name all matter of living things again this is the domain of man the naming one who seeks to explain all manner of thing to know himself by as opposed to letting things live out their lives unmolested by a name by a category it is man that bare the burden of

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his Gods in his head alone for his body is carried forward by the precise precept of being one of many in the belly of existence we are born to decay born to bare bare-back our body’s busy being into the earth to finally feed her after a life time of feasting on her such is the locomotion of life dust to dust the flesh will always rot in the end as befits the beast called man busy being born busy to die busy by the blood and the all seeing eye of that man’s God who spy from the hidden heaven highly held hard against the sinner that sings his song full of sorrow sawed off at the ankle and the arms that he use to arm himself against the ardent anchor holding down his self respect for crime done in the darkness that hides his blood bold and bothersome in its busy buying the crimples criminals are counting the bullets ready for the chamber

Go you stumpet for coins that jingle in the pockets of a windswept windstorm blowing wimple heads of live-wire nuns shocking with Jesus the unbelievers’ Comstockery of the forlorn bad lad that die away the airy grey blooming and consuming the years of his life in a hardy handsome joy of a boy running down the hall to hit the wall of manhood the strain in his veins the last past look of his flame flung tongue toward the older and colder expressed guessed muscle movement of being a man in the wet wilderness of a yet full grown face where doing wrong is still strong beneath the cloudy hair of the grey mixed air of full fog’s form from its only ordered oscillating fine flow that can take your brave breath away to the fray stranded by the wayside of the last cross road emotion of emotional skipped that can slip into the shed of the head with its thorns covered walls where all thought things tear their wings above the new dew formed fail with its hail Maries dumb against what may

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come of the haply holy Mary when in the end it have not forgot that soon the moon of a sliver little yellow tune that go singing the thoughts that sought to move toward a love impeached sounding a musical ring worn on the finger of a sweetness preaching its sermon left alone to the bereft where the eye die its sight against the rust of dust with its formal sonic crust spoken and straying to all that fall from the corner of the aromatic smiling air about the crossroad where we must choose which way to go which way toward our soul that follow with us all the dead days of our live long lives which way to pray to pin our hopes on the orange orphic when Gods are or as if tomorrow has come under the fasting of the mute sun under the tabula rasa sun perhaps precisely glowing over the bureaucratic traditional urban life that grows in the cracks of a calm bemusement’s irrational nature of a self in torment because it can not finely fit it form into the commonness around it where the alienated drifting of one man’s self-assured candles lit by the factories of retirement that makes us one with the crisp whip-crack compensation forward for being a good boy by the standers of a society that will find you gouty guilty of felling to fell and understand the nurtured nature of a controlled man with his cardiac mind and gut ranching heart reaching into the long lost Eden where the first poets was Gods of the fresh flesh of a snake twined around the tree of knowledge he offered the fruit to woman willing to know more then the face of her God thus the sha’ir was born to forever know that man will feel alone in the nudity of his nakedness man the killer of his brother the killer of Gods by the light of his science killer of men in mass number he have grown numb to his killing done for no other reason then he will when he can and he will not weep but seek an ease for killing peace there in lie the blame of man insane notion that he own the land the dirt in hand the nub end energetic eager man

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noble and notorious seeking to save himself by that very science while the poet as priest will not blame but seek to explain that after all is said man is but meat to the world nothing more nothing less then flesh and bones he drink from a common well and his belly swell to tell that pound for pound he is a creature of the glorious ground he build his homes in every crack he cringe at the make ready nature of weather he cry out to his Gods that there is no justice for the just of the judgment that he have made man is all my pity piled pound for pound pulling the pull wagon full of fine regrets and felled prayers he is the heart of my heartily held honors hidden in my notion of desire that drive the world wild with its winning wisdom that would wring the womanly wants from a manly man man is my mate and my mentor my murder my saint and my demon and all my kin by the manhood of man and even though each of us is signally contain in the body of our skin with a mind that is particular to the body that holds it we are of a kindred spirit this is why we as poets must pen his life lived and consult and pacify and strengthen his belief in a God that demand a price to be paid such is the nature of our duty toward the habit of our hands that handle the piety of the pen Go away pass the trismus mound of the muscles’ fist pounding away at the cover of darkness feeding off the stars’ pin point light that guided the three wise men to the birth of a boy who was to bring a new way slow and diligent even if it was for a short time 33 years in the rhyme element spent on the praise that rest its breast immaculate by the Goddess of the same name that rod ribbon robe and rail in the globe in a worldly understood standing in for motherhood that pursue the solitude of a rude torn and forlorn wounded and wondrous wish that put part of her heart in the looming blooming of the

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marvelously born morn caught in the breath of the death of a done night remembered for its colonized requiem for the dead that we ourselves contemplating its consistency freshly in the invisible nocturnal instant of a crack in joy there is a cut throat green on the breeze and I love you like the storm of many loves that have came and gone the way of the splendid thickness of the shoreline with its pressure waves that try for the honest muscles of the sun’s light that have made the system of blood that flow even when we are closing in on death and the sailors of the deep dismissed the moment of judgment that looks like a skeletal delight of the waves breaking on the public moment of a fully paid for muddle in the soldering of the heart I am an innocent fisher of men I am the tighter tidal wave that sail like a ghost waltzing the dance of deep down wisdom I am the pen that pound the purple passion of a rime mental in it meaning of the mighty that make no money for the poems that mull mindfully mock rust and moving the mark toward the broken honor of horses wild in the west ward of the wilderness where wind wisp wantonly and womanly through the tall grasses growing without help of man I am the last meaning of who I am I am the meaning of being the last dance of the sea with its tough taught howling the horny muscles of a mother of parasites that hangs with the bandit world being itself under the claws of the innocence bullets of the sun I want to hold you and feel the perishing life that makes you you the burning you that hangs on the skin and bones of a cold star that looks after the sizzling beautiful you in the thought of the universe the vibrating timbering moment by moment of your perishing into the great liberties of your needed self show me your daring indifference your indignation tell me that you are guilty of being a human being and filter all things by that liquid literal light show me that you are the divine knowledge of the Gods sing for me your songs of poetry

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introspectively let the muses guide you toward the temporal lobe where you keep your divine songs on the tip-of-the-tongue that take possession of the soul let the Gods guide you along the possessed hallucination of poetry with its wild trance with its absolute nostalgia for the relationship of the pious prophetic divinity of the Sacred Nine to the beautiful ambition of the poetic expression that conquer the willing soul you are the secrets that you keep when you weep and wail wild willing to wash away what is worth the salt of the flesh you are the mind mending much a meaning motion more by might and missed moments stolen from the strong middle bone used to beat back bold bully born to bounce a broken ball you are the careless cause calling out to find its calm kept tight beneath the telling tongue your soul is tall to tell a tale by you are the there and where the why will willing to woe words while you worry willingly weak to leak long the lane from which you came you are the only you he is the only he and each of us can say me within the mind but me as a moment is full of thoughtful things of time we poets who are willing to rime within the line we seek what you keep secret what we have heap hard high head-ward as if hollowed out by the moments in time we keep all life divine all driven to be the thing that they are the it we call a fish is itself a thing unknown to the word such are living lies wide as to keep themselves to themselves to know themselves by their own light we are not alone our is a common song full of life no we are not alone as we reach for our revolver to kill the dark dingy and dutiful night where the crimes of the flesh is having sex with its shadow in the conical corner caring for the tender bones of a summer day have you seen it have you seen the manholes smoking the breath of the underground world where the wanderers hide themselves have you seen the turning to Sunday in a praise of the Gods have you seen yourself preaching to

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the government as poets do you are you through you the one who must loose the bound of control you must be the body bold even when the conversation with the eddying id is dull and all done down deep within the soul from head hair to toenail soles of our foot fall we are that we are the being bringing about a birth born by the make up of our father and mother her belly that bore us is in the shape of a half moon we hear her heart beat bouncing bear off the new skin incased in the blood of her belly round and running riding her back bone of support she will come to sweat out our birth in pain and give our given name that number us as an interval inching on the earth that feed us with its beautiful bounty full of worms in the beak of a red breasted robin riding on the wing of the wind where the skin feels it cooling motion blown between trees holding their stints stand rooted deep they grip this earth down pass the worm’s zone to the root zone of knowing itself as a thing alive in the motion of spending its life surrounded by the dirt of this glorious earth that gives us more then we gives it it is a fact that we were once babes in arm with our amble cries crying for attention that we were once helpless against the whole world’s working its missions of magic mindful of the meaning of life we were once innocence in our baby ignorant of the working of the world but we have grown up to be reasonable reputable grown-ups bent on making our mark on the history of the inside favor fever that stop the world from smiling wide as a hollow night where we follow the trembling light of stars blinking in a wink weak thickness of the darkness that hold its spacious might tight in the lake woods where women weep wantonly for what we have loss when we doubt that the Gods are working on the beast of our behest by the boom born backward that bore the being of being human bent on believing that the Gods concur to concern themselves with the working of men with his diction of prayers

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caught in the crack of his smile of telling the truth when a smile can lie on any Sunday morning full of the voices of prayers sleeping as a ring on the finger the ring of lying to the Gods when we refuse to surrender to their holy incantation it is our vanity our vanity alone that finds a home in the heart of where we belong in the force of beauty that process the human soul and what is this thing called a soul and in death where does it goes it is hitherto unknown even to the artist as hero paralyzed in selfcontemplation in order to create a new vision of the world in its isolation the artist is to lonely too sensitive to be bourgeois they seek to transcend the conflict between their self and the society that birth them they love and serve the world that despise them that sees the artist as destructive to the rules of society destructive to the ruling order of control of the selling of the soul that tortured the artist-hero tortured the pride of ego heroes redeem recreate the world through their suffering they are freaks full of the anxiety of envying normality or so it seen that this is true of me and by me I imply that it is true of all the despise artists who labor in silence underneath the consciousness of the society told by the TV a common error of the institutionalized Gods that groan in vulgarity yet at heart I am no measure no testament of the nugatory possession of the demons that people my mind when I decline the promises offered by the Gods who deny me my long covertness desires for normality I am only I as you can say by the way and the frayed hem line of words is all that the unknown poets have to offer you who would weep to hear that the Gods have abandoned the poets with their once won warm wisdom now lost and stale in the library of the church and state and university of books thousands of poet goes unknown all runs the risk by the measure of their songs even as they long for an ear to hear but wherefore have they fallen from grace in a honored place to pick up the words from the dirt and

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fashion them into a common poem base as rap that call our woman folk bitches and whores these would be male poets do not know that poetry should be in the service of Gods and man it is not enough to rime and call yourself so or to show scantly clad women gyrating to the back beat beaming into the ears of our youth yearning for the bold bent bouncing beat to move their feet in the night club of the heated horny heart sweating out the cooling water manifested of our needs to move to the muscular musty music meant to catch us up each youthful generation usurp what have come before they make their own and cattle call their elder folk old school playing by the old rules ruled by the passing of time where youth is always new such it is in commercial Americus where we are sold the scents of youth in a bottle to wipe away the warm warning wrinkles that time makes of the silver haired skin we seek to deny our old bag of brittle bones O grow old with the grace that wisdom make O grow old gracefully with the known knowledge that nudge you on O grow old knowing that you have had your time and shine what you have seen upon the youth that follow boldly behind O go willingly hand in hand with time told by you personal myth that is your memories divine in the history of the world I seek your wisdom and freely give mine for I am one with age one with the growth that sweat from my pores and in the end I shall go gently geared to meet my heaven with open arms and a ready soul full of scores of satisfaction for a life well lived on the earnest earth

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Go populist quizzical hands reaching toward the poor

who have paid colicroot to heal whelps weeping a wanting of power for evermore where the eyes that glows shows the timing of the seven heaven soft and aloft toward the dim light of a blind mind with its atmospheric vision within the sin of a lying eye’s edge of the wild child of the sky’s blue light full of the wind horn that morn away the day a slow day throng of a song sweeping pass the fair grass that can but bear the blow of birds to know the moon light gone to soon its reflection writ in dew its grew to gain a foothold near the here of the earth the mother and brother of sparrows play breath with one another in the nest woven of the borrowed working of the world birds know enough to recycle to search for found food dropped by a careless hand they feed off the trash of man while they can fend for themselves in the land of milk and honey and the thickness of machines minding the menial work of men in the end they are one within the bounty of the working world interwoven ever interwoven intoxicated and intransitively in the joy found in the hard-on’s cum shot come in the mums the word such things said in the low echo of words is heard in the throat of a black bird in the right side of a night tide the earth shine that stroke the keen unseen grown blown lips of an eclipse that ware the air with its blue hue lazuli strung around an early moon with its hail shine light half hid by the blind wind mist that list a slight shower falling all crowded from the thinness of a sea flock that drench the bird’s eye necklet strung around my neck and quench the choking of a daylight divine that shine in the west where the sun goes to take its rest an absolute absurdity even in a moral life a life lived by the dictates of TV by the computer by the odd old books of forgotten knowledge about moving out of the soul into a predestined order telling you to forget being other being the alienated with their mysteries culturally alienated with your dark voyage into the

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unknown victim-hood of a black skin in the end you find that you can not betray yourself while trying not to fall into the ruts of a routine that insist by the light of the TV’s influence into your nightly dreams where you miss the purities of a silent night that sings of worthy things a song full of the comfort of despair of strands of man boiled down to the hair dark and bruised by the new news to choose of winged words used and confused the heroes are gathering at the gate to wait your signal of the ludicrous romantic burlesque played out before the acknowledgement that the physical has both outward and inner concerns I am an Aumian man a Settian standing of my round ground I am a thing to the Gods a reasonable reason of thought birthed by free sex I have no regret poets knows the geology of the soul the necessary understandings that occupy the language of serious mockery with its ennobling struggles that mock poetry and make it meant for the few who are half fool half visionary the high school valedictorians have all grown old and in a sense cold they have forgotten how the bold was once outcasts of the popular ruling class they were nomads in the world of conformity greasers and neohippy and nerds free spirits wanting to be difference from the flow of normality which dims the soul as the body ache they were the way that you made fun of for their insistence of being free spirits that heard the whisper in the dark and answered to the call those in high places must in time fall must be brought low by the young taking their places taking their turn at the top of the pole where none can last but fall through the glass that grows over the skin in the end all are brought low into the great rest that a blesses binding with time make of the flesh lament not the past ever hot on the passing of the present we can not tell which is which at their point of meeting here forth is a test once said the test is already in the past we are forever the present only fools try to live in the

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pass or the future fools found foundering and sniffing a woman’s bike seat seek you the internal eternal high of a blunt smoked in the rainy darkness of dying done in the bone of all your years yield to time are it will run you down into the waiting wait of the ground Go pass the weeping sycamore’s explosively dropping their brown hand size leaves to decompose at the curb of your holy ghost disbelief that smoke the swollen earth the fat veins of water in motion the swamp of cities with their dry-land parks haven of manicured wilderness maintained by the ever horny skin of the forest it’s a refeeding to keep roots of consensual basso prefunded and somatosensory moaning again and again in the good and bountiful earth every where the woods once stood with it damp stamp green between green with its same flame of leaves seen by the birds dreaming of the bounty of the city Solidago shall heal your brown bagging wounds where you keep the juice of your blotted blood coagulating into a stature of your blue blooded God who make the slake shake grey all ball roll of clouds wild in the art of the smart sky that can not avoid the frantic wind with its grief of relief brief with its cheap motion that creep across the task of sleep that advise the size of the winter dreams of trees their bold bare sounds bound by the rage of age moving across the earth wind laced in the wind shake that break its wake to a glory gloom of the last story of a fading motion a strong song that long ago did no wrong to the inspiration of creation held in the palmist’s palm in palmistry the mound of Jupiter jump a Jones jolly in the juice of a line of fate that waits the second coming having witnessed the first carved in the flower growing toward the streetlight’s glow in the mushrooms’ darkness the anxious-grayish- yellow tempestuous light linger pass the murderous thunder

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drumming its excellent reproach in the scrupulous rush of wind crowded with the machine’s litigating noise with its eruption of memories that glint its rotten cargo like the railway tracks over grown with the opportunities of life the opportunities to rebel to die with dignity following your destiny down to the dark depth deep where spiritual order is restored where the clear-eyed vision’s valueinviting-validating-view on the new news toot toot and sings to the intellectual hero in the strange land of his birth a stranger to his fellow men out of conflict he create symbolic images of the give and take of his societies of cities so much the same as to force the dirty ordinary deep into the veins of his justification of knowing about existence that it can not be trusted for it tell us that man is dead when his heroes are criminals as they must be against the socializing society that tells him how to be one with the masses’ paradigm of a tough lonesomeness that linger in the poets the confessors of the knowing knowledge of being human in an ephemerality of life alienated and enlightened by it they work their way with words creating in the silent of a thought a meaningful world for the bear naked man seeking an inspiring victory over the tragedy of their lives is there something in poets that is a contrary clarity a question of total salvation a quest for answers about the ubiquitous unending ignorance of the anonymous essence of an insolence loyalty to life this essence the odor of being alive the bees smell by it the fly in search of rot in which to layers lay its eager eggs the paradox of struggle as creation the forward fight for flight of developmental circumstances of the primitive myth of being on the quest for the meaning of men’s lives the poets give us meanings to utilize when they have not cut themselves off far from the symbolizing conventional of the real world that depict the mysterious notion of the daily battles for men’s desire fulfilled in the order far from the chaos of

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being one with the world where order is just beneath the skin of everything living its life like love leads to the land of longing like lasting moments of loving the long way we say that our tongues smelling of words will come to past as we worry why we must cry and carry on hear the tone of this poem hear the tom tom drums talk telling you that the heart beat is barely bent and bold by the rush of blood by the truth that tell you that we are all for you reader rider of our poems hitch your hind end to the seat and ride the woven words pass their meaning ride you deep seek that what we have created in solitude is now in the company that you keep without you all poems are still born in the company of their creditor creator catcher of words with a gangster lean within their needs they please that you find the working of their honest hands true to the you that you keep to yourself in the live hour made of moments of quite movements found in a poem let the poets gather their arms of words for they are called to battle against the bullies called to beat back the barnacle bone of being just any man that can mind the machine interchangeable in mind body and spirit you are a singular entity you are the self of the self the center of your view of the world what is real is precede by you through the you of you no man is the same or interchangeable though interlaced our lives be say to yourself I am the singular flesh and bone me free to be deep dumb or doom to the deity I can not save my flesh from time’s wearing grace but while I live I am me I am that I am said the God and so true of you who ride the train pass towns and cities seen from the window they bear the mark of the working hands of human these cities of man that looks all the same from where you sit in the belly of a motion moving amidst what we admit of what it is like being human in the skin and bones that we carry everywhere we goes I am that I am by breath that fills my lungs to continent the poets will teach you this simply

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truth teach you to sing as Whitman the self of the self so go you out into the world that is you for what you see you shall become you shall define you shall name all things made of the stuff of the universe all are the make of the first mother and father from deep within the dark dirt of Africa all travel through life at their own pace make the best of the one life that you have live it to its fullest live as if life seeks to pass you by throw off the shackle of your self imposed needs to fit in as one of the masses for you are much more you are the one and only make of a variation on the theme of being human in your skin the world will come to welcome the making of your mind and hands and you poets who cry out that the world is worth the dirtiness of earth demand that your God get their hands dirty demand that they lick the sweat from your brow demand that they get drunk on the musk under your arm let the one-sided Gods die by the arrogant arrow of time that wound their ankles Let the poets be the fathers of the written words stalled on the tongue of the do-gooder who woo the Gods with a cross made of the golden prayers spoken into the ears of the pillows where the blessing of the Most High grows spring rain in the wild ducks most beautiful as the black man hoeing the cotton rows of his poetic point innocent of the knowledge of the every stroke unfathomable he thinks of the thoughts that he must answer as a happy Christian assigned to destiny of the insufficiently one who have died out of the uninhabited wisdom that is rude to the poets who have found their God clothed in the garb of the Most High lady nature she is the all of all the bodies from birth to the tomb

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Go down from the head of a presumably dishabille simoon lidless in the open air of the cradle of human

thoughts lost in the libidinous want of sex by the lonesome long-playing light of the moon’s desires its lost fires its rock soul choir that reek the sleek mysteries dispelled by science the far fill hills of the moon its upper rare air the aloof roof won by the sun the free melody of the solar winds harmonies of ecstasy the white sky at the horizon the azure overhead with its billow measure of holding old and used clouds the doubt of a shout in a baby’s mouth the tones of rolling stones the impenitent element of fire in a clear year strained and crucified by the art of the heart’s heartfelt art arthritic Artemis lives in the long ago history of the moon her artifacts is found in the street walker’s strength in the wilderness of the citifies cities the virgin huntress of the soon populated tune she roam the wilderness of the soul forsaking silver and gold for the possessive bow go roll the beautiful anguish of old cold holding the buffalo’s musk the stuck human musk the damp decomposing leaves from musician trees growing with the harmonies of the living living under the immense depths that life seeks in its incessancy the lonely wanderer wander on into the world beyond the mass of a proton an emersion of consciousness hunting the minds of men or vice versa the tormented psyche fighting the balanced harmony that use us that abused us left us lingering on the line alone a thought of home where there are no sheep to shelters we seek each other some was born to follow some as foundering fathers fast in their attack to get you on board offering you a popular place to finally fit in to be as one of the mainly many no longer the lonely voyager no more the struggles for psychic maturity no longer the right to choose we do for you no more the battles for an individual mind caught up in rhymes the symbolic outline that is writ in sand and the water’s hands return and withdrawal the sonic season of ebb and flow that follow low long lockup logaoedic logistics longing to be known

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by the true wisdom that the alienated feel when the hero fight the demons for us all demons that push us to our down fall from grace and find ourselves pushing to overthrow the angels that are assigned to us the sacrifice of the poet as hero is a public act a warning to other that some men must fall through the cracks in democracy that all rebellions acts will be prosecuted by the demons of a government that down the soul of the free willing wildness wishing to teach us that man is capable of so much more as it concern the conscious working of the solo soul that wish to sing its own sonic suing soulful song go go you poetic soul go into the storm of your life and do as you know go go you whisperers of poems the Gods will look down upon your crown of thorns and lick the blood of your wounds O go go you with your possession of bent values that turn the material of life into the stuff of art stand you queerly aloof to the relationship of the dead-flat absolute normality with it seductive banality of living without serious reflection on the dullness of a middle-class life you are in possession of an animal soul that love the infatuated knowing that one can be his self against the masses that secretly is betrayed by a need to possess the tracking of a comfortable life lived be you keenly aware of the nature of others they are your sisters and brothers take their suffering and recreate the world you are the artist-hero you are the poet the freak caged by their indifference O let your imagination soar beyond the fate of Icarus Go to where the spirant inhabitant of the throat and microspores breathe smooth soothing sounds meant to hurl the valetudinarian victim vibrating viscidly in the vacuum spurn by the pomegranate polyglot issuing enrich logy once stimulated by the growth

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of locoweed over the portcullis of a stratagem soul looking over the precipice of the thought’s device when the right plight of bones is to be found in the vain tears of pain that rail and rain rakishly with its rambunctious roar with its ramification of growth in the rancid forecasted forest of frangible forlorn hopes where all the soul weary tied have died the yet regret thing of spring go to the freak show of being alive in the locked frequency of breathing go to the sorrow borrow from the oppressed in their unrest in the flower of their blooming hour bent on surviving the morrow that can not cease its increase of birth on earth where the daughter is slaughtered in the murder brought against peace beneath the wind praising the tree that heard the murderous blow past the last breath of the same name that knows the sinfulness of the rose how now dost a flower knows in its place of grace the love from above how now can it say the divine is mine yes even the rose must confess with the growth of its height stilled at night it rock at righteousness set asunder by the trimming thunder that yet but sweat in the upper room of the heaven the hero place a curse upon himself which of us are willing to do the blessed hero’s doing which of us will stand on the front line of the frontier for fighting against the compliancy that we are driven to as a heard of cattle lead to the sinister slaughter of the free will compliancy can kill the thrills of daily life by foe are fief the will to kill fe fi fo fom the giant run the glassily pains come the bum is all done down the dumb dump where he catches a warm sleep beneath the gulls crying for food tattled coat torn by a bitter wind that sometimes wins to tear open the buttoned down feelings that guards the soul the coldness of being homeless is nailed to the door that opens on to the flesh feeding off itself and the joy of found butts holding a breath full of the last smoke in a poor man’s year I feels for as I have done so sleeping on a benched in Washington Park in New York in routes

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to granddaddy Mississippi the poets knows in the secret of his bones where the misty mystic songs long memorable plays out within the tree of Igdrasil over hanging the clouds of the sky the poets grows on the bark and the poems feasting off his bare back bloom from his skin all within its growth each of us a leaf twisting in the winds of sinuousness consciousness and first-begotten splendid one who gather to himself the supplications of disturbed breaking down dreams of a wise hybrid birds flying over a male malevolent demon greeting the incomprehensible air with our human history of hostility while my black Chow Chow Janwanza my confidant our union is a blesses thing as Christopher Smart to Jeffrey I do not own her but she own me when she relieve herself she isn’t ashamed to show me she is sense driven and I sight we complete each other human with canine might to make it through our time of the world we as poets are the artist as poseur poet the text of our life is nearly written without youthful idealism for it took age to reach our voice to soar and fall by the fickle and fatal flight of flying to close to the sun yet we enjoyed the free fall full of winds of our falling body filled with the bounty of a profane joy against the stagnant drag of a confused reality and the sterility of being exile from normality all poets are possessed by a madness of sort or so is the report from the sanity of the self centered world that will make of the poet a criminal against the state’s need to control as our fall are we free to create and celebrate too participate as a necessity of being one with the world we have tried and fell to be the conventional sons O go by voluminous voltage of the peremptory pawnbroker of pea pods hanging as a nursing bottle’s dendrite reaching out to the modish modiste plenum in the wordiness of a book written by a now lost God who have grown older and colder by the flung flame heart-

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forsook as it dare to look at the success of stress of modern man it no longer wish to get to know us the graceful Gods as strong as an iron rod they prey on and slay the fair glare Egyptian air of which they care their hands stands in the sand storm where the stonemason’s memory is the mission of their handiwork know it in your bones that many times in our childhood we had nothing to hold us back from going home with our splendor sins unseen by the wonder under the stringent stringendo stressed climaxing to strike a strut pompously in its studious style homeward with a homophone hung on the tongue with a horn and hard on high in the hour hung here ward and a how heavy is the hesitant cost of heaven how the histrionics hoarding history of a hit and miss hit and run human holdup the hard-hitting hard-fisted hardheaded hard winds of a heart’s homespun honesty is homesick in the honky-tonk playing its honorable refrain in the ear of a hotchpots of earth where the poet-hero’s disastrous quest for an ancient morality bold enough to hold the blind but kind source of religious ritual united in his faith and purpose by the forces that creates and destroys him leave him grieving and leaving his fresh thoughts futile when by his human kin is torn apart by the very people that he wishes to save such brutal element of action is the heroic price to be paid for seeking to set the mindful mind free from the common drudgery of the everyday of the mistrust between men in their lowest degree with their beauty and death their insinuating insulting institutions the poet’s terrible journey filled with their pattern for battles he the hero is taken to trial by the jealousy that men feel toward the explorer of the unknown he is doom to die in the fulfillment of his quest to save himself from the squeaking squeezing cracks that seeks to swallow to steal his shadow of the self to leave him lost in the long knives night nipping at his wounded heeds he have chosen to take the high road round after

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waddling in the depth that the soul can reach where he sharpened the emotional theft of his teeth for words wild and willful he have struggled with the angels for the souls of men and found himself bloody and half battled of body by the bondage of a sorrowful longing on loan from the Gods that have made him their spiteful sport their beast of emotional burden and their hired hand hardly heard as they shout about the darken deserted streets where it is themselves that they meet under the circle of a street light’s glow to him it feels good to go against the common flow that flood forward the common men’s needs to be seen as one of the many while the poets fest on his solitude of going it alone hoping that with his poems you will find an eternal infatuation inside the inner working of his poems he know that in you there are some things incomprehensible about you he knows that his poems can reach you through your personal God that seeks to be silent with its logic of a half hidden origin of life know that it is alright to listen to the voices of the Gods especially the earth-dwelling ones absence from the churches they survive in the street holding on keeping the faith they wont let go of the holy ghost seen naked by the darkness that falls in the city of the lost soul looking long at the list losing its longitude when the light last rise above the horizon of roofs deep within the cities the shadows are moving we are just a soul that the sun set breathe but some of us blame Jesus for the state of our souls when it is we who must win ourselves over to ourselves with or without the church be ready to be caught up in life moving with the flow of those who bless the Lord by feeding their souls that Lord who is an old time friend of my childhood when he was half reveled by a young mind now half reviled for the half lies that we was told about that Lord that laid his hands on me in vain I now know the what not up the road waiting to play the game nature is my God she reign supreme she carry on

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the working of my body I am apart of her physicality one of many forever caught in the famous flow of being alive leaving our sins behind down by the river side where I study war against the complicity of the common man caught in the river of lies that keep us drowning again and again I aint gonna study war no mo not even to fight for my God that try to keep me from my sinning with my sexual rod Go where the route of your roped thoughts have gone before to round you up when root hair grew to cover your scruples held in a tight fisted blow on the ocean where flowed the staggering elder old to the flow of blood in the veins of a cynic cutterfish that shall feed us all stand the vine-shoot land with your foot planted deep in the worth of the earth be a fisherman of men from Galilee to the knee of Italy let the worst burst in the warm storm’s form that drum down earth’s dust sweeping its keep by the mercy blessing in the regular blow of snow knocking against the rocks with a shock that can not endured the brave to and fro of a cold that roll its roust-about cover round the reckless reckon rush radiance of a child’s face chilled in the cradle rocking in the winds of a pink hotel the motion of the neutral ocean is true to itself the practical wandering winds will not wait its warm waves wash over the war zone’s waged that rage across the human face of being that on the face of earth with the hand of its land stand and command the sand wash into the sea the roots benefit the fruit one hidden strength the other boldly beautiful flesh of the first-fruit’s feeding from the roots by the dry overspread shade that keep its cooling deep in the shadows of the sheaf of a leaf that rather gather the moisture from the sun lit air it drink the sweat of a drunk sea it bear the fair blow beneath the sun’s breath beneath the sizing moon that feast on the winds of heaven with its fugitive yellow that function to

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pin down the eyes of idols that looks after us when our visions are made a mockery by the industrialism of the mass market culture the bolts and grease and smoke of moving parts at the heart of the commerce’s art the motion that can not part the waters we are spurned by its neglected by its used down to our bones dominated by the technological order we are plunge plugged into the alleviated boredom of the messy masses mindful of the monthly credit bills that the soul pays the capitalisms voice of the TV tells you to acknowledge your sins against it to repent of being a free spirit to confess admit that you have not been faithful in buying forsake quit your resistance to the noise of the market place where the free will of the soul is brought and sold it teaches you to believe to rely on the almighty dollar as if it came from the mouth of the Lord Jesus to believe in our hearts that the dollar can be raised from the dead by a credit card it teaches you to accept that this is your lot in life that the book of equity is your bible the codas of banking your virid veracity the bill boards will tell you the word of the day the place to get your next fix against the certainties of growing old in a land where youth is brought and sold by and to the old where youth along is viewed as the hero with his technocratic romanticism static against the affirmation of the imagination that pushes for the new world order of free individuals over throwing the helpfulness of conformity caught in the technical implications of the economic materialistic democracy’s market place every Sunday morning salvation is for sale by way of a donation but the true atonement is that the free will of the soul is to be paid to the money changer of the church of the holy dollar of the culture of sterility that grip the near psychopath poet the rebel the solitary wanderer the criminal messiah who shall overthrow the machines in the church yard they are all asleep in the intolerance justice of the hero’s rebellion that gives him

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identity gives him revenge as a destructive rebel nature is the moisture of his mistress sometime indifferent toward the affliction of his affection that borrow an oppressed sorrow of unrest for the wondering breath of the mother of his brother in the battle that change us when the angels in heaven done writ our name I know that I’ve been change not by a celestialized God but one of bark and bones brilliant with an animal nature there is no time for Gods numb by life leaking humanity with every deed done during the doing no need to do down deep the holy repeat of the second coming breath by breath my God done came and I have given her a name she is all the contradiction the mind can hold bold by bits and bits she birth and bury she build and buys every second of time she spends with an unseen action my Goddess is a lucky lady laid out before you she is dirty with the funk of life she reap and sow her wild wisdom in a throw toward tire tongues telling tall tales to Thomas as told by poems held in the palm she is all the might that the muscle can hold and she is much more mighty mama making her way mile by mile she is forest and willow rocks and rams ocean and rivers that bellow and sand she is myth made monkey cages in the zoo you know who be made of bark and stone she carry on by bird breath along she is the all mighty mission of nature mine but not alone for all life is her song to hear her music bound and by the beat of a heart by the flight of silver maple’s seeds in mid spring raining the boundless air by the seeds of weed clouding my mind with its pungent euphuist knowing of the long winded breath of a poet’s song be in love with your God like the love of breath for the lungs be in love like the love of heart for blood be in love like the love of tears to the eyes let there be intimacy between you and your God

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O go my yellow skinned praise to where the glory of every tongue resound toward eternity and sing to the begotten son of a three-fold warrant in heaven the Holy Spirit is imparting its unending untimely birth on the sublittoral deep thermocline earth where man keep his stronghold held by the broken tongue breath of trees where the wind whips its feast from their lips it nip a fellowship of punishment it ease the frieze of bent knees of butterflies in the spaceship of undulating dreams where inflammable epoch of a biopsy of speech shows the whole of a cell holding the birth of itself in toted all is told to the waiting eyes that wish to know the brave blow below the heart-broke wreck that check itself at the door of the smart bones alone about the heart that truth makes of youth when the winds of age howling its calling brawling about the air worth a mouthful of breath on the good and gracious earth one can hear the sacrificed suffering bespoken token pride of the west that rest in the thick quick breath of death appearing and cheering on the dispatched done dead triumph in their burly doom where the soul is blown to the mouth of a nun’s delicacy with her mercy lingering past prayers born on the throne of the tiring tongue telling grace before the feast of famish where poverty is fed to the self-imposed exile of the hero the poet as fallen archangel who momentarily frighten from the fall he have forgotten where to find his next battle the flight still in him against the dull conformity exaggerated around him with his smart heart alone to the bone his own truth for the youth of man his willingness to have the felt bliss dealt to the many to relieve us of the spells of hell he is like a wounded animal romantic in his disgust against the precedence of power over the selfquest that a free soul demands to show us something about the world that we did not know show us the self identity that we holds the super sense of ego in a society that tell tell to time to taunts us and we become the latest

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leaders of an anti-social hostility meant to master in manner the pure passion of living a life alone in the skin the poet hero can not save us only show that we as capable of much more then what the society demands of us show us the knowledge of the self they are the martyred servants of the lonesome indivisible knowing of the self the same self that looks out on the wide wilderness of the worry world wishing to be one on the road of a body in motion in the quick-sanding notion blowing the odors of your shared comrades cousins by the blood a brotherhood by the bone born the one one like you in construct like you alone in the secrets longings that you keep to belong to the Godhead of the social order that will have you to discipline the captured animal that you are never to be set free in the wilderness of the criminal streets captured by the wish to be civil with the social insights alone the road of life like the inability to rebel when rebellious nature is called to when our lonely agony is to much to bear and we go in search of a community where cares are shared in the complacency of order afraid to cry here is a disorder to grasp upon a maddening mystery to shove yourself into fear not that you no-longer care to become God of your alienation cry cry out to the metaphysical limit of man cry cry to the rendezvous of the landscape caught in its selfish life without a thought filtered through a God but the God of the self dozing in the slow aroused motion of a tree amidst the hustle of man made motion mining the earth for minerals with machines mimicking the working of the arm cry out when you have swallowed your swollen sorrow for the fragmentation of the individual the specialization that leave us wanting to make a difference before life is done and we go into the uncertainty the promises of the God fearing when all beyond death is dead all you leave will fade in the shadows of youth the new moving through their age in the light of their life lit

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by the lamp of your death into the ream of the ancestors your mark is made by the birth of babies by the poems nurtured in the moment of your strength for a worldly gift by what of you is remembered to stand in for the flesh that must rot in a riot of feeding the dead are useful to the living offering the promise of eternity for the name and work alone now that the flesh is gone gone the way of the found ground the same name that knows the death of a rose the increase of the heart that cease the bloom of a birth breathing new we the few praise you for making your way through life with a kind of grace that can not be replaced by the machines that seem to sustain you get ye alone someday on your own with a God’s will shall you climb the hill that life is and fall back to being flesh when the need calls you shall come to know the animal that you are and find in it something pleasing something meaty to hold on to something of the wetness of your desires the moist movement of your moan meaning to tell what most you keep well watered with blood it is no secret that death awaits you be you not afraid that when in death the bugs shall raid your once busy body the flesh can not be saved for it belong to time and time wears away as sure as your birth it gave only time is forever so fear not the grave for you shall go there not alone on many lips is the death song Go go and tromp the trochee written by the hands of mulberries on the outraged sky where runic clouds weep their individuality to run a ground and clean and regenerate into shadows of clouds running with the wind into which the rain fall and change into sewer rivers that flow without eyes to the sea the city is a maze among the roads of charity’s fire burning the high-hung sleep of a lament that shed its weeping onto the streets where pleasure take its counter leisure and I

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dare to be bold and go tranquil quickly through the teeming crime shaken streets pass the weary watchers waiting to catch me up in a dark corner full of the measure to take my little pocketful of treasure but they do not know that it is not coins that I carry but fancy fantastic poems playing with the big boys they can rob me of my guilty gambit galoot gifts rob me blind of all my rebellion religion rhymes but do not rob me of my skin to win a kinship with you when the wind is in the mouth of the south in the hand of the west in the hair of the north and the eyes of the east all that fall from the falsified small ride that try the sky all temple statuary that look into your eyes where the particularly beauty of idols with their globular eyes staring with defiant authority into the honey-mouth of the priest who have come to speak and weep the ancient textual material of the Gods now gone from the chapel side chair where they use to keep their vassal longing in the modern subjective age beneath the sublunary subsequence sub-serve art of worshiping the protagonist who forage for the fought wars against the old order and meaningful authority that control the image of man in his American society where murder create a new order of the blancmange of the free feeding sick self denied by the society that once nurtured him with the taught thoughts about the preserve human meaning caught in a sad sad song sung in the silence of telling the truth to a racial persecution of the masses revolting against realism found in the man-made pattern of consistency realism itself is a secret society itself is a sickness that the hero is bound by social structure to rebel against when the midnight motion of his nature comes up against the bleak environment of the vanity of the every day life as one way in one way out younger then the age of the moon the ancestral looker with its perplexed expression looking down on the miniature doings of man with his hasty hesitating beauty that do believe in going

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to places that it have not gone before human beauty luminous in its legitimate despair that embrace the significant rootedness of being an individual in the conformity that ignore you as mastiff a kind of scum fearlessly advancing in its ignominious frigates guts injured and bent by a warrior’s gigantic back bone in exile with a curse of alienation and the veneration for the simplicity of a child’s life in the compurgation and compaction of the compensation never given to the sensitive intellectual nature of the poet’s limited atmosphere of meaning that can not save him from the sorrow that he have borrowed from the flower caught in the hour of its unrest blooming in the mouth of the south wind lost in the city of the north as soon as it comes it is gone having writ its motion there in the rarefied air full of the swarm of warm miracle that nature is in her insistencies making a thought that through the then spacious pen of the poets writing of the tawdry dignity of ordinary men his confrontation with the human condition caught in the life of the petit bourgeois detached from the complex situation of the poor chained to the trinity they wear the woes slow day by day the way we wear old shoes ill fit but fixed to give us some kind of support when we find that the curiosity and greed of the poet for the nudity of normality for a kinship with the city dwellers that will do him harm under the cover of an industrialization of the all while fall of the dusty and rusty crust of darkness that beat the late main strain of the rain that have lost its emotion where there is found spring time in the ground when the night tide take it ride and the prescribed manner of the ruling elite dictate and dilate the treatment of the poor as things as fresh objects to be mindfully manipulated in the economic enterprise that have entered into our lives we see by the TV’s light whose asleep who weep who is caught deep in the reek of mid-night infomercials ruling the high night glow of the

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transforming hopes to sell you on the new and improved repairmen of the soul broken by the bully birds that bites bit by bit bold birds black as a Mississippi night mid the yellow pine green the season through and scented proudly pine the pale wood beneath the dripping bark each tree knows its place in the forest each seed seeks such knowledge the seeds of childhood will bring forth deep root when time tells them to be fruitful some will flee followed by the fellow who find him entreating the possibility of the possibility of the caravan of clouds over the bone desert of the April massacred newborns that never used water as a mirror when the lumps gagged on an over ripe moon recluse by the sun showmanship the moon with its foot print of an ambitioned manual animal pregnant and living on the spinal cord of the tempestuous world the moon is the thunder of fallen milk the silence island of murderous inquest whose scenery is naked beside the cloth of an earth’s green laughter lasting into the tundra’s lichen might crowing across ridged rocks russet in their position of rest that melt the wind’s bedazzlements its ecstatic screams of progress freebooting and assassinating the fierce fertility of clouds where a colorless silence full of empty torture caught in the skeleton’s boney shadow a shadow sustained by the surgical beauty of an elegant metal surprise in the labyrinth constellation of the innocence bleeding a wounded laughter howling like stubborn currents washed a shore short soared with man made trash that rob the world of its odor where the undertow of the sea is sobbing like childhood assassins of adorable tenderness perpetual and piously posed before the purer Adam when he was wild and shipwrecked by the reptile when he peddled out intimate names when he became the first elder after being the first innocence to know the power of words he knew not himself the snake was the first priest first politician the first philosopher the first poet all since

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are his imitators for good and bad their big bad bullying begs to be the boss of their own understanding as words fall from their mouth they congeal in the rarefied air into meanings that words can not feel I love you is the same as I love you not love not I you will not linger on the tongue nor in the ear words feel no fear Go pass the warm red eyes focused on a river of tie pins from companies selling youth in small tins to the disinherited growing older day by day way by way the years feel no shame as they etch their footprints into the face the years was caught stealing the tail end of a week’s worth of working the life that we are given like the bamboo bombo feral child in the wild born to smile the human smile he took to the trees age is no mockery to be one with it takes a grey haired grace to live beautifully in your wrinkle skin inexhaustible ancient age live eternally in the decorated body of our grandmothers and great grandfathers steep in the steps of installing muscles of age with its nostalgia guardian guarding the scenery of the body with a triumph harmony there the fair smile last for miles all beam all gleam fall the rust of a smile is tall where the dust of the crust of earth wind blown whirlwind song slow and low echo the night side of a wind tide right by the dusty sight that pursued the rude side of solitude torn and forlorn by the wind eclipse by the fine spine of trees that sway under the rays of the sun hung on leaves and branches as one ware your age proudly as it come overflowing the white light firmament that spread and shed the higher fire lit warmth on flocks of birds and sheep and rocks alike it gleam on the stream of water that run like a sung tongue forgotten by the once drenched that quenched earth quenched dirt the solid soil worthy to be dug the resounding ground fit for being fill but never flush in the city never more then wild and

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willing nature fulfilling her own whishes in the ease of normality the individual insight of nature is never wanting more then what it gives unlike man’s intelligence war with his sensitivity man’s rationalistic bureaucratic analyst in the urban life where you can buy everything under the soon to be full moon under the scheming for money in the guilty memories of the pathetic victims making a trivia living going home to their bold boredom caught in the trivial action of the TV with its painful joy of conformity modern man is daily created by the manufacturers of false expectations buy this and you will be that light sound action pets and children are thrown into the maximal mix to sell you on the ideal to do as the crowd en masse do as the bible of the TV tells you to be you not the lonely doer that seeks to create a real self in the jungle of the urban chaos but the poet through trial and insult and the hallucination of being one with himself persuade the rude torn and forlorn before the full dull conformity that greets the day as a way of life they seek human fraternity of the highest order while the criminals of the night fight to establish their territory they mocks and scorns as a way of being one with the pack to feel themselves they will do you harm to know themselves they will break your arm as a way of shaping the society that ignores them they are a necessity to the control of the totalitarian state that waits on the birth of the new born as fresh festal fuel fit for the mechanical fire that burns the meaningful image of man caught in the condition of a confusion of values of the quality of the simple half spiritual half flesh sentry soul half by half it holds the pleasure by pleasure they know my sisters and my brothers in the artful transuded treasure offered to the masses to keep them down in the trenches of the everyday work a world way no man was meant for the bottom we stand high as our lowest brother and each of us is poor of spirit when the homeless huddle over warm

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stream vents in the streets where they catch a weary sleep in their everyday cloth the homeless have souls and a history in the world on their faces is the story told of how they came to be enfold to live without sheathe against the cold I pay to hear their stories from days of glory to the poorly made bed of cardboard begging and buying time with no place to go but hanging out in front of the liquor store bumming change and cigarettes if I only had come into some weed it will make everything pretty at leasing the handout handed down from father to son and sons more the homeless are a pain in my belly I hunger for their salvation they are the modern gatherers with their shopping cart full of found comfort the man that eats pizza crust from the dumpster gather himself up in the abandon building that he share with pigeons he is a pain in my brain too understand that he must catch the rain with his skin within the sins of a bountiful society where freedom is counted by the number of zeros behind our dollar sign we can not spare a dine we will not take on the sorrow of the world we will not against the bloated belly of a child that is to weak to sho-sho away the flies from drinking from the corner of her eyes the poet as hero must not feed the pain that stains the human soul old is his wisdom he must not embrace the materialistic society odd is his inner life he must not loose his self-contemplation he must not loose his power of insight the inner light the tight dignity of a simple mind that can comprehend the symbolic realities earn the cross that you must bear by the talent that you ware be you ever precocious in your anxiety you must bear the curse of alienation for the sensitive simplicity of your intellectual intonation you must embrace the naturalistic dignity of your tribulations you must come to know the vindication of the petit bourgeois and proletariat insist on the significance of the heroic homeless that encounter the visions of their final catastrophe of loosing their individual integrity poet be

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you ever the redeemer of pleasures be you the initial rebel of mercenary acquaintances uproot the empires that plunges and pursuit the industrialism that kills the individual be you an instrument of the gods that can not know your transgressions let your ancient virtues be illustrative to young and old alike grope your way through the criminal streets where the gratification of destruction is forcing the egotist of enterprising capitalistic pride school yourself with social insight keep it tight against the mystery of nature bear the burden that bound you by your art your honest intuition can kill the sterility and frustration found in the city in your honesty defeat the quarrelsome tragic flaw in man the inexplicable irrational murder of the beauty of the body of the heroic poet know that the hero in you will find a firm fit to fix yourself to you are the light that guild by your glorious get-to-it that is glued to you poets that are born of your worthy hands the man who is sedated by T V and the work a day world need tending to

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Go to the grave yard of the hallucinated voices that has lost their connection to the Godhead of social chaos the God no longer tell us what to do they have lost their cash in which to buy our loyalty all that is left of them is the babble of confusion those who can hear are mad men and children suddenly the mad men of influence imaginary Gods establish together the side-by-sideness of the divine unnecessary significations of the ghost soul with its appurtenances of life the Gods ride and hide their blessing from the certainty of bliss approved by this a plea that concern thee remember the past tree in the garden from which man was cast fast out to work for the forgetfulness of the original sin to redeem himself for

searching out the knowledge of the influential heaven there is no credit given each baby the forgetfulness anew born into the evil-heaven of man center earth they bear that long lost birth of sin to win the redemption of that Lord that died on the cross of our deep seated belief that in heaven we shall meet the persistent periodic peruse of wanting no more then a soulful peace must we go to heaven before we meet ourselves is the flesh not to weak to know itself in the extraordinary unforgettable skin of the brain with its refrain the same name calling motion on an unknotted salvation waiting to bestow its torturous blessings on what is depended on the flow of blood to be fed by the red fluid of devolution where we go with a rental genital smile all the while we know that the hero shall come to save us from ourselves after he himself have been lifted on the egotistical shoulders of angels and find himself caught in his fantastic vision of his schizophrenia moods that aid his heroic will to kill his disillusionment of being the leader and the led of and by those who seeks the exploitation of all that he stands for absorb him to utilize him then throw him away for the next best thing that paid we who have an unhealthy dislike of money quickly spending our honey on cigarettes coffee weed and beer we lie in liar of the wealthy to hear that there is just not enough to buy a man’s strength and rent his solo silent soul sold to the highest bidder of the all to importance imposition of thunder under it have I seen my dreams trembling to be fulfill with the Holy Ghost’s wisdom but I am only flesh tied to it by my hunger it’s a mid morning snack to consider when musing over the birth of some poem with thunder as company its femoral roar heard throughout the city that pretend at sleep steep and stoned somewhere someone is dancing or doing sex or dishing it out beneath the morning moon that must leave us soon somewhere there is a swear staring somebody down there

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is in a sun lit where someone who care about you as the poets do and with each poem new is there news from the taught soul that we share as flesh and bones sisters and brothers to our cousins tree and weed bumble bees all things as meat moss grown rocks and the age of wood all things that be the God head whole each thing itself bold to be in the flow of our world windy and wild with textual evidence everywhere we look God is there always with us as we with it this you can not resist can not be a racial racist for the Gods can not hate of the wrong done by the brotherhood of blood and skin we sin when we harm our kin the pure blood have been muddle time and time again blesses is the mix the new American face darkened let them raise a race of their own lighten the black and darken the white round the eyes that widen at night brown down the barrio put curls in their hair let them celebrate Cinco de Mayo and June Tenths let them remember wounded knee and Sand Creek let them weep to believe no more in racist racial purity as the pious performer proud prize to win the holy way of our eyes for the thin depth of the color of the skin can we win is no battle cry I am you brother gratuitous in my want to save you I am alienated from my frustration I am guilty of an inexplicable and innocent sleep that nightly unchanged the world I am the prosecutor of the criminal pursuit of the wounded soul I am the priest of purposeful poetry in my present life caught in the prosecution of my defense I am the physical attitude of the world seen as absurd I am the existence never preferred I am the essential identity preserved repository of rebellions of significant authority I am the extreme illusion of spiritual order courageous in my down fall of the dignity that will not fear death

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Go to the enormous second coming gillnetting the dimension of hypnotic death caught in the breath of a baby nuthatch dead alone side of the road in the spring rough with a last winter blow the young leaves on the boughs suffer enough of frost bite the last sounds of winter’s notes unbound floats about the divine shine of the sun that set west its rest everywhere the air is chilled filled up with a four month old cold spotted with a warming that foretold the approach of spring that is coughed out through the mouth while the aoidoi wind singing wind within wind its contrasted song of tiny snow in the belly of the air in the damp stamp seen between the budding green here in the early part of a soon to be spring the prime time of April bound around the same flame that came bright on the tail end of the elegy of night in its best tongue’s autoscopic illusions is narrating the glory story glossy and gluttonous in its antiquated telling the crowed clouds stand by in the hour of it tower building in the sky its intent has yet to be spent a glow blow of lighting crack open the sky and the thunderous wind rush in full of the cold that winter holds in its wilderness of motion I hunger for the rain the holy homeless rain in its falling the rain that repair the air then die in the unholy streets of man’s making I long for the rain in its colliding with air its ceremonial condensations of clouds tracked into a funnel the violent rain holding its sumptuous weight in free falling drops like tears seeking their legal level down from the burst belly of clouds to the curb side rivers running wild toward the gutters collecting the motion of water that never die from its wild impulse like blood rushing by the beat of the heart pushed into every cell maneuvering their bloody trails of veins throughout the body of the world behold the sound and scent of rain the mist mimicking the body cloud the cracking crooked untouchable flash of brilliance lighting taking a picture of the world from its high heaven home no sooner come

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then gone leaving behind the mounting thunderous sounds audible for miles this uproar that shakes a bird’s nest when the sky yawns and snores in its restless sleep and weep the nameless water a storm soon forgotten save for the bounty that it bored swelling the rivers overflowing their man made boundaries we can not stop the water long its strong need to flow to find its own way to the sea flooding human homes water and air seeks their measure strong the lightening touching the ground at the base of an old mulberry tree strike the degraded relationship between artist and society there is a storm there a fight as not to be a victim lightening in a bottle in his romantic will for power his needs to bring about a change to say that we are still animals who play the civilized game where the rule book is held by the government the tin kings growing in the throat of who we precede ourselves to be as we swaying like seaweeds at their mercy at the ground where the soul is tatter where their scruples let loose the sea monsters that maintain their control goes suddenly splashing the disruption of our self-centered motion life is like an ocean the many living off the whole the bold air our containment for all our cares when we become islands fit in our torments born of a lonesomeness when we become shipwreck on the excessive of government and the economic bootlegging of our souls when we are convince that all that we can know is by their light then should we find ourselves prime for the fight for what we think is right by the light of the self taken down from the highest shelf where we keep our most secret longing to rebel against the complacency that can no longer amuse us no longer arouse a sense of belonging to the brotherhood of the masses when our rendezvous with destiny is set in stone and by it are we amused and consumed to emerge as a hero fully formed from the gestation in the womb of social discontent where many of the masses have

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forgotten how to strip away the layers of rules and riggers regulations that tie us down to a shell of a man that keeps us in check by the time clock that measure our comings and goings to pre-approved cubical that we are made to fit in when our inner fire have risen so high that we become the urgent animal aiming to destroy the ruling order that order us to cease and desists from being one with ourselves caught in the agony of reality where the fictional self is a finance of fronts saying without thought how you doing good morning God bless you when the world we inhabit is lit by the absurdity of 1369 bulbs in the underground tomb-like cavern where we must face ourselves along and be reborn in the lonely world full of people people who go about their lives as if the dehumanized is a way of life that can not be changed as if powerlessness is their name the poet must not pity the plain but plan to move man to overthrow to shake off the shackles of the indoctrination’s notion with its motion toward the need to control that the proudly poor must never complain his riot should be still born into crimes against each other let him not cross the line not linger in the starchiness of the streets not long out his lonesomeness in the public eye the poor are collared collectively exploited they are made a mindful mockery moment by moment by the iniquities of the insecurities of the institutions that employ them by the TV that lull them to a heavy sleep by the dilemma of the exotic treasures of the superficial manifestation of a happiness found in the sickness of a society in crisis where the passionate assertion of the hero there where the light of a lantern in the night watch him committing his crime of destroying the common air of the old order is to be feared so he will be the sacrificial sufferer when caught in the act of being a useful molded model moot of justice distal and distinct to the discontented beholder of youth that prow the midnight hour of their insecurities with their conditional

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confusion of the excess violence of TV that indicate the old order’s values accepted as norms the play dying of a dying society is writ in the glow of TV’s reflected light where the bone-house of the soul must pay for what it have witness Go where the poets lives without knowing the cause of their meaningful melee they are driven by society to have no more individuality then the worker bee buzzing about the cocked end of a contumelious consumption buzz buzz about the busy bi-line of society buzz buzz by the buzzard’s buzz-word buyer of the dead gone to distressed meat to feed the nest full of a waiting mouth months old in the new born boom that nature makes of the ballooning budding spasmodically sprung spring full of new spirits of birds and green everywhere and beast the green season singing its rustic rioted ring the spring has sprung in a hail run of rain with its refrain drumming on the rusted corrugated roofs in the negro section of Laurel Mississippi in the dark down doing of the masses in shotguns shacks being about their brought lives in the capsize that hope to rise above the then men that larcenous labor all the times of their conformist lives to do right by the society that birth them they wish not to stand out or in the light always to do what is right for their station in life from time to time I am such a man when I am common to myself when ever I give over the timing of my living to the TV or to the bed I am common to the bones as common goes I who remember much of his dreams unfolding with each click of the key board still I seek to be a rebel for the poet that I am still I seek to keep to myself surrounded by poetry that turn the TV to background noise lying about what you see is what you get with five percent back I am the man among men who see by a define light bright burning to bare the poetry

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from my brain my mind’s muscle with its might of thoughts tight telling the tell tell soul of me to reach out for you and befriend your personal God that you keep loaded and lock cocked the telling clock that makes your personal time in the skin that won you when it was time to win the skill of the killed kind notion that birthed you we are kin kindred souls alone the road our paths cross by way of the poem that mean you good tiding till time we tie together in rime that till the soil from which thoughts grow we are one in the reading of the poem that is close to the human Gods that we are to ourselves looking long lastly with a loud laughter lasting its length of breath in the run of words woven to woe or woo with them to win and wait the wild words work their way within the wall that we keep before the face the face is saved for the touch of those that we care to dare the skin to skin fairer then fair friends free for fun find the fine flute of the solo sun warm and fume its funnel flame fly forth from its waves the years gave the give and take in the wake where wisdom wait wanting to wind you up to whip you into sharp shape to fit your muscles to your bones you alone is you your own song to sing to the such footed fooling the finding that can ever be totally known within the bone what I see of you is what you put on to hide your nakedness as if it makes you ashamed to bare more skin to the rain that will run your body clean let me hear you sing solid and sure such rhythm as to sue the left foot to move to the back beat boom bobbing the beautiful bold beat of your speech you stoned song along with lust licking the lures that take away your breath back to a time where you remember only the good things not the daily muck and mind fucked folly to foggiest and full to finely recall all done by the seconds we watch our lives slip ever so quietly and quick with the grace of the Gods’ growth from the ground we group the gilled tenderness of the early growth that spring makes in the land that is last to

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fade spring is a bringing of life to motion spring is greedy girlish gushing it is guided by the sun it dawn live a spell then die till reborn warming the sunny side of the world with growth gilding it in green ground from the ground up when spring has sprung Easter is in toe telling of the rebirth of a God’s son through who you can be saved through who you can reach the Father feeding off the flowers flaunting their colors he wish to befriend but only through his Son can he be found not within the nameless bug that pollinate in useful service drawn by the sweet scent drawing all to feed freely from the full bouquet bleeding their color for bees born in to smell with a snail pace the odor adding to the scent of the world rank in rot beside the sweet the contradictions of the world is ever evident envisioned in the inner earnings everywhere spring is working its wonder from the garden to the grove the giving ground is made a birth bed and a grave of baby birds fallen from their nests with broken necks and bruised immature wings they no longer hear their mothers sing but we are more in tune to the tones that talk bird speak with its secret meaning known to the feathers of flight flown by a float full of fame the phoenix is a bird of spring reborn birth that bang the baby without a name both by bullets born seed and egg caught in red the darkly lit dome of the head that we are wed to all said we do the mind to cry me a river of habits held hidden behind the hour’s heart thriving and handling the huge hunger of the soul am I wrong for trying to hold on outside of an ounce of ocean being true beneath the orange of the setting sun at Savanna beach a crack Coke can in the sand the gray Atlantic wave in and wash out with the rhythm of the heart sea gulls circle and call the water is a burial barrage by boney bounty that bends the legs leaden land at the edge of seeing you there walking in rhythm speaking to the wanting wind rimes meant for catching up to my brothers bored by being common working the work day

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world while I pen wordiest things meant to catch you up and work their magic by the wonder of words willing to wow with breath and meaning stalled still till played out on the page for all the poets are set free to follow you in order to find out who they are with their parenthetically bent imagination functioning with the unwearyingly flow serialized and specialized in poems they are caught in the possession of divine madness breathed into them by your personal God congestive cognitive imperative collective in the continuance absolute nostalgia relationship that we share their divine directives as latter-day poets with unaccountable emotions fired by an inspiration such as being shepherds of the suggestion of social structure that puts the muse to sleep as not to hear their divine speech of the heroes hidden in the corners where the understanding of it is the excitement of it as is should man fear the pride of his ego air go the artists who are alienated from the society and from the self such poets are caught in the ambiguity of the body that enables his mind to comprehend the strength and conviction of a little dignity the simple minded are not self-tortured the poet mindedness of modern meaning more then the sum of its strength of irony and the baboon that lives in the St. Louis zoo is a long way from home and like the poet caged by a society that seeks to tear him down even as all the while they dance to his songs the poets are evoking the power of the world and it will hurt them digging in the soil can heal you the precious precocious poet pen his pile of poems meant to catch and keep the kept end of your betrayal let their poems manipulate you into the question ask of themselves with their sublimated desire and distraction of the flesh dreaming of Icarus’ fatal fall from flight take thy father’s advice though faint it be the heavenly cheeks of the insight of a young man is smiling down on me and I must encounter the intellectual terror of the poet’s talent the disgruntled emotions of insight

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momentarily local toward a personal ability necessary to win the poets over to the possible over taking of the citadel of commerce

Part II. Sun of the man of a new vision in the dark mystery of reality he quest for the truth of his self he hear himself saying I am one within myself in mist of my bones is the man mad about his mind movements my mind is the last of its kind in the bones of an awkward skull playing with the last day’s breath of the tongue rooted to a wind from the chamber of my lungs where the extraordinary fire of the galaxies wait the orders everything to strike their existence finally full of the suburb of stars when the sea horse of a thousand crazing willing to be fulfilled by the frills that trill the ammunition of a tropically soiled rain dislocated by the telephony of a crying sleep created by the wholehearted counter-current burst of a grenade that wait the pulling pin of the tenderness tortured by the adorable devolution found in the void of a scream jumping the extraordinary inspiration of the eating motion of fire blazing like an orchestra of intertwining tenderness plaited by the courage of age dislocated and dumb founded by the

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inspiration of an assault issued by the momentum of understanding the old odd object odorless as an Odin ode off-limit to the spontaneous behavior in the lonely poet with the ecclesiasticism of his eccentricities as a way of life in the live-long day you young heroes who waits the warning for doing battle when the organized cooperation of a conformity that blunt a sense of human purpose hands busy in the burden of its own boredom buy into the propaganda that indicate the terrifying values of a normality your outrageous situation pushed into a manifestation of the self as hero to do battle to save yourself from the baffled confusion of being alienated to save yourself from slavery masquerading as sanity to solely go the way of the lonely hero rootless and neurotic for the meaning of being human when institutions created for the masses have failed them when the collectivized society of a totalitarian which is the only logical consequence of a lost selfness that goes to where the socially insane gather to plot their revenge against the submission of passive mass man they seeks to set them free as if they are tied to the deck of a wreck heart-broke to the bone and alone on their own they shall be saved by the few brave bound to surround the waste placed to confound and finding in freedom a form for mapping out the emotional poetry that play in their lives beneath the sun isn’t all that we know the distend glow tells us that we have places to go and different times to be exposed by the nervous vocabulary and the tongued tied syntax of the sin tax place on the smoking lit end of a butt found in the ash tray of the homeless need to gather cans from the discarded waste that can be sold to pay for the soul’s need to play out it union with the body born to bind the flesh of all flesh fishing for funds foddering and fore finding the nonsense of a nipping at the noise of the new nose nodding it snazzy sneeze snipping snap snap snap and black rap that reap ready round the run-about that goes

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running round the rim of a tin of found fish caught in the far away sea of jazzy Japan jeering jolly the just jointed to the job of an island’s mentality where the jolly joker jest and conjure the knowable notice pin to the soul that knows now the blow that snows full of the laughter of rain of the glorified self selling itself to the highest bidder in the market place where shadows are dancing on the wall and all the curses crosses are wounded they weep for a peace long forgotten by force falling from the farm where is kept the keen eyed kindling killing away all after thoughts toward every envoy of envy written on the back of God’s hand what are they doing in heaven to day taking peace by force piece by piece they pear to pierced the membrane of a holy and hollow hunger hanging on the tip of the tongue that whisper the warmth of a would be summer brazing breeze blowing sideways into the crack of the sun this I remember as if it was ten thousands years ago when the summer gave in to winter falling over the last town that keep in toll a flock of black birds heading south over the back bone of the town’s memories of place in the dirt that dirty by mark of dingy dingoes and New Guinea Singing Dogs doing their business by the barking winds blowing backward thru the town’s alienated alleys of lit light poles standing as solitaire soldiers waiting the rush hour of hounds horses and hybrid hyenas humming their hunger for peace in the wide world of whores willing to sell you their sexual scented scenery secretly they will keep your sexual needs secluded till it is time to forget you for the next john who will jab his Johnny deep within the slit and risk the broken rubber drips of sons never to be born as sure as priests are prostitutes of the glorious Gods every ready to penetrate you heart with the cross to tell you that we live in a sinful and fallen world to tell you that Gods are not to blame for the suffering that man must endure to tell you that the kingdom will come hail Mary full of grace

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blesses is the fruit of your womb mother Mary pray for me I offer you the body and blood of my loin for the sake of your passion O Jesus what is justified in you name is the calling of cults as the niggers of the country Wicca is seen as wicket the counterculture intellectuals interfere in the interworshiping of some other man’s God O Jesus we are told that you live within us such a thing can be for the believers for they live in the trinity queen of the holy rosary is Islam to be on earth as it is in heaven is Scientology the flesh of you wound are Soka Gakkai Zen Buddhism and Hinduism followers doom to fall beneath the shadow of the cross in death let my spirit protect before the holy gate if such a thing be then let it walk the picket line for peace for religion is the weed of the people it placate it buys the time it novocaine the pains of life it is a Band-Aid that cover the wounds made by the insane motion of living our lives as a beast that knows itself not capable of not being able to be good without the threat of the God’s promise of a greater good after the body have warned itself out O mother nature pray for me O queen of the trees dust to dust of the dead flesh that we shall be let me feed the bounty of life for in life we have feast full fondly on caged chickens and free range cattle turn beef we have feast on the leg ham of pigs that pollute the water shed in the back woods of Mississippi Sun shining upon the absurdity of action where the blood from yesterday is all ready dried on the approach of tomorrow and my hands fly off into an empty cry crying its wisdom of praying mantes perpetual in their invention of ceremonials dance peddled in the streets of an alcoholic salvation saving the unforgettable lamps of mosques built on the ruins of an ecstatic egg blooming on the tree of a missed placement of the age of men’s courage testy when the earth nursing its gravity finally finding the force in which to drop an apple onto

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the head of victory hard won by the torn wave of air creating the monarchy scattered and snapping a beautiful assassin’s turned back momentum for the condensation found in the rigged sea that ebb and flow toward the vineyard of trumpets blowing the beautiful wind’s song heard in the ears of a blood thirsty scream settling in the dream of an unconfessed lizard that licks its tongue triumphantly before the sun’s instant vapor warming the eternal written words of fire sublime and compassionate toward the birth of a boy still attached by the umbilical cord and fore skin of a circumcised dawn where the last hero fall down to his human silent raising in the wake of a screaming forgiveness that break so easy on his oppressors’ industrialism that eat into the capitalist’s consciousness till they become one and the same of a mechanical revulsion and they can not know honest even if it bit them in the ass of their industrialized society where the technology-oriented of the abstract economic question is getting drunk successfully on their exploitation of nature for what the meat market can boldly bare while the protest of a rude awakening of the romanticism kept in the pockets of poets as protagonists are digging at the materialistic flaws of democracy where poets are criminal prophets rebellious messiahs that call you to follow them into the new attitude to break open the stereotypes that you are bred into am I a gay black poet or a black gay poet it depends on what face you know of me face to face my skin poet to poem sexual self let loose to juice up what is wet with sweat salty to taste the dew of your skin your hottest spots pining power piled as high as a pubis from which you dish out the commands that threaten to derail the plainsong sonic soaring strong with a stout wind strategists blowing form across the weary way work with me still I’m willowed down worn away by your willingness to please the God of my father’s father and farther back to the Gods of the fist of forest

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where forms of leaves follow the fading sun plants contend for life as do man contend for our place in the world we are the war goers after some one’s God because man likes to collect likes to corner his pets science is the leash around the Gods necks when we take them out for a walk through the mid-night streets full of secrete senses fit for the dark hour where man loose himself in a cat fight with the cotton cable crisp crossing the congenial cone pointing our sleep from within we peep the waiting of the world when our walk is done we poets weep for the work of the house-broken Gods not allowed to feel at home prayed to only on Sunday and kept lock away till company comes and you take them out and comb their hair dress them fare posed at the dinner table with care your holy on display for the day the quandary poet with inapprehension coming from his muse hypnosis he slip back into the episodes of thoughts where he is manipulated by the schizophrenia voices and he can not recognize the diagnosis of his illness he is only abnormal in the biochemistry processing of the languet language of the Lord his poems are interpretational singing of the auditory hallucinations of the Gods schizophrenic angels who are drawn to poets speaks in poetry from the pit of their curiosity about man as sure as the motivation of mathematics is too the speech of the Gods and poetry is divine revelation the scientific revolution is afoot in the land and it linger long across Newton and Locke looking deep deeply down into the enlightenment that nature is God with poets as her priests and if you only knew how much they love you you would weep to fulfill their wants running wild among the erosion of religious dying and decaying unobjectivity and full of Vatican rituals that can not maintain can not be sustain without the poets help for they purge the past and quicken the future they can free you from the boredom of your disbelief they can fill you up with the breath of the God that looks after you that do

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your bidding in the market place of the world they will not leave you to fin for yourself to fall by the spirituous wayside where the winners of the race are dying off because they prayed to a dead God run the race with your grace beside you there will be times when you will need the poet’s love to comfort you and just a poem from him will make your radical vagaries understood by the body that is you by the bones by the built of your sexual superstitional memories that can help you find the ritualized bump that informs your God sitting on the pseudo religion stump of science at the mercies of the individual innocence of our generations moving through life as a wave breaking on the shores of our disconnects discontents making the collective culture history of our memories that are nothing more then our personal myth of being a consensus in the certainty that we live our lives fundamental as one fallen from heaven when it is where into we find ourselves moralizing in our narrative history of the reminiscence of the fundamental fall a religious public myth held by the many this is my personal narrativization unraveled jealously by my bound with a poetic soul of the self and the analog I I am as I will myself to be within reasons of the limits of breath and mind I am to heavy to fly I am one who can cry I spy the outside world as a thing that I can reason why I am move by the muscle of music I am hip hung and hungry for the holy bite into my flesh and you will find me strong as a song sung on the tongue my wrongs I keep locked away safe from the exportations of the young the sky wept when I was born I am the creator of cum the father of sons and poems in doing my duty who am I I am the self frustration of urban life I am the irrational thrust that seeks to remake society in my image I am the gratuitous acts of crime carried out day in and day out for no other reason then I have the time I am the long lost son of rebellion I am the conscious control of a gun crisp I crack

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the bullet with your name on it I am the committed responsibility of a sensory impression of the effort toward a fake emotion that roll to fondle the dishonest abstractions of devotion I am the new attitudes of misunderstanding the guilty trial of indifference I seeks to understand man’s base nature to free him from the drudgery of the everyday modern man is made a prisoner of the things that he has earned by the hardy work of his hands has he learned that to be a man of contentment in today’s world is to hide yourself among the masses as one of many continent with what the rules of society that seeks to control the wayward soul does dictates I am the rage develop against the frustration of society I will face the judgment of guilt and sin by the prosecutor of criminal acts committed against me by the stereotype of the priest who call me the sinner for going against the certainties of rules with their rigid preconceptions of freedom the dignity of my destiny grows with the assumption of responsibility for my fellow man I am the blasphemous of the worthy Christ I am the stranger in a world of estrangement detached from the very conventional culture that will enslave in the tomb of normality I will not be locked away I will not be contained in the house of the insane though I am mad with mind muddle and this is a raging of a mind that fight itself still I till the soiled soil suited for a new growth grounded in the knowing that the soul is wounded but not weak in its wanting where is Rimbaud with his madness where is Christopher Smart with his madness where is Blake and Burns and Byron Hart Crane G M Hopkins and Lindsay all mad men all making their way mindfully milling around the words of their insane songs we belong though they are gone the way of the dead flesh madness live in the working of their hands and my madness is kept at bay by the hands of popping pills Citalopram

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Hydrobromide and Olanzapine 40mg empower me here there in is no shame such things are only for the sane Sun’s heart the only child in this system where the paganism of Palermo stone break on the foot steps of Khafre sitting in words by the way of the grand Caucasian consensus squandered by the blowtorch of a hissing funnel multicolored stamped of Gods exhausted by the solidity of a dazzling tender water where desires of possibility supporting the absolute climate of a sharpened wind’s precision and the Gods have forsaken the birds of de facto broken down region of the last religion describing irreconcilable angry and have made man the outcast with his prostrations of the sacrificial prayers in the fashion of a delivered message’s dominant dialogue disappearing day by day into the human mentality of a widespread auditory hallucination telling us to be kind to each other under the profound auditory rules of the Old Testament under the old Babylonian objective wisdom addressing the formalistic solidity sumptuous and frenzied lightning foaming a call brushed by the skin of the forever water that washes away the fragile face of the behavioristic needs with their recognition of a godly pounding Odysseus heart marvelous and forever supporting the wild impulses of an enraged throat where words bloom beyond the strong logic madness of a giant radiant absolute wish to belong under the supporting roof of the tomb that break the coccoloba brain growing beside the sensual sensitive sea of the mentioned mentality burst in the belly of a radiant laughter of yellow which ruthlessly dominate the grid of a darken withdrawal from all that you guess will be the death of you fall into form from the formal answer characteristic of the lost question playing pranks and looting the mores rogues of the subsidized machinery of the popular phlogistic phobic police pounding the beat of a burning

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candle cradled in the arms of the creditor that holds the notes of your soul in cold blood shall he douse your heated passions with the money paid to the informer poets that have betrayed in a hell of hypocrisy the poets as fallen archangels of the individual looming egotistical longing for fighting the dull commercial conformity daily brought and sold to the common weakness that it engender in the limitation of the poor who cry out for quarrelsome quantity over qualified quality while the poet cry out in disgust for a serious self-reflection of themselves as victims as spectators under the social codes of being a good citizen the poorest of the poor are to busy being poor to be excided by the execrable excesses of the self-righteous riches of the rich of the bulging bourgeois’ belly birthing leaning leaders of society’s official view of the gratification of itself while the poet venturing far from the conventional to find himself find that he is alone in the symbolizing myth of the worldly real world woven wiry around the wounds of the naked cities verging on the insanity of glass and steel of the immortal boredom of mountains of bricks while in the nocturnal shadows in the green zone of the forest of the wilderness mysteriously divine in its strikingly similarities of the madman’s attempt to murder the daylight of the granite eye of a stature to the flesh of the war dead swollen in the halflight irrepressible tornado torn and tattered by the bare foot voice of a mirror relaxing its reflections of anger sleeping in the armored flower assuming the position of freedom under the embrace of the sun’s storeroom of alchemy found in the confinement of a screaming rain with its generosity of rusting the machines of rotten flesh with their sterile spectacle attitudes of regrets that rest in the vast pathetically ghost of the host’s mirage behold the hideousness of the mythical mysterious monsters of the rival to the state that take their castration in strive beside the universal dream of man’s myth his psychic needs

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solitary and sedentary against the calamities of the primordial unconsciousness of the chaos of the libido poet that fight the battle for us all his tormented psyche fighting the monistic monolithic monster of the state his struggle toward the animalism harmony relieving itself in the mouth of man’s pettiness beneath the statuesque beauty of the sky where the battle to discover a meaningful identity of the lonely voyagers who find society shallow and repellent is in love with the terrible unbearable parable mother of the dark self and the terrible father of tyrannical authority suppressing rebellion against the status quo of the state of an order world in need of its imposing will of unvoiced scandals it require the people to prostrate themselves sprawled-flat beneath the bitter brightness of the boredom of our daily lives in the hesitant flow of a recalcitrant old color ancient in it trafficking ancient as a shipwreck in an age of flight across the difficult metamorphosis of rain clouds quivering in a corner of the inlay bluish blush bluing and busting by the bipedal communication of the frighten fragile gifts of the clarity of the two eyed sky look down upon me look among me lean on me I am your cane as I am to blame for the words I weave look lock jawed at my local musing about the God of this and that and the who that do the what to you that would woo your woes and what is cool to cold to lose the blues that besets you here is the nearly new news to move mounds of meanings to here is the morning moving its motion at the mentioning of the moon fading from view do not lose yourself in yourself pay dues to the outsider the you we see and the inner working of your flesh that fed for foul of famish fun of friends firm fluid and free in its flow for you to win when the mind’s eyes film everything its sees and the mind’s ears records down to the last word in the world and that word is God how odd how old and odorous the opossum hunting in the night the white tail rabbet feeding

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on the grass has dug a den in the yard spring is hard this year hard on the ears it bite by chill and tender growth kill by the frost that steals across the garden Elliot got it right about the April of the year full of remembered fears of the 18th and 19th day of the dead spring lurch and lunch lush toward love but death leak into the fold leering about the hind end of cold from its northern blow below 32° April snow is wet with wants of the weak warmth the red bricks breathe back into the air where is the April of my youth a care free meandering of group growth the tulips purple bloom bees are back and soon to be bugs bountiful the black birds return to St. Louis the blue jays coloring the sky we spring babies bloom in age with each April new cruel the poet cry but I spy a gentle nature by her sweet name known April a lady a lass a young man dressed in his best caught in the urgency of spring the show of green seen again in the land for poets there is no way out of his soul he can not set it aside and still stay friends with the Gods precious is the time he spend to himself time when the Gods rest their innocence and get down to their insistence babble about the state of man under the moral light of science caught in the intellectual battlefield of the landscape where politics war against preaching as if liken like poetry warring against songs sung sullenly and signally to catch you up in the roundabout rhythmic beat of bodies bouncing off each others in the night club of the darkness dented by a full moon spring has sprung its sparing with the weather of winter wanting to hang on yes spring skeet and skit across the Arizona landscape smelling of old Spanish skin and the accent of Indians in the prime of their lives living out their days in an ancient desert full of life’s last request a natural expression is April when it take possession of the land April is all encompassing and profound in its achievement of affirming new growth from the old wintering in the earth Aperire April Abril Abreel and

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Apryll open open all buds unfolding unfolding folding open its beautiful buds bold in their bounty be my Spring lady my scented young men’s body beaming his fancy you are the lady of love whose hem line is flapping in a warm breeze you are my Spring youth of a young man feeling his oaks in the strength of his body ready to give his sex in the season of birds ready to birth their young as old as you are you are forever young in the land yearly rebirthing yourself we greedily awake your coming on the heel of a March wind wandering through the tail end of Winter wanting to hang on Winter grudgingly move on all the April babies sing your songs Casanova the of love Muddy Water and Billy Holiday the of song and Shakespeare the song of poesy long through the years come my Spring babies ever being born we celebrate your coming with this song

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Sun flowing in a gilded abode I am not alone filled with futurist suns seen but unknown in the spyglass where the cold universal winds blowing their ligature light toward an eager eye focused on their shingon shining shipping slip of a sun to behold the gentle silver temple of fighting rocks that are dropped into the wanting water of a gigantic bird-like struggle biting the blazon blue taught to the bloody shoulders of trees forcing the sea to give up its recently dead drowned in the watery sanctuaries where the pigeon guillemot perform the funeral rite as an offering to the Gods of the sea Oceanus and Ophion wrestling Kronos excluded by the re-entering of the waves into a silver salve of the night savage and thorny and as exuberant as a forgotten memory as the rare laughter of an immense speaking in tongues of a looped off courage of the victorious silent feeding off the momentous vehement witnessing the concerting of it

when the suffice surface of a staved day is the dealer of the manger encrusted with bamboo and luggage both confused by the trailing traveling of the future to a place where appear the null scale of the weight of the world the last time that I saw the swear on the tongue of an island making love to the warm water the rocks of the river bank its brother this everybody knows in their dreams that blows the cold generative processes of weather with its non-subjective manner toward the man made temple where Gods of correction spoil us with to much lazy love and we wonder if what we are saying in their name is the real income that will seal our souls in the advancement of heaven ok so we are wrong on this account and its time that we find the lost blue carrying the scrambled words of a long forgotten prayer with its inconsistencies caught like silent bent butts of spent cigarettes littering the streets of an early sundry Sunday dawn watching over us for much of the week the churches sleep waiting for you waiting to hear the halleluiah of the soldiers of stained glass that have witnessed the importance of a magical jealousy of a miracle what did you hear in the forest of sainthood of the dark forest where the poets feed off the dim light of growth thick and tight in its feeding of the full belly born in a year of starvation where the iniquity of fire in the bones is unsure of its own burning where the mistrustful lies spoken to Jeremiah blows away the cover that contain them what did you hear when you drew near the millennium cross that require you to suspend the recognition of rational truth and go with your hands full of faith can you now hear the passive mass man that have forgotten how to define himself under the dilemma of normality in a society of the conditional confusion of being an individual the earnest essence of the hero’s violence is the ultimate saturation situation of the internal intensity of his allogeneic alluvial alienation in a state of crisis where his poems are a manifestation of his desire to

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belong blindly and brutally he burns the assertion of his human dignity burns bound round the waste of a place where his soul of the gospel of gloom in the tomb of his cloistered convictions that the messiness of the rigors of being human lay hissing in the heart where his piety with it constancy of faith in being one against the rarest stone state that swayingly swear to the saints collapsing their worn wire wings into the cupped hands of the petition position of a begging prayer when the flesh is vivid as a chant on the lips of the righteous with their hands cupped in prayers where the trapped air burns with the words that take to the wings of memories the world shall gather its seasons into one and function as an assassin of flowers head heavy as Horus with his wisdom of the obelisk pointing to the high heaven handwritten by the beautiful tenderness tending to the tonal laughter of the last angel with its summoned purity of an inheritance honored and horned as a hired hand hooking up doing the biding of the benign blind Gods knotting together the throbbing of drums of man’s destiny from the divine silent executing the vain question of their increased excitement for the voices heard by Saul against the love held by David and Jonathan their wild nabiim for He-who-is who is he is he who he say he is the father of the angels the fallen feather once flung far a field to the feeling feeding off the fending out of against the unworkableness historical chaos’ value of deceit presenting it evidence as obdurately as the calculated civilized society of the modern world where unknown laugher gush forward from victorious vipers born thunderstruck beneath the thumb of social pressures to be one with the ruling rules of the political structure of a two party system that champions the woes of the middle class and not a mouthful of woeful words for the practicing poor straight-fully struggling and stripped of the density of their dignity in the riches country of the working western

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world that will pay billions to feed wars wage against the oil rich muslins an ancient war of religion for the souls of men but if it was as simple as all that the Gods do not pat us on the head and say good boy to us their pets their domestic animal they watch from the high heaven and surely they laugh they hoot and holler while the angels hang their heavy heads hard by the foolishness that we can not escape as human is as human does under the sun striped of it Godhead this battle is never won you can not beat a man to his death with the bible and then call him saved so we use booms boasting bombs busting in air scaring the foreign cities where youth is sacrificed for some greater good in the minds of men a tragic death that we can not be taken back as once you know yourself you can not but forget the who you was when the phenomenon of you in the world first begin when the first concept of the self was made known to yourself and you said I am liken to this longing I am full of the anxiety of the flesh I am the me that nobody knows no matter where I go I am signally alone in my skin of stimuli I am my only emergency a walking world of cells working in united unison the mystery of yourself fixed in the resplendent respective body with all of its truthful trivialities and grandee grandeur woven into the telling total representation of the you you keep secret from admirers you who is subjected to the trivial tribal trials of the flesh and must handily handle them with confinable courage and a kind of wishful wisdom common to the Godly good man who believe in the numbing nobility of the Gods that knows that each man carry within his genes the primitive pattern of his forefather thus is the dead reborn in every man in each integrated individuality of the self that is true to the self that must come to challenge the anti-human man made world where the poet’s strength of will is pitted against the state of commercial commerce to sell even the flesh for a prideful price when

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the economic enterprise of the noise making machines enslave us with their delusions of grandeur we lose our instincts and passions and idiosyncrasies we become one of the mass many who must raise to do the duty of meat for hire and we as men lose out our capacity for self determination and there-by our power to create in such a time it is left to the poet to penetrate the inner frustrations of the man who have given over his soul to the machines it is the poet ever a hero who must fight the notion that the soul of man is a cash value commodity to be sold in the market place of the square and church where we do as we are told for the good of the society that knows it can control and mold us into the cold citizens who above all else must follow the rotting rules of the stale state and stay well within the cozy warmth our boring boxes where we are manually manipulated race against race man against woman gay against straight rich against poor young against old smart against the common man that seem not to know that he is under the control that he is losing his unique identity by doing what everyone does not what he ought to do for the true salvation and fulfillment of his soul it is left to the artist to show us the way of the spirit fulfillment in a life well lived and not be led as an ambulatory machine made if flesh and bones of the state it is left to the sensitivity of the artist to combat the petty tyrants that men can be in their drudgery and endless bureaucratic immoralities the artist must be ever skeptical ever living in the moment of the now while he create as if that is all there is he must seek space must break through the stone walls of imposed laws that seeks to hem him in that confines him as a mad man speaking to madmen

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Sun with its heated hands reaching far into the daphnia darkness where the son of Hermes is singing his songs of the dry land to the inhalators of the brick laden sky bricked over cities where Icarus fly above endlessly circling within the nosey noise of the city hear O hear the middle warning of the devil tree blooming its deep deceit to eat in your mother’s arms of the forbidden fruit sweet leap into the grave yard of mosquitoes on the skin of the arm where the nameless tongue of the dirt can not be washed away by the never-the-less rain that linger recklessly on the included insult sobbing conversationally after all these years of being weary of the interesting difficulty of being human in the modern world where the saxophone of you breath is blowing an alien wind full of your glories when you are rushing on your run toward the mystical secrets of hot blood burning in the veins of the wide-eyed controversy of wrenching psyche from the dualism achieved by the bitter blood that rush feverishly pass the overheated notion that there is but one God feeding the tingle beneath the skin of the shrub-lands where the consciousness of the embodiment of the material body reinforcing its very existence with the cults that caught the individuality of cities where an invasion from the north wind washes over the pseudo-structure of the soul of men born out of the song of the despair of poetry inalienable and interchangeable by the meaningful metaphor’s depth of momentous motion all benevolence and rarely gnarled by the knowable delirious fidelity strung on the secondary secret illuminate innocence of the science of a sick self in the grip of specialization the absolute absence of Gods man absurdity is front and counter center in his strangle struggle to achieve some meaning of the self no no longer do we think that the Gods shall save us from ourselves in the strictness of a question where God is the answer we treat nature as our mother in the strictness of a question

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where science is the answer we treat nature as our decoration with its tragic action struggling to achieve the customary delusion of lesser men who are caught in the daily pleasures that keep them occupied keep them sedated calculating the enormous commandment of the state that smite the stranger of an individual divinity perishing by the less impetuous principle of the complexities of consciousness caught in the seducing light of the TV caught by the sexual pleasure of a full belly mixed and fixed for the free fiery piety found in the face of a grace that stray into the majesty longing perpetuating itself into the new millennium of a possibility found amount the selection of the civilized centuries enormously drunk on the enology of a grape grouped with the sterility and frustration of the modern man groping in the darkness of a crimson criminal night Sun of a violent oppression for its own combustion burning away the last coffee color odor satiric satyr stricken by a swollen vain where blood flows it way to the wind’s saxophone heard by saxicolous growth in the death of the swamp’s odor playing a symphony’s movement to the distance motion of a time worn out tale that smell of the sun burning itself brightly alive when you come around the dead history that remain full of the stale voices that live in the bible of our most slow belief out of season where the unbeknown wisdom clinging slippery to the stubbornly vernacular of a god damn he done-done me wrong gather your newspapers where the news falls like stones made of words swollen in the bellies of corpses tangled in the history of memories knotted around the tomb stones that acts as a resting place for weary birds coalescing into a nuclear sentimental key where China sleep the long dragon’s tail of chop sticks peddle as lies spoken around the red season huddled

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beside the frightened fall of history that pierce the last ancient wisdom known to be breathing itself full of the benevolence mythopoetic strength that persist in its athletic pride where the landscape of science is dissecting the possibility that Gods exist in the knowledge of a cell of a butterfly to discern their particular personalities as pure as the fog that intersect the green words of the perched tough utmost dreams of a morning losing its sounding distant of a far away lie consecrated by the effervescence incorruptible mirage of the purple dawn walking the sky of an introspected surprise in the eye of a siren’s howling its way to the emergency of the combatant murder by the innocence of a guilty nature guilty of eating the last glass of a fifty stories building swaying in the gripping wind of the great smoldering clouds disappointed when facing their refection hung in the window where the Jesus juice of a commander’s goodness of voices spoken in the ear of the dead wood of furniture opulent and non-miraculous in its puncture grains running toward the center of the earth when trees die they go to useful wood or rot along in the forest of tomorrow the song of their falling need not be heard by the human ear unless you be one who think that human are the center of the universe and that all existence depend on the store dick with his thin top lip and pointed nose and tiny dick following me around the store where the religion of commerce keeps its stronghold tight by the pity that show us how we are doing it wrong turn me on and I will return the favor and we can do it on our own when the water of sex whistle the sweat of a butch speaking easy in the darkness of a night club embracing the dance of habitat harden by the head felt mating dance of the whooping cranes in the dark bar where alcohol is spilled on the dance floor drunk on sweat of the dancers touching each other the dance is a mating act meant to prepare the flesh for sex it is where I let loose the rhythm

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of my muse in the body moves of grinning against the juice of the juke box that is drinking alone in the corner where the light can not reach to enrich the music that seeks into an ice cube in the dance do not cub me but cup me in the sweat of your are couple me to your throng I will do no wrong before I am gone to the sins edged endure in on Saturday night and forgiven on Sunday morning by the priest that preach perched in the pulpit of his piety preach about the pitfalls pitted alone the holy way where women can not be public preacher in the private church of the eight sided pointed cross point one have no other God before me point two I am that I am point three do unto other as you will have them to do unto you point four turn the other cheek point five an eye for an eye point six blesses is he that hear the word of the prophecy point seven behold ye all the preaching of the kingdom of God point eight In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth I am a child of the cross crisp and sharp I cross the counter culture of cruising I cringe and cry carefully I crave the crablike cradle in the sea of crawdads keen to keep the sucking of heads with a kind keel kiss me as a kept keeper that whisper a wild warring of wishes wanting to be wise and womanly warm in the womb where I wail wagging the wastage west of the waste of being human I am a whore whose whole hog of a witch of angels is a weed worth blooming bold by the back light lit in the buzz bomb of buzz words being brought and sold by bowlegged buzzards eating from a buckle of bovines milked and mother in a motley morning minding the millwork that make money move the world I am that I am the notice pined to my skin the slim slake stacked and stalled still the will to kill the when to trill and talk the talk a tone death stone tomb where hallucinogenic function of ancient mentality is evidence that the plausible and gradual control of the sense that noting is wrong beneath the usual phenomenon

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of the skin where the sun shed its cloths as a holy act and the air is rich in warmth like St. Louis in junk June’s juice of harvested heat homed and hampered about the hungry hero that hangs his hat on a nail in your door come to greet him and let him guild your glory quick and guide the air in the wind turning over on itself should I wish that I was as unseen as the air but everywhere there with a feel of my own every thing my home here is the good life and I can’t get enough of its edge cutting the fine cord that binds me to the knees of the wind with horny hands it fills me up with glued prayers it bless me by the skin I wear the wind tell me that I am alive and not alone in my holding on to the breath that bathe me when I first met the wind I didn’t thank that we would be friends it was high in motion and I hung it like a kite on the high branch of a tree we spoke of peace with its eyes on the prize and the poet did seek us out to consult which way the winds does blow in the measure of his poems he was to meter to know that he had rocked the red riding the rails of his most high art with a sudden flash of insight the ribbon of his poem came to him connected to the conducting thread at the moment that it is read into someone else head its is by the working of the muse that the structure of his consciousness is moved to action automatic and his afterthought retrieve the necessary nervous system’s performance of motor skill with the pen

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Sunlight jazz singing its songs full of birds’ breath singing for those who understand and the dark-eyed junco the black-legged kittiwake the Caspian Tern’s flight alone the long limb of the murderess muddy Mississippi flowing pass a sight sleepy St. Louis in the dreams of a mourning warbler in the understory where the polyrhythm of an improvisation play call and response

with the syncopation of the wind’s blowholes driven by the cross fire of eyelids in the sleepy season that shine on the lips of an ant full of surprise in its heart when the horizon sit down and contemplate the end of the day now spent on the edge of an aiming sun kept inside the tight sky of a hero’s pocket like water in a basin when the head is still full of the fading dream of a blow for a blow time signature fighting the countermelodies rooted in the possibility that the gathered season will fall in love with you at the very moment that the cat cachets the rat looking for a foothold in the surprise summer of its greatest need where weather embrace the docility tongue of the demands trembling in the foot steps left behind by the cobblestones of winter frozen in the rest of water that can’t run to the torrent sea now embracing the possibility of being fasten to the useless song of evening in the mind you can see the analog of eternity entirely possible by the actual behavior of a thinking crossroad of a circus of difficulty with its little abode that abort the thoughts of continually inventing the space of locating your consciousness in the next room where poets roam with their ramous material perplexing to clarifying the mistake of the necessity of the head of music looking down euphorically at the poets who rend it from words who close their eyes in the sunlight and listen to the working world about them the imagistic ones slow spacious and majestic to judge the long corridor of the virginal international misunderstanding by the activated ones who wonder where forth are born the profound sexless question of the voice that obey the face of all evidence found in the schizophrenic physicians of the authority of sound that do not ask questions about the sunny afternoon sundry with a control of obedience bound around the back end of a dawdling identity found in the language of the obedire understood by the speaker of the conversation of distance understood by the understudied who

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constantly reproof the rate the price to be paid for the sanity found in the world of words where common wisdom is wrung from the brain of the poets with their secret longing that all is well by man in the point of space from which the voices of poetry emanates heard by the muffed ear drowned by the screaming of the helpless hearer that pay obedient to the profound problem of a neurological command that tells us to do the wrong of a separated action even the criminal must obey the rules of love for someone whom they heap their love upon even the criminal can be a hero to the masses of meaningful speech as extreme hazardous knotting against the psychological boundary of normal language with its aphasic arrest of mental function as arrogant guardian guile and gummy gulping the guillotine of a guerrilla theater played out in the streets that runs riot with crime a twisted kind of divine forced upon the helpless and the worried weary weak wanting no more then the pacificator placated package of the peace of old age the old ones are not safe in this society where actual youth is placed upon a pedantic pedestal where youth is for sale by the pound round the age of a young hour bearing witness to the extreme flower frail only in its beauty deceptive of its strength under the old silent of the sun the juice of it is forever young it runs astonishingly in the roots that grip the mute ground taking their stand beside the overflowing dumpster of man’s throw away waste waste that nature does not make flower and weed please the poet who can see that all growth upon the earth is a divine thing the thickness of their beauty is strong against man made things things to keep us young things to rely upon things for sale just to the young things from whenst things come things as old as language is young with their puns strung among their mother tongue the man who invented the wheel made the first thing and it has been uphill since then the baby born thingless will not remain so for long

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the toy that hangs over its cradle sings a baby song even this is a thing made long located in the arbitrary space of the head when read poems are an abode of thought a volition of internal sensation an exosomatic experiences many things can be done without us being conscious of the possible paradoxical discussion like dancing around in the rain you pretend that the rain is your friend that it washes away your sins even though your skin will not let it in the rain moving synchronically into the diachronically motion of space it dost not wait for you to began the dance of your life but the rhythm of its fall calls you to let loose in a riot of heat releasing movement meant to free you for the moment of its music reading poetry is a dance of the mind within you find the stress meter of time the down beat of a rime poetry is divine knowledge rhythmically woven to endow the spirit it takes you away from the common speak of the day it mix and mingle the mental the emotional the poet can not but tell all the secrets of your personal God that it may free you from the frontal lobe their souls are old and a bit odd to the ruling class that will have the masses thoughtlessly mining the muck of their daily minds steep in trying to get by with no art to enlighten their lives but the poet have always been rebels they have always come into the darkness of your daily lives to offer the light to guild you by they are at odd with the rules set by the controllers they go the less travel road and bring you good tiding from the wise who rub their wisdom into their skin and with it we win we who have forgotten how to pretend that the modern Gods still speak through him he is the divine seer of possession in tune with the primitive art of poetry he have labor long in silent to recollect the recollection of the muses his mistresses who he beg for guidance when the poetic ecstasy has forgotten to frenzied him up with fury in a wild trance that makes the words dance for Nymphs and mythical shepherds and sanitation workers

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cleaning up the mess of a wasteful creature that leave behind a trail of plastic all the trees will go to paper all the oil to cars the air to smog we have gotten ourselves tied up in the waste of our hands science is both foe and friend saint and feign poetry is of the heart science of the head both is a useful part imparting their wisdom art to have us live the rightful life that we were given for the short spell of time upon the earth they teach us to do as a giving nature will have us to too be willing to praise and preach define and rime to help and heal all as divine so be you not weak of mind and leave your heart not behind when you seek their guidance as regard the absent of the Gods the absent that rob us of the wondrous nature working the world without regrets the Gods are not dead regardless of what the phosphor said but some only live behind the church yard doors they are dusted off for Sunday morning worship some only in books unread it is the poets that give them all free reign while some priests of Gods forestall that there is but one when each one man his own to help him bear the trials and tribulations of the flesh I am a man of many Gods and none is held in more esteem then the rest the poet can not afford such a dress to cloth himself in the garb as to favor one God is to deny the density of the social local mind grown up in the time regional define by precept of what is around them it is not true that one man’s God is another man’s demon but it is true that the Gods do as nature dictates and if the need arise man will be left by the wayside in favor for a heathery haven but the Gods do not give up as easily against our felled belief they will not beg for your worship but weep that you have forgotten them we are as Judea to the Christ when we betray with a kiss what we are meant to do for God decree that someone had to as the Christ had to die to rise again Judea is my confidant among dead men he is the chosen one for such a tack the best man around for the job he bare the scars in the

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service of the Lord the rope burn around his neck is a brand he can not hide it seem such a cruel joke that one must betray what he love most who among us have such a conviction as to turn in for a bounty the head of his savior it is only with the confidant of the Gods that we can bare the cross of our own death

Sun of the sing-a-long sinfonietta sounding its ossifrage weeping heard by floundering stigma and ovary of the awaited birth of seed to feed the newly weaned try my grief on for size its roots are deep in the warmth of all the useless fields where the secrets of fingers die on the alter where poems are burning away their meaning in the holy invasion of the wisdom of the wilderness that is closer to the unearthed silent of the Gods caught by the evidence of the great beyond where the Gods take their rest before the theories of man’s little minds that think what it want to think in its drug induced passion of possession like our love for the feelings of cognitive imperative rationalism walking like Christ toward the cross waiting for a trusting shoulder to rest upon gather all the seasons of your needs together and stack them in a row of embracing suggesting longings approaching the extremely ordinary life of the junk of the every day magical charm of sacred water with its responses method of dealing with the recently dead gone the way of skepticism where the exaggerated eyes of idols reflects brilliant desires of the zigzagging unembodied dead common approach of the sanctuaries that dream without a care that you are offered the love of sex on a leaf to eat with the sweat of a dream slowly flowing down the bridge of your nose to preserve the rituals of calling on the Gods to raise the triumphant grace of their amnesty found in the place conjured by the

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wishfulness of saying good-by to the door that leads the long way around toward the ordinary last holy haunted firmament of the pride of the sea forever folding itself on to itself in its unparalleled strength of water where now is the fisher of men and what is the bait on his hook heaven and hell is the same place of the earth we have made them our home and they will not forget us when we are gone the way of the dead we impetrate the world of the dead in our bed where we are locked in our heads with all of our words meaningless by what is said when I dream I am in the heaven of my own making my mind becomes a God but it is a feeing thing that quickly fade when I wake it steal away from me as if I was not meant to see but having seem I am changed as dreams rewire the brain with self knowledge and there is much to know of the self that we keep from ourselves in our waken hours where the homiletic speech of poetry woo us with words that seek to conquer the heart to short circuit our guard we put before the world and ourselves in that the private moment in which poetry is created in the possession that take charge of the soul something is transpose into the poem only to be release in the reading of it it wait you to bring yourself to each work of art and the union is made in the brain and heart so sell not the poet short he is doing his artful part mostly without reward other then your joy that gives him a jolt to know that he have reached the inner soul and to leave you with a new consciousness thereby fulfilling his creed to inform and please poets are the last prophets of possession they have train themselves but run the risk of falling into madness when the Gods take control of their soul’s will to know the secrets of the Gods if prophecy be a madness the mad men they be in the function of creating poetry from the common energy Sun shining over the universal motion of a tear over the aquatic feudal superiority of living within your means

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where you keep the pain of putting the cigarette out in my eye when my head is burning its time told truth fit for the telling the boiling grace of a hardened fist haunting the obedient broken artillery fit for setting the world afire when we find ourselves missing the primitive violence of the by-gone days that cut the head off of a forgotten holy word hiding in the hindquarter of a whole second passing into the obese hour that will never come again to the divine presence of intermediaries of the far off Gods of bastard thoughts born out of the union of the personal demon of the analog I and the flashy muscles of the brain the divine demons that roam about our heads use our muscles to do their biding and leave us to take the blame it is all the same as the angels do the two fight within us we are the battle ground in which wars for our souls are made we fight our self to do right by the civilized codes handed down through the dead ages we need to be taught how to be civilized human from the cradle to the grave when the Gods of host are preparing to depart from ours lives some of us shall go gently into the darkness of honor in full common command of the simple death that wait us all some of us will go mad trying to defend ourselves against the complacency of the daily drudgery of being common under the heavy hand of the rulers of a comical commercial society that seeks to keep us in our place seek to woo us with selling words meant to separate us from our hard earned cash the new God in the world the supporter of greed have muster their armies for a fight to win our hearts chief among their kind is the advertisers who will sell their mother for a profit but what use is it to place blame less it can afford a change less it can effect the working of the mind for we alone among the breathing set have made money to use as a go between between us our free will is held in check hinged in between the spiritualism and the commercialism of the modern world some Gods have been brought and sold in

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the market place of the mass church every Sunday morning on my TV I hear the evangelists preachers preach for a fee as if your soul can not be saved without a donation to the cause the old are much affected by this plea for they are closer in age to the heaven that will come when they shed their flesh for a white robe to put on Lord when I am dead Lord when I am gone somebody is going to weep someone is going to moan but just give me that white robe to put on my granddad confined to his bed use to sing all day long till his breath smelled of the song then one quite night his heaven came he left behind his tools and his wallet my great grand aunt Beautie who lived to be a hundred three recently went the way of her God to meet in her life time she saw the change of many things but she never lost her faith even as she questioned why she should live so long as to see her contemporaries die along the wayside and now she is gone into the emptiness of silent she is gone to her high home of heaven she have join the ranks of the ancestry and now I have someone new in which to pray to rest in everlasting peace your God to meet look you after me that I be true to poetry help me to stand on my feet of rime and its measure of time I am a free will sort of the thought-breath of the long line of the Yahweh and the muses and all huaca I speak in the name of the most high powerful Gods of old I am in the fold of the faithful gathered around the common dead my pen is an idol that speak of the fertility of the embodiment of poetry of the paraphiers of dancingness I am the poet of what we are and yet to be I am all poet and part priest the philosopher of the written words I take my invention and what is heard in the street of the holy word I listen and learn lend for free my poems I am not alone in the mythical magic of my song we poets are profound for you when you hope to find the working of the poetic mind at our disposal is the techniques of all the ages we will not be lead by the human demons into

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the demonic understanding of doom glory we hope only to help you to find some meaningful identity of your self in the world along your lonely voyage in the skin to teach you that all men are kin and the love of neighbors is the love of the self in kind some time we set aside our rimes a most useful tool to catch you by the breath we woo to win you from your sins we who do the battles of the hero our struggles for your psychic maturity in an ordered world that have grown rigid and out of touch with the individuals hear you own song playing as you walk alone lock to the rhythm of your steps down the streets of can music crafted for the masses to move you by the poets take time to find out just what it means to be alive in this motion of time the ecstasy of the thing the link between God and man we are seized by the possession and our unconscious thrust to quench you to drench you to take on your solitude and suffering that you may find wisdom there we have returned from the darken wilderness to tell you of our adventures and voyages to tell you of the transcendences that awake you beyond the common anxiety of the every day tell you of the unifying experience of poetry we seek to solidifies the common bound between men and Gods by faith of purpose in our rimes in you we seeks to find the inner nature of ourselves to know the brutal element that would wound our flesh for all his strength man is a fragile creature of flesh and bones he fall to insanity to go it alone be he Gilgamesh Cuchulain or Achilles or any man of high or low degree from myth or flesh be he hero back from the war or babe in arm be he weak or strong taking company or alone in his journey be him right or do him wrong each man of his life can be made a song on the poet’s tongue O how we lone to be one grapping at the key that inform peace of piety and place our poems wait your coming

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Sun clinkety-clanking rhythmically to the solar winds held in the breath of the pixie pixilating its warm laughter to the violently breaking of silence that hummed like a steady rain radiating out to fill the universe of man’s earthbound longing to be apart of an universal community seated in the far off space with its promises supporting the sustainable noise of life in the somewhere islands of the deep destine destiny of never giving up the ghost for a confessing of heaven caught under the skin of a chill when fear take you over promise to take me over by the mystery of your love given over freely to the man when the night is driving me mad waiting on my dreams to fill me up all breathless and sniffing out the silver back ancestry of the missing link that find itself along again but fit to be seen in the buried bones of yesterday where birds fight for territory and I cry out the name of a narrow God of the legends of making a sad song sung and surveying by the light of a steep passage as old in age as what it is that man want out of life when there is nothing to say and we must go our separate way the power flows from Don Quixote from Don Juan not from Donald Trump but a bump in history if so much as that a hair hole from which grows greed that only a few knows not all of us seeks to be rich beyond our wildest dreams not all of us wish to own many things such as the loyalty of men to do our bidding I am one content to sit along the road side and watch the flow of demons and saints heroes tricksters and shamans going about their duty as if placed in the peg holes of the society’s making of which we poets are born to rebel against the august that grind the gifted down to a nudge blunted knob that can not open the door that lead to the self be you better then the society that you make each man is a founding father of the life he was given each man a friend of nature each man carry within himself the demons and saints that shape him each man wait for the heroic to take possession of him to test

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the metal of his making some are anonymous hero of their circle contemporary philosophers of the mundane some are insane an antagonist of the ruling society that has lost its classical virtues and ethical nobility a society that does not recognize the rugged ruins all about it the falling bricks at the feet of the poor the overgrown cities enriched in crime and the conventional behavior of a civilization in decline these are the concern of my rime they are the concern of the poet he must concern himself engage himself rather then escape himself from his social’s reality this must be his pride producing prerogative penned to pair both God and man to do no harm by his wonderful words wrought from within the working works of his mind and time each poet represent his subculture private culture his race riding round the streets steep within the memories of his parent each poet represent his religion rites perform as a prayer in the night each poet represent his sex informed by the senses wet as sweat and the musk in the act of mating with lust lasting long each poet represent the art of being human a hired humble hand helping all men each poet represent himself the one in the loud and crowed land listening when he can to what is being said and how the said was made to lay in the ear his perceptive actions is to give of himself with a heroic intensity to rebel against the status quo of being ordinary in a world of hostility and hatred that men can make against the new knowledge of himself Sun the sepulcher triste and foison reaching sadly and forever reaching its strong tail wind to the brow of a farmer plowing the field of an Egret’s heart ache where the Wood Duck are nursing in their nesting in Kennedy Forest of the thick undergrowth of the many birds birthing birds in the heart of spring while Mr. Jack Dirt and Paul Paris and David St. Louis engage in a manage trios the father the son and the holy ghost the spirit the

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body and the soul pushing a wedding vow is three the holiest of all number or is it seven or the four winds four corners of the world where the flowers seem friendly enough as friendly as the skin of a midnight chill with its noise of chill bumps on the skin of the sky popping out like stars in the crushed sky of a higher dream where love dislike roses feeling like a knife cut sharp and cleaner then the dull blade of a used razor ragging the forgotten air in the lungs of a loving that rupture the strange forever sex that can not keep our heart together the sweat of the body engaged in making your love a life time of togetherness its no easy thing even when tied by a ring love must be made anew day by day beyond the I love yous and you need not be cruel to be kind under the blessing of the sun shining like a scrambled egg sat you in the island of a shadow the listening post of new birth the mother’s son of a precise black bird that knows it need not sleep in the dirt that birth its wears as easily as the breath in breathing according to the rhythms of the sun where a man goes home to empty bottles and that one locked door that he weep before the door is dreaming of the profit of the sun the man wish to run and run till he have escaped the remembrance of the last kiss given in the hour before morning run away this isn’t the time for that ball and chain time for the emerging murmur that threaten itself when I want to talk to you this is not the time to follow the significant image of demons under the dome of the head not the time to say that the heroes are forever dead not the time for the manifestations of nature’s fecundities to be cursed when we can not agree who will get the biggest share it is not the time to dress Pandora’s box with a pretty bow and offer it as a gift to the world as if it was a pill to heal all ills it is not the time to put out Prometheus’ fire with the tears of the sorrowful it is not the time for the destructive force of money meant to save your soul from the fundamental ambiguous

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achievement of hunger in a fat world brimming over with food it is not the time to reject the agency of the sacred being hiding on the dark side of the moon it is not the time for the roguish trickster mysteriously divine by the madman’s attempt to suffer his rivals with the telling truth of his heart about the suppressive society’s subversive instincts masquerading as the politic of art it is not the time to free the deadly ego that undergoes a godforsaken goosestep of a golden goo-goo eyed governess taking care of the children of tomorrow it is not the time for the poet to be used by the force of his creativity but to use it in the service of the flesh it is not the time for the poet to be alienated from his society for him to feel as a outcast as Raskolnikov as Meursault and the invisible man hidden in the basement of light the lonely voyagers that find their society stalled shallow in its slanted bent with its tyrannical authority never spent but renews with each dollar that makes the men worthy of their praise as if money can save the soul in achieving the rigid holy goal of the task of the hero it is not the time for the shaman to resist the suffering that he must endure with its mixture of love and fear that open the human mind to the possibility of intellectual wisdom that seizure the mental struggle at its source the hero often is slain by the followers that he did save from the impossible fulfillment of the most significant supreme normality that rule their lives the humanized demons and the demonic human become one and the same in the game that we play in the mental physical and spiritual suffering of the visions that transforms the inner nature and enable the reformer to carry within himself the seeds of a symbolic rebellion nature the brutal element of the battle waged for the soul of man is calculated to repel the shocking primary hostility pushed against the Gods that we would have to cleanse the city of the beauty of crime committed in the solitude and lonely crafty suffering of an inspire

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envy toward the devotion imposed by the sort of man that use puritan ethic to keep us in our places with our rationalistic and religious didacticism with our nostalgic for the chivalry composed of the qualities of gentility we astounded the Gods into wishing us to witness the wickedness that defeats the soul of an old strength displaying little individuality that knows the way to go toward the fulfillment of a chivalric questing Sun wishing chlorophyll to glow to the rhythmic green that knows the living face of a secret God of men of little worth who’s sins are countless as the sands of the sea the obese fat of the priest graciously can not heed the wisdom of the obelisk in the season of sand where the irritated dryness is held in the hands and the prostitutes of iron collars leading you around the silence holy darkness of the pyramid of Giza robbed of its treasure disfigure by the winds of time in the forgotten doubt of the tongue and the public face of the great body of knowledge tattooed with unpublished poems of blemishes disfigured by the willing hands that dominate the unparalleled concealed wisdom of old buried in the hanging gardens of Babylon where the obsolete tomorrow interrupt the present of today while the past sleeps in the idols that speak of ancient kingdoms and delicate fugitive priests of a recumbent bull of the God side ancient mentality written in mysterious meters on the skin of a long tradition of association between the enduring supernatural knowledge of the prophets and the linguistic alliteration of poor poets half asleep half dreaming in the making of their wears once the poets were holy once they was full of singing songs of poems now the pitch glissandos notes of the scale of the speech of the streets where the eroded midmelody of the instrumental hemispheres of music in their idle happenstance waiting the watchful answers of storms in the cupped praying hands of sister Grace when the

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brother of night descend down to the knotted light of the street lamp’s glow all of nature is for show all the breath of trees I see under the bathing sun the only one with its roar of light tumultuous in its multiple warmth of upheaval crumbling tenderly extending over the bursting region of the world’s stain glass of trees the sun witness the doing of man with his heroism of myth and legend deepen by his significant humanism it is not anti-heroic non-existent predicated upon the notions of the human animal below the stars who have named the sun sun and the moon moon sol or sumptuousness of sura and the full wolf and worm moon looks down upon the civil chaos that is the instrument of the Gods sent to punish the conventional expression of a parochial weakness glorious in death what becomes of us when we die when we give up the ghost when the reputation of our common sense is all that is left of us when the decision of our choose is no longer torn between love and duty know we well what becomes of the flesh it returns to the earth but where does the spirit and the soul goes when they no longer have the home of our bones what becomes of our materialistic longing such questions are tied up in the ideal of ourselves death is a sort of escape it is the end of all end with no heaven to win save for those who keep their belief tight against the tragedy of their lives lived among the drastic changes in man’s psychological ideal of himself although still he think himself in possession of the soul of a lesser God upon the earth commerce has become the theology of man the all mighty dollar the new cross in the climate of opinions springing from Americus where things bought are the particular necessities of a well lead life man’s innate capacity with his sensitive organism still tied to the earth by the umbilical cord of his flesh suffering from a fatal delusion our ego is misled by the dark ambiguity of our individual need to go it along even though our half-known self contently cries out

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to be made whole by a God that knows now is the time to be bold as concern the significance of salvation with its dramatic limitations of unexpected knowledge now is the time to gather all you rimes in the service of the Gods now is the time to heap the miseries of man onto the cart of life now is the time to know that we all are chained by the fringe of attention that sustain us now is the time to expel the cold and tragic knowledge that represent the elites now is the time to emancipate our general tendencies toward the historical concept that we are of a higher order among creatures of the earth now it the time that the major test of truth is to found in the life that abound around us now is the time for the appearance of the new hero long-winded on romanticism and coarse jest echoing the incantation that will paradoxically direct the arch trickster toward the new man of power now is the time to embody reverence for the relationship of man to his God now is truly the time for the misstates of capitalism to be relieve of its duty in favor of a new humanity that waits to view us all as brothers Sun over the ill teaching of man which has come to take for granted the steadfast recurring light prompting growth to live its full in fat and lean lands alike a like in lost in long ago the sun did gather itself unto itself before the pubescent Gods took to trying out the newly imagine skin found in the forest of Eden where the tree of knowledge stood its proceeding proud ground as a temperamental temptation offered to man falling from grace from the blue height when he have done all he can and must find himself home now in a new land where the rain came down and washed away his sins or so he believed does believing makes it so when believing drizzle its breathless legends deep into the arms of being one that uselessly tells the rain not to drop its supporting nature to all that waits its coming to have their hearth fulfilled and

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birth the next generation now that the day is hog tied by the freedom of being human killing man killing man who can understand when Gods are found in colors gathering to play with children who in their innocence doesn’t know that soon it all will be over and older but for now let them ride their colorful emotions that press their playful notion up against their hearts do you well by the children they know only the limited world of the selfcentered private self Sun straying out of thoughts and time where the mind is bound to think its way to the holy vengefulness of angels singing to a mountain’s posterity the sins of angels is writ on the water of a tear that runs its undone distress less of a success before the more blind sight unaware there as art of a rock-a-heart lie that does its part for the pale hail thrown about the flow of water that glow full of the holiness stress of a blessed that forbid the hid sins of a child to come closer than an arm’s length of pity the poets love you like never before with words they make love to you you can tell by the look on their faces the words they have borrowed from your sorrows to make amend for the roots that yearns to be expressed in the body of a poem sniffing out and surveying the way that thing are going they are digging through the wreckage of our lives they are the sin eaters of men the street priest winnowing away the sourness of the human heart eat of their poems and you will be fulfilled by the common wisdom that you knew not that you had they will keep an eye on you they will follow you and untie your tongue when the time has come as they go mining what it mean to be human when the night make moves on the new day the poets are not afraid of the temptation of the Gods or the temperamental nature of the deacons of demons the poets are alike of minds as no other in the fluidity of society of the feudal world with its sanctified glory the poets scorn the lack of

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curiosity sit upon by the satiric judgment of the ruling class the poets are omnivorous of the knowledge that they eat they are intellectuals of imagination and often time seen as eccentric some are egocentric about their need to produce poems that teaches us to be geocentric in our ways they play off the mercantile society that reject them and the work of their hands they labor long on their songs to move you to the understanding of the potential inherencies of our heritage poets are autonomous in their skin but their minds unto each other is kin by way of their art most are to be found on the margin of their societies where they have been expelled for all to often they are rebels of the cause of independent man fighting the windmills of conformity that stands strong in the face of all their wrongs yet the poets pushes on creating their own values in their poetic action by putting their truth on the page or in the ear for all to hear they stands by their wit alone they makes their tragic stance as if there is nothing to lose O contraire but to move you to action the cloak they ware is inclusive the new poetry that they make is yours to tongue take in you let it wake the new birth that thoughts unfold by the rhythm that they hold work its magic on your soul that in its measure want to move you to a virtuous and honorable action of a moralistic quality they are your mouthpiece let your breath smell of their words stressed and unstressed toward an ethical end to defeat the old aristocracy to defeat the feudal social structure with its brain washing indoctrination that seeks to control all toward keeping us in the places that they makes to keep us down with a Protestant’s capitalistic morality bent on the notion that Gods can be used to control the masses under the hand of a greedy economy and a desire for material success that eats up the landscape while the poets offer you salvation and peace and security in being yourself an individual the poets will bare your splendid animalistic burden as if it be

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his own for his poems make you heart a home they are idealistic against the materialistic motion knocking around in the head of the lost public beat down by an industrialism that reject the idealistic individuality that we were born to it is not so much that the social institutions of our country got it wrong as it is that it embody a made up realistic notion that will not tolerate a divisional diversion from the norm it view the individual as a wreckers of the social order one that must be controlled by the key holder that guard the door to wealth and prosperity each of us are unique as eccentric beings searching for happiness without a fundamental compromise of the morals of our fore fathers that had not the strength to fight against the agents of a barbarous privilege of the parasitic notion of the rich all of us seeks contentment with our need to well groom nature to hinge her in by our control human are bold only till they grow old and settle down in their skin it is as if the fight has been groomed out of them all of us seek reprisal for what in our youth we did do wrong when we were strong and fit to work our muscles to the bone some of us served our country and got alone as we played the military drone some of us secretly thrilled in the criminal act each time I smoke a joint I am doing just that one man’s marijuana drug is equal to another man’s emotions of hug I wrap my brain in the smoke each time I tote and there is a lifting of an unseen yoke I smoke a joint as I walk to vote and with that vote the measure of my hopes to win I am a poet in the mist of the boredom of the masses the separation of the classes by the elitist asses that passes themselves off as the as the God given caretakers of the races Sun riling at the riksmal the bokmal deprecation where leaves of ancient trees are overthrown by the lost knowledge of an ichthyosaur gone down the instinct path

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where non-memorable flesh has been wormed away by the constant wearing of the water’s broken maneuvering toward its level where you can not be a nobody in the eyes of the poets the secrets that you keep is a known thing in the art of being human no man is an isolated island set apart from his fellow man I confess that we are united by the breath by the blood by the soul by the Gods of our making that have taken on a life of their own dead Gods go the way of a criminal geological maneuver of the impossible conspiracies of the mediated reality with its paraplegic paralogic simulating communications of a rain of alphabets horny as a strange language spoken to the queen of Sheba posing the ebony night both beautiful and strange the night have seen history in the making held in the arms of Olympus it have seen the ivory of the tattoo of a writing in symbols to ancient to be understood by the corpses of nocturnal incense in the church of the holy anger that scream the harsh blue bullet of the mutilated dark skin of a soon to be bleached emotions besieged by the white notion of the boney thinness of American beauty truly it is the face of a cultural sterility and even poets fall pray to this fallacy for they are taught by the same society and in order to see the true beauty of the human race we must make a break of what we are told to hold up onto the petal and go for broke hog whole for beauty is solely own by no one along beauty is sometime put into the service of a materialistic power beauty can be manufactured by the hour it is daily born into the world it is found before the spent glory of a flower one may speak of the beauty of winning a war of a waterfall that roar more the child that your mother bore the dress that your sister wore even a beautiful whore beauty has no station in life it cut across all lines the beauty of the trinity divine the simple beauty of a hand made cross the unsettle beauty of a doubt black beauty baby white beauty maybe brown beauty save me

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Sun’s gracious strength its acknowledgment its wine of the vengeful ransom from the tabernacle where triumphant vespers break upon an unhappy hour where every gentle men weep the prayers of psalmist whose mouth are filled with the last holy mercy of their jumbled master caught in the burned brown destiny that acts as a threshold to the spasms of the Gods of the holy incantation besieged by war grieving for the lost child the fierce custom of the inconsolable sacred language signifying the drunkenness of bad manners distilled from the boiled down blood squeezed from the seasons stalled and striped down by the autumns of our disbelief when the escaped slave to a slave can count on his fingers the lashes given in the dead of night that died beside the insistence African blood living from century to century in the body of an American new born black and blue dozing the harsh life before it the blue eyed master that denied the true blackness of raw breath spent by the Niger custom of the ancestors of vudu who do we seek when the undulating courageous voices of demons tell us that their persuasion tightly wrapped around the dialectical nature of poems is the only way to go when our personal angels linger precisely around the legitimate barbarous revolution of the Gods robed in royal purple before the entrails of destruction that follow us to the bath house of a premature sexual destiny of the laughter of justice in a society the wage its power in paying lip service to moral ideals that are hacked apart by the materialistic notion that the individual is an outlaw that must be crushed less he erupt and contaminate the bloodline of having money pull yourself up by your booth straps they say to us be of worth you lazy bum you diseur of the desires the poverty that you get we shall set the pauper price that you shall earn pull yourself up you spineless worm tend to your machines you poet you prophet you criminal messiah

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you solitary wanderer of the psychopathic streets where crime is birth in the dark corners full of piss and heat stick to your machines till your time is done tend to it as if it was your only son no need to race when the race is already won scorn us despise us envy us you romantic rebel we are the investigators of the post modern heaven let us entice you young protagonist of the fatal point of view you shall do as your master tell you to there is a growing opportunity waiting for you if only you do as we rule you to toll the line and put your backs into it till your hands are crust over with grim somebody has to do it so why not you so have you been schooled to follow the golden rule thou shall have no other master then that of the machine tend to it till you hear its motion grinning in your dreams hear the sweet song that it sings we are the governors of thought without a doubt this is your God given vocation you can not rise above your station birth for us an army of workers fight among yourselves for the crumbs we have given you stereotypes to be guided by we have given you the rest of Saturday night go you out and blow off some steam we have given you church of Sunday morning to placate you go and worship at the waiting altar whisper to the priest your confessions let them school you rule you fool you into being a prefect citizen be ware we have our proven private prisons for the rebellious individual shall be punished some laws are made to be broken broken laws brings about change

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Sun that has seen Bethlehem give birth to an alleluia lesson passingly released by the divine deliverer whose stronghold is in the tiny heart of a ladybug in the exodus of the butterfly by the feeding violence of maggots in the sweetness of the mulberry pollen in the valor of Zadok without a double heart who came to set the fettered

captives free under the eyes of the prime the terce the sext the matins of the first vespers spoken in the ears of an inquisition and conquistador in search for the golden God of gold churches can be cruel in their strong stranglehold on religions they can choke the life out of their Gods without knowing it worshipping the dead cross as the body of Christ worshipping the bricks and stone of the churches religions have grown overgrown only the poets are willing to prune them back to the worshiping of the wilderness religionist lay wait at the bedroom door with Bible in hand and preach the gossip of condemnation where they perform a heinous crime of the single mindedness where forth is it not the poor with his want of clothing want of food to concern themselves with they lift up their hands against the fatherless they have made money their confidence they have suffered their mouths to sin by wishing a curse to their fellow men for not believing their only way into the heaven of the Father where their derisory memory shall be put to shame so play your mega church TV games you shall be brought to count by the very Gods in whose name you carry out you wicket ways no believer can escape the vengeance of their God for twisting the faith into its modern state judge not that ye be judged each of us is accountable for our own soul let no man set asunder what the great Gods have given in the soul be you not your brother’s keeper for the soul is a personal thing that no man should seeks to control that of another’s get your own house in order it is not a sin to disbelieve go your way and I and my God shall go mine such Gods as Gods is the God of my heart it cries out to be a song what face of poet should descry the face of any man’s God weak am I in thought and hung on a high nail in the new world where fallen arch anglers dazzles the notion of a whisper of a sin poetry has let me in to muse about the Gods that cut me one is the God of breath augmented with a cigarette the God of

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the body placated with Colt 45 in the piss stream yellow water swell in the bowl is this a privet thing the thing the we all keep to ourselves the known secret for being alone how came a body functions to be full of so much shame we know that at some times we must be alone by the poet even the alone times will be exposed such is the way of the heroes he who live for pleasure alone will find the hell of hypocrisy he who live for breath will find that they becomes exaggeratedly egotistical he who live for society will find illustrated commitments see the dupable double ms the com the men see the mit the ill the rated us and the rat that striated across the tongue of the words Gods are a glory the great sometimes moan full mother minding her business being about her way seemingly unconcerned that I have come I love her still how can we otherwise with our wills be more then the whole which birthed us that made us willing to kill to feel to ridge a rockabilly rolling it deep and slow to thrill in sex and sin to know a God to win how can we step outside of her in body or in thought we paid in breath what we have brought there is a give and take a tonguing a talk a telling of things we wish not to hear you poet speak to me of beautiful things sing in words meant to woo stall your wild do that ho-do-thayou-do there’s something of the divine in voodoo God of no favor’s father my emotions flood me to think of you God of my paralyzed fears flood me with fear God of my romance my self-refection fills me with fear I have lost my psychological edge of eating fragmented words I have lost the tenderness of my toes I know that I owe its been long time now since I wore a bow its been since childhood going to church all dressed to shame a God and the heavenly host Sun of God’s hair burning of God’s eyes burning of God’s hands everlastingly fills with the merciful shelter of the tent-dwellers sun God of the far away sky the

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breath of God burning and blowing away blowing away the milkweed seed of my birth in a Hebrew uproar when the talk killed by philistines where the suicidal rock stagger over the fires of an enlarged injustice where the landscape played background to a blind man’s cane tapping out a massages of thank you in Morse code while the enormously enlarged discussion of the supreme nature of snakes take a back seat to the rainy season where the sleepless patient was saying their preys against the intermingled strike of a homeless shelter and the halflaughter of a trembling flower has masterminded the take over of an anger of the imprisoned wind with its secret dreams squinting the serene smiles that hardly speak to the cutlass jungle of run-aways lost in the cities of eyes the still born have all gone to sleep in the baby heaven that come to meet them the spokes of the sun have sprung us to consume those who will smile in your face when Mary had the baby that spoke in tongues with an African face lost in the center of a sugar cane fields of Mississippi where all the name sake have been killed off Sun that has witness multiplying man mating under its wiry waggling wonders freely given in a year of an incline ear and sincere grief for the Godhead concerning thee concerning the man that you have come to be under the scattered light concerning the incense of anger and the sacred language of the knowable God of the eternal burning sun that freely share its light and warmth to all that may come in the middle of the contented earth where the water rule I found a submerged forest for resting it spoke of the sacred coolness that it holds in the watery hands that dared the calm waters of clarities to wash over the shipwreck spilling oil on the fire banks of blankness sumptuous oil fit for burning but not for flying on the wings of sea birds when the moon is tight in the conspiring controversial of the polluting of the cathedral

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sky where the northern face of clouds like flying alters with their tiny catastrophe of vengeance goes about committing the sweetness of crimes in their idleness of the moment of a lost wind’s reserved compassion for the legs of dwarfs when the storm comes on serenely in it silence of a meticulous bundles of nerves tided to the winds in the column of long-grasses where the frogs are missing the water of a bloody apterous grounded to the flightless requiems of a shredding melody caught in the breathings of beaches ever changing their percussions of a cracked joy found in the long wailing of a saxophone’s notes did you do did you do it the music plays a this this this a rat tat tu the blues of word play their so low I’m in the saline shadows Max Roach’s Filide flows pass the very invents inner notions knocking the gone sonnets of the long good-bys I cry I cry I cry rib boning to the bones I-cry I-cry the why of the when to win where am I gonna run to sings Nina Simone she just got done through running to the Lord the guitar speaks the clappers clap out the rhythms the piano send its slow pleasing pleading that life itself is God but baby didn’t go for that I’ll tell you for the real that all my tenderness are untied but they are tired for I have seen the demons that live in man once I plotted to kill over money and a Nikon a death by burning my confessions clear he live and goes about his life like never knowing now I keep my demons under lock and key yet they are acknowledged I have learned the steer clear of their mass where once they gnarled and sniggered they sometime slip into poems advancing toward the notion of God shredded my almost indifference boiled and nocturnal in its conspiring sounds said in words my ego sometimes miscarry I let it say what it must say and beg my muse to help me say what I’m meant to say the woven words the way dear muse the whisper of the moment falls back on itself and with a jest of jive and a bit of the jubilee joking the

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jollying jiggers girlishly gushing these jewels of the now these mothers of the skin inside we grew to come from her womb along O woman wise and wild and wanting I sing of thee for all your life long labors O when will life do you no harm O woman men have taken control of war their wages spent on sixty percent they fight for fundamental things its our way within there is to be found the romantic affection of gratitude within the significant of the private individuals play the world as an inspirational instrument you can not choose anything that you which so choose wisely the significant sensitive artist with his fictional hedonistic knowledge and credo his heroic allusion the poet as sensitive sincere and woven with a kaleidoscopic of self integrity but still he war inside his self he is seeking your security your trust in the dilemmas obsessing the society his literately deals done with the devil and the Son of man integrating self and society body and soul of the whole of the meaningful alienation that reveals the fall of the tragic hero as criminal as psychopath digging at the well willing to win the souls of men when a rebel with his outmoded creed obsolete by the enterprising capitalistic prayer penned by a poor poet and pinned to the church yard door he who is taunting his self respect in the fulfilled moment then the hero shall come home and reclaim the house of their forward fathers whose frustration of the false heroic sense denying a home in the heart for the visualized rebellion that is the fatal foolish worship that he crave the mother who have slain and eaten her son is coming from the battle of cultural control the Prometheus is martyred by his gift of fire the liars are politicians of truth and nobody knows that the next revolution in a land of woes will be led by the body bold the generals of beauty against the embodiment of irrationality by a fat country of poor people picking at the straps the rebel got your backs we stand obdurate the two the madness and the sanctity of

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saints we of the used up universe united by what we use undulating the underbelly of the undertaker’s carriage there is a lost normality to be found where poets weep for thee seek for thee reap for thee and Ahab gives his plea that he is possessed by a demon pushing spoiled pride into his demonic creed metaphysical and of the inexplicable universe full of sympathies and futile frustration and fragmentized fantastic visions birth in the poets battled by a beat back brutality of words you got to believe me that words scamper around the floor being busy bitterer about the business of buying for my time common words work together they rime middle class words they decline the emotional alienated artists but we canst stop him we canst rock him we canst move him toward the letting go O Father of the poem on breath O fever that burns the giving of a day forgiving me of my sins this is the way to bathe my humble conformity for the published public good in the house of the lingering absence that will lay its hands of bird’s feathers on you you who fly away with Jesus the junta of the judging Jesuits will jump through a rope of rosaries while the flamboyant prayers that society preach is seen in the low glow of the TV with its dangerous curiosity about the working of the brain tonight I find the hero is a man among men his solely freedom of condemning the rulers riding high in a gust of there being something of the saints in poets there is something of their fears for the perpetration of beauty the lonely road of perfection in a busy langue leading and lasting listing language lane that they travel is spurned with discarded poems with their daily charm bumming a ride the sympatric bitterness of a broken poem bereft of the psychological realism that it did seek to earn by force of action its introspective protest is undiminished by the now that the poet has come home to ride and rid us of the riddle that reads like a recipe for coming home to live with me there is a hint of peace in

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the hands of the real rebel that wait our return to his way of thinking but we love and despise him despite our dislikes despite our dirty love that shall service to kill him we follow that fine cut of features whose sensibility cupped to his ability that maintain against the degrading relationship between the artist as hero and the society as meaning less then the soul expected still life is all that its cracked out to be a one deal shot of being a soldier in the army of the disillusioned rebels of poets who thought that the evil egotistical revenge is finally spoken that both world and self admit that they need each others Sun bird that carry the voice of an enchantment to the eyes of Jericho where second Sunday is glad of its inheritance claiming the book of Genesis O Lord O Lord O the only begotten and co-eternal Son of the fatal Father of the whispering of the new sun rising water we the faithful tend to your fatidic flight of words on the wings of the sun bird we praise with opened heart full of righteous heat burning the dried-up shadows of doubts inside of me there is a light lighting the way to your throne we have seen you in the noise of trees in the swept down motion of rivers in the triumphant breath of a bee in the divinity of all living things are you known to be you are the glorious God of the Gods of man you called by many names is the one and the same I breath you in and out again your voice is heard in the beat of my heart in the bird’s songs the fly’s buzz you are ever a wonder before my eyes and I am your child even in my grown-up ways I am forever young before your ancient age all about me are your blessings the rain is your scripture the singing birds your prayers the very earth your church Sun of the intrepid tree bleeding two stories high in the storm brewing its destruction again and again toward the place where night is the force of the disappointed

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dreaming lost in the head of a peacock’s prophecy and I am down to tell you that you must get your pains in order and move them into the interdiction of Monday morning where I have done all that I can with the words that I was given and now I am easy and pleasing with a bloated pestilence that has a right to exist beside me why should I cry the intelligence strength of the blood that runs like rivers in the electricity of the body whishing that it was stone when it is just short of dying when the laughing little girls playing just outside of Sunday school have a double burden to bear that of religion and being a woman in the danger of mid-night in the city I listen to them speaking the work men’s language a language injured by the machines with their noisy complaint bored on the mercerized mechanized hands that can not forgive the taking of a life caught in the gears of motion spoken to by an infantry of words marching off to war in the body of a long winded poem that leave the soul to weep beside the flower’s song sung to the bees that can not resist the sweet pollen of a flower’s restless farewell the trumpet flower blows its odor pass the shy slow water to damn hot and sterile in its spilling on to the profound banks of meaning to remove the intelligent of parasites that will not give up their place in the world that will in the mouth of your sacred needs where the widening gyres begin its communication of the liturgy loosened into the historical definition of the upheaval inherited acquisition of fragility that speaks to the primitive idols kept in the pockets of the heart with its conflagration of a vivid poem’s season breathing the vengeance of the greeting of birds feathers worn in the hair of the fraternal face of a tropical blackness singing the exploded sky the tutelary stars the laburum alburnum beneath the skin of your wounds the voodoo perfume of butterflies where Nawu Buluku nursing Mawu and Lisa in the crisscross rain made of knives my eyes open like wounds inflicted by

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the God of everything and my tears are like blood shed by the crucifix when I sense the thirsty loneliness of myself my mouth is overfilled with prays and I choke of them to catch my breath running ahead of my lungs of compassion my heart is impaled on the stark naked cross of my struggle to believe in the divinity of a wing beat Sun of the depredate good-by spoken between the throat of the rede rain and the smooth slack shadows of a cloud’s resplendent scream caught in the single breath cycle of inspiration and expiration translated from the lungs filled with anger’s container of space in the cardiac mind’s stimulus field of accidents where the solarized hands trembling hard of hands seen by the brilliant mind’s eye solution of an open door on to the nostalgic anguish for the garden lost in the fundamental intellectual distance of an earlier mentality before the secularization of science sun describing the crying stop fidgeting with its music as soft as a mother’s gaze as the instrumental accompaniment of poetry sung to the ear of a historical migration of an invasion of the sensation felt in the simplicity of a grave mound sun O the lovely lonesome sun O the essence of its theocracy the personal expressions of its warmth the emphasis of its light O sun where forth can man but celebrate your grace of anguish for the silence of poets with their ink stained hands you nourish them in their exhausted thoughts witnessing to your eternal present your grandiose blessings of the self conscious earth I unlace your light and you nourish me at the breast of your warmth you pull me up by my lashes and I open my eyes to let you into the thickness of my warming water that witness with a watch the weeding of the witch hazel where willows grow just west of the wild Wisconsin border where wanting weather wrap itself with words heard whispered when words meant much more then just their sad use to keep a man down

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Sun hidden where the night is inhaling the fieriest steam of the street wet with the tears of a child crying for the milk of its mother kudos sleepless and hungry for the warmth of leaves extinguished by the kinky winds that blows the worship of a varnished sky where the clouds are committing suicide and the lost birds are turning to stones that drop like hail onto the hoods of cars grey stone birds on the green lawn are buried by black squirrels constantly in tears asking me to be their protector in the pocket of the earth full of rot the whole sky is weeping blackbird eyes the cities are overfilled with urine that tint the rivers yellow I can not say that I imagine the sharp edge of dawn pushed along by the sun I can not drop my guards in the furtive night out on the lame from its prison of darkness in the unfamiliar silence of Africa starving for the wear fare of the sun where the murders slice open the night and stars pour out to flood the ripples of the wind fighting its need to conjure up the public rain that wash up the dead buried amidst the ruins of abandon cars I have eaten the bitter words in the great body of the dictionary silence and pregnant by the vocabulary of a dead language to tough to live again without ripping the tongue out I miss my voice full of teeth that bite each syllables on their way out I can not live up to the notions of my namesake beloved and well born the blackness of my skin is forgiven for its sins of omission Sun the wonder of a street life that over took me when the breath of an old mulberry wild in the riparian habitat of the Mississippi migrating its strong back brown water toward the mouth of a mallard’s bill and the city’s stars can not shine to far and the city’s clouds are for sell well who can afford this song that I sing it is all that I have to

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bless you by as you lie and cry as you stash your brain waiting for a miracle to set you free from the mild sins that you have committed in the art of your heart the forbidden love under the willing plunder of honor my lover recover from years of tears in the truth of his youth can not be doom from the womb from the cover of sexuality that hover about the teenager the unseen noise of boys playing with their sexual toys in the dark and dented night where well do I remember my first come the wisp crisp tower of emotion in the midnight hour intent to be spent on the heritage of my young age one cold night as I hitch hiked in the glow of the moon till soon picked up and given my first blow my teenager body quiver to know such new found joy now made an art Sun signifying the ticket of a wrong doing of a lit cigarettes in the endless tomorrow strung together by sunlight fired up to warm a body of worms digging out the good graceful and fitfully faithful earth where the dirt is moldable to their bold bodies’ trail lift in the forest of hooves and horns and furs fit for the rich ladies’ luxury they the rich contemplate the spring-head of money the copper counting encounter of angry water rushing to the bank where the profound legal tender of in God we trust is writ in the damned parade of bones moaning the musical gunfire like drums beating in the desert where the heat of the sun keeps it stronghold tight against the lost rain stalled by the blockage of mountains Sun of the Saharan tragedy relentless in the reddishbrown soil where grows Kongo and Angola skinned youth dreaming of the lost history of Meroe hidden in burning sands where sun heated wind blind by thousand grains the lost traveler looking for the kingdom of the sun God now long gone and buried deep in the desert of the heated heart swallowed by the years the wilderness of the

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past with its repaired bones turned to stones a done deal the wilderness of the future foretold by the light of the sun that daily die a lie of nature as seen by the living the water solely holy in the melancholy call of a tear the cold snow slow unfold of an old blow that will not yield the brazen heaven away the prayer above the love caught in the win of sin battling the uncouth truth of a ring of wings that sing the preferred words of a sting sweet strung to meet when the birds eat the earth then fly about their only heaven that they shall know in the light grey night of a new day the rain begun but bring them no pain the found chill of their sound still rare there where the dew is young in a winter’s morn fighting with the breath of spring I hear oh the breeze the clear singing and I am struck dumb by the eloquent that comes so easily their remark in the dark sight of the advancing light their lust for the crust of the world their pride spent along side the birthing that provide a speechless day’s dark spell when the church bells ring the would be holy to the house of the heart every Sunday morning we are set apart to worship in the shrine of the holy wind spilt on the tongue where is the church of the sun the wind the whole earth skies and ground found in the dirt of the earth the happy throng song of the fair grass pass the litter that I bear where is the church of spring bringing warmth and a growth of tolerance toward the time that it takes to make the universe a God by degree by degree the God of the galaxy and that of the darkness that does the holding hollow out all hiding life lift in the last little me doing right by the right eye knowing what the right brain is doing by by I am tuning off the light with the way that you move the smooth sway that you shed that cries out that you didn’t mean to break me my thoughts of you are well understood your scars are well hid beyond the pale of Peter and Paul speakers of the God’s son sighting signaling the birth of a God child born as a baby boy

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helpless in arm the angels did sing the old songs reserved for the special blessing bound by beauty being vacated in vast numbers visible to the vice royal of victory I have watched his name turn to gold and I think that I have seen the cruse meant to grow its glory glued to the quite quickening gathering muster before meat my mounding meanings married to a mark made money by the wisdom that all God’s children has to die in their time and time is untied just going for it without a rope time is never broke of funds to spend and of men it has no end that can be known by the likes of us we who paid by the breath and the beat of our hearts shall catch but a glimpse of what is known only to the knowledge of the God of the Gods if they have such a thing to use ever to change that you have known this there is a bliss unknown to you the subject loosing the long sleep of time running out and it may never be the buyer’s trade that buy better then hit hand can mend with a might mindful that the mentioning of the music that makes the memories of money is still mines today is the Sunday of mothers the may of flowers and cards and telephones calls and saying I lived in you when with a whisper of a heart beat was I born a single body boy with the black of my brownness being self evident in earnest in my childhood of the Duke of Earl and I will walk the deserts sands I am now a man married to the ideal of being idled and insightful instead on edge by the broken barrio where the poetry is of God and the goodness given gloriously by gain in gross the girlish Gods are snickering at the side end of a gusting industrialization created to disrupt the emotional modern man culture tell in a manner how things are created how the God came to hitch their wagons to man to make us in the model of their manipulation we the city dwellers of the division of city labor urban labor physical and mental to boil us down to the flesh and prescribe the capacity of the economic enterprises to heal any wounds not paid by

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wages or profits urban profit fuel fill the function followed by a fallen fellows who fluid his stay-way home Sun children of the sun wearing the eternal badge of honor which is the blackness of their skin over the red muscles tight and firm and fit to earn the worship of angels that go singing along the Sankuru River in the kingdom of Kuba where dogs delivering the will of God go barking at Its approach turning their holy heads toward the heroine Natura when the children who shall come to wipe Sunday from their eyes when the drums of illuminates genuine ancestral beneficent of being as dark as the dirt sweep into a swell that gently swayed by a song of good-good night when the sun is quite dry it makes me cry to think that I have chosen to live my life along in the tall glass of the city as my home its time for a future change one that is untamed by the voices of children with their disordered time for their long and lonesome ride of smiles like indigent fatalities of the angels that they shall become as time goes on the angels color me in a constitutional blue and I skip the lights indifferently in my second-class dance of the sixteen blesses virgins finding themselves before the music of my heart at last life is like a song controlled by the curiosity of the conflagration of taking my love by the measured of an overwhelmed man of bones shocked into breaking on the sharp edge of an ordinary love of poetry spoken underneath the insides of the breath that is our confident all in you all fall you the angels mull you the demons stall you just you wait and see when the wind is right you can live a miracle in the space of a second and your voice will proclaim that your faith makes the perfect story-line of an out of time rhyme riding a thousand miles dreaming like you wish to spend your soul of the prettiness of things that look like home to you don’t be shy by the apple and the price to pay for the knowing of the hunger that burns

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in the belly of knowledge a hunger that proclaims the apocalyptic conquest when you remain all that is lift of my pain that I can talk about in the business end of the night the more that I give of you the more that my trial by words shall find its rest really real and rich in the rind skin of rough words riding to rid themselves right with reality fought for from the fore skin fished fresh from fire flowing to flood its flower feverishly flaunting the fit end of tomorrow’s future while the bureaucratic climax of popular culture self-possessed by its own caution and scornful tenderness to keep you in your place is trying out a fantastic Lord to lord over the lynching of impeached memories that we did dare to indict out of our lonely sense of a misplaced idleness an ideal of its self an ill icy eye I am one to stay for you I rebel to make for you mud cakes of yellow dirt for children meant to fill the belly I stay for you Mississippi clay snuff for you keeping the earth in my mouth for the poets and where have all the poets gone a long time lasting in the mouth of an old doubt underfoot where the concert of a wanderer’s thoughts as a hallucination actually is ignored by the future allusions of the poet wandering in the wild wilderness where bitterness is swift and steeped in the possibility that the guilty memories that afflict us at the stronghold when it is a suicidal moment for the infidelity with the eager victims made by the particular bent of a poet’s circumstance of the gift of a guilt of trivial boredoms enhanced by dignity with the appreciation of poetry we can transcend relating the present sensation of the sentimentalist blind to the danger and disasters of life their heads in the silver salt of the sand amen to the everyday everybody that ran round the roses a pocket full of restrictive woes politically pious with their perceptive commentary rooting round the ground end of growth of the hidden heroes hearing agnostic humanist voices hovering just above the left ear with the rear possibility

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of the heroic individuality he who tried to kill the mass society of it wanting conformities that peg hole him who would go it alone but leave us a song the poet by name the romantic the same game hero by negation with his masochistic tendencies in tow a modern hero of the urban chaos of going with the flow that flood and founders in it back water building a momentous moaning of the obvious mystery that the poet engenders Sun shining in the eye of the God of Thebes that sees man being man in the holy temple at Ipet-isut and Nowe the sacred places of the most high places of God’s interaction with the most earthbound man made from the dirt in the finger nails of the Gods who let us write our lives in blood lives punctuated by their forgiveness for the sins caught in the heart lives with the strength of the roundness of bones lives under the knuckle of the sun the real arboreal birds biting the hour of their birth in the bath of the nest their black obsidian music erupting in the volcanogenic night where angels sits high in the trees and piss down on the passer-bys anointing them with the meticulous message of their urine mixed with the blood of a holy laughter revitalizing the activated dreams of the streets where the indubitable hunger of slumber hides in dark uncharted corners of beautiful weather examining the intersections of the fractured impossible horror of a dismembered secret and the high scented plateaus of flowers where a decomposition takes place under the waiting wounds of an exploded torrential singing its song of desolation in a cursed voice aged by the naked melancholy rotting in the geometric weight of eternally surrounding the extreme hour desolated by the babbling common sense of a mute tormented brutality organized by the fragile wings of the wind blowing unleashed words over the time told imprints of an entangled friendship longing the obscure wounds left behind by the thirst of

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ancestors inhabiting the life journey taken in an obscured year abandoned by the cult of a magical paradise strayed words on the tip of the tongue of fresh thoughts let loose by the formula for the great disaster of ice with its quiet virtues for being no prophet no revolutionary leader forced to die for the call of a new mass movement such are heroes made to save as subjected as they who waits by the way side doing the human play Sun resistance of amalgamation in the pyramids’ shadows who’s pointing is over looked by the sacred hour when the pyramidal saddle of dead Gods gather to welcome the dead entomb within into the netherworld the Gods have been brought to their suicidal silent from their boastful tongues of their beautiful spirits that once entered the body of the divine chiefs of children with needles in their emission of flesh till they are connected to the myth of the never whispered irresistible perfume of the breathy music of trumpets notes implanted in the ear of the future where the yet to be born with their naiveté totally intact are waiting at the way station in the heaven of the unborn beside the nocturnal thundering distilled words of an ingenuous revolt flashing its compassionate storms inhabited by the insolence assassinating wonder of an apple on the hissing flames of the tree of life grown as a temptation by the secret power teetering on the cowardly violent dreams of the reconciled heart dreaming that it saw an army of angel soldiers dressed in rags marching off to the deafening memory of war with it resentment and remorse for the proverbs swallowed by endlessly looking for a God that will save us from the meat of our flash drunk on the ruthlessness of doing time on the obscure earth busy with life being itself where the extremity luminous vigorous replacement of the gentle fatigued notion sleeping in the dark scared night is competent to allow skeptical doubts felt in the late years

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lingering about the skirt of a young girl we all feel the burn that blister boy to boy girl to girl have we not all earned to kick the can to remind us of our populated joys played with a pickle faced boy my pal my petrel dish to study and mine undercutting the intellectual entertainment of the blesses Virgin Mary grant O merciful God support to our frailty that we who call to mind the characteristic of an expression with its intelligent of the wholesale sentimental parody of the Poet as hero of the dark eternal word is calling to mind the ivory-like imaginative longings radically communicating a trivial encounter with the skin’s belongings the poet seek to teach us the importance complexities of the reality of dignity teach us in human terms the same meaning I am the dead all done down I am the deal that you shall do to move through the heavenly door I as priest holds the key I as poet know the mysterious shortcoming that man keep with his night language falling asleep like a lost individual frustrated by the idiosyncrasies of poetry Sun witnessing the conquest of blacks by a foreign religion the blacks who have forgotten the Gods of their fore fathers the black who’s time told Ra is ship wreck on the points of the cross the blacks who copulate in the lost wisdom of Seb the blacks who’s soul have been taken possession of by the white knowledge of ownership the blacks clothed in the visible forms of Gods that eat the heart of Osiris the blacks who are my brothers in the blood of the slaughter house of violence where the children sleep the blacks caught by the smile of Jesus and straightening their hair to be Christ like in a weave flowing pass their shoulders that holds heads of the charter of blackness in their skin the blacks most beautiful in earnest essences under the sun’s darkening focuses the blackening of America is seen in the extreme

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musical tones of our flesh the free flow of blackness fluencies at their best the blackest of the blacks no less the light bright blacks of a warm miracle can not undo their blackness through and through the sorrow that it borrow through and through the pride along side the sparkle of their brown eyes black mothers and brothers flowering into tomorrow’s torn arrow past the last same name of being black back into the jungle juice of jazz blacks seen the carved wood masks that stood for the inner desire of the Godhead a place in the heart a grace above the love of men then shall we find in the face of a holy place that boast of the Host on the knees in Galilee keep your peace the blacks are at it again disturbing the society reality why don’t they just cup their hands in a halleluiah prayer and pray that heaven is better then their man made heaven on earth we know that it hurt as child birth but thank of the possibilities each black baby born with the capacity for self determination in the church of the underground where the indivisibility of the self comes as a commodity it carry a cash value but the unique identity of the poet can not be bought and sold among the ambulatory machines laboring in the bureaucratic drudgery of their inheritance like father like son half the battle won let the poets not blame everyone for what is left half done for half our unsatisfied desires are yet to come mums the word says the girl who sell flowers governed by the laws of music the air smells of jazz gardenias there is the symphonic green of stonecrop covering the ground about round a blues of blue bells ringing the rich odor of color seen by the blessing of light poets are tight tugged and tied till torn tough black birds of the corn first to weep first to moan the second coming of the second son poets are the one being undone give then not your pity your priority from the pit of your belly like a pitted plum undo the nasty side of you and let loose to the musing of his poems there in your kingdom come

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brutalized by the self recognition that the flesh is all there is in the end so much depends on the flesh not the spirit and half that measure on the soul that hold them both in tow the trinity of the circle the whole mental emotional physical pain of man the meat matter much more each scar a score from a battle won the son beget son none in the city have completely forgotten how to be along each signally singing his own song each cell apart of the whole damn whole where there are no accidents in nature no waste to be disposed with excess of growth that does not waver earth is a living haven ever willing to birth a few this is old poetic news you have only to look within to know that life is held within the skin Sunlight thinner then the muscles of the furious bone of the face carved in the sand of an hourglass sun told time of the victorious vital breath that progress to protest the vaisvanara self when the soul identify and idolize with the body that it inhabit the soul of fire is burning itself away under the full speed of strayed words like dry smoke that know the correct address of the thinness of the sun’s light around the atmospheric sculpture of trees with their historic breath sumptuous and immeasurably in its labor half-glimpsed by the fog that circle it cycle about the age of a red-wing blackbird in flight over the bastardizes incomprehensible allusion of the beautiful breath bated and battled by the astonished consent of consciousness found in the prohibited explosion proper to terrorists rage in the renewal of a battle fought in the good news of survival of the ceremony of landscape in the memory of words heard by the howling rebellious assault that is witnessing to the spasmodic evidence of a firefly’s light blinking its slow refrain in the early darkness slapping its clarity in the serenity of the silence that night makes of itself when the stiff winds of the tail-

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winds of blushing birds brush against the voluptuous setting of the sun a biological freedom of existence that blunder itself about the tropic night bare of shoulders a middle passive fire-spitting motion of the moon’s folk tale touched by the brain of sore laughter lingering on the dreaming space of a poisonous minute drenched in the seconds of lust for the making of a hour suddenly climbing the livelihood of a rumors night falls like a rising rain storm that challenge the knockabout expression of air drenched in the thinness of rain the arrival of the latest second found to be lacking in motions toward the little ice age of the contented cold that changed the course of earth in its climatic overreaction from the medieval climate optimum sprung by the ivory headed harpoons of the pawns muzzled by the sleep that sleep its successful satisfied hunger in the streets of Jerusalem where the faithful Jew pray to his God of the illustrious brotherhood where the chosen people go the way of the consort of war where the slender tress sleep in the warm air of the holy flowerpot like children off top school to learn the golden rules of the cross in the poet’s confession of the confusion of his alienation increased ten-fold his pathetic dreams are grandeur and mysteriously attractive he takes indifference as insult you are the very recognition he crave and yet you neglect him for the boob tube till he is forced to do his thing in a small ring hidden in the belly of the underground where the last monsters roam where the sterility and frustration of modern man is held in check by TV by pill by power by God and rod where some teaches that life is basely absurd but the glad tiding glorious girl got her get up and go greedy to guild the gild rainbow after the rain of its own knowing when last it rained I saw the poet as shaman seer who bare his eccentric eyes now full of the society conformity that rule our lives now is the time that men must act to overthrow the conventions that would

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dull his instincts of the flesh the instinct of the meat of the mind where by we know God it all began with the consciousness of the flesh seeking to know itself that the first Gods sprung to life meant to be both our savor and punisher our pusher our publisher our pound for pound proud peddler of a padded salvation God of the misplaced goodness of my foolish father he knew not what he did in the holy name of his disowned second born son named after a biblical king who in his youth slew Goliath a name that he can not live up to but as a poet own lock stock barrel and soul conformity a Goliath just the same to bring down Sun’s reflection in the eye of a Swanson thrush migrating in the accident that is God’s will the lonely life of man on earth looking far into the heaven for companionship while blind to the earth bound lying around living off of itself to be seen in the fulfilled hunger of the self-slain air where the murderer’s romantic strength suffer the anxiety of influence of the old-established estranged wisdom willful in its mythology held in the emptied mind where delight in the knowing of the flesh flee the pathetic flower of unreasoning that bloom its gigantic mounting water in the eye of the incorruptible belief of 666 angry angles with their whitescence witness of being crazy for love they lead the parade of a fifth day’s revolver’s report of someone saying good-by to their sense of the species of speed where the melancholic commonplace of a prudent rain increase its water like little children born in a warm room where the old men wash their hands in a bowel of blood touched by the holy hands filled with the paralyzed familiar objects of a stubbornness of silence’s immobility of the weakness of the sun’s knowledge its demolished lips and eyes rooted in rich soil of the Greek tongue drunk on the festival of a barely understood barbaric language of your happiness palpable by the

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insignificant shrines that stumble in the mind of a disabled fire burning the strange notion of living another life in the echo of the soul it is all about the vanished marvelous youths that give their lives to the war their handsome faces gleeful because of the unexpected news that the gambling-boats are full of the vigor of beauty and the houses of depravity determine that the poets are sacred customers that know how to avoid the certain danger of syphilis but they are beyond the indifferent campaign of the self of restrained moment in a room in heaven where you can use your vote to over rule the citizen of angels all ways on the right side while dead men take to their desires as a reminder of the skin of remembrance when the catastrophe boredom of a busting rage is burned on the altar of idols in ash the pinnacle of heaven will find itself hurled headlong into the humble heart of destiny all in all the faith have become a sciences where the crucifix is for sale beneath the magnified glass that burns a hole in the majestic cross made of clouds between the setting sun and the turning around when you can rely on my needs as strong as my back bone where our love is the last wild worst made of gold heavily setting in the velvet vault of my helplessness heard as a hallow to be set free to roam the sacrificial conformity of social fools once nihilistic now entourage as therapeutic for repressing man’s free instincts the folly old fool that feed at the table of rebellion for his individual freedom healthy and necessary to attack the conventions that keep wise men down the fool is the scapegoat hero again when he fill his belly with the embodiment of virtues and receive the credentials of the unconventional outcasts that has disavowed the material rewards of the business end of the sterility of our modern mundane society when the holy fool lose his faith in the face of an underground experience that change his way of seeing the poet seer the protagonist that dramatize his circumstance for fighting

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for the victims of an omnipotent society of iron laws that clamp down as a symbolic judgment of the realistic institutional and human relationship that will have us to live in complicity and die in despair not yet half fulfilled in the life we led so before the end sit you down and contemplate the meaning of yourself say I am and you will be crucified so keep you before your tongue a lie to be known by the poet who fight against the trivial and boring task that this society has set your hands to the task of exploitation of the answer to the question who am I of my routine behavior that the modern specialization has pegged me as a simple man who can when properly motivated by a simple reward to carry the load placed on my shoulders to tow the line of an enticing world rich in exploitation of the self and the society the meaningful moral order can be recreate in the hero’s image he struggle with the crisis of condition society seeks to make of him a marginal figures his rebellion is rich in crime and rime rimed to read the long winded rules rich in readiness the violent outrageous manifestation that shook into a crisis a search for meaning of the being that inhabits the sickness of society the poet as hero is blindly and brutally posed to overthrow with confuse passionate desires of his seen sick self seeking to snare the social structures of solace of the submissive modern man’s will that a separate soul can not divorce itself from the heavy hands of the fornication of religion the hero must become a demon to defeat a demon in the beak tortured world where the masses is mined for the strength of their muscles and are unable to develop a mind that rules itself the hero half-mad and tormented by guilt where in such a place the self is brutalized dehumanized by a rigid religion ready to rid us of free will the hero lives a solitary life that will come to no good for the self but seeks to find a resolution of the solution of resistance for the outsiders in search of his identity he do not seeks to

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become a martyr but those who he seeks to save will behave out of fear toward the hatred misfit longing for normality and meaning the mindless mob in a moment of collected triumph in the mist of a nightmare will kill their savior for the violence good of an inhuman society can not be transcended without a death we can not be saved without the sacrifice that dies to reveal the prejudices of a decaying institution of control by his resistance we come to know that we too are condemned unless we rage out at someone and often time that someone is he who seeks to be divine by our eyes for the world loves to hate a hero

Part III. Earth is bearing witness to the sleeping moon caught stealing the death of a Cimarron to 200 lashes given to the back of the night to the ambushed by Diego del Campo raiding a mule train in the forest to the slaves boiled alive it have seen the severed heads of slaves on a pole in the town square when the Jobabo war of the negroes raged in Hispaniola it have witnessed Campo turn turn-coat against his skin color dark as a negro night holding a sliver of a silver spoon eating away the moon it has witnessed Manuel Espinosa betrayed by torture when the feast of John the Baptist was hung drawn and quartered it has witnessed the capture of La Prueba to sail it back to Africa it has witnessed the skinning alive of a black woman and her detached skin stuffed with straw it has witnessed the setting on of dogs it has witnessed the thin top lips of white men speaking lies in a stolen land

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where the slave of smallpox eliminated thousands of the Indians of Mexico the Spaniards in the forward footsteps of Cortes and Balboa in search of the gold filled cities of Cibola by the conquering hearts of disease found in Estebanico a dark skin survivor till he met the Zuni who gave him his death to keep tight in the rot of his skin dark as night we all are a guilty group of men that have rend the end of other men search my pockets and you will find my sins that I mean to write away with my pen Earth has witnessed the Peruvian slavocracy caught in the throat of the new world birthing itself in an old land of native that knew the land’s secrets and the sacred span of the ocean’s occasion that did not care to enslave the mulatto fishes conspiring to kill a Jamaican slave dealer dealing in contraband goods of incoming bozales stolen from the controversies of smuggled blacks against the asiento of 1696 when the grievous voice of a single moment of an ancient summer bloom the sigh of an obscure grace of the slaves before the rebellion dragged through the streets to the door steps of La Merced convent where the nuns have forgotten how to weep for the vivacious boys of the city that love each others under the mid-night moon forever a frightful barrier of the mysteries of darkness O beautiful darkness of El Cimarron the frightened miracle will vanish under the shame of the philosopher’s exterminated godlike boorish demons that will kill wisdom Earth has witnessed the muddy migration of swollen grass nibbled by zebra stripes crying crocodile when the wilder beast stampeding the river bed crying out to the long held union of rain and fresh grass Earth has witness the clogging night that once issued forth a convulsion of stars in the mulecones expenses paid

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to the cat’s meow national anthem waving like a flag of bumble bees on the petal of the flower’s tears Earth has witnessed the wordless flute playing the hymen of a performed plantation of work horse bozales in the disembarking from the ship of a skipped tongue it has witnessed the coming forth from the eyelashes of the eyes of Tmu breaking the lockstep of perpetual and persuasive slavery to the cotton and sugar mills’ muscles pushing against the freedom of a hand to tend to its own work of the body in a free society entangle in the perforations imprinted on the executioner’s tongue Earth has witnessed the blacks deeper brown then the fertile dirt where grows the difficult calculation scheme of who is a mestizo who is a castizo who is a mulato who is a morisco who is a gibaro who is an alborazado who is a cambujo who is a zambaigo who is a calpa mulato who is a tente en el aire who is a no te entiendo in the skin of a wayward wind blowing its breath toward the castes strung alone the blood line of a psychotropic acting out its magnetize fluid incased in the dark body wishing to be burnt by the sun’s holy thanksgivings Earth has witnessed the triangular feud of Yankee machinations Yankee gathering all cults Yankee’s evidences held in the contemporary idolatry of selling everything on and under the sun under the new moon white people will always do what is white for you Earth has witnessed the banking house of Welsher selling slaves to the cuneiform of hallucinogenic idols looking for deviations in the extensive exopsychic knowing of a God that have seen man marking his territory by sacrificed testament of pissing on the street

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Earth has witnessed the premature habitation of effigies molded in meter poetry for the rational transcendent tradition of a squirrel hiding its stores against the approach of winter telling that it can tell time as we tell the hail Maries hail Jesus full of magisterium patient for earth Earth has witnessed the jealously guarded entrusted body of itself represented by the eye of a Rudy- Crowned kinglet mistaken for a warble wintering where the Little Breviary of a holy incantation can not die on the tongue of a lay person where the fifteen mystery of the holy rosary of the good news gospel of resisting those natural appetites which besiege the souls to be bounded by the dissolving ice at the edge of the once peaceful proliferating northern sea of survival O woman Eve rib of my lung O woman Mary mother of man and God behold the migrant passerine’s small flight of audacity its sluggish hunger hung on the taste of the Ten Commandments’ prostitution perched beside the grandiose prejudices of life in the skin of the world Earth of a four fold season dropping humiliated snow and stranded leaves and desolated rain and self-conscious flower petals to the nightly slugs drowned in a tin of beer sprawled-out in the astonishing mute shadows of a fragile darkness hiding in the corner of human authority man along can not triumphs over earth known by its water and blood its breath of alleluias alleluias the Lord has indeed arisen saying the same things to the big boned hollow chatter in the erotically ear preened with a child living inside the closeness of getting free earth have witnessed night confess to thee of your stress in the restless bliss dealt and felt by the melt of the moon riding the river of a righteous storm that shall deliver you from the tomb when you give ear to the words of Gods let my people go

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the way of the mercy that knows that man is guilty let my people go where God’s cold is rolled across the heartbroke shore of your heart and your tongue-told bone hold the smartness of your art crucified on your pride beside the fire of your breath when death call you to the company of the master and there your past shell blast asunder the light of your right eye rolled down the shut forever run of the last sun Earth terra mater under the domain of Tellus and the fertility of Ceres in the month of April fooling the Gregorian calendar of the nineteenth footing into thinking that all the lost years with their spent seconds silently scatter across the docile meaning of the body earth mother earth father earth with all its kin of conflagration living the good fat life that only earth can give to its breath bound inhabitance its ocean fumaroles ignition that dive and float submissively to its commands issued as a hurricane of wind and water blinding the hunger of the air to be filled up with a desire for war with Lazarus falling sick with the saving of the sorrowful soul but truthful spirit and body suffering the healing salvation of rain on the face asleep the rain keep its lament spent on the rhyme of seven heaven where the together weather of your emotion toil in the soil of the flesh that went bent in the lush thrush brush of a rush winning the praise of the Gods weather my fair weather friend my everyday companion we wear each other both night and day wear each other both fair Earth of a packing house where the cold pill is due to heal the oracle of Abu the hypothesized possibility found in the age of naming where the astonishing wrong doing of watching television is held tight against the fatigue night unable to sleep but must continually move toward the birth of daylight itself a roving angle angel waiting to be

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lit up the promise of rain is heard on the breeze a sleepy thing easing its way southeastward the sky crack open in a flood of emotion and the clouds give birth all is not lost along the long string of rain that break open on the concrete where puddles reflect rain embracing the air with a song to sing where its refrain scare with a flare the lie’s prize of vows on the boughs of spring’s wings that roar a shore pour its score ascend till spent on the prime slime of life on the shoulder of the beholder bolder then its brother as a mother nursing as a father protecting as a lover sharing the house of the heart the cage where age finds its full measure that dwells and fell in the flesh there where whine us down to the rare air of the end of the wind and we make amend to our rescued friend overwrought by the hand of the land where the burial of an oak is stroked where the watery bed is bred from snow where the sea-swell’s will is the joy of a poor boy and everywhere the round motion of air’s breath is caught in the seamanship of a forsaken waken by the thunder down under seeming redeeming of the eternal burn my soul remember the greenish yellow path in the Taebaek mountains of Korea the colonized bells the sat Buddha among the fall foliage and the white beaches of Cheju-do the remembrance of blood on Port Chop Hill deceased renascent memories the empty lights of a by-gone day I have paid for my days all 54 years of them the wreckage of the immaculate virgins as a poet I tell all of my secrets I caught herpes from a Korea whore a business girl a picked up in a G I bar in the village of Tongduchon where the redemption by wild fire water wild women and wild drugs the cargo of the American soldiers on leave from Camp Casey on an over nighter pass a turtle sleeping in the dinner plate bed of a whore once an immaculate virgin do she ever contemplate the consistency of her trade the sharing of the naked skin

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Earth with its eyes to the ground watching over fresh graves turned out of their skins in the last holy art of reasoning that the sons of Ganymede are going to war against those who will kill the eagle rather then let the voluptuous beautiful cup bearer into their estheisi invented heaven where only the catholic claim that they can go where the shittim wood overlaid with gold housed in the smite want of sex it shall come to pass that all shall be seen as sisters and brothers in the midnight hour of our forgetfulness the kind mind shall triumph in the season of our faithful reason when earth birth the exultation of our salvation and we know that the tender slender flocks of flowers the thunder of colossal colors fit for the eyes of bees that fly the scented why of a reply the handsome face of a flower’s grace drift as lift by the wind that roam without a home sing long of the wind with a song overflowing with the first communion for Nature is the godhead of the all mighty consolation the royal ration the blooming fuming consuming years of tears she is mouth and ears divine she is the first and the last of life all imposing power that cover all none can step outside none can go pass there is no knowable knowledge without her celesta power she is the present living God of Gods she is Isis and Bast Ninhursay and Ishtar Devi and Shiva Artemis and Athena Agrona and Brigid Freyla and Fulla Mary and Eris she is God my father my mother wedlock as one Earth has witnessed man claiming the tree of knowledge to discern the suppose scientifically hidden face of God when the face is all about him to be seen in the skin of trees in the flesh of water in heart of dirt in the forgetful voice of the wind in the consumption blood of mosquitoes in the restless pumping heart of the conflagration of bees in the motion of ants’ knees and the breath of a fly buzzing about busily about the business

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end of the day where our breath feeds the trees that feed in return in this union is to be found the sensual air trap in the lung of a new born the birth of a tree the birth of a child both a holy thing brother of the other joy in the birth of a boy joy in the birth of an oak kind in kind in the flung flame of a tongue by defiance name she is the same that can not know shame with justices and with grace she keep to her pace strong she can not do wrong Earth has witness the eternal eminent and minimal minute broken down to where we are holding fast in its circumstance of a mythological relationship that rationalize the passing of a prophet’s minaret into the cries of the faithful whose mouth is full of begging prayers the world bowel is forever fat and full of begging while we no longer call to the spectral sun in it ephemeral rebirth to save us from the cyclone orgasm ragging across the face of earth we are her heir we born bare wear the concern that turn on the tip of our minds in the hour of our greatest need we plea to a God never seen our needs betwixt the fixed mixed rife of life spent on the element of laws that draw praise to the supposedly only way but the poet say rest in the breast of the breath you who do through your daily lockup live look to the very birth of your union look to the everyday God immaculately full of worms God of the shared air the understood undertook motherhood of the flood of blood in the veins the mystery of the Nazareth is not the same for he requires a far flung heaven and not the wondrous robe of the globe with its good heart playing the part of the will still in the flesh the marvelous conceive before the year that man was born we are late comer to the Godhead Earth has witnessed the black Jesus darken in the desert where he faced himself facing the demons in the viperish visions that beset the souls of men along in the worthy

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world where spirits fight for our attention in the heat of the sacred bull bated battle waged on the head of a pin with them I have taken my vigils by the throats where once they was my yokes when I was living for pleasure in the dull disgust of conformity where my soul betrayed me for the wealth of money in a work-a-day life and I declare war on St. Louis with poems as my mercenary acquaintance and weapon I want to return the jungle to the city to flood the building with wild desires a-washed and worn down by nature ever seeking to reclaim the earth as its own in the underbelly of our industrialized society of nigger neglect found in the mind of the rusty red neck dusty words willful on the tongue tossing their stale naked meaning to do harm some words flow with guilty blood peddling fake-full-ness fast past the thirst of words rooted in the breeding ground of fornication’s copulations of tough love and tight nuts in the sex of the streets there is a rough need to get it up in life based on the hard-on emotional music of the moon where the abstractions of the technocrats is looking for their affirmation of the imagination of being betrayed by a kiss when the boredom of the masses have a grip on the past they will not riot the future they seeks to harness it with their pockets wet with pennies they heed the poor prophet poet with a hidden face the king of the tireless kisses that makes the children faint right beside my Romanian drums that know a music they use to hide how could they have betrayed you in the night where no man come you know that your fingers nails never lie about a song that must die like the loves that haven fallen throughout the years I’m pushing off all the demonic desires that use to scream within me beside a tender doing that love will kill for the two will setter on a fit dream of the few free individuals whom wholly successfully exploits nature dig her inside out suck her dry with a romanticism of protest like Lillian laughing her elongated love of men who themselves go

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weeping a million strong man tears from the wet before the weeper jurors messiahs that call you to follow them into the new attitude to break open the stereotypes that you are bred into Sun’s heart the only child in this system where the paganism of Palermo stone break on the foot steps of Khafre sitting in words by the way of the grand Caucasian consensus squandered by the blowtorch of a hissing funnel multicolored stamped of Gods exhausted by the solidity of a dazzling tender water where desires of possibility supporting the absolute climate of a sharpened wind’s precision and the Gods have forsaken the birds of de facto broken down region of the last religion describing irreconcilable angry and have made man the outcast with his prostrations of the sacrificial prayers in the fashion of a delivered message’s dominant dialogue disappearing day by day into the human mentality of a widespread auditory hallucination telling us to be kind to each other under the profound auditory rules of the Old Testament under the old Babylonian objective wisdom addressing the formalistic solidity sumptuous and frenzied lightning foaming a call brushed by the skin of the forever water that washes away the fragile face of the behavioristic needs with their recognition of a godly pounding Odysseus heart marvelous and forever supporting the wild impulses of an enraged throat where words bloom beyond the strong logic madness of a giant radiant absolute wish to belong under the supporting roof of the tomb that break the coccoloba brain growing beside the sensual sensitive sea of the mentioned mentality burst in the belly of a radiant laughter of yellow which ruthlessly dominate the grid of a darken withdrawal from all that you guess will be the death of you fall into form from the formal answer characteristic of the lost question playing pranks and looting the mores

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rogues of the subsidized machinery of the popular phlogistic phobic police pounding the beat of a burning candle cradled in the arms of the creditor that holds the notes of your soul in cold blood shall he douse your heated passions with the money paid to the informer poets that have betrayed in a hell of hypocrisy the poets as fallen archangels of the individual looming egotistical longing for fighting the dull commercial conformity daily brought and sold to the common weakness that it engender in the limitation of the poor who cry out for quarrelsome quantity over qualified quality while the poet cry out in disgust for a serious self-reflection of themselves as victims as spectators under the social codes of being a good citizen the poorest of the poor are to busy being poor to be excided by the execrable excesses of the self-righteous riches of the rich of the bulging bourgeois’ belly birthing leaning leaders of society’s official view of the gratification of itself while the poet venturing far from the conventional to find himself find that he is alone in the symbolizing myth of the worldly real world woven wiry around the wounds of the naked cities verging on the insanity of glass and steel of the immortal boredom of mountains of bricks while in the nocturnal shadows in the green zone of the forest of the wilderness mysteriously divine in its strikingly similarities of the madman’s attempt to murder the daylight of the granite eye of a stature to the flesh of the war dead swollen in the halflight irrepressible tornado torn and tattered by the bare foot voice of a mirror relaxing its reflections of anger sleeping in the armored flower assuming the position of freedom under the embrace of the sun’s storeroom of alchemy found in the confinement of a screaming rain with its generosity of rusting the machines of rotten flesh with their sterile spectacle attitudes of regrets that rest in the vast pathetically ghost of the host’s mirage behold the hideousness of the mythical mysterious monsters of the

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rival to the state that take their castration in strive beside the universal dream of man’s myth his psychic needs solitary and sedentary against the calamities of the primordial unconsciousness of the chaos of the libido poet that fight the battle for us all his tormented psyche fighting the monistic monolithic monster of the state his struggle toward the animalism harmony relieving itself in the mouth of man’s pettiness beneath the statuesque beauty of the sky where the battle to discover a meaningful identity of the lonely voyagers who find society shallow and repellent is in love with the terrible unbearable parable mother of the dark self and the terrible father of tyrannical authority suppressing rebellion against the status quo of the state of an order world in need of its imposing will of unvoiced scandals it require the people to prostrate themselves sprawled-flat beneath the bitter brightness of the boredom of our daily lives in the hesitant flow of a recalcitrant old color ancient in it trafficking ancient as a shipwreck in an age of flight across the difficult metamorphosis of rain clouds quivering in a corner of the inlay bluish communication of the fragile gifts of the clarity of the two eyed sky filled with the wood butcher’s huller cutting down the forest of a midnight rest

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Earth has witnessed the tell tell heart of a drunken betrayal frozen in a minor key where each stepping note gather unto itself the last frost knocking green squeezed from the heart of a leaf hidden in the warm fog of a ground base cloud kissing windless what can not be destroyed by eyes focused on the head of a lost penny I have taken my scorpion flowers to mark the naïve pains that rains with their helplessness of implication firmly

rooting in the blast of a radio’s erotic dreams of violent lip service a respect for bending over the strove watching my emotions come to a soft boil full of materialistic outcast taking the long ride deep inside poet prophet solitary wanderer pushed to become a criminal with the growing opportunities that excites him to be one wanted by the state that deny him throw your hat over the deck the black porters are polite the guards follow him around but he ain’t got nothing at all but what he done paid fer the old by force of life move about slowly its all about the flesh of things living and dying by the obscure force of it all a nameless motion toward the breath of an inner instant innocent of nothing when wrinkles are moving across my limbs when the circulated cracking of skin of Pruitt-Igoe busting at the black seam bricking the poor up in their bricked over sky with its unknown deadly silent hunched in a corner Earth your burning your coming to grip with yourself your sweet swallowing green hair calling for a crake full of your breath exchanged one by one toward the kicking night fighting for its place among the many sided light shining into a dance performed by bees that have forgotten to sleep where an attack take place across the barricade of a flower dressed up for the motion of stopping dead in the tiny hands of a new born’s worth against the memories of our elegant elders hands asking the reflection in the mirror what am I doing here why do I stand in the looking glass and see the face that I make what is behind this refection caught in time this flesh that seek the divine maker of the mind what be this me equal to Mary’s son the one for all men are equal of the flesh all must rest and drew breath all must feed and be fed upon all spirits show and glow the transmittable it of the soul the blind mind can know the dear atmosphere of the God the eye does not lie see your God day by day in the way

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you go about the daily breathing It in count this not as a sin the Godhead seep within the Godhead salt of the tears’ vault the coal sold the old daystar of man’s knowing the him dim in the daylight of sight dim within the glorious light of the sun the sky air there full of prayers the wild child born in a civilized city a black wind pack to rack a mound-full of motion the mortal beauty of a hand the warm form of the brain the storms that swarm the land the greater part of the human heart the guess no less working of art the express bliss of a kiss the I can man of the church the foot trod of would be Gods the grief that know no relief the chief that sing his brief cheap all small things that creep all that sleep the dear life held near strife the joy far flung from a willing heart the day spent and where it went your breath-locked lament the task ask of you to obey the killing of will in a day the mast we play the steel prick of a dick the bear thick rage in an age of war all theses are within the care of the Gods the pair that lay together bear the spark in the dark that leave no mark on the skin of the sky the resurrection of a dejection the ash of trash of man the shield of a field of trumpet that play the day away the increment event carried out behind the door the lust that shake and break the wake of rain the glory story of our birth the tamed name of our inner flame the fussy noise of the rain that strongly came in the early spring of a song to sing the wrong of an explanation of inspiration brought on by the creation of a miss placed bliss Earth my fair weather comrade my companion my intimate longing is all for you earth my comfortable stone where the pin point stars of pin point dreams feeding off the succulent flesh of consciousness tells the waking hour to keep its silent hushed in the breath of a clock counting counter clockwise the heart beat of eyes asleep in the blackish night caught in the closed lagging lids where you

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are forever turning your singular head to face the wars raging across your face your rain blood is the blood of the immaculate conception fighting its way in a book of poems waiting to be read by the yet unborn my hysterical weather my concentrated living wood the abrupt eyes of rain contain in each drop a reflection of the approaching earth each drop contain the memory of the sea O my privileged lover you are a bouquet in the throat you are a non to anxious song in the ears you are a heavenly heaviness in the heart of hasty hands cupped to feel the slightest quake of your immense body bold in its aspect bound by the cosmos beckoning all my snoring songs are for you Earth witnessing the last granular sugar growing against the frown kept by Valerius Maximus writing the violation of his objected father where Cicero familiar with male love kept in a Yellowhammer’s beak in the southern pine where Camelia in its ancient scent keep caodia praying for the music of the rebel strung across the gun camera where all the muscles that I can muster I give to you my lover my faithfulness my beautiful mother with trees in your hair and your blood making its way to the sea my maintained mountainest yearning is all for you as Antinous loved Hadrian so are you the wonder of my small world and I am caught in the grip of your blizzard passion storming me over into the thunderous downpour downrange of your hurricane raging its way in the blood lock veins of my body where I breath in your breathe and give it back to the tress waiting in silent for the exchange you are my lascivious lover you are the way of all knowable knowledge you are the face and body of the knowable good God that goes about its secret duty day by day without end and I am wonderstruck by your bountiful beauty as my water tight skin cries out for your touching I

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am man caught within your grip made by your hands without you I can not stand to stand alone Earth the divine gift of advertising itself and good health and enthusiasm of growth to cover every inch in its need to feed and be fed upon by the living dying a death that they have never died before in the key of life is the whisper of the batted breath bathed in a better banana beam between a sentimental summer spread as a season green and a handsome voice vibes speaking to the vibrancy of the sky filled with a willow tree’s motion of wind sing your mysteries sad silence song that I catch with my mouth fill me up till I am as fat as the edge of the world all gathered up up plumb marvelous jump the alluvium unlimited fire of a rekindled visitation found in the wild metamorphosis of the disappearance quivering weather wanting to be itself when the romantic-artisthero’s rebellion is a quest of the object ego toward the saving of the world the poet’s lonely vision is alienated by his self preserves turned man of the street hero with his breathy speak that takes a moment of triumph to take the breath away half fool half visionary half full of envy and anxiety for the ego the price to be paid for acting at odd against the ordinary and conventional for doing battle with fears personified as demons that seek the shape of reality turned inward Earth and its noise of the sublimate desire of the flesh and of silent ripping as wind on a pond with its minute life swimming toward the crowed depth where life keep its strong hold tight in the gasses of the elemental word Nature roused by paganism in their glorious visceral needs of the last bastion of poets caught within the symptom and symbol of selfhood for his fellow man his values representing truth forgotten of the introspection intellectual self-contemplation needs needed to be come a

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hero transcending the grey grievous fault found in the confinement of conflict between himself and society he loves to serve the world in spite of its dominant indifference he is a wishful worshipper of words quick to quarrel the best known dramatization of the paradox of turning the material of his lonesome art-life into his art with an animal grace he goes about the world as one put into the mind of others feeling the pains and joys of his sisters and brothers with their seductive banalities their dead-flat lives lived without serious reflection on their fate within a society that will betray all who find poetry to be a revenge on life and betray the poet trying to redeem and recreate the world through his suffering through his self-tortured soul at odd with the little dignity of the simple-minded the poets must earn their crosses they must be purifier of the sluggish mater of daily life played out in the fickle and fatal world Earth has witnessed war after war after unyielding wars of man against man earth is full of the hostile literature of war of the heartbroken grief on the dead bed of a dream of war fought in the head when the self can not reconcile its own divinity against the animalist nature of man on the deathbed of unfamiliar inhabitants of heaven that gave birth to war on the deathbed restructured harmonious erotic passion of war on the deathbed of the authority of the burnt sacrifice of war war war war war and more wars of man the last warring beast of war war of desire the intercourse interplay of war the masquerade masturbation of war the suicidal sexual preference of war the scriptural of war studied in the halls of a war school the sodomy of war fucking itself the determinative morality of war the impious enemies of war are warring against the contemptible clandestine treatment of war O my man’s man why do you study the barely bestiality of war why is your hands full of the instruments of war why is your

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hard on heart filled with the richness of war feeding off the testimonies of Christ and Mohammad whose followers flight the war of forgotten prayers of loving your brother Earth has witnessed night’s inner thoughts eating the paschal meal to symbolically filled night’s belly full of stars and the wayward comet of a thought sweeping its way across the divine knowledge of the neo pagan selfhealing heart pumping the blood of the deserted moon that can not contain it own illuminate light the distance is sucking up all the light that lend its heaviness to the select air of an untamed hour broken by the grey stone of the dead dusty moon shimmering beside a beneficent cathedral where eastern Easter raising is folded into a cross made of palm where the confused reality of the delusion of staled rigid religions that can not espial itself can not escape the sterility of a grounded necessity of the soul of shy and weak eyes that can not know while watching the passing of an ordinary egotistical routine critical of its own passing beside modern man irrational and absurd with the demonic false expectations that lives within him even the artist as tragic sufferer as lonely doer in the dark does with his mythic implication of the sick knowledge of the world that he lives in his abnormality will through his art come to aid the self-centered nature of normality the poet sick to death of the warring nature of the priestly asceticism that enslave the painful joy that ingratiate itself with the moral stature inherently compassionate toward the dangers and disasters of the mass society overwhelmingly mad poets are heroes by negation by neglect by the nasty little secured secrets that the government keeps about what is bad what is good displaced in blind inconspicuous nature that have become the very thing that it attack

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Earth has witnessed the air pollution of its breathe and its skin of anesthesia feeding its way across the boundaries of a hand held fast to the capability of the morrow which comes on its own accord and wake the dead like sleep of birds dreaming of woven worms and seeking seeds and schooling their young in the art of living off the earth in a fat year of plenty underneath the umbrella tree the uvula is sweet and tasted and beneficently bare of bones where the air is thickest with the choice choke chorography mapping of commitments held in the loan of air from the lung of bully birds in bear trees and under eves of homes where the vulviform voracious voices of children hint at the waffling of warmth that plays with them as common as public violence in Americas as a crippled waiting wind whirling its willful way pass their playful plasticize plain song with the tainted air in their throat they go about the momentary jubilate joy that tellingly teach them about the way of living a life within the wonder of the whole wide world Earth has witnessed more then the familial poets in their small brain work can fathoms more then the mind can comfortable conceive in its mistakenly all knowing all seeing all riotous wisdom woven by the brain cells of time can comprehend it has witnessed man thinking himself the chosen probate people made in the egocentric and idiosyncratic image of a far away God with nothing better to do then to look in wonder after the doings of man trying to eagerly escape to the far away starveling stars of the unknown life in the universe’s electricity that fires the poet’s companions as he walks virtually unrecognized among us with his essence an obvious mystery describing the urban chaos of the common-place they do not emerges unscathed but scared over from the hell that they endures with sadness falling from their faces for the small satisfactions afforded us in a bountiful

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society that mocks and scorns them have they made of themselves a cliché a parody of their of their dead brothers now in books dusty on the shelves of the soul’s knowing that the hero as quester as wanderer as exiled from the stagnation and futility of modern life that mocks the possibility of an impression of truth about the origin sin committed against the physical environment of the littleness of life

Part IV. . I am caught in the masturbation’s convulsion Where the seeds of my yet to be sons are simmering into the light to die on the white towel and all my body’s function cry out to the temerarious temper that keeps me capable of fathering children fathering the common sense of poverty and the abrupt cadence of buried hunger held in the heart of a heated histophysiology high on the art of tissues where you are free to go and fill yourself up with a thousand happy wooing small enough to fit in silver thimbles wrenched within a pressing love respectful of the wasted years of yearning for a lightly learned longing lost from the fair side of a seldom monarch dethroned in the wrong of a heaven on earth that enter its plea for the beautiful woman conveniently employed by a courtship be you marry in your wooing like a stamp in gold the very riches that can not fight love be you such a man as to tell the story of a woo won in the world of respect for words that moves a woman’s mind be you extolling the grace of angels to win a woman’s beauty with the integrity of tears and a seldom sigh feeling the lines that force the heart to sing did I give you a heart made of stone die I give you my love that doesn’t last to long did I

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take away you faith when I made you wake didn’t I make you my king to share the rule Didn’t you only wanted to take me to school when I’m to young to be singing the blues but seem like I’m old enough to be your fool full enough with the cool blue blues red blues green blues blooming a yellow unconditional propose of thought that fight its way out into the splendid motion of words held by the justice of the ear the war bar of words fighting among themselves as not to be lift in the lurch straightly falling to the thicket of dead thoughts where the God are dying out after their season of being one with the world the soul within you the enemies within you the children of impotent revolt within the singular soul that do battle with the flesh concerning the battle in heaven for the souls of men I was caught by the pill’s promise against an ill of the soul and when it was done by the light of a brass spittoon I saw the glitter of the machine sun shining its quivering thunder to the victorious trumpet that played for the lost queen of the Nile where fate by fate’s promise is fulfilled where the water is spilled where the spillage is still stalled on the river bank of a dream of letting things out to do their wanting work worth all the wonder of the united universe ignorant of the pressures of the conventional morality of the arrogant self-pitying homebound and humane hunt for a God that have no oppressive opposition to the poetic flesh of sensible sex for sex’s sake of the sexagenarian I was caught in an Ethiopian’s skin as dark as a developing storm raging over a candle’s flame stiffening its licks in the barbaric air of Nowe knotted with impuissant clouds reflecting the street light’s

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hum where Chem have forgotten the meaning of its name under the rules of foreign rulers who ruled out our sainted ancestors whose surrealistic spiritual survival what depended on the living who have all but lost their color in the black Africanism of the direful dirt’s song sung to the lost children homeless and alone with their swelled bellies bloated as a blob moon seen thru tears of a hurried hunger hanging on the tongue I was caught in a breeding hunger in the belly of the moon where the secret boredom of a nocturnal word laid luminous beside earth’s reflected light and the nightmare night goes nipping on the edge of an eye lash long and luxurious and loose as a longevous longitude exhumed by the ferocious evidence found in a ruptured madness of a senseless killing that raise its head in the everyday working that is the American way of doing life the gun shots ring out across the face of the city the cry from the barrel of the gun is a pled that does not ask for forgiveness 30 dead at a university the nine millimeter murder on the streets of knowledge I was caught by the richness of bread in the belly of death full of harvested dead ears of corn and the last supper’s nourishment singing alleluia alleluia alleluia O brethren scribes it is no more then we desire in the words that we place between the beautiful majesty and the magnificent bounty of life and death being their self in the ancient cognizable circle O papa death your nails are filled with the dirt of the last of living laying with last breath cocked O beloved Son reigning with thee let Paul’s witness touching the gentle Gentiles guide us to the gilt abode let us be able to know the galaxies’ absence wanderings the fraternal space that silent make the timeless innocence of a black hole the breath of the blue globe the standing scum that holds its bit of the holy glory

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I was caught by wine’s rejoicment hidden in the veins of a peaceful drunker sleeping in the door way of misplaced time dreaming of more wine and the vine that entwine the last spoken words before falling outward onto the wet pavement the homeless with their honest history are fleeing the raiment rain’s rampage raging downward from a boastful busted cloud that leak its load into the cold do we care to know where the homeless goes when the silent cold blows against a thousand souls with their wants of a warm roof a fire to sat beside in the darkness of an abandoned building that tersely remember the lives that once lived within with the drunker we began opening a bottle is within the memories of his hands hands drunk to the bones fumble and rest heavily on the thigh I was caught and held accountable for the Lord’s body and blood seen in the sacrament of a token race that ate manna in the desert of drunk mountains where the announcing forest give shattering shelter to the vespers calm claims of thank be to glory of God the Supreme Creator of the light and darkness that lend a preparing way to the uniting morn and eve that blade them both we call the day let us pray to the Father’s daughters and sons all that is living under the sumptuary sun the whole secret of the Father’s kindness kingdom for all life is kindred be it red or green blood in the venational veins and vine of living things that cling and climb none above none below all the children are equally loved all that drink the water of the rain all that absorb the warming rays of the sun and that self same self-giving self-generator of light is the self-fulfilling gentleness of the Lord I was caught by the dark color of coffee that flood my eyes in a rage of bowel movement filtering the Mississippi in its rushing run toward salvation’s seeds

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sown by the teaching of the Holy Spirit singing a hymn to the electric untouchable water from the angles eyes when man have forgotten to give them their duded praises they can not go their way without the witness of man’s personal prayerful permission entering the wings of their ears they live within the playfulness of our forgiveness in the heart of our mind are they kept divine dressed in the fine clothing of a rhyme their speech gather about us where two or three are gathered together in their names where the five pillars holding up the celebrating food of God where Jibril and Mikhail and Isralil and Azrail announce the coming of the lord the angels record your deeds all your doing under the sun they miss none going before going behind all between Radwan and Malik the mystical seats where believers shall find their final rest keeping the company of the worst and the best I was caught by the plastic pathic flower’s ancestral cynosure of intellectual beauty frozen in a milkweed seed where the sweet secret sweat of needs to spread with the wind’s speed is a thing unto itself Monkar examine me I am a lovely yet lonely seed in the wayward wind unheard heading toward the gravid grave of your domain a sudden refugee of anarchy looking for the new heaven to be found on earth where the washing-of-the-mouth ceremony is renewed by the city God where the dead Osiris voice is heard in the wings of a bee heading toward the four-o clock heard in the buzz of a following fly heard in the song of a moaning morning dove heard in the scamper of a squirrel up the trunk of an old muliebrity mulberry in full purple fruits hanging a free gift from nature for birds and squirrels a-like a-like your desires are as wild as a spider’s instinct to web they are sticky to catch to coach and collide when the web tinkle too heavy to hold a full load of a little night music told to the serenata notturna dancing of the bees toward the blossom

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with its white wild beauty the wilderness is everywhere from the fly buzzing about my bedroom to the line of ants across the kitchen floor the more we try to shut it out the more the more the more Chopin’s opus 9 no. 2 follow the fly the ants are marching to the tune of finding food and if I was a whisper I would blow a low soft Porgy and Bess Summertime into your Ain’t necessarily so ears cocked to craw across the blues falling from gospel in the church of the hail Marry full of grace the censors smoke with its self doubts curving where the red robe split the smoke into hail Mary full of grace how does your garden grow tell your Son if he does not know that the poets have come to right a wrong done in a pertinence to war the suffice of youth giving its life the sacrifice the all most suicidal listening of the sensitive thumping a wind done found itself into my empty pockets kind-of-a-thing keeping me company when I step without a rhyme without a time signal found in the erratic motion of falling forward in a dance with air I got a wonderful feeling that I got one more mile to go I was caught by the brilliance memory of a butterfly’s metamorphosis published in the dream shelter where imminent immigrates of the sun and the insecure institution of the fisted first word spoken fell upon the children of Israel let there be light said the soft flesh of the future wind let the whispering of waves be upon the world the embodiment of hallucinated advising voices empathizing emplaced with gayety let there be man said the pusher shepherd of the underlining undying host let him not depart from the smoking shadows of the awesome answer to life caught in the spell of death let the children of the sun find their Ka under the burly burning fumaroles forgotten and forgetting the fatigue wonderful working of the earnest earth

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I was caught by Pharaoh’s dream of the begotten corruption turned to withstand the affliction of the admonitory function of the sodomites burning in the church of the effeminate papal’s papaw decree tattooed on their skin of the fat belly priest where the conquistador’s contemptible consumption for the desires of the native Gods was blinded by the golden hunger of their own bloodthirsty polished plasticity of God’s corruption sacrificing the tho shall not kill in the name of the calling of savages and red skins nearly naked in the heat of the green light of the juicy jungle I was caught by the sumptuous penances of genetic blood flowing in its madness down the tiled corridor of laughter where is heard the deafness of stars fitted out in the greater darkness that is a holy thing in its own right and the rightness of a humble homeless wild woman’s suffering for life is fitted out in the desensitized darkness of St. Louis her divided desires is for a wareroom’s warmth and food She waits in the collateral cold at the bus station a jounce journey never taken she wait the shrill arrival of a bus from the good life full of the welcoming wellness that she knows will come I was caught by the unfathomable horizon rejoicing to be renewed by the beautiful ancestors of the flowering razor’s response to a new day let the sunlight cut its way at the edge of darkness fleeing the space that it holds captured let the earth restless motion command the working of man to lay his worrying head toward the cone that points his sleep and let loose dreams famished and choked and desolated of hope explode by the geometric weight of the particular interest sacred with its repetitively rhythmical supernatural knowledgeable

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utterance of the impulses that transpose the daylight seen associations obvious to the eyes awaken by the sound of a cognitive imperative beating to the beat of a hardy heart heard in the ears of a awakening clock I was caught between the redemption of the precious unclenching memory and passing descent of a wedding’s splendor hung on the famished vomit of an acute sky where birds flying like flung feathers tatter to their shadows follow the inbred migration’s path written in memory on the roadless sky with its primitive pattern of clouds enduring the serviceable winds of an integrated individuality free flowing blowing above the crowed underground where the social reality in its greasy sickness of economic enterprise both intellectually and physically living by instincts and passion their hands with their remembrance of the forceful hum of the machines drunk on oil stripping the poor of their earned energy the poor in their irritation of making money organized the mute forces of their lives dreaming of what they can not buy with the small currency that have driven them below the radar of a fat society dripping its droppings like a sudden rain shower they are thrown a juicy bitter bone rich in marrow to keep their eruption wet so that it will not bust into flames they are kept in check tied to the breeding ground and are told to pull themselves up when the money greased runs of the ladder start on the tenth floor where they are not allowed if they can not grease the palms of the doorkeeper who check their bank accounts the poor are against the poor they are taught to fight among themselves in a blaze of glory for the limited commodity to lose their motion for self determination to keep to themselves the inner frustration they are a commodity bought and sold manipulated upon the market where everything have a cash value even unique identity the rebel poet who puts his poem in the mouth of the

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folioed but they prefer Hallmark the underground man in his dark damped habitat knows nothing of Dostoevsky society forces him into drudgery beneath the weight of a richly dressed bureaucratic house filled with the latest gadgets their screams are heard and ignored beyond the gated community where the poor manicure the static lawns feed the children enbolded and enfolded by riches and wash the expensive dishes and take out the trash of a throw away beauty that conjure up a function of a feast set before the anti-hero forbidden to eat of the bounty born of an idea of commerce where the brutality of the mass man hunt the darken streets for the weak such is the sterility and frustration of modern man locked by want of work in the diseased noise of the city the poet as hero lives among us ciphering off our misery rehashing our joys showing us off they do not ask to be forgiven or absolved for walking on the outside of social pressure they go about swallowing the body of our emotions eating our stupidity they are drunk on the social alienation of our young they purge us of our banality I was caught by the landscape of an axial skeleton playing a concertina of buffalo skin in the last siphoning of an emptied rhetorical answer to the spontaneously slipped thought of a question’s deprivation of time crumbling before mental space can recognize its schizophrenia reality the real thing is the secret of the breath the give and take shyly so simple a thing that is left to its own devise the skeleton hidden house our stringent strength our psychosexual pseudocyesis needs pregnant with its own desires to feed off a Tom Waits’ love song sung to the serious solitude of a moral isolation causing loneliness for the death of the romantic hero’s alienation I was caught by the knowledge of the computer and held for ransom until the butterflies paid it with their colors

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I was caught by the junk mail of the bible when the dreams of the mulberry tress went weeping for the time of forgetfulness caught in a sparrow’s throat and the rope that binds time’s future past and present is frayed by the four divine madness that takes hold of the soul madness of Eros madness of Apollo madness of Dionysus madness of inspiring frenzy by the Muses take control of me and let my words flow the arrogant words of a whorl the silent sun drenched words caught in the eastward ear the babbling words of a rainbow the fragile words that knows the indocile snow that blows the putrefying words that told a tale tepid before it explode the worried words of where words goes the squatting words restless and bold the hunger of words to know their busy meaning the brutality of words fitfully fighting a foreign war the essential concentration of joyful words spoken toward love I love you I love you I love you quickly loosing its meaning the words of rain drops broken on the concrete the words of wind spited by tree branches the words of the sun absorbed by the skin the words of the moon reflected in an eye the torpid words prostrated before the drowning of their meaning the persistent words gnawed by tenderness the bitter bite of words itching for a fight the God given glory of words the stagnant heaviness of words spoken in the wee hour of a surprise scandal the devouring words heard in the washing of the sea words tortured and tongue tired on the edge of poetry dear Muses give me the words to set the soul free let my madness speak the working of the world let me be the cognitional conduit by which you speak let me not hold a tiring tongue but run with workable words in the underbrush of meaning I will be your piercing pious mouth piece all for poetry the poor try alone lead me not dry of your boldness

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I was caught by the connected consumed name of Osiris sleeping for a thousand years in the make ready of the Egyptian Book of the Dead by the president tomb in the upper region established by the cycle of the Gods that have made eternity a thing long for hail to the coming forth as a soul that lives in the tomb of existence I am yesterday and tomorrow held in the eternal present is all my knowing within the dilatation of my needs the hiding place within the eye of the honest Horus in the open face of Ra his rays of light in the uppermost part of heaven is forwardly freely given to the mind of man who have committed faults witnessed by earth he shall pass judgment on his children’s impotent revolt concerning the straightway of a shining egg taken away by the Lords of eternity they shall lend their strong glorious transformations of the dead to ferry them across the river Styx where one man’s God is another man’s demon and still all the Gods are clothed in many names still they are the same a God is a God is a God is a God call them what you will under the cracked sky under the foliate screams of progress under the sensitive escape of childhood under the sluggish shadows of a breath under the fingers of the starch wind under the amused amulet of the mooring hand of the moon upon the ocean under the sufficient unencumbered property of the body under the intellectual knowing of a Stellar Jay in a Aspen under the philosophical ruminate of a worm under the government of bees under the order population of ants under all the doing of nature do the Gods look in wonder but still they can not enter to intercede while all along knowing our limitation under the old demons of disorder poets are tricksters to the Gods they are angels made flesh swift of feet to edge you toward rebellion they speak our unconscious fears and anxieties thus expelled from the new order of the great society

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I was caught by the triumph bones and limbs of a blue jay recently escaped from the underworld of a fur coat worn by the watcher who looks after the chamber hawk to make a tooth pick of its feather to make a necklace of its skull and a bracelet of its claws waste not want not as mutually mature nature make no waste of flesh and stone all is consumed as a consummated deed or used the feeding of will be fest upon when we give up the ghost of host on the floor of earth where the tepid never tiring smoothing heat of the daylight light escaping the collapsing heat calm and encircling half the face of earth with its heaviness held tight in the vast bristling darkness of the far away heaven wild and willing to give up its secrets to the dazzled indifference requiem song of motion light and daunting darkness dense worthy weight against the eyes of a new born knowing little of the working of the wholehearted world with it tasty rain and succulent snow falling like a thousand alleluias flung by the prayers of wind whispered in the ears caught by winter’s spoken message of mercy weather is the fruit of the world it is an example of freedom beyond us it is the limb of the whole the world wage paid a suffrage that can rage pestilences necessary to the working to the whole the world can only save us for so long with its sensual longing for life and death the latter a formidable response to the former father death and mother birth both the new born shall inherit and come to know so I was caught by my race looking for a scapegoat to hang on the teeth of the wind blowing above the bed sores of St. Louis’ northern earth section where I cried out earth I tried not to doubt you and I tried to ask for your forgetfulness in a lean year when your children died on the stalk before the faces of the birds I have tried to worship you in an assault of prayers prayed to your skin when my breath burned below its animalist longing I tried

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to speak for you when it seem that your salvation was in doubt again the risk that man is willing to take in his needs to use up the forest for the emerging headline of his doing I tried to rendezvous with your sketched and beautiful seas holding a bounty of life suddenly born by a transmittable birth in the watery landscape from which all our human life swam I have tried with the smallness of my humble human mind to recognize that you are the divine that hold man in your sway O HOLY HOLY HOLY O nature of the disappearing child nature of the abash abuse man’s eternal sadness is issued in your use I was caught between the eastern horizon of heaven and the boundaries of divine food set before a spoken word equipped with thorns and skin bells ringing everyone to dinner to dine their bellies full with the knowledge of crises held in the expendable expense of Black Birds’ routine dying the death of the living in due time all shall go the way of this descending into the earth and it shall be full of the unknotted bones when earth have eaten our flesh for its own nourishment and the blood of your naked beauty primitive and enormous in its astonishing development of ancient tiny fugal figurines of lesser Gods grotesque effigies painted the color of your skin Goddess of fertility now lost in an age of abortion Goddess of exaggerated pragmatism when their voices was heard in the eye-to-eye possibility of a fragile executioner that hides his face faster then the persistence fleeing awaken dream fading on the tip of the mind I was caught by the baptized growth of a broken man and the prophet of the sun in his empty church where the stained glass of memory is written in blood on the lullaby of night and the innocence of the pews holding the good book are rooted in the succulent bedazzlement invulnerable to the sinners knocking at the doors the

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ground wake to the sounding of your steps toward the alias of a church call it what you will earth is the house of worship where all your sinecure sins are revealed and the officiant sun and moon know your doings in them shall be found oldfangled redemption redolent and reductive all the days of your warm forgetfulness from the cradle to the grave are the changes made toward amendment I was caught by the inundation of night’s sarcophagus where the enemies of the million of green beginnings caught in the heart of the season of fire burning itself toward the destroyed Gods that rise like red smoke to the blue grey clouds of rebirth are raining for their lives night’s geometric folding of darkness cover the bruised earth bearing the buried innocence’s common to telling lies of poverty under the silent sun’s age under the finally faithful air exhaled to assassinate the council of current accumulated in the breath under the manifested universe born from the first waging word walloping its way in the empty space of nothing while nothing is something in itself emptiness is filled with itself I was caught in the splendor of an importunate revolt driven back into its sour landscape where it was driven mad by the young green fireflies that pray on flowers under the cover of darkness lit by a prodigious moon with its flameless lips with its powerful promises with its missionary vengeance its convulsion of light giving life loudly to the earth bound born tattered to the world by the majestic hidden hands of gravity by the trembling silence tugging at the ocean of drunkenness without remorse the sad face clarity of the moon is looking down on St. Louis hidden in the shadows of collapsed darkness hollow and horny in the slumbering daunting personal dreams roving across unlocked doors of the mind set free to work their mystical magic of time and spacious inner visual

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imageries as thin as thoughts as wide as the limitless landscape and the private transparency of the sleeping mind where the divine meaning of thunder and rain the strange formation of clouds in dreams are the speech of silent Gods that wait upon the coming of darkness to reveal their holy incantations to those willing to face the dream omens split of its hidden meaning that quickly fade in the face of the approaching light the midnight Gods in their healing purulence ooze slowly their meanings till they solidifies into the justifiable revelation witnessing to the doing of a blemished blessing bold and bloated by the blizzard’s blooming vitality I was caught by the vintage wind blowing the ash of a dead love that die when it ran out of dying time spent on the edge of a living tepid silence desolated by the muffled half-light of a burning phoenix’s symmetries held near the Gods of spoken lies against me where I have weighted my righteousness in the stability balance against the weight of words raising from the breath words as tough as molten metal with its majesty motion of a north wind iron writing of the God of rhyme in the triumphant royal time that make an inspection in the temple that performeth the work of the underworld a world great in its mindful meandering manner a real world under the feet of the God journeying from the great mystery of the purified heart washed in the blood of the righteous judge that justify the name of the one great God along in his found decision of the weigh of the very truth that have witness the wickedness awash over the world Gods can only show the way that is the extent of their play with their human prey they have no hands in which to touch our lives they have no eye in which to see our sins they are dumb and blind in their speaking only to mad men whose minds are open upon the breath of the heavenly winds offering food in the temple of their souls that

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knows the one on one cycle of the true and righteous God nature the son of no man crying come come be the one God of our lives I was caught between the trophy of the past and the estimative roulette of the future where the die is castled in the funeral fire of a secret burning within but can not tell time to save its life in the lie told to the motion of the wild winking wind that witness to the fact that there is no fault in the body of man’s knowledge of himself that the double intent of the angry avenger of a beautiful beloved royal scribe praising the burial rite victorious advocate of a God born to the empty empts enemies of order where the hero’s dreams of the happenstance of his happiness is hung on the mockery of his vision by the industrialism complex structure of its inhumanity that eat into the consciousness of a capitalist world this neglected poet as hero rejected by the industrialized society that painfully gave him birth is one with the God of the join noises of an embrace when everything is about the flesh of the nothing of peace of the forgettable dissolving nonsense of an invisible instant caught secretly by the primordial underground man frustrated by the meaningful sterility of the streets where he peak his violence of a repeat in the disease of mass society always looking for a scapegoat in which to hang its murderous discontents of the poor as freebasing freeloaders who fore board the oars of a commercial ship that can not sail without them I am caught between a field of weeping dominant demons decked in dread that have lost their reasons for being when man have not forgotten how to blame the cold and curse the organized winds despise the ocean’s fervors round roar and hold the sun in common contempt and refuse the flame with it beautiful yellow beneficial

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burning because of their satisfied distance of coming onto the land where man have built his homes along the spited rocks the fault line of fire is between TiglathPileser I. the Assyria and Jesus the Jew it runs though the new born whose boom birth forever now bound to breathing shall come to break upon the human stage and wage his generational wants and needs against the ruling age as the ancient that have gone before in their moment of glory in their utile youth passing the diadem day by day youth shall grow to wage their swords words far above the common fray they shall come to fill life with a thrill and still their skill above the loud love of man long and strong in the heart and brain shall again being pain when the weed bleed a dressed tenderness down near the ground where thick life keeps its stronghold of the true judgment of heaven nature does not repent what has went has went what will come will come of its own accord the undone nature of nature keep time tugged tight with life from river-bed and wild woods from day breaking down on dew studded blaze of grass to the sleepy eyes of a Rock Dove under the overpass I was caught by the early morning final edition sweeping across the sky in its last hurray toward a place where five weeks are fishing for more time before time tells it to get the hell out of sight of the incrusting roar raging across the length of a moaning monsoon the riot rain rain down rain its all the same in the weather game come what will we feel the warmth we willfully want what will come on and on and on the rain that puts you in a thicket of trance the stubborn rain in the healthy forest of an incorruptible knowledge of a blackjack oak the inalterable judgment of rain and wet wind caressing the agriculture of bees the dead rain of the gutters the air touched skin of the rain slicing its way with courage the thousand eyes of rain on the dahoon holly’s dreams it never rain in my drifting

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dreams that storm me over nightly with its thunderous news the noise of Gods snoring away their sleep falling from the incrusting confusion of raw water I was caught by the judgment challenge of a feller day where the cult of contemporary justifications increasing its tempo spurned by a recalcitrant nostalgic brotherhood of trees went robbing the sky of its moisture in the fulfilling sense of its needs strung around the necks of the mosquitoes’ oligarch where blood is the fee to be paid in exchange for displeased disease placed by the female proboscis in the vein of the consciousness of a mental life where the interior dialogue toward an exterior sensation of our deepest indigent identity is felt by the sixty thousand milliseconds with their illusion of time where we fall in and out of the consciousness of precipitous insight we clinically climb in the mosquitoes’ feeding is found a rhyme toward the continuity of artistic phonemes rapture played out without our knowing the knowing of the self is a life long learning a fitting snugly into ones own skin is the easy part while the peace of mind is a harder thing to find when the costume of consciousness masquerading beyond the slumbering somnambulistic waking walking its worrying way in the dense darkness darting in and out of the view of the doorkeeper of an opened mouth where the earth is in its gladness and the beautiful energy of ever day is fondly found in the sudden sun the wandering wind the Moorish moon which is within the cycle of the Gods working their wonder I was caught by the alcoholic mud’s consumption lying in the vicinity of a child’s hand where the condition of the negroids is written in the sixteenth fact of March 16 1911 of American law of mistreatment the American motion toward violence the American knowledge of knowing how to sell how to wage a war with the worried wayless

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weasel words spoken wedding of killing and never nervously forgiving the death in the American grain Williams Carlo Williams your poems sing the voice of the masses who do not know the nonchalant of your name in which Spring And All plays the game of watching a wheel barrow glade with rain there is an uncertainty in Americus toward poetry as mute sootiness saved for the educated with their dead locative locomotive gaping at the mindful meaning of the promises of poems written by the intimate inmates of hell when the poet bring you to silence fading into the air like incidental incense smoke from the sinner’s sensor held in the hand of your newly naked enemies who will come to clothe themselves with the unguent earth humble enough before their jailers doing the busy business of the executer bustling their gigantic conflagration of poems force-fed with bones and soup and proclaimed pestilence that sing a song of the intelligence convocation of omnipotent fat blood mixed with the water of life found in the veins of nocturnal Gods’ conquest of the quivering dawn with its rustic skin of reptile ripening rubbing its belly along the ground hung out to dry on the tree of knowledge where woman’s willfulness is tested before the fall from grace that self-same-tree incredibly planted wait to welcome us back with our snake skin boots as a pay-back I was caught by the jailer of the wilderness who has lost his keys in the damp grass of germination where his heart was possessed by the adoration of the everlasting I am who I am I am the one God I am the father Adam of your fall I am the snake that call I am the all knowing all I am the armor-plated wall of life that you bust your head upon in your head rush forward to be one with your Gods irrepressible in the half-light vigorousness that sleeps in the deaf mirrors full of boredom that call to you to

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conjure up the fearfulness found in the dark and damp forest where the poets have lost their way with their immortal breath of storms raging as poems found in the dumpster of his stories of history where the secret power of poems is that they can go assassinating the societies with their regent rigidity notion of conformity that seeks to control the mass man and the mad man seek to marginalized and ostracized the poets who do not denied that the weigh of the world is within them that the name on the door of a poem calls for rebellion to free the soul chained and shackled bought and sold to the highest bidder the poet of peace shall be offered as a sacrifice to the war goers going full of zest when the last scribe in his holy incantation spoken before the body of his poems was set in gold and nailed to the skin by the beautiful disposition of a bountiful punisher of the sin eater driven away into the madness fornication of the Gods that have carried off the milk from the baby’s mouth and turn back the would be free falling water stillborn in the grey bellies cries of clouds bloated with their watery wears I am caught where all the trees have fled from my backyard in the swift tail wings of the persecutor of the evolutionary that cover his eyes with the impossible mirror where time stands its ground against a dead man walking toward his misplaced grave we grieve and gave through the gavage tube of the nourishment of the graven image aged and allied by the botched hunger that rage in the flame’s licks of desires to consume the exploded dreams’ violent against a restless sleep full of time told patience detoured by the snore that sing its breath full lilac and lavender full of the volcanic scream to belong in a world where the mountains are renewed by throwing up by turning itself inside out by liquefaction the land slides into the sea when the earth shakes its backbone back against the fault line where the advancing indifference

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percussion of thunder roars its bristling motion full of the collapsed air that conspires with a crack of lighting that light up the heavy gray sky full of anxious rain nervously advancing on the fraternal breathing of a new day’s daylight bristling in the heat of a heat wave on the tip of the sun’s tongue licking in lapses the long laid longing laborious like the love-struck escape faint confession of I love you spoken above the went that was sent toward the same love that came in the same for-get-me-not that forgot the time of year here in the prime time seen that have been both holy and lowly in the always day that change the range of the darkness standing on its head filling the dumb air that come with the unfurled wind full of the weight of pain that have shaped itself full of the pull toward the rain of the face of a race killing itself I was caught between the cripples, the blind and the lame that are like grapes on the vine in the churchyard of the unconscious felines on their nightly journey through the alleys of a dark and hidden psyche keeping to the shadows sleeping in the winter hands of trees sleep the long sleep in a night down range of a flying change that cling to the silence wings sleep the pace of your place where dreams are dress in the attire that admire the harshness of darkness clad in the glad wind blowing true to the blesses time of crime that is never fair to the victims who do not forecast their last willingness warmly for the criminals to admire they are true to themselves true to the one that is none beneath the spread of their bed trembling like an unpinned wind full of the flash of the desire of fire sounding in a rustic barrel fire is thicker then the darkness of night it moves like a gospel of ghost toward the host of the air there fast-flowing their great guilt like a rhyme in time modest as a maiden’s tender cheeks with her charity charm strung on the earnest nest of the Father the Son and the Holy Ghost that rest in the

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wings of a sleeping Northern Bobwhite in the prostrations of night force from the spot where it is not asleep in the slumber that it makes when the sunlight comes like a hark to its prey that stroke and strain in it last breath before being slashed in an orgy of feeding I am caught by a visual purple music of a piano’s sixty forth note rooted in the head of a thistle the dark practice and divergent trajectories of a House Finch is the music found in the heart of an old elm holding the fine feather friend’s breath full of songs that would howl would be found would be full of wealthy memory toward the ample voice of a rumbustious reason sing to me sing to the hostile horst sing from your throat the time signature of an unwritten song sing an Ethiopia’s evidence expanded dark and beautiful ideologies developed by the drum beat of ancient hearts of the Council of Elders sing the flute of the wind sing the forest’s quest for a question their green axis their strong abilities of getting alone sing the toe hold the mouth the body of an organ’s pipe full of tendentious toning breath I am caught by the luminous licit lust of the rain I was caught by a lie told to the young who are weaving sunlight with their hair like a bird eating the round moist meat of the unknown intellectual consciousness found in the worm’s diagram of the inner earth with its common music heard by the flooding of the Nile the Nelios river valley going its ancient way feeding the earth in a yearly rebirth an eternal flow older then blood in the vein of a leaf older then the African God of writing the soul into heaven older then the purification of the heart of the Muslim Holy war older then the obsolete anguish memories that fight to be suddenly renewed older then an outpour of an explosion of fulminatory filariae friendship

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of biting flies thundering across the face of the sacrificial remembrance found in the crusades of the wind found in the murderous innocence of a mismanaged death of lynching the dark bark of a tree lynching the throne of the Sun God now gone the way of the dead Gods guilty of the white-wash whiners whisper wildly worn by the summertime beggars bagging across the busted bridge down by the brown sun done over nightly by a flock of black birds shock on the first day of May the sucked way that our minds make of the welcome well into hell blind yet bold to let us go without a God of our own beware of the smiles of the wicked Gods quick to smother your mother in the small matter of living in the skin they will crucify your needs to believe in any other they take their jealousies as self-suffering self-indulgent toward doing harm what will become of the man without a God he shall go gently into the good earth and become one with it the roots of trees shall wrap around his bear bones the weeds of the grave yard shall make of him their homes the birds shall parch a rest on his grave stone he shall become as wild as a newborn hence his indifference is of no great matter the instrument of his flesh will not be lost behind the dead mind for the flesh must obey the rules set forward by nature there is no room to play born of flesh die of flesh born a stone live long born of tree die by thee born water die the downward wandering to the sea the water rush and creep deep it sweep steep never undone in its run I was caught between a broken but shinning voice’s equipment with its words of tomb breathing the hallucinations of Horus where it took ten years to remember that I were lost among the bewildered disaster found in a poison flower

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I was caught between the do you love me do you not plucked by each drop of shudder rain with its water spine broken on a season of memories kept in the flower’s roots rooted to deafness beside the tamed white stone rolled by the lotus eaters fishing in the wave’s breaking disorder and its tumbling smoothing and moving earth back and forward in the wallow of water where the swaying ship’s royal dicta published the illegal trafficking in emotions on the back of the mind all and all time tell all both demonic and divine all drink the warm water waiting to be consumed by a thirsty desire of the thin-skinned third world’s conquered essence captivated and pulsating with the grandiose immense femininity found in the incrusted foreign body of racial segregation where the curious cultural constellation’s urban island rage against the dead time honestly held by the hygienic conditions of black ivory the stander daily diet of the sugar plantation induced the ignoring situation with its fondness for Caucasian features of the understanding of the courageous constitution expanding its contemporary to the blind and divine priest that do the biding of a God’s egg buried in his body in his belly in his polishing mind in his absolutely rhymes of a gentle heart dialectical in the sprouts of spring wearing green beneath the sidereal discussion on the nature of Gods’ disappearing doing in the hour of our greatest need where forth are the Gods of old where do they rest their death with their stalled blessing hidden in the hands of books and structures of wooden idols locked behind glass cases in the mausoleum of the museum untouchable by the hands of children that look in wounded wonder at the large eyes looking back at them the dead Gods can not ply their wares in the modern age where the TV is the technological idol that inform the capitalism commercial saving of the souls of those who buy into the knowing glow of the new and improved where everything looks like new new improved improved

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to do you god damn good down to the tools of your flesh and bones in the end let it not be said of you that you turned your back on your passion leave not your answer blowing in the wind against the grey grave stone where the ravens take their rest let not the primal element of your essence go unfulfilled be as the inner structure of Nature one with itself literally divine drawing from its fountain of splendor that the canonized saints of poetry worshiped in the age of old modern poets give us more of the unguided instinct of the world give us more of the everywhere music of Nature poets dwelling in your royal solitude of transcendentalism be not the unimportant wandering sorrow stricken man that other will make of you hold Nature by the hand and go boldly into the fray the fast fray that flows pass your door of the divine significance of your old soul be a priest of the street to meet head-on the open secret of the universe be the enlightener of daily life the learner and the doer invent and devise let your suffrage serve the poor and down trodden that labor to know their God in a seemly Godless world where before their eyes in their lungs is the ultimate knowledge of God life is the answer go the wiser wider way to see that we are all soldiers fighting the same battle which is life warriors cut from the same clothe the skin we ware go to those who worship the idolatry of the Bible the idolatry of the Koran the idolatry of the cross all man made and worshiped idols all against the divine beauty of all natural stand you beside the God seen and not upon It that is imagined let all men come to believe for himself let him not fall pray to the dead formulas of the so called words of Gods the here-say written in by gone days and have not stood the test of time to be reverence divine free your poems filled mind full of the restless feelings fleeing the Sunday mornings following just behind you like the true daughters of the pain of labor born out of the black whirlwind of a struggling end

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coming to grip with the grief of its self its essential parts lagging alone lifeless as a choir of angels singing the rigors laws of heaven I was caught by the dealer who keeps his nocturnal musical strength decadence and greatest need the mythology beast of burden that support the needs of an emergence is built upon the ethnic isolation that foster the caste system of a quivering apparition embracing the fraternal earth assuming the confinement of a petty apocalypse where the revelation is written out on the skin of a virginal God deciphering the last rite of a dying night full of stars’ pin point light caught where silent is more eloquent then words the brief swift decisive silent almost military a silent passionate with its quick abrupt loneliness like a pale rage being itself a physiognomical self that mark its matter as if woven of rainbows I was caught by the last song to be heard in the inner mind of a baby sparrow dreaming of flight from the blue jay’s fight with spread wings and cocked beaks they are losing their color to the cloudless sky full belly out in light where sunlight bid you fair-de-well and only the sorcerers and whoremongers can stand to tell what the third angel pored from its vial of skin as true as the blood in the veins common knowledge of being human is all the same all men drop their pants to shit all women squat to piss all babies need not be taught to smile or to squeals out a sneeze or be caught up by their primate needs not yet old enough to know that the singular mind hold itself as the center of the wanting world and by it are we forever along with a self that none can get to know what we show as a royal corpse propped up on stones is the selfish self we wish other to know still our own on the edge of the nest the sparrow sit unsure of flight but edge on by some inner need to take to the wing so are we and

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everything find the need to spread and fly the coop it is a divine order of life poets let you fly on wings of words wrought from their rough heart’s blood I was caught by the vision of an ant crawling over the final face of the fallen not yet let loose long enough to be over grown by the middle breathe of sand in the little moon of the lunule air of the lungs not yet old enough to grow cold in the desert the body of this youth bear the bullet’s bloom that busted open his life into the depth of death in it he is not alone many youths are gone to a cross of graves where the tiny flags waving in the wind sweep air around the grave stones that stand on their own against the manicured lawn where free flowering weeds grow the living above the dead is a common thing the dead with their generosities their clam their voiceless spectacle free of the miseries and pettiness of the living are fondly recalled by pictures and pins and military medals I was caught by the territorial day hung and drown and quartered in the hour of it weakest need when the machismo manumitted minuets swung open the illimitable seconds again and again and my country tear for thee when prejudice is held in the trigger of a gun held by the rope on a tree drag down a desecrated highway nailed to the cross of our disbelief gassed in the chamber of our hearts it is in our nature to treat other with this intimidating intolerable disrespect we alone among creatures of the earth kill each other so readily as easily as taking the life of a tree is our murderous need to disregard the thou shall not kill authoritarian advice given to Moses in his cognitive actuality hallucination heard with the ear of his fingers ear of his legs with his whole body was the voice heard it did command him to offer up the ten commandments of righteous living within its

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control of obedience but we in this day and age go a oppugning the good words our obfuscation of the rules have come to rule all our doings

Part V.

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The vigil vulture white nails rusting in a black man’s coffin in the 60 years inch held tight in the fist of a voluntary night holding its resignations of churches tight enough to tell you where the purulent puberulent Gods of fine hair keep their age safe from the warring hands of man bursting tears by the butcher bucket full where the clear deep seeking eye lie a little harder Word stuck in the throat of a wayward need bleeding blue blooded Gods on the slab-sided slab where the Indians tom tom the last feather from Wounded Knee and Sand Creek now kept as a safe keep in the buried forgetfulness weeping its lost words in the breath’s threshold O nail in the throat of 1864 your characterized connection lies wounded by the over ever violent transitional

plantation where the prescribed slavocracy will not die out of the black man’s living history When the night ache to see its color kinship chained and shackled to the sugar machinery of the Santo Domingo’s night that sweeten the grave not yet old enough to be forgotten by the yet unborn who shall come to rage their discovered plot with an independent breath calling then to the fore front of the house of the negroid commissioned sun The body agrees with me that the punishments of the breaking military busted on the isolated and sufficient liberation evidence of the stone sunlight is a free gift that we can not return to the wisdom that have built its house of banquet spread its knowledge before the consciousness of a curvilinear cowrie shall with 700 BC inserted skulls that once housed a reluctance hallucinogenic warm red Time wounds all heeds on the face of the racial biological attitudes that go breeding out of control ten thousand babies of meaning to feel through till that one break upon a corner of the cross and it all comes back to you The vestigial Godlike hemisphere is of a magician articulating a chaotic period of being out on bail out on a walking toward an incursions into the ready made important phenomena hung around the neck of a complexity dressed up in some knuckles of words moaning the denied being for itself Development of again and again is a scar longing to be of some brotherhood’s function as regards the cyclic and gyres to the dominating obedience and private language of the Gods with their charred weapon the post-hypnotic amnesia of the fragmented night the time lagged and

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sequencing its reminiscent of thoughts that have long lost control of the garden wall where religious in the neurological blanket spread over the presumption of the schizophrenic effect swallowed by the florid conclusion that wait on its own ending to be fulfilled The universal stability of an eternal firmness is emphasizing it superficial playmate who indicate that the time of many Gods have come and gone under the wet fingers of chaotic civilization wounded by the auditory command of a broken down overpopulation people in the lock jawed and yet flamboyant living off itself The sensory recognitions of mammals are caught and finished by the understanding of dying anxiety proposing that the catecholamines flowing in the blood of a brilliant solution that fight-or-flight the adrenal that have penetrated and been seized by the debris where the errors and the immediate experience fight to be understood in the stabile dirt of the finger nails In the slumbering ambush insolence and sometimes insolvable where there is no turning back from the narrow transparency of night in it’s’ air thin blackness is found the necklines of a vital victorious dream that descend from the head to the body of locked muscles under the voracious cotton sheets of body heat sleep is the sanction of the sanctuary of dreaming Everything is as strange as I seek the trees on dream it street love the wind in my mind that wind its way pass the hunger of stones that sat alone with their mute rage to belong and I am taken away to where the unfathomable rebirth of being free is varnished vaguely in my mind where a vibration of a vexation is viewed as a vicissitude

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of a vigorish paid to the virtu of objets d’ art found in the intimate injunctions’ threshold where the silence that night makes of despair is rupture on the rude rubato rhythmically strung on the runabout rundown rutilant glow of a ruthless rehabilitation I am that I am lastly written on the walls of the inner skull there is always room in the head for an insurrectionary rapids waiting to be lead against the companionships of an army of emotions all of which I fought against in vain to reach a knowable knowledge about the here and now Be my last friend and let us go to the last distance and find the idealized animal behavior that betray us the double brain’s clumsiness of exigent expression of an aphasic arrest is found in the mental function of a selective pressure toward the pulse plugging plowing the brilliantly implacable boredom found in the fraternal endurance of the memories of a child’s hand holding the present of the future in toll The end is always just around the corner always out of sight beside the always goings heart beating in the chest of a jellyfish’s unstable violent and beautiful rhythm breathing an empathetic moaning of I love the sea I love the trees I love the land for its authentic shadows of ambition its compound of cotton its famished caricature its whole world complicities its civil rights of life its demands of fulfilling itself as the trust toward the lowest life held equal its cannibalistic longing its enthusiasm for weather its prodigious growth its wild resounding voyages always full of willfully raw glamour its never meaning unexpected cruelties its untamable will its masquerade of disorder its luminous daring to be itself without regret for it can do nothing less

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Flowers nailed to the coffin of an effect’s hiding place in the netherworld where the self of the self go destroying the moment of the great strength taken away as a homage to eternity the nails are rusting on the backside of the cross the penis of a wayward slave nailed in the town square O Saint Moses the Black O Saint Cyprian O Saint Mary of Egypt O Saint Martin de Porres embrace me I long for your ghost to know my flesh my hands sing your praises my soul tattered by my skin call out to you of the dark prostrated before the face of a fieriest forgiving God my immense guilt are written in the rain and lies stagnant in the streets of treacheries the turbulence of my sins are carved in the tree of life I have tasted the forbidden fruit of a frugal fudge brown skin boy in my youth I have tasted the frozen scream of a bloody laughter that assault the swollen labor of the face of a Georgian swamp in Savanna I am the wayward son the beggar of beauty bound by the boneless boorish bona fide blue blow that brakes its bitchy biblical embodied essence on the edge of an eager night eastward my emotions goes in this body that hold the last cold call crotched and crowded in my throat We are the glorious reasons the victories placed in the hearts of wicked devils that dwell in the slaughtered possession of a confusion spilled out across all the then that done now that we wish to do under the canopy of the quivering raven rallying in its dark feathers of a flying circulating strength on the wing the bird laughter is a song witnessed by the captive tears of cold weather that persist in the drunken hour glass where time in an elegant full gallop surviving the sun’s passing into the darkness of a divine prophet’s memory where is told the ingenuous compassionate ruins of a blind man’s revolt against the darkness where he stumble across the stones place by the

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seeing anticipation of attention paid to the sound of a storm raging across the face of a child You are as I said with your requiem of dazzled seascape intoxicated by the breath of the knife sharp sea that bark its ferocious commands below the brilliant bobbing screams of the candy maker’s son sinking so far away from his bridge the heart is in the hands of the cranes in the secret water’s consistency and the swollen wind pregnant with a fist full of the forbidden anger of Gods they go down by the cyclone’s breeding season they go down the smoked column strongbox with vengeful voices calling the virgin midnight to give up its selfassured thrust toward the primordial working water The end is always near there but for fortune may go you or I the antagonism climate of escaped employment is the advocate of adolescent Gods when youth was their repressible glory passing over the unknown force of a guaranteed cityscape caught in a window of the wind I remember the day that I wooed you it was a wounding never mention to happen when the destroying wrought evil entering the soul of a person can be done in an age of Gilgamesh why is your heart of stone why is your woeful heart hard why is your journey along the rocky and broken path where a mushroom of waltz is rearing up in its rotating head fanning around the dead leaves of a sorcerer’s rendezvous with a death’s trick odor blowing through the wind as a stone in a tornado is far flung up side down in the crazed motion of its force found going forward across the Midwest I am old and settled into my soul it took a while to find the fit it took years strung out on earth’s astonishingly self-conscious common sense and a coming to grip with

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man’s bastard and backward tongue that have but one day to celebration the birth of the earth by let each day of a season beginning be a blessed thing let us worship the springing of spring the simmering of summer the full changing of fall the whiteness of winter in a bountiful fest of eating the first fruit of the season Don’t cause me blind when the eyes have run out of time when the currents of a mortal gigantic curiosity is rotting on the cross of surgical strength do not call me to the triumphant nostalgia for everything reprehensible and innocence for I will only be disappointed by the scrupulous phosphorescence silent issuing from the original throat that cries out I am all that I can be on the honest judgment of the constellation You are one of many committing the phenomenon of life but still you are one on the arch of the earth with its spatial succession none before none after none like you shall pass this way again none with your personal narrative expression hung on the struggle of your skin your self-observed self shall leave your mark set in stone you are one in the brotherhood of a concentrated behavior of minority sexual preferences you are the inherence of the primitive civilization astonishing in its rejuvenating inventory of growth you are one in your skin celebrating your difference a singular seriousness of mind you are the one and only divine self of the unfolding destiny of one call yourself what you will the world await your mark in the footsteps warm with its individual scent telling where you go smellable by the bloodhound of time hunting the unconscious habits of being human you are an original fulfilling an introspected acts of hopes fears affection pleasure and desires the worthwhile psychic looking from within your eyes upon the world that confront you behind

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all that you are you are still within the animal life with all of its huge historical assumptions What do you call yourself before the face of your personal Gods before the divine individuality hallucinating the dead voices of mute egg kept in the warmth of ammunition shoot off your rounds while the handle is an alcoholic response in need of your equilibrium go boldly to the tomb with your gentleness in tack the divine chiefs wake your victorious stand against your estate of enemies who can gain no power over you your distinguished and splendor self goes triumphantly pass the poets as Gods when the words came on their own accord and we thought that it was the Gods speaking the evidence of Vedas revealed in a time of need when the yoga body is set free in deep sleep unifying in full bliss the scattering of evils into pleasure and the vital breath is set free by Atman I have been taken in by an instance of spontaneous possession with its illegal traffic smuggled into the distorted despair of my breathing when it went rhyming around the hypnotic speech of om om peace peace peace om I am one with my body one with my tongue om flows from my lungs and I am not denied by Brahman the eye is the eye the tongue the tongue the mind the mind the speech that can not know of itself that can not be heard by the ears the ethereal speech of the eyes of the touch I am one fertile as the vegetation that cascade in incandescence words I am a vessel a mouth piece against the silence that would do harm I am the poetry embodied in a poem the dead in the word’s of pray the child’s birth in the busting of rain the foundation of an insane fatigue trembling in the harness of a cathedral the untamed lighting that illuminates the eye of a sleeping sparrow my rhythm is my measure knocked down by the moon’s

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forever light I am an untiring result rehearsed by a triumphant thrust toward a weary warrior who confess his systematic apparition irrepressible by the prelude boredom of the rich pains of hunger that assassinate the dark muscles of a babe in arm I am the bewildered dialect of an unturned wind singing its hidden enlargement its untellable motion full of a melancholy progress cultivating nothing I am the waterfall all of text steep deep in the old rolled soul of my bones I am the still will shine of the divine body of bless and unselfishness of nature setting aside each living life is her prideful pride each tongue strung on the exhibition of the submission of winter to spring to summer to fall all under the star of the sun’s warmth kept and swept up into the body with each year there appear the rain soaked leaves on the boughs the bird’s house of twigs and dead grass and bits of paper a natural grace of place under eves and in trees is to be found the beauty of the wild a bit of wilderness survive everywhere on the earth in the half-hour of a pond beyond the surface of its water is to be found the plain wilderness tiny and swift in each drop as crowed as the sea by degree in nature is the living and the dead wed by a band in the hand by the blood in the vein by the spark of a mark of breath is each child born wild by the wicked red of over worn war the overflow of blood hangs over the head of a loss life the dead dressed in silence goes back to the wilderness of life I have lost my words to a strange name that brought about the immediate business on earth where time can not tell with its aphorism that don’t know how to give an apology each letter of my words are strung on the tip of a second counting the sudden fresh milk of a madwoman’s freedom smoldering on the motionless bomb that she keeps warm in the doorway of her homeless coat buttoned up to the dawning of a chilled winter morning

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I want to kiss every leaf on the tree because I haven’t got a friend that can bring out of me the astonishing beauty of my pills of an empty sky filling the eyes as a roof against the funereal fires of stars with their secret life kept hidden by a distend cathedral’s sheltering sky where the Gods gather their counsel of the concuss to see who will be the first one to come down to earth and catch the scent of human sweating in the dark damp intermingled growth feeding off itself in a frizzy beneath the rot of leaves where the cannibalistic nature of dreams go feeding off of daylight consciousness seen I have lost my concern for myself I have given it over to another God whose discarded breath is an extraordinary efflorescence exemplifying the give and take complexities of the brilliant radically charged production toward making life that crawls across the face of the world and plant itself in the fertile dirt of language busted open to bloom all manner of meanings a word’s worth investiture is intersecting the art of dreaming of a dream intermingled in the landscape of an enlarged injustice of a sudden sensation tearing the window pane In Earth there is such wonder as to set the eyes on a wild visitation with bear feet conjure in the botched season where apparitions mounted on the tongue and dialect dungeon fills the hillside with perpendicularly musical screams crying out to the praising priests of planting found under the sun’s dominant domain all that the priests can muster of the nostalgia murderers who wish to slain the indestructible howling of the night is to keep them clear of the original sperm that swum toward the birth of man where the black race of protectors guard their children with the only drumbeat that matters that of the interjection interwoven in the dark chest of a sudden

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downpour of the word nigger the Gs rain down from the murderous mouths of modern black folks with their sterility and frustration stuck in the dark forest blooming from their lips the dark and damp dingy muck of the everyday from which the sons of light have emerged with the worth of the garden loss in the light of commodious and numbing novelties meant to keep the poor inside their religious prison of normality with their secret reverence for the inmates of hell the hero that have worked his way outside the scapegoat to be sacrificed the beautiful underground man that understands the undercurrent losing its communal structure in the flow of being one with the diseases of mass society the bread of the sea the dead of the me the dread of flesh afresh that confess an old holy odd expressed in the face taking up space in the place of an hour where the host of hell tell their spells in a boast in a soft sift that drift its tall fall down to the gospel gift of the faithful flushed with faithless fables of Paul Bunyan and Stagger Lee of the one from Galilee and John Henry down on one knee the sweat yet to bloom riding like a river of rail ways iron waves the way water goes when the wreckage of the tongue’s storm is found wrung warm hanging on the merciful harm done toward the three numbered form of God the telling tongue lingering on the tip of a mastery for words women round in guessing drowned a bonded blessing bound behind the unkind blow of a deep wind full of snow that sweeps its cold keeps chillingly fathering a nightly foot fall fold full of the Gods’ cold hearing of a heart-broke hum hissing in the opening of the wind Man is a fickle creature in his needs for waste the taking up of space the selling of night in spoon full man the infinite thoughts of man on earth the infinite pettiness of being one with time’s told undertow telling the flow of

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current that tumbled and turn its way with the triumphant breath the hunger of war never cease to plague man and his war machines’ hysterically fighting the quick fight of a maddening thought of conquest quickly to the glossy skin of war the gunpowder’s boom bound for a body the innocent baby born during a time of war shall come to know the carcass of war laid before the table of peace Man of the high cities and man of the low lands the last man’s man have yet to be born in the rumor of a flower in the absolute solstice silence that gives birth to the original sediment of the weight of blood the bullet flight to its found end to the last man lonely with the sacrifice of vegetation cascading down the weariness of the wilderness where is found the outrageous noisy shudder that grows on the skin of the proliferating apocalypse of a savage consciousness found in the collapses prison of the skin Are you the man who is sniffing out the tree of life the fragile inquisitor’s loyalty that take place in the exhumed hollow mirage kept for the keeping against a marvelous blue delirium let loose in the wild impulses red rallying cries that will push you over the edge of the intertwining steps leading down to the depth where the memory of doubt contemplate its own consistency are you the beautiful and curious green altitude of being human before the houngan’s dazzled by the odious Oricous flight across the strictures of the regulation of the body’s jurisdiction with its command of possibility its sterile breath under the expired beauty of the ready rain running around and aground the brown dirt of the earth where purple passion push aside the yellow yarrow’s low growth against the tough tongue of the wind

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The art of painting with a tooth pick and speaking poems into a thimble tremor in the body of the last sacred hidden haunt where art is kept till its time to be brought into the light ignored by Negros’s’ stringent punishment issued by the advantages unanimously rejected bloodline that conjure up a persistence consuming its way into the deep down well where water is worth all of its familiar falling from the spine of a swelled cloud raging across the drunken sky drunk on the degradation of a prayer spoken into cupped hands of an immense begging for salvation the rain can not drown itself in the susurration flooding of its motion for ever seeking its level taking its form from the pothole that holds it rain of the raucous treasure rain of the kinship of madness the unleashed laughter of rain the greenish hour of rain falling and mounting upon itself rain on rain violence of a cracked and busted open sky the resounding tiny rivers of rain to the ant’s view in the kernel hour of a quivering rain electrified by the cloud’s discharged The art of crossing the burden of an untied river art of harmonious necklace rusted around the conspiracies of corpses art of the incense of anger art of the insoluble custom of the blacks art of the courageous language of blood the absolute art of the shivering bondages escaping the muzzle of the high sea art of the assume essential Assyrian’s yearning in the flourishing private political distance art of the double brain’s livelihood caught in the facial expressions of the simmering volcano rolling down to the naked juice of the babbling sea art of the madman’s fertility that have gained the possession of the splendors hidden in the holy things of a lost moment art of the anointed righteous strength found in the faithful balance of the swamp’s hunger art of a putrefying musical implications flowering in the memories of the nostril art of the stubborn and swollen irresponsible

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torment of the life of the sun untouchable art of a smile caught in a deaf man’s laughter art of the nocturnal apparition of the immortal boredom of the shepherds of tomorrow crying out in the master wilderness where the nostalgic gravediggers are charting their progress by the melancholy convulsive complacencies of the tenderness of prostitution this self same art of words and paints and stones is the burning of the artist’s passion long held in the silent of the Gods it is their language undisturbed by the incredulous suffering insistence foliage of their knowable souls that must have their say in a world where the whorls of money changers rule the roost of the greenback landscape art for art’s sake is the ever renewed reservation of a germination of an unique ideal freely given universally when we are summoned to do our beautiful bidding with the intimate precipitation of a righteous promise to be true to the art with fierce vigor art goes about its captivated patience and conquering breathing of sacred human knowledge

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Part VI. Underneath the infirmary of a random remembered empire is the rage unbind enthusiasm stealing the stoic stone of unturned vegetation rooted to the jagged resonance rictus rocks of a thousand dreams nailed to the Blackbird’s throat Underneath the flummox flames of the self is the wreckage pitched and piled up over the years with the common complacencies of the most secretive serpent that bid Eve to eat of the guided problematic stalemate of a

statement of being separated from the knowledge of living as one with the world Underneath the collective cognitive imperative of a reeking time piece in the hand of a deaf and dying death that never die is the inalienable audible innocence multitudes of minuets seconds counting away the strong triumphant hour of an afflicted thirst foretelling the time when the rains shell find in its falling a familiar reframe drummed on the heads of the homeless nomadic in their home-city town where the hero as priest is the original man of God great and full of fruitfulness in the sphere that issues the truths of God’s private judgment of genuine teaching consider as the alternate word in this shackled world where liberty of judgment is worshiped by the innermost soul that prosecutes the dead bodies incredible in their lingering long decomposing lust when the body’s conversation ends it’s the last of your leaving town it is the last terrifying concrete of the streets the last great effort of beginning Underneath the conviction of a handsome youth who will be the carpenter of all possibilities is the doubt of his own divinity in his time of primary prime without leisure and pleasure extraordinary fortified with the Holy Ghost and the Leviticus laws of terrestrial omens issued to the challenge of April violence in Americus going down in a blaze of glory where the handle of words fresh and forlorn with a foreign fraudulent fraught of freckle on the forty hours sacrament of the red brain’s blazes of a blood train words wed to the strong words of anguish summoned by the voluptuousness of our memories that waits the common compound of the tranquil ambition of shadows astonishing proud and authentic against the cowardice of a weariness that bumps its polished caricature against tarnished empty space and say so much

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of the nothing prayer’s complitious begging for the civil rights of squirrel’s quest Underneath the small likeness of a banishment emptied of its memories of assimilation in the special exclusion of uncontested control toward the golden fireflies that drink the screams of jazz drink the voluptuousness of notes brilliantly hung on the ears of a howling horniness hung on the fierce reformer of prophecy is the works of poets who are the symptoms indispensable and notable of the representation of our spiritual longing their music is that of a politician a thinker a philosopher in the old sense of the great heart of the sacred mystery of good and evil they toil in your needs of the beautiful eye that sees the grandiose bubbling self-conscious of being one with nature let then not go mute reduced to the hypothetical entertainment of a night out on the town let their spirit writing music live long alone side your splendid spirituous notion hung on the cross hung on the meditation hung on the militant prayers suffering their repeat beside the bitter bed that belong to the dead let the master of the moon lit night write a restless right toward your longing hunger to understand the undertow meaning of life in their skin they are as you made of the same star dust down to the dirt of their nails in the huge scope of things they wear an ever changing wordy ring around their brain around their tactical hands around the excitation and inhibition of their needs to teach in their human form they do not fully understand from where their wisdom comes breathing the motion’s pulsation and enclosed in the hummingbird bird’s wings the foundation of their wisdom is the naked ground where the flesh of the sea hatch ancestral belongings needed in the enthusiasm polished measure of a tsunami

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Underneath the long drawn out day of counting the blessing of the righteous I stall and steal one to take to my longing lover’s essence where he waits in the jungle of an instant condemned by the shadows of clarity he waits upon the salvo salvation that cleanse the soul he waits upon the price that I will pay to keep him solidly safe in the shape of things to come he waits with the solitary quest of his restless conflagration of his blood he waits for the joy of the illegal sodomite he waits to climb the bones of my spine he waits the freedom found in a can of beer he waits with his dazzled blood pricking his skin he waits the discovering of our love renewed daily by our common concern of the contracted first marriage he waits the splendid miracle of an union tied by the rules of the leering Lords he waits with his glorious reason fortified by my love of him he waits on the personal God of his rejuvenating ritual he waits the sudden glamorous glimpses of men attracted by his barely beautifully bold body he waits the strong gratitude accelerating toward the biochemistry of our love captivated by its own essence ignorant of wrong doing Underneath the moment of release I shall return to the scummy water where grows a rustic rural penetrators’ color full of the irrepressible odor of the reflection of the moon the grimy water of a tear with its legal salty rhythm is falling from the socket’s empty melancholy perfection on a pilgrimage that can heal the thrust of a heart where the authentic fantasies of a fish fighting its way up stream to mate in the last act of its life is the last holy act of its muscles boys with sticks wait to beat them down and take their watery wet trophy home bears wait this feast of feeding on the edge of the tongue of a conceded prophet’s violence the religion devotion that he carry toward the destroying of notorious idols that carry the hitherto idolatrous priesthood’s chastity that seeks to hide women

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from the view of men less they be temped men can not trust themselves toward the concern of the sexes thus their excuses thus their wanting ways their weakness as seen in the Koran’s fundamental position where God’s religion is anathema to the foretold and the seal messenger is bold of bearing the voices that they bare within and within the throbbing of drums heard in the ancient city of Thebes is the astonishing sleep of an antiseptic brown skinned clockwork ticking down the hallway of a tough happiness branded and tattooed with shedding shadows that drip drop by drop down the arms of a secret need to feed an undisturbed approach of tomorrow’s tongue wagging its extreme future found in the foreground of a presumptuous mirror where is seen the rotting meat stuck in the teeth of extinction Underneath the dead weight of the long held head of a hallucination the I die its long concern with itself the I forever along in the body’s self contained profound loyalty the I of the universal remorse of a battleground where the life of the I is ruptured on the comradeship of warring armies the I that displays its special singular shadow beneath the I of the substantive sun the brutish battle of the I waging war with itself the I tendentious tenderly promising to repeat its confession the madness of dreaming the I alive in a world of we where the invention of the soul the dear metaphor of psyche the life force the after death survival of the I the I with its buried appurtenances of the living the flourishing I in poetry’s mystical secrets indeed embodied in the difficult firmament of the technical beginning of the I its complex migration throughout the vocabulary of the dead that can not silence the Gods caught like exhausted languages common to the spontaneous linguistic of flowing water the ancient life of the I with its exaggerated fugitive red globular eyes witnessing the ravages of Christianity in the

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new world the I of the hieroglyphic and hieratic writing of the old world where the admonitions of the God of I carrying the weight of the world its heaviness hardly the weight of a hair pin in the whispering solar waves of winds that hold fast each the planetary bodies in their places among the stellar stars I am that I am is all there is to be said about the I in the ultimate constellation of enterprise’s profusion and extraordinary anger of a longhaired God eating the prayers of the faithful Underneath the memory of Yang-Shao rooted in the finally fading away of consciousness is the specialization of time told by the rudimentary revolt of science against the divination’s complexity of successive discovery that all Gods are passive in the divine meaning of thunder human-shaped Gods awaiting our death are listening to our time told breath that will wane when the whole of the body can not be sustained and we shall go the way where those have gone before death is coming with its eternal cloak of silence it will not be denied of its old time relationship with life it will capture all even those who fought will the miracle of pills to retain the life giving force that has no name the body the spirit the soul the later holds the two in check the yin yang fire and water feminine and masculine passive and active good and evil we hold all in the body of one we are the inherit of the light and dark we are the do-gooder doing wrong we are the song in the sweet old world that long to be heard by the sizzling flesh of the night with its head on the shoulders of the moon we are the desolate dexterous desires wishing to be fulfilled by the two handed splendid strength of a young curfew indestructibly howling at the maddening gesture of the terrifying night that hides all of our fears in its dark and damp corners where the curse moaning the floodgate of its throat screaming the eclipsed smile of a sweet nothing found roundabout the out

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castled tended with their righteous renewed glory of being difference as a criminal act Underneath the essential point of nothingness is the tepid self-conscious language of the putrefying words spoken into the ear of an enormous nauseated day that grows on the skin of the year again and again in the turning away from and the coming forth into the eternal gas of the sun‘s light time is unconscious of its own passing it is the motion within that knows the murmuring stimulating of an unrecognizable melody the music of a provoked divination that honor a particular inscribed ordinary physical force found in the fountain’s intoxication its impaired ballistics balance bound to fell when the muscle of music shows its blue eyed prisoners locked away from the blueness of the sky show them the partial freedom found in the standardization strangled by the straitened that walk the big boned day incarcerated by a done killing done with killing kindness we are the prisoners of our Gods with their goodness glued to the guardian of the devil’s patience pride in being himself we are the jailers who will lock up the day with our living dangerously with our cruelties once caged by the Gods that lived beside us we are the bloodshot measure rouged and hinged and spited out into a world of drunken tress blooming their needs of gratitude for the air that we give them their enthusiasm of glamour their Christianized sleep resounding in the roots ecliptic and untamed by the Unfathomable foundation finished in the year of our blessings given in the tattered cover of woodland pattern Underneath my secrets the red headed boy is calling my name and I must go to answer to his youth for the things that I did in the calamities embrace against my confinement of the dazzling latitude assuming the solitary of a traced laughter in love with the sound of the

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whinnying wind whiling around a thought caught in the throat of the innocence of a forest’s approaching the elsewhere of tomorrow’s strength the spacious tomorrow that transcend all assumptions of its promises tomorrow that innocencely murder today with the knife edge of the sun’s light shooting across the curve of the never ending horizon the red headed tomorrow of a boy’s secrets held in his stigmata’s hunger to be a man is calling out his youth to make amend for the boyish thing done in the grip of his midnight tumultuous and luxurious sexual passion that bears the burden blossoming from the head of his prick the milk of his children yet born the seeds of those to come the swimmers forever in search of the futility of an edge of an inward egg born in water some die because of it in the plane that crush into the face of the sea the tanker the spills its oily load loud on the abandoned faces of the Gods mentality profound of their man knowledge confusion of the authority of the self where the wind is an omen and the act of the sun a divinization mentioned in the hallucination of a rebellion against the absence of Gods when their breath is everywhere felt by the god-obedient hierarchies of the greater importance of the face-to-face breath-to-breath immediate past pasting into the O Lord, the firm cultcenter Lord the one who is Son the wise One that comes forth alive by the mouths of babies their trickster culture with its destructive forces of the God’s ambiguous achievements for the youth to comprehend the normality of the real life stillborn notion Underneath the counterfeit blazes that lick and leaps toward the intimate vengeances tossed between tongues is the face of a nauseated night that is hiding the weight of the world where the open face of earth’s air is exposed to the indifference requiem sung to stars in the wide opened space of the heavens the Gods have all but left us alone to

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fend for ourselves in the great global universal longing for something to believe in even if that something is not earthbound not friendly toward all men the furtive Gods are on the lam for most of us they have taken their toys and gone home to the high heaven of hope to see you later they have reserved their prize only for the dead as a reward for your life long belief they have buried their rules in an ancient book out of tune with the fluent feminist wanting wisdom of our native nature taken from the rib-like stem of an apple held in contempt of the tree where the fecund fallen fruit of the complexity of consciousness is rotting in the hands of Khnum as he work the potter’s wheel the last long lost longing for an earthbound God is to be found in the lovely lady herself she holds all life equal in part against her worldly whole she feed and is freely fed upon she hood and holds all motion of moons and suns unknowable in her vaulted vastness worlds apart in her seasonal celestial spiral armor of arms the earth is her spinning child the sun the pit of a pimple on her face the solar winds her birthing breath through the eyes of any creature do she see herself being herself I am that I am is her same reframe no name can contain her no creature can escalate to escape her even in their death do she make use of she contain all Gods fashioned by the limit mind of man she is the Holy Darling Devine life for life sake she is bone smart about being bitter smelling of bone rot the center of a life that got the drop Underneath the protected suggestion of the house of a global God is the remarkable composition of a localized function held in check by the traveling Neolithic culture promoting its brand of healing the God-idols that have abandoned their mending machine for the dark haired rain engraved on a storm at night where the rain swollen river runs it course finding its level fluently full of sweeping

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over the banks to flood the fields of our cultivated needs held in the tears of angels and demons with their complex astonishing varieties caught in the spontaneous divination of a passive and primitive occurring of terrestrial teratological omens of the blinded fetus birth found in the bubble belly temple far-reaching in its imprecation where the remarkable suggestion that seeks to protect us from the all consummated consuming needs of being one with the organizational and illuminating demands of the individuality of the body’s laws the soul’s commandments compartmentalized with body and spirit into the yin yang’s equilibrium of the trendy trinity of the self Underneath the cold undying day of tomorrow is the unending spoken hopefulness that things will get better in the long walk against the novel situation of little importance when the moon tug at the rivers of blood in the vain of each solitary bodies where the cells inhabit a universe of their own where the world is full of living and dyeing where the galaxy is full of the thoughts of all creatures being their selves for they can do no less then live their lives in the dominant dispensations of being one with the rhythm of the wide world where a beating of the heart is heard amidst the nosy noise of the city with its uproar rolling across an empty mercy invisible under the street light’s glow behold the riotous rumor that rule the new moon night in its pregnant shadowy showing its hidden face to the man made light lining the dubious darkness where doubt doubled over hides behind the bulky built of night the birds are asleep in their nest woven with dead grasses and bits of paper found along the streets where the homeless roam round with sleepy eyes to find a wetless warmth to lay their head against

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Underneath the frozen hands of the rain is the fatality of a curiosity gyrating the ancestral commands that is found in the different senses that engage the divination of unquestionable fact that certain individuals have found their way thru to the other side of a commonly held belief that the Gods no longer visit earth to be hired by man they have abandoned us to be possessed by the money making demons of our own making they have marked us as makers of our own mean and mindful misery they have lift their veil from over our eyes that we may see their nakedness their nervous longing for our prayers the fat wave of their voices are rarely heard in this age of the many voices of television and radio baby setting our need to hear the guiding power of a higher order the order of knowing the other the order of the omnipotent owning nothing the order of a promise to enter bodiless into the haven of heaven all the known Gods are apart of the one unknowable that is both asleep and awake dreaming our lives alive the one great that supersede the infinite being of its own being no words can capture the essence of its vital breath no poetry can approach its immortal entity it isn’t so petty as to seek the lip service of our prayers it is the caring that cares not it is the literal it need no present priest to intercede no poet to praise it need no churches other then the body and even this is secretly suspect for it need no needs other then the thought to be it is beyond the skin of the circle of life that contain us all my musing on it is for naught Underneath the stars in the breast pocket of the Gods that goes back to the skin that they was born in when a Babylonian king of the relationship between man and Gods have paid the bribery observe in the hands of scientific information all that is left of the mouth piece of the Gods are the priests and the undercover pleonastic poets pleading their case in the many meaning words of

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their mother tongue poets of the sumptuous sun poets of the grandiose Gods poets of the raiment rain clothing your skin poets of the tumefaction of the river’s run poets of the lasting love long in the limbs of love poets of the warbler’s wisdom of being itself poets of the knowable nature of Nature throughout time have poets been born to do your bidding by the pen they have swallowed the swollen bitter pill to readily reach out to you these poets of the sensational sensual sincerity of being human poets of the grass growing according to the strangulation of the green found in the blade of its nakedness poets of the Hispanic sky with its ghosts of blue about and above the brown generosities of their skin poets of the foraging homeless an ancient act played out in a throw away society where the whip of a thousand years is wrap around the season of injury poets of the horticulture sun’s freedom sprung across the fraternal earth poets of the ample wave of grains in the Midwest’s embrace poets of the artisan with its specialization flowering in the bloodspots of an electrified blaze poets of the holy water’s effects wearing down the missionaries rock of ages that conjure the snake of the moving sky poets of a forest of stars in the far away tear of an hour poets of the raw celebration of a suicide bombing’s indiscreet killing at the market of maroon mothers moaning the death of their innocent children caught in the hateful fight of the prophet’s words poets of laughter on the tongues of a busted howling madness of the skyscrapers stabbing the confinement of an emphatic embrace poets of the young inherence of an old world spectacle of screaming miseries on hold its mouthful of cold golden calamities caught by the generosities of the sun Underneath the guardian of everyday life is the internal ethnic isolation of a nail in the sun’s blood rushing against the fist of a baby girl stripping the agonizing

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lichen of a toothless cage off the trembling dropping of a consuming race that wage its rage across the hideousness of a collapses consciousness trembling between the stubborn wind’s appendage and the moon’s grey fierceness that torture the excuse of a stupefied combustion booming the current drenched in the remorse of a biting pain where the geometry of a wayward dream is deemed marvelous in the temples of an avalanche’s rushing toward forgiveness for burying the distrust of the silence of laziness with its lost legitimate inquisitiveness toward the weaker side of a surrender embrace left to wrap its arms around the fearless map of a serpent’s skin its kingdom and its kin slider across the compass pointing to the stars over the man made scum of the sea seen unexpectedly so far from the buttoned up coat of the coast advancing toward the interdictions of the moral prejudices evidenced in the affliction of the heart Underneath the acquisition of an earlier time is the lost literature of the private dualism of water its transmutation its indivisible calling its rendezvous its never forgetting its way back to the sea its transformation into ice or snow it alone is the tears of the Gods it is their blood that flows it is self contained in its maneuvering to and fo it fills us hot and cold it is only equal by the earth that holds it it come and go and still holds it measure it thirst to be understood under the undulation of the umbrella sky it is the life ecstasy of anguish the life heaviness of guilt the life bitter hunger hushed-up in a persistent tenderness that gnaw away at the night a small rain fall in the vastness of the thin darkness of night where the genitals of flowers are blinded by their desires to prostrate beneath the bee’s imperceptibly beating of its wings the flower’s flames is blooming out of anger beside its sister that sits without regret offering redemption by its discretion of the sexual sins of heterosexual fornication’s prescription committed

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and maintained by the church of Charlemagne Saint Louis the IX in your city spring is arched over the dying back of winter spring’s crusade against the body of its brother spring’s told time in the telling leaves of tulips spring’s bleeding hearts in the hast of April spring of daffodils and pansies foregoing their color beside the prejudices of the day where Aquinas’ parlance is paid by the moot judicious undertow riding under the undertaker’s undiplomatic bow playing the coffin of pestilence desperately seeking a body to hold O spring O rebirth O boy born on the 19th of spring thy bones shall be gathered together thy beautiful limbs possessing the splendor of the dark heaven shall be renewed by the rejoicing of coming into yourself you are the keeper of the book uniteth within yourself the Gods command you to die the good death from your dead body shall bloom spring from your dead body shall bloom eternity the door of the eastern horizon opens to your coming the resounding prophet of the forest calls to you the hour where you wake the running water shall call your name in the wealth of rushing O spring bloom from my dead skin O mother giving birth you are a holy act held in the warm dirt and northern wind where winter keep its last strong hold stiff and cold as it blows Underneath the cultural cult of spring that have sprung is the misunderstanding of the embodiment of psyche and soma by the debuted scholars of the yearning of the sun with its haunted beauty hanging in the air of our bated breath the calamities of your mouth is the storehouse of words developing in the mind where the devouring devil work his mystical magic to quick caught catch you up in the envy evil doing that man can do to man the devil can find no other host and home save for in man all other admirable animals are immune from his prowling powers this hints at a voluntary invention to woe the soul that can

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go the way of the body’s desire to do wrong a weakness of flesh all its own but it is the mind that knows so the body only follow in the flow the mind betrays our brutish nature in its based disgrace that dance around a yearning mercy to portray torture thrown toward our fellow man when we can not find the will within the taking of account for ourselves to the long flung God that no longer visit his earth bound home come down come down come down are my prayers’ refrain are you leaving us to save ourselves while we are engross in the game of life we open our skin to you we open our healthy honest hearts waiting for your warning warm spot warmth caught in a war of nepenthe nerves with their net-wing networking of butterflies in the marvelous temple buried in the bark of trees in the meat of the eye where the final duration of innocence with its timeless mourning mounted on the syncopate stagnation of a visitation focus on the silence smoke that circle the galaxies of the internal body entangle with its veins full of the blood of the moon Underneath the stepping stones of a historical silent is the violence knowledge of a quest for authorization ragging against the intellectual fundamental sky in the eyes of a watcher waiting the raising arrival of the solar disk that warms the wreckage of spider’s webs and eggs and the edge of the eye lids and the ideal of the pyramidal house of the Gods is taking into account the familiar spirits that use to people the earth underneath the sun is the angry doing of a darkened hunger that wish to feed on your stretched out needs overflowing from your body boldly they go the way of homogeneical physique protected by the objectified conception of language with its junk jewelry jumping the junction where the jungle meets the leprotic machismo machines that cut it into pieces the birds are made homeless for the sake of new houses first

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come last run last ruminate cut down first heard last said the rhythm is in the words rupicolous ruptured on the rocks hot for the forget me not knocking in the tail end of a rutilant wind against the burden burly passion coming faster there where the master as tendered mercies of the night watcher’s lamp lit by the focus of the barrel of a gun rock me just a little while when I’m caught in the cross hairs of the maid’s son of the nun when the light that follow the night outright stain the brain where the sides of the mental tides that slides the ride up and fall a water wall abides the outright ark that glides in its strides over the days of rain when the rain busted the levee in the low lands and the flood was black backed up water a plunged passion for finding its level in the living room half-way up the stairs possession float in the water that stinks like dead rats and sewage life take to the water feeding off the drowned there is a body in the water an old man in overall floating on his back he bump into a light pole Underneath the Slavic slaveholding of a final collapsed little lie is the abolition of an unsettled question found in the burial plan of the last respirational do-gooder exhume for the viewing of the living with the gestures of their hearts a forgotten brotherhood of impossible longing lagging along side the litter of the Gods scattered across the landscape of a reunification unimposing its will on the overripe joy that suddenly is bustling its fermenting sweetness to the drunken ecstasy distill from our desires where the persistent tenderness of a hesitant boredom perched on the surprise of a melancholy Christendom goes preaching with its obsessive sins written when the world was young who now is so inspire as to write for the new world when the old sending out its rules from the old world gilded palace of an abrupt purple gleaming in the clumsy richness of being out of touch with the new

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ceiling of modernity’s morality in the new world that is burden beneath the archetypical archaic light rewrite the holy word of antiquated shadows afraid of the light let the dead be reborn into its own right let the holy holy words live in the present day light of a modern translation fit for the new born’s life the body of the holy book must be a thing alive it must live along side the living to show them the light of the Lord the wisdom of God need evolve its evolution into the tomorrow of yesterday into the invisible noises sacrificial mercy burning the fire of the chemical flesh Underneath the crocket tress of winter is the way home from a lost vision of a reticent friend fascinated by the marriage of Nero fascinated by the circumspection and presumptuous witness of a face in the mirror the inert entertainment of the self the fatigue mirror solitary in it refection knows nothing of the energetic fears that it reflect nothing of the ignition drumming its famished prejudice sluggishly against the crouching sodomy’s catechism that hunger in its questions and answers strung then swallowed pass the tongue of a submissive teacher that taught the organized motion of an angle’s anguish to restrain its liberation under the sun of a shady voice full of swampy silence aged and strangely self-conscious of a tepid awakening into the insane eternity growing over the skin of the present the pride of time have witnessed the growing on of the furtive futile future detoured by a lost hour looking to be rehearsed renewed then reduced to the revolt of an awful awakening incapable of telling talismanic time to the put-up-on pyrotechnics rapper rhyming his rhythm rapaciously to the ear of the radio’s stagnate stability

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Underneath the arrogant deceptive fragile snow falling in the humiliating night where the witness surrounding the poverty of a city’s lost man homeless in the alcoholic dream birthing the thoughts of warmth and comfort in the cold clothing of the night is to be found the only way back to the ferocious home from the pestilence life of living on the streets Underneath the burgeoning hour where arrogant is kept tight in forgetfulness leaping against its restrained belly the morning comes on fatigue from its journey thru the solitary darkness of an emptied hunger that can not feast on the bourgeois’ bountifulness set behind glass before the working poor in a land of plenty the poor have forgotten how to woe the rich manicured lawns maintained by the drive-by gunmen cheering the diet of desire that set its heart apart where the dumb dead solei sun of the Saharan tragedy relentless in the reddishbrown soil where grows Kongo and Angola skinned youth dreaming of the lost history of Meroe hidden in burning sands where sun heated wind blind by thousand grains the lost traveler looking for the kingdom of the sun God now long gone and buried deep in the desert of the heated heart swallowed by the years the wilderness of the past with its repaired bones turned to stones a done deal the wilderness of the future foretold by the light of the sun that daily die a lie of nature as seen by the living the water solely holy in the melancholy call of a tear the cold snow slow unfold of an old blow that will not yield the brazen heaven away the prayer above the love caught in the win of sin battling the uncouth truth of a ring of wings that sing the preferred words of a sting sweet strung to meet when the birds eat the earth then fly about their only heaven that they shall know in the light grey night of a new day the rain begun but bring them no pain the found chill of their sound still rare there where the dew is young

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in a winter’s morn fighting with the breath of spring I hear oh the breeze the clear singing and I am struck dumb by the eloquent that comes so easily their remark in the dark sight of the advancing light their lust for the crust of the world their pride spent along side the birthing that provide a speechless day’s dark spell when the church bells ring the would be holy to the house of the heart every Sunday morning we are set apart to worship in the shrine of the holy wind spilt on the tongue where is the church of the sun the wind the whole earth skies and ground found in the dirt of the earth the happy throng song of the fair grass pass the litter that I bear Sun children of the sun wearing the eternal badge of honor which is the blackness of their skin over the red muscles tight and firm and fit to earn the worship of angels that go singing along the Sankuru River in the kingdom of Kuba where dogs delivering the will of God go barking at Its approach turning their holy heads toward the heroine Natura when the children who shall come to wipe Sunday from their eyes when the drums of illuminates genuine ancestral beneficent of being as dark as the dirt sweep into a swell that gently swayed by a song of good-good night when the sun is quite dry it makes me cry to think that I have chosen to live my life along in the tall glass of the city as my home its time for a future change one that is untamed by the voices of children with their disordered time for their long and lonesome ride of smiles like indigent fatalities of the angels that they shall become as time goes on the angels color me in a constitutional blue and I skip the lights indifferently in my second-class dance of the sixteen blesses virgins finding themselves before the music of my heart at last life is like a song controlled by the curiosity of the conflagration of taking my love by the measured of an overwhelmed bone shocked into breaking on the sharp

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edge of an ordinary love of poetry spoken underneath the insides of the breath that is our confident all in you all fall you the angels mull you the demons stall you just you wait and see when the wind is right you can live a miracle in the space of a second and your voice will proclaim that your faith makes the perfect story-line of a out of time rhyme riding a thousand miles dreaming like you wish to spend your soul of the prettiness of things that look like home to you don’t be shy by the apple and the price to pay for the knowing of the hunger that burns in the belly of knowledge a hunger that proclaims the apocalyptic conquest when you remain all that is lift of my pain that I can talk about in the business end of the night the more that I give of you the more that my trial by words shall find its rest Sun shining in the eye of the God of Thebes that sees man being man in the holy temple at Ipet-isut and Nowe the sacred places of the most high places of God’s interaction with the most earthbound man made from the dirt in the finger nails of the Gods who let us write our lives in blood lives punctuated by their forgiveness for the sins caught in the heart lives with the strength of the roundness of bones lives under the knuckle of the sun the real arboreal birds biting the hour of their birth in the bath of the nest their black obsidian music erupting in the volcanogenic night where angels sits high in the trees and piss down on the passer-bys anointing them with the meticulous message of their urine mixed with the blood of a holy laughter revitalizing the activated dreams of the streets where the indubitable hunger of slumber hides in dark uncharted corners of beautiful weather examining the intersections of the fractured impossible horror of a dismembered secret and the high scented plateaus of flowers where a decomposition takes place under the waiting wounds of an exploded torrential singing its song

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of desolation in a cursed voice aged by the naked melancholy rotting in the geometric weight of eternally surrounding the extreme hour desolated by the babbling common sense of a mute tormented brutality organized by the fragile wings of the wind blowing unleashed words over the time told imprints of an entangled friendship longing the obscure wounds left behind by the thirst of ancestors inhabiting the life journey taken in an obscured year abandoned by the cult of a magical paradise strayed words on the tip of the tongue of fresh thoughts let loose by the formula for the great disaster of ice Sun resistance of amalgamation in the pyramids’ shadows who’s pointing is over looked by the sacred hour when the pyramidical saddle of dead Gods gather to welcome the dead entomb within into the netherworld the Gods have been brought to their suicidal silent from their boastful tongues of their beautiful spirits that once entered the body of the divine chiefs of children with needles in their emission of flesh till they are connected to the myth of the never whispered irresistible perfume of the breathy music of trumpets notes implanted in the ear of the future where the yet to be born with their naiveté totally intact are waiting at the way station in the heaven of the unborn beside the nocturnal thundering distilled words of an ingenuous revolt flashing its compassionate storms inhabited by the insolence assassinating wonder of an apple on the hissing flames of the tree of life grown as a temptation by the secret power teetering on the cowardly violent dreams of the reconciled heart dreaming that it saw an army of angel soldiers dressed in rags marching off to the deafening memory of war with it resentment and remorse for the proverbs swallowed by endless looking for a God that will save us from the meat of our flash drunk on the ruthlessness of doing time on the obscure star busy with life being itself where the

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extremity luminous vigorous replacement of the gentle fatigued notion sleeping in the dark scared night Sun witnessing the conquest of blacks by a foreign religion the blacks who have forgotten the Gods of their fore fathers the black who’s time told Ra is ship wreck on the points of the cross the blacks who copulate in the lost wisdom of Seb the blacks who’s soul have been taken possession of by the white knowledge of ownership the blacks clothed in the visible forms of Gods that eat the heart of Osiris the blacks who are my brothers in the blood of the slaughter house of violence where the children sleep the blacks caught by the smile of Jesus and straightening their hair to be Christ like in a weave flowing pass their shoulders that holds heads of the charter of blackness in their skin the blacks most beautiful in earnest essences under the sun’s darkening focuses the blackening of America is seen in the extreme musical tones of our flesh the free flow of blackness fluencies at their best the blackest of the blacks no less the light bright blacks of a warm miracle can not undo their blackness through and through the sorrow that it borrow through and through the pride along side the sparkle of their brown eyes black mothers and brothers flowering into tomorrow’s torn arrow past the last same name of being black back into the jungle juice of jazz blacks seen the carved wood masks that stood for the inner desire of the Godhead a place in the heart a grace above the love of men then shall we find in the face of a holy place that boast of the Host on the knees in Galilee Underneath the minimum wage paid to the poor that leave their hunger hung on the tongue of a thin belly desolated by the indocile cross that collect its share along side a government that seems not to care for it too takes a

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share who shall advocate on their behest whose mouth is rich in their prayers who ply the money changer’s wares toward the disinherit that clean our toilets and teach our children questions that should be asked of the porous poets who have grown deadly quiet as concern such matters they have grown astonishingly malnourished pulled into themselves aged out of their time with selfcentered rhymes all about the I O you poets of life O love lost lords of love crown by the words that embrace you who cut asunder the beautiful dilated joy once thou was both putrid and pure worthy enough to be spoken to by the Gods behold thy soul seem lost within an ivy covered shadow this is my blistering bony body that I bear this is a blooming blob of my blood eat of its sarcastic bread for it is pleasing to your gone God when you write in the secret chamber of your heart lay it bear let all your secrets be told that other know not to hold you must witness to it all the human soul is a fertile ground let the juice of it run down throw away you laurel crown and go sit among the common once again what goodness is to be found in the isolating ivy halls what good to speak in a dead or dying tongue O scribes of the common within the limbs of your splendors you have been blessed by the occupation of life to show that none is along so sing your sometime chimeric song your thoughts in the night of your head is in tune without the breath is your singing the words scenery generating the unhinged treasure gnawed and swallowed by an obscure habit of a flower’s outrageous happiness of incandescence silence fertile words are your tools in tones used their fluid weariness shudder and embrace the enticement of a dissolving proliferating primordial second coming Underneath the place of the skull it is done by the skill of the garden tomb or beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulcher the Edicule the burial place of the son of man

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slayed by the prey of sand rocks land flocks all that there is in the air of a gloom with its fair glare of the Nile the fresh of an isle of flesh all the while stretching for miles the rather gather of the spring’s sowed uneaten by the winged things let loose upon the fail hail of the deep dumb of the sea with its bitter litter of plastic even in the mouth of the south spring wintering in the drew dew that gaze beneath the way of the soon seen way of the moon it is the nipping of an eastern fellowship a decreased frieze punishment that ease itself into the bent knees of a thought sought to move on the love of a small movable wall behind the self I hide in the end eye of my pen I ride and try the rhythm of the sky it is the wordy found sound that abound thee the last pass of a tree cast me and I am thrown upon the fast fire of forgetfulness then you become the yet wet man of lore yore that begun before you wore the done took book of the far look of looking for yourself in the poetry of an air around the ground successfulness of a wilderness in the ancient stone and bone that once repaired the air your cries are not despise they are spent in the end they do not offend but rise in our eyes we are the light that have taken flight the fast last blast of hovering words that list its flow in the mist of fog that roll around the flag pole where patriotism fly half mast in the unfurling day of mindless murder committed by the willful mind to not die along Underneath the conflagration of a pinched back desire is the concentration of needs and wants waiting to be fulfilled by the sexual misconduct that spends its currency in the escaping liberty found in the truth attentive sun where ever possibility is burnt to the distress dance found in lit matches’ fire an enumeration imitation of the all powerful everywhere sun that rife the everything life that glow its prejudice this way and that in the lit air of the seven heaven within the sin of a lying eye

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where the sky is full of the flames that once came in the once loud same song long in the breath of wild prayers birth in the inspiration of the creation of earth where the poet’s patience pennant is a race toward glorious grace toward the late immaculate infancy of infinity found in the paraphrand consciousness of the violence voice of second hand metaphors’ introspect of the evidence of the sympathetic nervous rib-cage of clouds the poet with his respiratory changes of words wrung then wrapped round the royal breath clearly correlated with its cycle of duration of the word filled with anger words run within the breath like children at play where the playground is filled with broken green glass words that sparkle like lost emeralds cut sharp shards sheared and shaped by the hardness of concrete holding the heat of the day the hypostasis kardia cardiac of words beating their backs up against the breath the heart break consciousness of profound words that ponder the quick succession of meaning comprehend quickly before the next word fall from the lips O pirate poet looting the wet land of language in the incenses incest of your mother tongue filled with the emotional experience of smoke’s sensation to be done by the intellectual travel of the Gods from the heart to the head in their search for man’s psyche they play the subsidiary role of Sunday morning church bell ringing in the God-weaken world most Gods go about wandering homelessly seeking to kidnap and enslave the free will some Gods are chained so that they will not abandon us when the God-controlled puppets of good and evil light in the sight of a blue hue that linger by the raised pointing finger that seeks to bless us the world overflow low with the white light seen in the hallucination of death the dusky-deep that spread shed across the heart and head till only the dead know the name of an one true God of Gods

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Underneath litter life birthing an overripe comprehensive but precisely rejoicing wind blowing across the distinguished language of the angels is to be found the delicious stone where the disembodied spirits embedded in the deceitful breath of survival that swirls around the passing birds is felt by a word that decry the horror of paradise lost in the apartment of a frighten vision that tremble before the explosion of despair held in the memory of worshipping the plastic people of the television set to sell the bill of good down the river of a self-surrender self-transcendence seduction found in the belly of a weariness long suffering the sufficient longing of the poor ignored by the politicians of Americus in favor of the middle class where forth are the champions of the poor caught in the daily laborious labor of memento lack of movement of minimum wage in a maximum society where the government receive its pay why tax the rich is the seldom asked question of the day they are to rich to pay do we let them play the American way poor oh poor the poets have not forgotten you not by a single day in this absurd play call democracy we champion your heroic name this country is to rich for poverty yet poverty remain in the game who will come to your aid who have the fortitude to save who will hear the prayers you pray when we care little of the poor and the aged Underneath the crimes of poetry is the music of the formal muses who keep their exotic rhythms as a mantra for the warring poets who goes on their lost journeys to find the lost body of the now defunct word that once stood in for the Gods when the delimited feet of a fifth was song to the believers of the poets who have been banished from the temples only to be called upon in times of stress with their divergent trajectories procession following on the tip of a breath full of rhyme and rhythm

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found in the heart of the living language that linger from its ancient mentality born each generation anew the young makes new use of the old tongue they keep the language young you are one caught in the orgasmic originations of the organized word you are one who rape the body of words to fulfill your meaning in the false algebra of the Holy Ghost in the holy drunkenness of the shadow of running water in the sluggish clarity of an irresistible sound of a fountain in the beautiful breath of low thunder in the stubborn delirium of revolt with its murderous blood thirsty revenge toward a river of tongues you are the young of infant hopes in the master wilderness of an insane boredom you are the immortal torment gigantic by the fulminatory voice modest in its wounds indicted and inflicted by the seascape’s long lonely arm youth lie at the crossroads of a love-struck dance of time it dine on the grayish-brown grass-like long growth in the throat youth believe that it have an immortal eye in which to spy on the passing of squared time deafening in its memory of passing youth knows little of the world at large with its warping warring heavy with moans in the secret of a publics bullet fired in the deadly April of American history bless be the naiveté of the young they are save by their ignorant from the harshness that life is saved from the erection of a gun till to war they come where they give their lives to the execution of a road side bomb Underneath the bloody barbaric hybrid of a humorist’s rot is to be found the shattering humor of our identification our courage borrowing from the zeal of an occupation held in the deprived concrete of the side walk’s power holding up the scars of the always present air care to care about the forgotten lost in the distant landscape of a cannibalistic atmosphere humbled by a haze touching the

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odor that flows as a muzzle on the wind free wind as a monsoon of musical laughter howling underneath the wounded violent of a mountain’s nightmare where the midnight hour comes on like an awesome antique passion transformed and stripped mutilated by a discarded breath collapsed onto the rocks themselves exhausted by the roots of trees dismembered by the knife edge wind in the season of darkness with its shoulders to the wheel of a dying lie proliferating the remorseless cruelty of an inheritance laughter that summon the victorious obelisk of laws that have long since taught the tongue to teach the tender tenebrous to take on light and shine beyond the shadows of an intimacy innocent of darkness where the forbidden anger of the Gods is fought in the feline instant of the machine of muscles that howl their wealth crazing the hunger of an empty conflagration fatigued before the divinity of the last victim of the mind’s well hell of a slow throw out about the no go the so go that blow and smother the sweet mother of a poet’s song long in the limbs of a hollowed out poem with its pregnant face of begging mercy that will not repent against what went pass the ear within the sin of a stone alone against the bones that break in the wake of a be-all and end-all call to duty to do the state’s bidding at the beach head of last regret last call for alcohol last overhead moon of the river bed last distress of a poet’s success last blind left behind last midnight to follow daylight last degree of the wanting sea last word to be heard by the fragile unpardonable poem that calls for the overthrow of the un-rhymeable orange the overthrow of a country that have turned its gigantic back on the injured poor whose blood is red white and blue whose eyes are full of stars whose emotion are striped they are to busy being poor to contemplate revolution but how much more can they stand to be set upon by a fat society that turns its back and facing the middle class with their hand full of the winds of

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commerce they are placated by the trinkets of conquest the fast cars the slow TV the debt that keep their hands to the wheel of a sudden strength but in the under belly where the rich care not go where the government shine no light as if not to know in that dark place the poor labor to keep the rich fat in greenbacks I am such a mindful man Underneath the glossed-over surrealist of cocked weapons with their forbidden boldness naked in the hands of the young black kids is the opposition of a life well lived in a time where the dimension of humor caught in the anticlimactic moment is extended pass the blood that flows in the ghetto of the mind schooled to be so the disinherit dreams of their inherit where out of the ghetto there shall rise one who is born to lead in his time he shall be as a butterfly circling the honey sucker vine entwine of a rusted chain-link fence and pollinate the blossoms of the poor minds toward rebellion for their share of the American apple pie I tell no lie as sure as the syncopate sky is open with rain as sure as the madness of a prejudice of the dawn shall assassinate the one as sure as the mounting water rise incorruptible by the bridge that carry the day as sure as dreamt logic quickly fade as sure as the loud scream of the sun will murdered angles and when it is done the one true God of the stretched out arms shall go screaming the bankruptcies and steadily sterility of skyscrapers as sure as the hair upon the head of trees shall fall in a riot of wind and the graying of Americus is seen in the age old wisdom of Midwest wheat shipped to the east as sure as the machine of ants with their silent ruthlessness of a drunk bird are following singles file from their home to a dead worm on the concrete is a holy thing as sure as the innocence of the stubborn landscape brings forth the bread basket of heavy fountains flooding the forest fit for life

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Underneath the criminal word in its exception of meaning in its specific madness that enable the tongue to imagine all that it requires in its elements of violent as common as a firefly on a summer night we find that the word recognize not its own meaning in the crowded universal courage that string them together we find the miraculous mercy of words is falling asleep in the strange hands of speaking in tongue we find that life is always advancing on and over itself that it is an opportunist that fill the smallest opening it grows on the skin it is all kin one way or another in the anxious forever confusion of hunger for space in the collapsed torturer of a vehement memory for space in the secret prostitution of an unfailing life being itself being itself life is never embarrassed or impaired it will always find a way to express the obsolete yesterday and the carnival interruption of tomorrow that reclaim today with its grunting array bruised by the bottom bearbone and booming of the basic ballistic big bang blow of literal life Underneath the tragic beautifully formed memory of precipitation the flowing ocean follow the germination in its intimate vigor follow the unique hunger of a leaf follow the succulence meditation of a peach follow the resentment of an orange blossom to the drunken rain with its purify and degradation strung with immense caution around the enormous command of the sun in its daily force-fed fists pounding a firm fever into the air Underneath the wedged of a profound blister on the skin of the world is caught the word nigger in the mouth of a pray hovering over the skin of the city hovering over the forbidden skin of blackness found in the forest hovering over the smoking assaults of full top lips hovering over the broad nose of the fieriest and ancient life of man on earth

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Underneath the whore-house of chocolate is the passion of a young girl with her corpse of fish blood tracing the imprint of bones inconstant and interwoven in the honeycomb where the blinded socket is chafed against the greediness of fire the young girls goes pass the executioner wishing him well in his ritualistic deed before him they comb their hair with a tooth brushes and plant their giggles in the electric chair the potassium chloride needle that is stuck into the river of blood till the heart of it stop dead the young girls are a wonder in the mimicking delight of the world where sisterhood is a well kept secret against the hidden face of man’s temptation Underneath the commonness of sodomy the thrush of your sex is laid bear the penetrator of a quivering hot swells to bring forth a birth of nocturnal breathe breathing the damp sweat of a man in heat against the barred boredom where love’s flame burns away all his assassinating dreams dreaming the dawn alive underneath the bedecked thicket of silk sheets Underneath the song of the Hooded Warbler’s treasure is the deafening body sacrificed to the God of vegetational morning raising blood tinted by the outrageous sun’s slanted light and hands of heat waves reaching across the knowable silent of space where the fulvous Gods keep their sputtering embrace tight against the pregnant God that will come to do man good when the oppressed situation of giving birth become the concept touchstone by which the artificial high priest with his language of the master race shall prophesize that the skin of the cross shall be stretched over the materialistic recognition that the Gods can not be bought by the hands of the banker who skeleton shall be sold to the highest bidder beneath the cross of the pray that will slay the many miles kept

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within the while of a smile of the first-fruit already bruised by torn thorn heart Underneath the concept of one’s destiny that is never held down by the feudalization that we are who we are in our skin and bones and we go where we go in the always alone self contained flesh that can see itself reaching out with hollow palms that cannot feel a common thought of the spirit of a straw the maker of the universe the preserver of all known knowledge the totality of the separated self the self that meditated on the possibility of its union the innermost self of the you is as divine as an ant digging in the earth let the enlightenment of the Gods be upon you you are their animal you the meat flourish with your sacrifices in tack project yourself of three forms accomplish the meritorious acts that be-seek you the ignorant desire is an object of enjoyment be you not restrained by the weariness of the assumed body as the birds are eating vomit in the street a regurgitation of a night’s worth of flow working its way with a bit of us leaving the body behind to recover its balance bent over collapsed collared closed off from the inheritance of the swamp’s frail distance and genetic zeal blonde of skin the proudest predominant pain-taking image paraded pass the billboards of what our souls want waits for when the mirrors of our irrepressible half-light of the insane knotting boredom found in nosey buried cities where the him home of the honeycomb hears in the ears of the one Father’s Son set astray thee to be beside thee they do a true taste of love from the art of the heart glad had of the night’s delight that break a wake across morning that can not wait you the more of you is the telling the adore of you know in the known knowing I induce the truth to be true I believe I deceive I thief of belief ken to men dwell well in the holy stress of the mysteries of living in the cities the glory Paraclete’s countenance nailed and lanced

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by the holy spirit when the everlasting burning of the self is incinerated in the back-yard where the birds congregate let the order of your odor wave pass where you have been let the spring of things everywhere the damp stamp of woods that stool the green between the bark the prime time Autumn made glade round bout the black top tracks set afire of the came flames till tied and died out with a last act of defiance smothering in the roots ground of who we wish to be Underneath the eagerness of homiletic sentiments is to be found the beautiful ambition of the irreducible hallucination of a Red-Wing Black bird’s song when the storms with thunder and slumber in their throats hump their backs and take a breath full of rain before it run aground around the drain that gargle its flooding drinking till drunk on the monsoon’s delicious flamboyant chest of the flooded sky with its odor of rain set free to wash away all that it can reach that is not anchor down the rain is ancient in its falling it is unstable in its under toll underneath its flowing skin is the whirl wind of watery muscles that control the flow of a timeless motion the rain is friend to many it is to high to be molested by man too ethereal to be controlled by anything earthbound it comes on its own eucharist euphotic accord Underneath the tough thoughts of warring commands is the half civilize notion that perceptive motive tinted with the consumption anger of a solitary hunger is the famished belly of Anna in the hidden place of the great Gods satisfied by the spilling of blood dilated with joy that pays homage to the ancestors clothed in the memories of the living sleeping the unified experiences of bliss’ incomprehensible essence manifesting a merging of the creator with the created saying grasp this with your

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skin it is the touching food of the saved this is the aggregate of body and soul it is the identified and intellect of the self assembled before the great eye of God the sacrificial libation of the body the vigor of the senses is a food eaten the love of love can fill the belly of your soul the love of soul can feed the belly of your spirit but the love of food alone does nothing for the body without the taking of it into the cannibalistic enthusiasm of the prodigious soul that is wrap in the flesh of a trembling scattered rhetorical torture by the ancestral scar suffering the rewrite of a history told to the children of a dark triumph race Underneath the words of the Gods the mighty ones the victorious who dwells in books and the glorious hearts of churches and mosques and temples with their splendid appearance on earth is the reformers informing the lay person of the committing wreckage of an elegy’s pain half alive in the incrusted seashell sold to the highest bidder beside the want of weeping of the apocalyptic sea let there be grace be to all of man’s Gods grace to their true nature that some have sought to corrupt grace to the glory that guide men’s bodies to follow their spirit inbred in the inner life looking outward from the spasmodic and sudden nightmarish want of a beautiful truth held in the forgetful forest summoning all to live their lives according to the good words of the violence of the good book where the serpent can not spill his venenate venal vice bought and sold by the left hand while the right pray for the salvation the duality of live is that as we are living we are dying the death of the limited fleshing flesh that feed on the fleshment fitful flamboyancy of fibrous tissue feed yourself well in the wafture mature water of the world wagging its wage to be paid day by day for the day shall come when you must pay for all the play that the body enjoyed in youth you shall grow old and grey a

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joyous thing to behold with the wisdom to know the walloping willow that hangs and blows its weeping in the wandering wind waving the surface of water warm and wild in the forest that never ever rest but keeps its wonderful working tugged tight in life long luxurious luxuriant longing to fill the earth with earnest growth the pious pitchman paralanguage poets knows in the pitiless piquant pitch of their pocket of words the way of all flesh of the flesh the profiteers know you want to mold you Underneath the giving of the body is the will of the Gods is the obedience slumbering light of heaven is the exhausted point of view of the never irresponsible earth swollen fat by the humped stone where a monsoon of stubborn disasters flood the thirst of an insult held in the lunation of the a worm’s home where the path to righteousness can not see the half-light stubborn mouthful of the consuming intermingling thoughts of the forced generalization of violent beyond the senses of the object with their mindful meaning can be found the essence of the self hidden behind the intellect where the energy of truth with its currents flowing pass the ignited thoughts dense at the threshold of pride screaming to be as natural as birds dropping feeding the pigment of earth under the vision of the sun can be found the comprehensibility of trees and rain and a song to them to sing above the impurities of the cities

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Part VII.

March roars and roams in like a courageous confounded lion drenched and grounded its wild willful winds dance Baryshnikoving around bold buildings and budding trees defecting till the nature of Spring is naturalized by young booming branches of wailing weakened winter it is as if as the angry anemometer angels are drunk on the other side of the wanting winds that work their wraparound will to the name frame billowing to meet the streets on their own terms they seem not to want to invent or intervene as if their beat back blowing is motion enough to keep the kite of our high flying desired above the common fray that insult the common commands of being alive their constancy is of such faith that every time the wind calls something of my breakaway breath its bridge for words fall and die before the eyes of the holy prophets of certain conditions speaking of the purity of the wincing windage of the wind blown pass the arrangement’s compensation of walking the earth softly issued by the giving of God’s will where nothing passes unknown where the inanimate grace of a face wonder through the maze of the majestic city where the angles and demons conspires together their eternal earning jealousies of our free wills to trick us up Up against the thumb nail of a thought and the ritual of religion the complaisant of speech seeks the changes of a system of commerce are gathering the corns beans squashes and cotton up to be sold on the world market of social relationship of the hidden Lord found in all creature with Brahmin of the cargo system in the high high lands where where the earth shake may I keep my cargo before me may it be the duty of my deeds may I discharge my duly diligently with my cargo as my glued guide may the Gods forgive my miscarry as I carry the Saints through the streets of my dreams to the festival of fighting at careenage at sea where free flowing rivers flowing to the seas of my solar cells collecting the

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architect of an avalanche’s roar down the search of growing old in the mountain in the late spring where the relation between plants and insects is an old thing to behold the all-pervading self is embodied in a meditation understood by the grasping hands hasting with a greater need hidden in the heart of creatures this land strummed with a flock of flowers gathered by the haunted hands slender and sleek full of the salvation of Spring weeping to sway the spirit of peace and everything in their growth is green again in the goodness of motherhood the earth is giving forth a birth in a riot of thunder all under the dark drink of moderation and magnanimity in the repetitive rain drumming it refrain drumming its refrain again and again the repetitive rain drumming is the song that nature sing The myth of the religious of being alive the highest art of living where the thought on thinking go serenading the self with a feeling of the self that the knowing is known here by a leaking karma and hands of Kama when kalpa releases the body’s breathing that we suffer for ourselves the spiracles nature as Buddha sitting in the present position tolerant of the body’s desires of letting the world be full of its kinds the outer objective world keep its inner thoughts tight when we are just getting by all the world seem like rabbits at the whiskey bar asking who’ll be mine when the roses are staring at the bees’ underbelly Be at home with your body as a bird in a nest as a spider with its web as a bee with its cone as a beaver with its dam be one born into the history of the second Punic war Hannibaling across Spain to the elephants in the Apes the three battle on the doorway to the richness of Rome where the Visigoth and Vandals vagabond vitiated over took the Romans wars of the world goes on it is at home when the obstruction of an oddity in Darfur preventing peace workers from performing their peacekeeper will a

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fight for the grass motivated on all sides by the advancing of the desert in a chant common to the scattered self where the kindly king moon looks down upon the flashy fire of an open mouth that speak the worship of woman’s impregnated flower of good deeds giving birth to the bloom of your smile and let the child be born without the mockery that piety be in the room that gloom makes of an unwanted torn and forlorn birth of the drenched but never quit quenched prime time run of the sun across the blue scattered light of the seemly absent sky breathing its rhythm of once secret enchantment with my hands I play with the air and they call me mad for they see nothing there at night I go bare to be enwrap in the dark cool wind that fill-up the sky closest to the ground when I open my mouth to let the words out the air is there there is the air from my lungs leaving a taste of the sun once a young God that demanded nothing The honor of money is paying the debris of its debt to the dwarf soul dwelling in the bovine body of an eternal embodiment of the self it is all that I know it is the Holy Ghost the gratification of the sensual surprise of desires go meditate on the self that self same self that is the center of the universe in you with the irresistibly destruction of the unknown distinguish words of running water of the verses of bees the sacrificial libation of angels looking at the color of nectar they have witnessed the four great awakening in the land of the baby boomers working their way through the lives that we are born to we likewise have witnessed the moon setting in the intellect of the sun that have witnessed dreams that transcends the offspring of Gods that require the sacrifice of the good deed of the intercourse of morning doves with their loveliness caught in the smell of their breath sharing the air that dwell on earth their love is an attribute a magnifying motherhood for the sympathizing edge of

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their eggs that hold the great identity of the infinite secret knowledge of flight and the second section of a certain fundamental thunderstorm with its immaculate discussion of lighting and rain as old as the earth itself the true believers of weather fear not its gentleness and destructed motion toward a handsome and honorable demission of purification a frequent remembrance is the every day doing of weather like a crying child that you can not shake but deal with it with a slap of laughter for they too have hit the hard world with all of their wanting intact born helpless they need your warmth of an enormous giving in the Spring of their unbound lives everything is wondrous everything a toy to play in learning everything here in the first year is yet without regret of chastity and faith fatherhood is the gift that they have bestowed their waking babble fills the valleys of the city with the resonance of an exhaled dawn it echo around the early early morning deserted plaza where the wind coiling like a serpent ready to strike at the raising of the sun’s light full of the silenced singing in motion of the wind the wind yes the wind is the breath of Gods it is the forgotten force in the mouth of the Gods it is the shouting that caress the baby leaves born out of the warming of the air when spring makes its familiar round toward the last cold held in the tension of the luminous footprint of winter spring my fair weather friend my return of the warm winds that coast tulips and daffodils to an early bountiful bloom among the faces of flowers I am a lover of wind with my breath full of feeble words my skin long to feel its feisty freeze like a flock of trembling rocks at the sea’s end where the hand of the sea meets the hand of the dry land the sand holds our footprints only for a moment as is our lives in the great motion of time we are born to die and the angels can not resist to tell us so it is our inherent but the babies do not care to know that it was given its body to build the strength of its muscles till it stands on

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its own along do not worship in excess the wants of the young do not neglect the needs of the old it’s the way that you shall go The seeds that wait in the spited milkweed pod for sparrows to use then in their nests the sand that waits on the beach for a lick of the sea the performing of the liberated heart that transcend the phenomena of the adorable satisfied Lord the creator that care to touch human skin in an emission of semen are all a place of bliss controlled by a number of nymph that frantically float across the mass sudden in their distance from dying soldiers war is hell spoken in the ear of an immortelle solitude maintaining its color when the life force is dried by the imprisoned memory of sunlight ever visible through the formula of life beating its heart against the blueprint of windows that looks out on the battles fields where the blood busted open on the flesh of the littler Christ drips down to be absorbed by an ant mound an ant drowned in the blood of the fallen is unceremoniously dropped out side of the home which is a nobler call to embalmed or leave the dead to fend for themselves full of mirth the earth soil above the oil of war is the fruit that root out the banquet food in the blood of the woods and desert is the thought of heaven a haven from the thought of war is there comfort in knowing that after a life of feeding to finally be fed upon the war dead in their flag draped coffins arrive to their honor home by cargo planes and are buried along side their common comrades we tear for thee you who have paid the ultimate price the Eucharistic element of incense detail the detachment of your last rite in the bugle blowing taps the birds in flight dance on the wind filled wing with a song to sing they shall take a rest upon your stone in the grave yard you are not alone you lie with other who have answered the call again and again then with a passion salute my comrades

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in arms sisters and brothers of the noble death noblesse oblige take your resident rest beneath you name inscribed in the stony water I stoop to touch and find it warm as a body under the lore of the sun and beneath the crowded clouds the memory of your bone do repair the grave stone of the air your memory have no lame shame but the deal that heal patriotism unfold since the days of old so beneath the soul of the semen of the sun that give a birth of feeding to the battle won to win is not the sin but thou shall not kill the slow unfold of wars goes on with a blow that sow youth to the uncouth outlandish battles that end their lives even with the technology of war men must die rifle fire to rifle fire in daylight and darken night the fight even as birds are on the wings is heard the noisy bullets that can eat their way into the flesh the grey smell of gun fire on the wind knocked down by the rain war is a mental lasting pain it is a chill that still itself in the freedom of dreams brilliantly full of the implacable calamities of a homicidal war raging in the head Night comes to St. Louis in all the silenus ear silent that it can muster it wrap itself around the rusted fire escapes of abandon buildings it come up out of the guttural gutters and from underneath park cars it gives weight to the nervous neon ghastly glow it reflect in the underbrush of bushes it limit the light of the street lamp glow into a circle that feebly shows the dim color of cars asleep in a row it tell most birds to hush their flight but give free rein to rabbets and catholic cats and poor skinned possum and rambunctious raccoons to roan in search of fallen food the sleeplessness of St. Louis under the escape anguish of angles is ready to get its grove on within this night that is abandoned by the moon by the fragile face moon of solid rock have lost its stolen light taking on the silent of dance cutting the rug under which the dirt of our misdeeds are swept under under the cover of darkness the night people

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comes to fruitful fruition they have slept the leaning light away and now are refreshed to reengage themselves in the chutzpah church of the dark that thumb its nose at the sun that can not know all the doings of man like the sexual wave that move from coast to coast time zone to time zone in the momentary movement of the two a.m. shutting of the bars and night clubs of the night’s westward movement never homeless at the twenty four hour dinner at two A. M. the bar patrons come for a spot to eat to fill their alcoholic bellies that have danced with fulgurating sweat lighting up the dance floor they have come to fill their bellies with ham and eggs in the albumen night before resuming the festival of darkness out on the town slowly St. Louis turns into the eastern light where the street lights loose their focus this feeble attempt of man grows weak till it is excerpt by the light of the objectionable sun reflected in the muddy Mississippi racing pass the levee where now the bars are swept clean and lay asleep against the rhythm of the river O riparian city of Rue d’Eglse Rue des Granger la Rue de la Tour and Rue Missouri O city of shoes and bricks with your outmovement of whites the exodus from your fix border O mound city of the Mississippians O gateway to the west O city of my birth I have walked the mounds in Forest Park and felt the dead bones under feet the black Venus the black pearl with the blood of the Appalachia of her veins she danced her half nude way across Mill Creek all the way to France O mother you have molested the blacks in the history of Dred Scott before your court but know you seek to be of a gentle nature all conspicuous in open arms all welcoming in your need for white foreigner to people the skimpy skittish skepticism of your streets

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O St. Louis O saint on the river your murderous combatants parole your segregated streets is there a grace to be seen in your face when the bed sores of your northern side still reeks of the provoking poverty of your poor that raise and prays that they shell not give replies and dies by the broods that floods the moods of killing they gaze in a daze of the night sight of bullets heard in the night behind closed and locked door as the world unfurled for some one that bleed because of the creed of the streets you can be a room of gloom when each death by murder is a wound that I suffer near to the tears that I shed from my heart a content start for my art therefore have you lost the population dress in the well to do arguable aristocratic armor of the up and coming therefore have you hushed your outrageous painful memories of the emptiness of abandon buildings with their broken glass eyes therefore do you gnaw at my love of you love for the treasure of your scenery for birds whose history in the land is older then that of man O St. Louis city of my impetuous laugher city of the intoxicated innocence of your poor city of delineated knell needs knocking around the knot that knows nothing knuckle down into the murderous nostril of a flamboyant spring rooted to your muzzled heart only the young and brave venture forth into your deadly night of antique violence awesome and enchanted by the moon’s madness still you have your lady’s ways in the progress that the blacks have made you have come back from the proscribe grave where you laid prostrated toward the prosperous of your later days once you was bursting at the seams in my youth waiting on the crowed platform for a Mississippi bound train where black folks in motion moving into your bricked city from down homed Arkansan Brookville Mississippi named after the Brook’s plantation peanut and cotton Alabama

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St. Louis the midnight fear of your streets is clear the terror I hear even in a deep sleep do I weep it is because of my love that I put you on front street my dark remark is meant to bring to light your criminal lust that crust you over your creeds bleeds beneath the stained gateway arch you was born in sin Laclede with his mistress and bastard son Chouteau why do I out you it is my love of the truth I love the architecture of your tongue yo bro St. Lou ya iz da bomb word up I love the architecture of your land the hand size leaves of your sympathetic sycamores lining your stubborn streets the bold blooded blue jay in their evergreen red cedar nest the grey breasted sparrows under the eve the solitary white tail rabbet in a dug out hole in the front lawn the returning red breasted robin digging under last season spoil of leaves for worms the morning singing morning dove couple always together in feeding the woodpeckers and flycatchers in Tower Grove Park they seen to wear a woe in their slow song the red-tailed hawk perched on a fence post along the interchange interstate the grey squirrel running alone a rusted chainlink fence pass the fair grass and bitter litter of cigarette buts and bits of paper on the soil and your oil stained streets when Spring is Wintering its way to its full frustration the starling bathing in a rain swollen muddy puddle near a tear in the start of the heart of living within their means the architecture of your red brick building the beauty of fog in Forest Park a heavenly haven for wild life willing to live in the city Teasdale knew your beauty Eliot up till seventeen before he took to the eastern shore the cost of his lost away from the very day that a sore bleeds on the dance floor and the thorn torn flesh issued forth from your earth where the blood of your wood drip down the bark from the trees’ hearts you are my red brick lady with the earth of your birth I praise thee you are the gate way to who I am made by your hands I am your poet son of the land

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The vulgarization of a vulturine rough toothed stubborn silence is circle around the dead wrenched of a waning dream where the pestle of a pestilence quivering to be seen is bellowing in a mouthful of wired wrung words telling the story to the conspiracy of deserted agony found in the Spring warmed ground that wears the landscape of order as a guide to desires born with its eyes on the sky’s refrain this reborn desire that dare to speak its name of the same sex under the police’s lamp glow lit by the throats of hypocritical politicians staring into the bedrooms of judgment a place of grace above the love where the flesh of a fresh sex to know the limit of a confess yes that the body can go when all its nakedness is reviled under the brotherhood of men in love show the face in the place where the host of a boast set asunder the thunder the bliss the manicured night of this storm that warm the tongue their love making is syncopated to the resent compliment direction of an affection that despise the patronize rhythm of a gigantic embrace around the prick with its one eye helmet from which the foreskin is pulled back to the soft flesh of the nocturnal light at the edge of a lit candle with its delight mimicking the sun of pathetic unreasoning toward the forgotten storm quite in the contemplating memories of a nearly forgotten apple eaten a long side the four manacled rivers that flows pass Eden where the worst the first murder burst with the knock rock shock Cain to wonder aimlessly baring the special mark tell he founded the first city I have seen such beauty in a blistered of colorful temples in the fall sheltered mountains of Korea where Ko Choson breathed in the land of the morning calm Korea be thou the first we greet in song like the glory Holy Ghost to thee under the rule of the blood drenched Japanese where your students have all ways known the

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way to go toward the sensual gross of birds at Jeju but it is to late to tell you that the christen are coming to conquer you all and plant the sky’s thrust at time both heavily terrifying with its mountain of clumsy clouds installing power mushrooming before the eyes and low rumbling thunder singing to the delirium of the landscape What became of the buried alone bones of Abel where the landscape was crucified by pride and the setting sun of the west took its rest in the breath of the little death the wild words are at it again sometime they can be so civilized so polite in how do you do thank you so sublimed in their generalized infancy of the stain brain of the mind behind the name of a wordy flame that burns the soul’s reward that keep true sleep spent in a lament of the head where leisure of the treasure of pleasure is caught in sleep murderous words parked on the tip of the tongue transcend the complicated skeleton that waits inside the body outside of the penalties of laughter where a labyrinth of visitation comes to the irreducible body of water the penetrator of rain licks its color toward the fat swollen earth beneath a quarter size moon with its silver light in tune with the nocturnal soul that plays the buffoon to amuse the syrinx playing in the throat of an invisible instant my buffoon tear for thee sweet land of duality land where my father cried out that I was not his son that he had but one the name sake my older brother still his bloodline flowed in my veins even while he kept his love away some say that this is way I am gay that no father hand to hold no argent art of training to be a man nature or nurture nature stand to make me this man that I am my sexuality held in the hand of a God that can discover the prism of man’s beautifully raw pardonable brotherhood of born in perfume that attract man to man that vanish away the wrinkles of my foreskin under the bare concerns that I wear my strong attraction is not

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wrong in the places that I put my graces in the flame of a well heal name O how lovely are my elder brothers the others who have gone on before with their joys of the tight skin of the boys their kind divine that pursued the more to teach the peach skin youth confounded by their feeling grounded in the roots of their needs afraid to release the sexual peace that waves make on the lakes on the surface of our emotion Mary May do not betray the male tact of a sexual act realize by the eyes of the whole soul a man take man to wife in the life and achieve unselfishness and bless within his pride to keep his man to his side in sleep where the angles weep for the love that hang on two hairy arms that enjoy the boy an exhibition no submission but equal giving after a flock of laughter crash on the rock and spring love sing indeed it feed itself in a flood of rose buds when night stare at the dark bright air of street lights and the moon is broken open on a tune whispered by the want of a wind though the dead head of an exquisite barkless mulberry the geodesic dome and gazebos of I’m being both beautiful and boundless in the simplicity of my being one in a world of ones as a poet how shall I say to you how shall I reach the oneness of you in the end I can say that I have something some thing as small as a word word-up word working word-mongering the wordy way that works work where-up-on the last whing-ding whinny heard by the way of the cross Once in a madness where was heard the calling of my name by the hallucinating voices of the first Gods of the squirrel’s memory and the teaching of me to ask who am I I got high and why words to worry their memories of meanings by to put the pen to paper and pen the divine given resounding as a sea of A B Cs inhaled beneath an almond tree where the fruit of its seed ever starchy sweet ever woody limbs cracking underneath the foot that pins

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us down in the moving hour of our calculating strength we forget to bend beneath the air of our own breathing the weather of our togetherness is a cool pool that thrust its lovely lust brush rush toward the sinning joy that roar up to the shore that ascend and pour a score of prime emotions about the thirty-two dead I have spoken the I chanted so be it with vital bated breath burning the speed of profusion quite of guilty silence sleepless of its profile filed in the back of the mind where is set the drums of protection trembling in a far away corner of the stroke of the skin constantly drumming like the Congo River running its wet rainforest of dripping where the warfare on my lips is the battle to win the senseless sense of nonsense to win the babbling bubble of mindful meanings mounted on the tip of the tiring tongue the assumption of the sum viciously fruitful in its innocence of poetic musing the lost duty to words as a thing to be played with as children do making a toy of sticks rat-of-ta-ta-ta on the concrete skin of a sea horse bobbing buoyancy in the respected region where the drunken flesh sleep and dreams of buffaloes hiccupping the rainbow under the mounting timeless negation of the movement of a subdual scream for the diminished number by the dry wings of things under the impetuous delirium that sometime hold up the crying sky crying The harmonies found at the foot of a tree when the rusted diamond falls from the ring meant to last forever but the fragile landscape of its cut ignited the falling luck and what was lost in the prosecutor of tomorrow promises to pile with a pitch fork roof top high the hay of horses breed for their speed this is a wondrous thing from here to there its meaning stayed by way of a brief protest from a poet who leave along the rhythms of love songs of the misbehave and focus on the sound success snagged by the

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square root of a squeezed spasmodic sneeze that rise to the lonely sky with its reply that rest in the nest of a prison distressed By Winter’s last righteousness bred in the air of a snowstorm of mould cold unfolding in each personality of a snow flake I can not tell words wailing up calculating the meaning to the tough side of understanding with its severe labor willing to work out side of the boundaries of a simplify solo meaning minding the store house where the little known knowable knock down with knuckles and all to the floor of the tongue the root of the mouth the skin of the selfconscious cry of the migrant worker of words When the dew is new and comes dumb wondering if it is worth the waste of one’s breath of one’s warm blooded breath warbling worshiping the wrath rattle ring wore around the wrinkles of a compotation when I stroke an oak on an early April day to keep bad luck at bay always I thank the Gods the lowly holy God of tress God of wind that find its way to cling to the wing of a flying Carolina Chickadee the full pull of the wind with all its pace filling the open place of air blowing pass each blaze of grass blowing April clad and glad though the city’s harshness of darkness where the last forecast of crime take place under its cover when I wrinkle my way through the world wiry pass a cabildo writ on the skin of a cuarterone of Colombian conspicuous in his absence from the sugar-cane and cacao plantations on the Caribbean coast of a slave’s punishment deal out with the knotted whip of injustice boiled alive then drawn and quartered its pieces dragged through the street of the town square where the slave code is nailed to the cross of a Cimarron

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Part VIII

I appeal to the good sense of the censer of the readers according to the unpardonable motion of water the untold reparation for the murder of the prophet of swamp ravens with their marvelous black inheritance bred into the watery bed down by the brown earth that swell with the will of God where the flowers are hostile and the insects seem friendly and are interest in sucking the blood of vultures feeding on the broken night encrusted with eagle powder fit for cracking the mountain’s morning moaning it hunger full of the intimate wreckage of stardust laced with dead machines and explosives milkweed seeds borrowed from their bottomless vines entwined round the muzzle of night that is naked and full of crocodile laughter that can be heard in the ear of slumber the night collapse into itself and the cities began to move to the tune of many motions that torcher the air into a torrent knotted and swollen in the throat of the greatest wild blossom blooming its color beneath the back bone of an abandon car I appeal to the waves that saves the forsaken that is awaken in the nation’s generation of the more deplore enlightenment found in the sacred city of bees where everything is brilliant where the found fortunes of fellowcitizens is leading a virtuous life where the chants of marry and generate as the fruitful mother Mary who bore

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for us a boy with his irresistible electric tenderness in the everywhere air skinned by the wind that can not be waken from its forsaken curse that is the worse of known darken form found in the torment of tears shed on the ferocious canopy that shatter the fat shower’s vapor that can not hush its notion of a motion determined to counsel the infinite innumerable history of the falling rain such a simple thing within the knowledge of God the sole operator to the internal believers who shall share in his glorious grace when heaven becomes the place where the good shall wait under the thunder redeeming the seeming all eternal pace of an all encumbering grace of the prostrated prayers who have bent their knees in honor of the great all knowing machine that carried the fog on its back the fog muzzled by the scrupulous gesture of thunder incredulous in its spasmodic pilfering of darkness found hiding in the corners of spring’s eternal return I appeal to the scalpels of winter winds that have sliced open the embrace of the air that fed the lungs of breathing creatures found wrapped in the mismanaged hunger of a transparency with its wild vivid violence evocable strength franticly venturing toward the proclaimed pestilence and pesky parasite that have proved themselves worthy to live on the meat of the earth rolling in its space of the great universe keeping its secrets of life lost in the immense void of a heaven sent storms that roar like mountains of mud mildewed and massacred by the mindless machines mining minerals midlife like the moon of hot high light presumptuous and pompous as a cat catcher’s pompadour paraded around an aquatic amber’s flame bloody and insane as the boredom of a tree swaying in the swing shift of shadows with their secondary roots worn down to the growth of drunk memories ruthless with remorse and the rigor mortis of innocence dead by the age of 18 an age of unlimited

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emotion in the blood of a growing body that have yet to get use to its new skin to its new hair growing in secret private provided places new desires caught by the eye an age of living dangerously when nothing last for so long in the human temples where the factory of the skin devour ferociously the thirsts and hunger of nostalgia muscles stretched over the mountain of the trash of skulls of tomorrow caught in the extreme future stillborn everywhere in the approach of science and the tempestuous bread fed to the homeless forgotten amidst the murderous capitalist of brought souls in the season of a greedy Santa Causing the new born of the manger to become a selling tool I appeal to the wet dirt covered earth worm caught in the beak of an American Red Breasted Robin in the transudation from winter to spring sprung in the daffodils in bloom Blue Birds in the budding maples and blue spruce care the everywhere warming of the air the fat warm face is a grace shine divine a glory easily gotten glued the viewed fade the grey far away clouds that knows to go some where every afire the desire of the sun to please the high supply of warmth the fair air gazed with praises spread out on the bed of grass that look its wind shook unpinned desire the wind ghost ruffle the feathers of a sparrow preached on a fence post its wise eyes surveying the passing of time in the Holy Week concern of man the worth while birds knows nothing of Gods in their lives they are unencumbered by the distress to please them a successful happy ignorant that does not know itself to be so unencumbered by the hierarchy of the church they have no religious to control or condemn them and still they are caught in an intimacy with nature as the knowable body of God as for man take to heart the church of the mind for he is of the kindred kind the way

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to God is an open road lit by the sun and the moon you need no ridiculously rigid religion to show you the way religious are systems of profit that seeks to control the passion of the soul for the wealth of the church each man to his own belief each accountable to the same solo self by the very breath only you can die for your sins to be redeemed in life you stand before your maker every earnest day that place the mark upon you this is your heaven and hell made by the mind of man born of the flesh you shall come to rot in the body of God and from the decomposition of your deconstructed body shall there raise a host of life hidden in the coffin of your homestead you are the maker of all but one Gods the God of operculum of grass grounded to Its face the God of the breath of the dead woman’s face God of earth of the universal face of everything everywhere ever present ever dying and being born from that death a God insane and schizophrenic with life caught in the possession of Its orientation toward filling up earth with the universe need for proactive procreation and public pleasure a God of the many faces of life nursing at Its breast a God of convocation fornication of the probable cause proceeding as if It is all the only God that you shall know Its breath is yours Its flesh is the skin of the world Its feces feed the dung beatles It make no waste of rocks or bones or bark It is a God of consumptions among Its many mindful children man is no more special then the so-called lowly creatures of the world O God of my endless treasure kept in the collapsed advance of an approaching storm mutilated by the wind God of the mosquito’s sensations of the hibiscus’ hibernation of the heaviness of the swallowed light of the sun God of the catastrophe humming of the history of rain having its run God of the pitted pious moon of the stupidity of man held in the hollow of your hand of the invented Gods that can not control you distort you for you I will murder all the

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angels murder all the fraudulent Gods that people the heavens they fear you for your love of the screaming sun shining over the love of the fragile courage of man O young green God of the stars decorated night a cluster of clouds elaborating the many eyes of the guardian rain raining down its cross-eyed odor from the shaken sky lit by the deafening light of a proverb of memories burst open the terrestrial scenery drifting under the liquid sky of sweat bankrupting the sacrificial silence trembling its delight for the gigantic fruit-bearing essence of trees incorruptible by wanting weather that nurse them I call you mother nature the nurse I pick up your urgencies for life and death done down by the infected dreams with their intention of the trade winds full of forgotten words over spilling their counter-thrust of thirst with its drunkenness delivering the stagnant water spelt without remorse O mother earth the first and last God to breath the antique mountains alive O unpardonable earth your sumptuous tongue licks life like the built vision of brotherhood O water face of the water earth man shall putrefied you with his plastic waste and you shall come to find us unpardonable on the wet hump of earth we have all but over stayed our domain in the name of a tempestuous God that will make man Lord over you the pointlessness of the thing the boasting bomb making man is small of mind against the working of nature when O when will man come of mind to defend you from himself you who are tender toward us the wind is your messenger the birds your foot soldiers the trees your ministers of breath the sun your light man the moon your royal guard the galaxy your wilderness I appeal to the demystification of thick languages and the innocent of nature in her compensation of simplicity with her common sun and common rain the common season reframe that return again and again her sea shore

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bellowing roar the strands of branches hands for leaves her deep seeds sleeps her sun eye that sees earth turning its ample head into its warm light her air that is an exchange all her earth of rebirth the sight of her moon face at night her birds that fly and cry out to the morning light her kids in their early life play the live long day the strong reframe of birds songs I meet her sweet life with open arms her youth strung beneath the blazing fire of the sun even man’s desire for the feel and strength of steel to feel that he is safe from her wicket winds and cold closed freezing will in the depth of winter even here disease as divine as bees buzzing about the pine sticky resin the geography of a blaze of grass her million count sand that would be glass the negritude that will not pass in the sudden strength of a dark new born in time torn between being call African American and black a generational act I am a baby boomer black I love the tell tell heart of the sweet Lenore preached above the door with the dark echo call of never more I appeal to my love of the half-circle sadness that dwell in everyone the mid-main pain that come and go the song sung without the tongue the close budding of a rose the drench quench falling of rain the break shake of thunder the right light of lighting that tread spread its electric crooked stick in the thick crowd clouds that flock against the rocky mountain’s rock my emotions are swung among the deep that weep this weeping is rough enough to cover the ground unbound by the choking sound that floats its notes that rest in the west where if it could it would have stood its ground against the prime time funny bone of black track television today have gone astray as if it flee from a pray that have come to slay the fresh flesh of miles of the Nile while the whispering wind whisks the surface in a motion of violent broken by the tortured unconfessed dream triumphant in its stalled meaning held

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in the REM sleep of dreaming the language of the dead it is a rarified thing with its grammatical participation biologically grown in the mind to the throat to the tongue a lung full of words is the easy poetry oppressed with its urgent return this precise poetry of rest this mythopoeia myth of sounds thrown around the whisper of a breath this jazz-jazz-jazz movement moving of the motion modern and non-moderate moist moire is grounded in the long lines breathlessness of the mind the limits of language to hold the divinity of life is a thing known to poets who are charge to do their best with the busy buzzing butt-end of bounteous bodacious words that mean a military of things the silence words on the page wait your breath to say what it is that they was made without you they are dead thing pregnant still they waits the possibilities of the breath to discharge their accomplish energy in an orgy of birth no longer the metronome rule the tick tock tick tock that rocked an earlier day now I say the flow of the syllable the jazz of the line the breath of the mind the jazz symphonic of words strung on the breath of the wind sometime couple with the riff of rhyme in a time told bold that binds both the high priest of the east with his soul roll the sound round in his throat then spited it out to the ear in the year of the silver jubilee as the sun run half the world asleep it keep its spent lament full of the leisure of pleasure for the hour that the sun strike the highest tower of a flower the earth birth a choir of fire from the volcano’s breath that reek its sleek room full of the gloom that doom with a boom busted full force onto the waiting air and the morn is born red over the low melt of snow that roll its muddy flow down the mountainside mastering rocks and tooth pick trees once strong of songs before the flames came this inspiration of the mother earth’s creation the sweet sire rapture true to itself with its giant groan sounding the ferocity of its approach wrapped in the horror that man

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find in nature being divine while the poets know that she is without fault of malice that her hurricanes are blind to man’s budding buildings of businesses that the intimacies between the tsunamis and the sea is an ancient unmolesting thing nature have the right of way in all her doings let no man stand in between she reign Supreme ask not who is the God of nature but who is the nature of God I appeal to the conflagration of the dead angel of the great battle waged on the head of a visitation of the reptile ancient and injured by the volcanoes’ veins bleeding its fragile fiery self-conscious pit that turn toward the astonished chattering of thunder’s riot roar toward the throng that long ago topple the tepid rotting of a town is rehearse and cries Eli Eli lama sabachthani am I not humble enough a creature of the earth and am I not subject to its daily submission to the divine will have I not labor long in the liturgical labyrinth of the very livelihood of that self same Jesus who is the intercessor of my empty pockets where the manometer of loud money are beating down my defensive door where the convulsion of a smile held in the equilibrium of a warm rumbling of billboards selling the desire of a courteous terrifying forceful memory that goes in the dirty dirt of flesh possessing the expense of excellence where the truth of youth bid you adieu before the old shore of impiety stoned by the society that wish to achieve the bankrupt of a grace that shows it face to the infection staying alive in the time that it take to run a knife across the vein seen in the ugliness and barbaric violence of the T.V. with its cosmic vision of sights and sounds knotted by the reflected face in the mirror of blood spilled savagely on the anxious desolation of a dazzled slumber where the tireless hunger of dreams are submissively restless in

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their repeating of the mantra buy buy buy like some African drum beating back the breaking of air a-thump athump a-thump the rump rump rump calls in the warmth of dump dump dump where the improvised kids hunt hunt hunt hunt for resalable goods of a throw away society get thee behind me poverty let the world’s begging bowl be full of the prayers of old let the babies grow to know a fat belly’s satisfaction in the well fed goal of our most secretive knowing let the nourishment and regenerative nature of the blacks of the world beat back the buoyancy of racialism with the age old African wisdom woven in the manumission emancipated history of coartacion where Bartolome Frias de Albornoa got it right in his Inquisition forbidden Art of Contracts in a sea of sophistry that sidestepped the sufficient obsession of the secondary culture counter to the Christian myths that all non-believers are hell-bound for a violent fiery after life that only the righteous true believers of the one God whose son was nailed to the cross shall be save to the honest host of heaven when the common source of humanity with its original simplicity of an aggressive ideal of Gods coincide with the occidental occupation heritage of an age that acquired the materialistic notion that one can be saved by the requisition of the cross that there is but one God when earth is forever pregnant with the thoughts of future featured Gods now hidden in the brain of the unborn who can say when the new Gods shall come to rein the fateful decision is not yet made trust the poets when they say that there shall come one God of the new age local to the time of the divine convention inherited in the revolution that shall emphasize the emphasis the necessities of the holy rhythms and rhymes of the God-breath keeping time to the back-breaking beat born on the tip of meeting of the propagation of the promontory minds out of the swamp of man’s misery out of the lower-class smoke from the burning of poverty a

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primate God shall raise up from the muck of despair from the landscape of the strangler fig growing in its cling around the skyscrapers although capitalist shell try to muzzle it with a price tag bottle it with a cap that says align the cross and pray it shall sabotage the crimes of the day it shall collapse the winds of salvation it shall execute the assassins who are baptized in gold and copper and nickel it shall summon the spermatozoids spattered in the sensitive oblivion irrepressible and caught in the landscape of a mirror where the face fade fast forward from the looker lasting in a long lag toward the longitude of the half hearted moon hear me harkens to my hasty words hung on the hairy tongue of a iris when the light of the sun comes before the fiery ball the birds wakes up the day with their calls and the worms hide deep in the arching earth aching from the emphatic baking that comes at high noon where the shadows hide under foot under cars politely parked in a row at the curious curb of currency with its birds shadows of feeding on the wings full of warm wind assuming the position of a petty forgiving foreboding and forbidding for the cause of a generous generosities of the solitary seeker wandering aimlessly having forgotten what it was that he went in search of I appeal to a new God who shall shine its projective light simultaneously realized by the first experience of making a hole in the soul to be filled up by the signified resignation embracing legal warfare without killing for its favors the war for the minds of men the war for the soul forever wanting to believe in something greater then itself when all along the divinity of all life is there to behold the hot and the cold the old age of the sun that blows its warmth from so far away the sweetness of the honeycomb is a home the ears that hears the birds song the true to do dreaming along the art of the heart longing

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the wake that break the nights delight I adore all these and more believe for as a poet I will not deceive your belief but be as a thief that died crucified beside the one Son well does the poets dwell beside the holiness of your human stress we goes into it to show you the mysteries of your longing caught on the breath of a long held faith found in the chamber of a intimate thought surviving the doubt caught in the awakening and forbidden heart with its blood of reason ransomed by the flesh we poets should place ourselves beyond the doors of the chapel and serve the one true God nature and serve the one true emotion man to let him know that he is not alone in the secret place of his secrets heart poet tell all lay yourself bare strip away the encrusted lies that we tell ourselves betray no trust but be devoured by the truth that will rage if giving but half the breath despise the lie that society tells and we in turn tell ourselves tell the secrets of the open streets the biting truth that hide in the shadows of religious strip Christ from the cross but do not insult strip the priest of his garb but do not molest strip the ancient wisdom from the Bible and distill it modern strip the Koran of its repressiveness and set the wanting women free wage jihad with warm words willing to work their way within the respect of each man’s heart felt soul saving religious work like the communication of combustion of Confucius exploring the evil doer who have lost his way in the wilderness where crime is the call of the day crime that betrays bothering the budding soul like frost in April killing the tender bud coached by an early warm wind wooing the return of Spring found in the weak-hold of Winter in St. Louis where the brutal question of weather with its corrugated iron head rusted a brown drowned red with its ephemeral shadow marking the passing of sun-told-time in the blood of a honest city with its streets of goofy guttural gossip grounded in a telltell truth told to the talkative tale teller tall and talented

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by the told torrent of the toothed tongue let the Ts run till time tattered torn hum itself away I appeal to nature that once held the bodies of many Gods but their honor as the soul’s suitor is now amiss no longer do we cry to them to be our guide no longer do they rest in the breast of the a tree I weep for thee long lost Gods of the success in this time of distress within the sin of war yous have been undone while war runs across the face of our earth no so no more that you are flat lined the hour of your flower is crucified the man child runs wild beneath the stars and the south wind in our mouth the ease of the seas lapping at the door of the shore will not help us to discover its heart never apart the wind morn with a soft blowing horn the pine and stranger vine seemly grow unattended while we have science to explain the Gods away this is our nature so there is no blame we do as we were born to do as the Robin knows to use its beak to push aside the decomposing leaves as the Sparrows knows to pluck a dried blaze of grass to use in the construction of its nest so too is the science of our hands a tool of the mind still I long for the time when aspects of nature was held as divine O God of the air God of the sea Gods of the lost divinity again I tear for thee the glory of your forgotten story lie in the flame of your untaught name you have been tamed by the gold that holds the entomb fume of your breath your images now but wood and stone your praises but in the dead dusty book of a bygone day you have been undressed dissected left to rot but all is not forgot for before I lay I pray that poets shall be seized and you appeased by the working of their pens I welcome in the cardinal property of my map-maker consciousness of your wondrous working in me let there be for thee the lance of a countenance a lustily low lot longing learned by the lean eyes that look long on the dear day of the year when you have given to me a song to

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sing into the ear of whoever shall hear my carnival of words caught like a stink of the wild willful words waddling its wallowing way warm and waspishly worn and watery it whine and whir from the page of a tough tongue I appeal to the rhythms of the world rhythm of the sun rhythm of the moon rhythm of the heart’s blood pumping rhythm O glorious rhythm O gold stander of the poem you have the power to beat or bind with rhyme you are the measure of the line break break upon my boisterous tongue break break as baking a cake in the sun break break the back of a bound wish spilled out onto the putrescent prandial of flesh eaten in the ear of a misplaced fear of a demanding God hear O hear the love story of a worm warm in the belly of the earth warm as the birth of a new born warm as ashes in an urn that burn turn and yearn to hear in the ear of the year that your time shall come fear no Gods they can do you no harm be you beyond the reach of their arms fear no church with your right of search for the God that fit your needs nature is willing to take over the deed fear not the fear that you shall meet on a darken street where darkness stacked in the remote corner take the shape of the state that seeks to control the passion of the flesh flush and full to be fondle in the fulfillment of its needy nervous needs of nature O nature O holy one O defender of the defending spear-endtail sperms that lag behind I am inclined to worship thee in all thy doings I am inclined to breath thee in as you caress my water-tight skin you are the God that I feed upon and in return you feed upon me the breath of God is free for the taking nothing else is asked of you other then that you be O sweet mother of papa death aid us in our life long quest that linger in the mind that rest upon the thought of you O God of the yellow hair boy of the mechanism of social control over the sexuality of the late

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Pleistocene of Eden lush and luxuriant abundant of life living long on the land where the father of man walked without shame of his now nervous nakedness O hallucinogenic priest predecessor to the poet schizophrenic priest of Godly power where the wilderness was you temple where the burial ground your God-house you took sanctuary in the tomb where from your tongue bloomed the beginning of civilization the organization of the church now corrupt hanging its head on the words of the dead forsaking the fluency of the living poet who know God indecently living on the fringes of his society beside the poor criminals poor of morals but rich in his confident to take a life a way of life a life of crime in the feudal law-abiding world of exploiting the weak where we most fend for our selves beside the prominence of pretensions men of power that scorn those without O rootless restless poets are you a real rebel rogue to the realistic point of view with your omnivorous curiosity your gusto for observing and recording the doing of the common man you who must die with the sins of your society upon you you who crows to herald and summon forth the dawning of nature as the singular God without reservation you immense with love cautious sorcerer of the catastrophe coil of words around the rendezvous of a rhythm you kneading before a cross of syllables you explosives of emotion kept in the hollow of you pen you who hunger who conspire to overthrow the state that go about hissing velvet violent void of remorse leeching the luminous beauty of the indivisible individual born free to die a slave of the vulture state peeking at the eyes of the soul vulture with bloody beak where forth is your outrage you who are my sisters and brothers in the cause of the tortured and tongue tied with your perfume of whispered rhymes you born to pen your time in the test tube of crime the monitory force that keeps the poor down as they seek to climb out of the pit

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of poverty you are the map makers of the souls of men charting as you go you are the sin taker that absorb with pen cocked to defend the voiceless who ignore you in favor of Hallmark’s sappiness you are the sharp edge that cuts open the secrets of your society you bare the mark of the condemned wear it well with pride beside the cross tattooed on your skin map the secret roads post poems signs to show which way to go be intoxicated with your craft know that you are one among many one none-theless be the best in the name of poetry be not afraid to fell be fully committed commute to the place of the human heart hear the particularity of speech swallow the words of the streets drink deep as if to drown from the fountain of discontent let your energy for the telling truth be spent on the point of your pen then shall I salute you O rhythm of the remediation O rhythm of the hash cries of a Blue Jay O blabbing notes of a goat O rhythm of a sleeping seed of the dandelion weed on the wind your bobbing dip down sweeping the ground as low as a butterfly’s flight O rhythm the heart of the poetic art never apart you too I give your due rhythm of the fair breath of trees of air ever steady and ready full of words heard the fame of your name is worth the rhythm of the earth you drift with a rift slow then swift in the syncopated saxophone’s symphonic notes you floats back and forth you are found round the gutter where water drip you seized your appease you drip from the lips and run your flow to a show motion’s movement mowing down the motif of a long held moan waiting its turn to be set free in the rhythm of a breath stuttering of the tongue O rhythm you are the wholly woven whole one that whisper wordy wild on the tugging tell-tell tongue of the prophylactic prophetic pushers of poems the simi-devine ones who come to your aid and find themselves saved within the hallucinate haze of your breath O rhythm O

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rhyme in the hallway of time each of us say that you are mine we are the makers that bear the mark of Gods we wanders to and fro hereto and thereto we go with your flow that you bestow we let it go quid pro quo with the beat of our meaningful hearts heard in the pen’s art O laughter lasting long O poetic song on the shipwreck tongue O sobbing tornado that can do no wrong O brotherhood of the strong gallop pass the executioner’s elegant eyeglasses tossed into a pond pass the ripping revolt of the masses stillborn pass the nocturnal sexual sapwood of the loin O stumbling compassionate storm holding on to a blind man’s arm O last word of the innocent of a twister bristling its backbone against a bird’s wing the heart of the thing heard in its song O midnight dungeon anticipating the beautiful sunken limit of a pothole O endless convulsion of an impetuous laugher O loud silence upholding the duration of a delirium that protect the language of hummingbirds O anguish strength of memories found in the extinct grasslands of buffalos’ eyes O umbilicus of a cargo of slaves driven to madness by the sound of the sea by the sway that contemplate the consistency of the swagger of the word nigger on a black man’s tongue O bones of the native you have been stoned by the wounded machines overflowing from the forest of a city at rest O guardian of the unknown God sleeping on his pillow of bombs dreaming of the madness of science O the nonfunctional lust of thunder tinted with the impossible blue whistle of lighting’s entanglements with the dark under belly of a cloud of doubt O aquiferous water auriferous aquifers of the homeless sleep that appease the absurd dreams of concentrated phlegm of a hourless inconsolable climate of the brain of the insane that rape the Holy Ghost of the monsoon crying its irresponsible sin forgotten by the drunk fish with its flesh of hiccups O bird-like flight of the fire flying high in the darken forest’s diadem of

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melting trees with their nameless guardians of smoke screaming for water to quince the flames that lick the sky the raging sea is strip mining the beach where desire leap like the narrow sound of a finely tuned trumpet sounding the music of a brassy red with its bluish blues bobbing backward in tune with the transparency of a prayer under the influence of alcohol where the breath burns the tongue of a tortured man the cross tortured by nails in the hands that it is said died for the sins of man can he be reborn as the second son only to be crucified again and again on the flag pole of the USA say that it is not so go to the electric chair where the dead man walking takes his last breath for committing the sins of the flesh a life for a life is the dead’s right to be revenged if you cant do the time then don’t do the crime a simple truth put in rhyme O rhythm of my sleeping breath and that of my waken speech I find you everywhere you are no stranger to my pen I let you in and in the end you carry your wordy meaning on again and again O rhythm of the real estate of violence that cut the heart out and leave it bloody and blunted on the barely legal rainbow of adventure O angle eye that hiccup your sobs in the bird-like sex of forgotten seeds of despair in the grieves stones of Easter Island I have expressed and guessed the older end of a colder going down the rhythmic sway of the ocean that keep its dead in the deep down brown cold and dark of a deeper issue never apart from the watery want with the will to live that is scribed on the suffice surface of a standing army in the standoffish fragile day where is heard the thundering voices of the beasts full of eyes and the white horse ride against the second seal and the black horse of balances of a great sword that will heal when the seven headed beast with his crowns comes from the sea of our deepest disbeliefs held in the nameless hardness of a scream that thirst for the forgotten history of an inhaled

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blessed logic gigantic and white with anguish white with the white man’s pinkness pining for the old days of supposedly superiority now transposed into an order of faith for a God that we can not know for he have respect unto the recompense of the reward reserved only for the recently dead with their heads full of feasting worms and four legged flies dancing and laying eggs on the corpse of a rotting desire fat on the brain that once rained with a thousand thoughts on the alpha and omega collapsed into one where the naked want of the world is not ashamed of its nakedness before the scenery of man’s mugging tree swollen with the forbidden fruit of a man to man love that dare to speak its name in the neurotic narcotic streets where darkness is insane playing the game of the sane in its run toward the dawning of the drunkenness of a homeless despair caught in the shadows of the lazy yellow anxious of the deceased requiem singing its heavy song to the new tomb stone warmed by the annihilated judgment of the sun the dead are forever silent while the ancestor live in the sarcophagus of the heart that rejoice to call upon their names be open my mouth be unclosed my mouth the weapon of my trade the mouth of the Gods are of iron colleting charms from the lake of fire in the underworld down under the thumb of a quicken shadow may you remember the names of your ancestors may you call upon them for guidance in the lake of flowers may your heart be to you in the house of hearts your heart’s art run shut round the sun’s lament spent beside a school of pools nature’s rule the seven heaven weather together with a smitten of foil greased with oil where the shod and soil flare its scare where the prize of tongue told lies is a thrush of lush that rush and brush like the roar at the shore that pour its score on the sordid town crowned with prime slime blow-bent and hurl down from the dirty sea meet me half way to the gaining of power over your two hands and arms the gaining of power over your heart the

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gaining of power over your feet to do as it please when the keeper of the scales come to weight your heart for the measure of the state of its sin let it be found empty within a guilty heart never wins in the end O rhythm of an ignorant war fought without a doubt where the frowning of drowning in a sea of bullets that bear the name of the same bodies that they have found bullets flung onto the lungs or tongues O rhythm of the success of stress of the question of the blood in love the stutter’s abrupt rhythm of repetition of the first or last sound words have stumbled on my tongue when I was young O the rhythm of the self that knows the self and can rage in an age of emotional shield for the body’s field that must cover itself to be real where we are told to repent for the salvation of our souls where we are told to be good citizens of the state good citizens of the church good citizens of the capitalism of the capitalist fat and plumb on the back of the poor where civil disobedience seem to be no more O rhythm of a rootless riot of unreasonable flowers the blazing dawn calls your name the incorruptible weather drum its holy refrain the birds have all gone insane beneath the mosquitoes rain the poets have quite the game of being concern for the poor in favor of he who cross himself with a dollar sign in the Sunday morning famished and solitary hour when the voices full of hunger hung on the ten commandments thirst for a salvation that is no longer thrifty there religion is a sedative for fear of the silence seventh seal there in the land of milk and honey of mice and men of the have and have not the souls reeks of a rot for what it has forgot the kinship of all men the holy friends the love thy brothers as you love thyself when man have reach the wee hour of his life he will ask for forgiveness from a God that have long forgotten how to listen to the warring creature that fight among themselves for the right to

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control the book bitter in the belly let the seven sector trumpets sound let their rhythm rebound like smoke of the incest of incense that drawn all creatures of the earth all in the name of a murderous God that shall kill the innocence of trees and fishes of the seas to reek his vengeance on man being man such tenderness man can contain within his soul if he but know how to still and stall the blow if he but think to make it so if he but be not sore and sour of temperament it is never to late to repent to your fellow man never to late to wait upon the poor never to late to vegetates upon a godly will till you feel the brotherhood of all to catch a soul about to falls say to your neighbor you are my brother say to the earth you are my mother say to the buddle of the forest longing for rest that you are the skies advancing west thickly and quickly for the wild-worst mean breath of a suicidal death cheering the grey Milky Way blast past the risen prison of stars caged by the passion of the Father and the Son with their round sound enemies of divine beings that make victorious Osiris look like a second rate divine chief Horus is Isis is Set is Mestha is Hapi is Thoth is Mohammad and Christ should be put on ice and Nature raise to her rightful place in the high arch hierarchy of the Gods for in the end she is all to win O rhythm of the meditating breath of the metaphoric mechanisms with its story of glory and bones full of groans the long song of a done wrong toward the inspiration of an explanation for the behavior of the red breast robin in its nest O rhythm of the assassinated dawn that view the returning blue sky where birds fly with their songs full of stones their tones echo round the underground homes of caution worms within the thin roads that they make in every darkness there is a fear that waits in the station of the forest and the darkness that smuggle the criminal minds of cities to do their harm in

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the patience silence about to bust its muddle muscles in the torn open darkness nocturnal and fragile in the secret of the sky now discovered uncovered in the forbidden odors of water in the burning hopes widowed by the fire that feeds it in the proliferating motion of an instant in the indigent word stillborn on the tongue in the rape of the holy ghost for profit in the secret knowledge of a ravens’ color laughing its hidden motion in the untouchable lighting with it threats of an enlighten death there is a drift of fear in the mid-region of weir where the bells bells bell ring a call to hell I will Poe my way with poems through the thread of an eye where there is a crying in the air of the word why a rear reason rallying the precedence persistence question why why the breath of life by whose desires have I come the be is it the holy three the trinity the me myself and I why God is the why an internal unknowable self expressed by the living consciousness the world sees why poetry why the mindful play with words the king’s art riding the high way rolling through St. Louis’ steady air hung upon the rung her heart is hiding her prize plumed more dangerously by her blue-bleak shine of her crime committed underneath the level of poverty she is my lady my last intelligence insistency intimates she is all that I crave the question why where I will die done down beneath her skin the whys most times win in the end

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O rhythm of the desolation of the setting sun of the immense deliriums low roar of thunder embracing the space between clouds its cracked open sky lightening the silence hushed in the sensitive violent of speed that bleed into the vigorous speech of a torn tomorrow still asleep in

the dark midnight breaking of a new day O rhythm hidden in the great deep triumphant of our enemies that seeks to destroy the mother that nurse us on the breast of the arrogance sun O rhythm of the thickness of words splendid and honest on the tongue of a lie O rhythm immortal in the tomb luminous you emerge from the mouths of worms fat from their feast O rhythm of the sumptuous wind winding through the inquisitor’s corridors of bricks and stone pass the archdiocese of catastrophe St. Louis intimate with crime O rhythm of the hummingbird’s wings capsizing the heads of assassinated legitimate red flowers in the ghettoes of guardian O rhythm of the forgotten consumption of organic orgasm everywhere about us the rhythms of the world being itself is seen and heard by the heart that beats its rhythm hushed in the chest in a hotel room in hell all can tell the lost rhythm of the parricide paradise of their particular youth that kills the young breath of a sparrow hiding under the pan-tiled eve part taking of the free rain that run a sensual ground down the brutal gutter of dead leaves stacked cub-side in a joyous city mid-west of the Midwest where the leaves tormented by an early winter of a tiny cold pecking at the sable Sabbath are shivering their holy back bones sadden by their own sadness running with a fair smile there a while to beguile by the beam that gleam the dust of rust all tall by the speed of a baseball that fall in the late rain that beat a-main never vain to soften age’s crust slow without strain the low that it echo this side of night time’s tide with it’s solitude of flight that we rudely pursue with a swelling sneered is spent breeding adventures smooth as latex at that I have bore the torn forlorn flesh of death’s voice as sweat as a song sung by the guardians of a Congo’s stubborn rainbow full of wooden spoons full of the drunken flesh of water droplets magnifying the green of trees the bird’s nest wet of mud and dried grass resting at the base of a

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light pale green skin of a Sycamore the more the ready rain and sun shine in their holy union the more the devil beats his wife with a waft that whip its tail end in the breath of its words O rhythm of the spinning earth your motion stilled in the eyes of the earthbound your fire of your desire for life your face of the grass’ place in the great scheme of things you know no doubt but to shout yourself alive in the light of the day’s long blaze of the sun at your heart is the original art that man seeks to copy like the rhythm of the waves that break upon a lake like the rhythm of the landslide rocks that blocks the mind from knowing the full working of the brain like the name of the game of life spent on the tip of a hair pin in the impossible abandoned anguish buried under the science of religion like the triumph wheel singing alleluia to the breeze’s blade rolling its velocities on a journey toward the magnifying corpse that is the banquet of worms like the night encrusted with a yellow silence oily in its transparency flexible in its enterprise of the shredded fugitive violent held on the shoulders of the dark slaves of a possible future tossing its wounded odors into the forbidden beauty of 59 pieces of the rays of the sun that rendezvous amidst the stubborn dawn of daggers in love with the innocence of a tireless hunger embracing the adolescent landscape of green-eyed flowers fraternal and secured by the tiny migration of bumble bees with their honest pollination of pennies precious in their plots to thicken the pocket of a childlike glory excellent in its excised exchange of the rich exclusionist that keep his dollars down in the money belt made from the skin of the red neck nigger that collided with the cargo chained and shackled rotting in the hard wood hold packed fitfully to be sold to the higher bidder where the gorgeous musician capitalism cracking cranky myth of money playing the

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moody modern music that throbs of the tasteless culture of the heroic criminal’s wild latency of the thrilling idealistic Christianity that is heard in the human complexity of the communal life with its exceptional prejudice against the values of a society of bourgeois mannerism against the outlawed heroic individuals who emerges from the eccentric barbaric order of the mercenary self seeking to come to an absolute term with the materialistic selfish society in which he were born come my child of the sun child of the moon with your eyes of the stars your breath of the clouds your blood of the rain with your finger nail full of the dirt of a gracious earth glorious in its giving of itself without regress regrets when we lease expect it will fight back in the thin black and the lighter then air blue when we will get what is due to bring our loving heart into view of the Gods looking away away far of into the void encrusted silent there the book is whispering O Whitman my brother in the sex as in the art your brother in St. Louis’ Old White Water Tower on Grand is a testament the grand water of the Mississippi mudded by the mighty maiming Missouri O rhythm of the wandering memory of the mentally sick that contemplate the consistency of the muse on-the-tipof-the-tongue the Titaness telling what have gone before O rhythm of begging the Muses with ten tongues and an unbreakable voice of a cerebral accident do not leave me blind with my disable vision do not leave me tongue tied thrown on the wordy mound of my memories do not scornfully mock me even though I am a wretched thing help me to sing ring my voice with your poetic songs and sounds I throw myself before the madness of the poets I am pathetic toward your lucid reason I would be the essence of the pretense of innocence of your voice wrap me in your spell to tell the unspeakable however brief let me be the thief of your belief pity me ply me deep I care

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to be the fair I require the fire of your breath but let me kill the I O die I of my selfishness die-down beneath the dawn drawn and quartered by dreams dragged through the streets die out of my heart for the art that calls to me even within my deepest sleep meet me there where the cares of the world fall away like snow flacks large and sloppy wet and yet strong enough to stand on end strong enough to defend the white and black of the moral nature of art in the esthetic polemics policies published pound for pound the selling of flesh in my histories we are the blood and bones of our ancestors working our lives through time in their names our lives a rhyme carried through time carried through time the taunting why that will not be tied down roped and ransacked ring and rounded off at the edge of a caravel carnival of paper bridging the boundaries where the vulture silent of a wrenched night and the cultured hour’s plodding a way to be spent while fighting for our attention where the chopped off shooting of a star narrowed by distance pop the quizzical question qualified by a quadroon’s blood bloodied by the injunction of kinship with the long down low night where the mission creep it keep O rhythm of the romantic enchantment that confess an authentic epileptic season of words the sword stab at love from afar and pain rain from the wind of the mind and I find myself falling behind the strong long curve of time rather gather the winged things from the shed of my head and let them whip from my lips for my thoughts have sought the impeached love that move on the tip of truth found in the breath of a newborn’s self center romantic intellect its is a sucking egoist she and he must grow to control the very desire of their power to demand attention from the care giver that must wait on their every needs the newborns will be finely shaped to a blunted point to fit the social needs will be put into holes pre-formed by

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the society into with they are born they will be taught about God and state and tooth paste all the anti breed out of them the nonconformists among them shall be mark and marginalized for society’s seeks to make of its citizens as kernels on the cob that pop their forms to conformity it seeks to pit agents race against race social status against status it champion the hero of the state as the savior of the poor and down trodden the poet is not immune form being sensually seduced by the bread and water of the state to quiches the thirsty thirst for materials of a tempestuous hissing sinful murderous things of science murderous to the freedom of the soul to go enlighten by the light of naked nature full of lust for life lust for the poor and the pauper lust for the grains that drink the rain for the milk of thunder the bread winds baked in the fate of the sun lust for the darkness that pray on the fake light of the moon darkness all innocent hovering in the space of the universe hovering in the red chambers of the heart an excellent darkness of dreams lit light lingering in the darkness of the head the backwater darkness of swamps overflowing with life the darkness of dead Gods wishfulness to be born again the darkness that crown fire burning at night darkness renewed nightly the darkness of slaves skin packed fitfully in the darkness of the hold the velocity of darkness told in the prison of metal and glass daggers of darkness stabbing at the electric light feeble in its escaping heat slow leap lapping at the immensity of free darkness the darkness of death warmed by the strength of the sun the dawn broken darkness on the run full of birds’ songs witness the darkness on your own the mountain of darkness strong and long lasting in the throat about to speak the darkness of the poet’s soul darkness of the blinded mole that swagger in its hole desert darkness cold wild and old darkness at the bottom of the sea filled with the unknown creatures of self made light of life the darkness caught

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inside of your shoes the darkness of the muses’ intimacies of poetic news O rhythm of the apocalypse efflorescence growing of the blacks coming into their own O rhythm of the now common hip hop rap that tap the long distance of the distained breath O rhythm of the anguish harmonies of the strength lost in memories of critical slaves’ vociferous victory where the independent emboldened color black of the Ecuadorean slavocracy was feared by the thought of revolt against the military chains at their throats O rhythm of the lockstep of poverty rhythm of the asiento de negros brought and sold to the Portuguese sea captains for ducats of minted gold paid for the chained cargo roasting and rotting in their waste beneath deck packed and packed to optimize the rhythm of profits O rhythm of the common starvation suicidal death of jumping over board from being subject to the visita de fondeo O rhythm of the fixed melancholy of slaves on their way to New Spain Vera Cruz and Acapulco New Granada and La Plata the rhythm of jimmying the lock jumping to escape the hell taking the long swim home O rhythm of mutinies mid voyage under the sun of spilled blood O rhythm of the slave’s religious promises of Paradise to keep them down as the sons of Canaan wrongly accursed of seeing the nakedness of his grandfather is the body of such disgrace as to be forever hidden how can the call to slavery be the words of God the bible lay bare the weakness of man where forth is the update where forth he who can where forth will the Gods speck again to man where forth will the upheaval of those who hunger for violence caress the fire of their desires the good voice of the earth shall find the secret in their eyes not to live apart from the raising of the all-way sun that treat them tenderly with its cruel rags and branding with the carimba of the Gods a choir of varones singing to the chained

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hembras of the bozales night sing a sorrowful song recognized by the lucumis where the holy explorer’s trinity of horses guns and African bondmen are carried into the new world of reclusion where the tenderness of growth hid the promise of Cibola of the seven cities where the survivor Estebanico on the long walk through the wilderness later came to meet his maker at the hands of the Zuni smelling of defense and a fresh victory O rhythm of walking to and fro in the warm wiry rain caught in the palm of a dirty hand that knows how to dig in the earth of a worm’s genealogy and its segmented home gone the way of the insane rain the crazy rain laughing itself to sleep the humid rain playing a sweating game the rain have seen it all from the tall buildings built up to meet the rain falling to the herd of the Kalahari and the grass land seldom rain of the Gobi the rain slain to run the course of the water main the rain falling like chains through the air lane the rain can not abstain from falling full the dream rain falling in the mid night silent of the brain the drumming rain on rusted tin roofs in the slave quarters of back water Mississippi rain that drip from the ever green of the yellow pine rain falling to the brackish running of the Pascagoula rain that heal as BauGula goddess of rain all the same from the silver rain of Feng Po-po summoned by Vila from the breath of Kon raining from the eyes of Ninurta the sweating rain of Pangu the rainbow of Mbaba Mwana Waresa rain O holy rain of Tefnut and Tlaloc all the holiness of the Goddesses of the Gods decorated with little peppers of the massacred burning of red where the raw fire of an earthquake of the inexhaustible eternally self-assured in its beautiful strength of mindless lust for the young green life found fanning out from the front-end cluster found in its glove of hope gone mad as man’s mindful motion moving

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more toward the longitudinal tranquility of a long neck modesty looking for a companionship in the voodoo silence of a hoodoo you-too whispered in the night of Nana Buluku’s creation create as you will crave it its is an it of a healthy thing to ring around the rose covered rosy rivers running in the sun setting purple in your life ring with a bit of poetry a-bit-of free handed drawing good for the memory of the hands it is a singing of the rubbles rubbish where life blooms its bountiful usefulness to break down life into the common death that crisscross the seasonal warmth found in the dump I have thrown out the beautifully born barely babbling legitimacy sculptures sphere of sulfur when the face of the tiny catastrophe clocks sound the alarm absent from telling time as told by the tinkling tic tock of a heart in the body of a whistle sweating the sweet juices of a father bird for his son the teacher of flight can fling their wings like a cathedral crown of the trees in the holy holy branches of feathers dreaming the fraternal diffidence of red wounded hummingbirds intimate with their low flight of ferocity I keep green irradiated hummingbird in a strongbox made of their feathers just in case the box out of jealousy needs to fly away from its store on the tiny waves caught in the rancor champers of campers humming the plane wreck on the shoulders of a grey bellied cloud O rhythm of the silent that keeps its breath in the sad keyboard of lost and scattered words where the backspace of a deleted modem swallow the information highway with its informatics motion of speed held in the eye of the letter Q followed by U quick the quarterback’s quality control quicken to quest the quizzicalness of the quodlibet sing for me a Q-U song that rings its quest the quite song of the tongues quest the poet’s longing for a place of pace that befit his art written from the heart the

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smart start that he impart the restart from where he depart from the working of the state that wait to navigate the quick-sanding swamp of twilight lassoed by the forgotten blazes of the boredom in the work place of the midnight working hour unfurling under the inhaled parachutes of distance reddened by the transparency of an opened night broken by the eyelids of rain in the Negro hunger for the fruit of the injunction by the chopped winds once finely split by the threshold of an armored shooting star dancing on point by point of a cigarette butt in the hollowed out night collapsed by the nakedness of the great sun of slumbering laughter’s inquest around the tortured abstraction of shadows hiding the fingernail of the heart disturbed by the distorted shadows sluggish and lazy as the sun’s run across the edge of the jumbo metallic and electric rusted sky the night comes on full of yellow and purple pansies unraveling their understanding of little bubbles busting bibles bylaws back against the bothersome bidding of a wing man’s brotherhood with painless judgments the evening comes on silent as a tepid and abrupt escapees tomorrow encircling a bit of time I sought to borrow I follow like love like the long renascent estuary of the Mississippi at New Orleans wet land drained and built upon the swampy skin like rain on the love-struck forest greenish brown advancing on the heavy dazzled change of some same flame that drum round the outward-bound guessing at the holy blessing that sweep the cheat keep unkind behind the deep wind snow that blows about the knocking rocks of the Rocky through the mountain am I gone on along Clear Creek till I reach a bend bound by the muddy banks the bone rocks washed mid-stream direct the flow around till the water let loose exquisite babble of baby’s words calling sistersister mother-mother father-father brother-brother uttering the brawling fight of family a howling out of near by emotions calling the divine sight of liquid light

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birth in the vein of the earth water can not ruin it washes away for the sacrificed sake of the suffering Christ with his bespoken token crucified in the wild water that blesses the motion of a body the water in the river got places to go fishes to meet in the deep fishes and so many loves of bread in the Master’s plain poets feed with words wet tongued words willing to take your heart deep into a sigh there is a turning brightness in their poems and a foreboding sadness that hints at the albescence absent of the Gods caught under man’s rule under nature’s control O rhythm indeed I heed your due as sure as the weed that bleed its pungent perfume a benediction that love the move of air on the pupils of the eyes in daylight and darken night the air is more then just my friend full of the south winds north winds east winds west in winter I love the southern wind the best O rhythm of Unahinte and Yansa of Saishiwani and Saushuluma rhythm of Bunzi and Buluga of Oonawieh Unggi and Oya of Amaunet and Coatrischie of Ha’hl’tunk’ya and Ecalchot and Tate blowing the dead air of my breath blowing the golden bullet of the wind driven sea I watch the wind hunting down a leaf blown into the eye of a spied spider web in the pocket of a tree the wind back me up against a wall and assault me with its tender hands it cress the sense of each man with a mouth full of raining wind telling its tenderness sometime frantic sometime manic sometimes as soft as a prayer that swears to its faithfulness it is known to have assassinated homes and blown down old stately tress in which it have been intimate with over the breezy years it is as a lover’s quarrel gone many-ofplenty mad the bird’s wings created wind sings of flight the wind that riot baptize the heads of flowers bent low under its power in the season of kites March marches on mindful of living its mission toward warmth and fighting

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foes of winter hanging its show of snow wet and sloppy sort of wrought by a thought of the hence indifference of man that can give servitude to the early blooming promise of spring give it on nature’s maternal terms embrace without fear the weather’s emphatic face O rhythm of the unknown innocent rain innocent of snow that blows into the corner of hope the innocent of death that smuggle the soul into the nether world of old the innocent of a newborn’s joy of its new life the innocent of newborn birds pecking at the nest and flapping their wings to be fed the innocent of a hurricane hung in the sky of extrusion destruction drowned in the innocent of wind O rhythm of the innocent of insects nature is steep in the innocent of rhythm of the romantic hero burden by the vision of his ego caught in the industrialism that try men souls the society knows that it must control the would be hero the outsider the long distance runner the invisible man that seeks to destroy the social order that keep men down that keep then deep in complicacy zoned out by the light of the TV’s glow by the capitalist’s hold as a chain around the necks of the passive mass man told what to do what to buy and where to go how to feel toward the God of the bought and sold soul of feeding the masses on a few loaves of the promise of heaven where only the faithful and dead can go O rhythm of the thirst of Death Valley the pounding generosities of the lands with its anxiety storms flooding the low lands with the finger prints a-washed with the ripple of rain trails there is a monstrous revolt in the belly of the storm the prisoners have become to heavy for the jailer one and the same clouds turned to rain but the heat remain life is a hot footed game in the desert living there is the most honest of creatures while in St. Louis the quarter moon fresh from an early morning full eclipse sets among the stars of heaven on the lonely edge of the eyelid the sun will wash

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it away away from sight in the baby blue cracks of the sky with its gestures of laziness of worn clouds a benefaction flock of birds charm the sky conjuring the motion of life a tidal wave of black birds assault the road of the sky I come to this winning end wishing that I have done enough as not to be rebuff for the size of this prize have not gone array gone astray away from the hovering muse that guided my hand having given me all that I ask to complete this task and mask made moaning

Part IX. I say here is my body laid on the grassy bed bare and brown down by the dew that touch me through and through to reach you yet I am not wet but like the note of a fife sounding with life with all of its longing for feeding I strip myself bare I have a hundredfold of emotions slumbering in my skin I am the spent element of praise that goes its way toward the infancy of infinity in the heart of my breath rest the grace of a dark race that waits my poetic wakening into the breath of the immaculate yet all too human flow full of the wounds that surround the flesh of the same name that share the air with trees my bad and good are understood by the motherhood of nature my part within her heart flooded with blood the fresh flesh of the marvelous all of us children of the same God conceived on the eve of the great beginning all mindfully meek all divine from first breath to death all pray the tasks we ask that our divinity be distilled that we be filled with the holiness as one in nature as we are one of a kind

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in mind we find that we are blinded by the flesh that will do each other harm by miles and miles of the frontline of war we assault the sky and kill at will and break the steel of buildings with our bombs where the boom abound who care that bare war should wage in this age of the stillborn enlightenment of the self we are the children of a God that wear trees in its hair yet we still believe that the dead Gods still care free yourselves o men of mine let the Gods of old take their rest they have up to now serve us well but they are worn out My race is a bold and boisterous one that roar like a storm at sea rolling its fat round water onto the shore sometime to our brothers we are estrange but I feel a change on the tip of my tongue I feel a wiry woven warmth in the chambers of my heart we hoarest each other upon our shoulders and pray duded praise to our elders back to our 1619 arrival when our color was rare in the native fifed air our skin color is the measure of our treasure of the way we speak in passing we call each other sisters and brothers fags and hoes a recognition of the skin tones that binds we think little of our brothers south of the border they too was brought from Cape Verde and Benguela The blacks are like doves in love like the Blue Jay’s blue against the pillow of the sky like Mississippi pecan skin youth in the brownness mispronounced as black now a day the black are home spun with their backs to the past of darkness they are like the ink of promiscuity caught in a knockout like the humble muscles hard with the calluses of their history the blacks are intoxicated with the music of mushrooms gowned in the darkness of their skins the blacks are inexhaustible in their powerful absence they are caught in the corners of a geodesic dome with its strength with its motion toward the multicolored

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triangular movement of a three-sided knife used to cut Americus into its segregated pieces the blacks are caught in the high yellow illusion of privileges and perjures against the tarnished copper of a penny My black brothers black as the Black Bird’s feathers frozen in the nested winds that blows a ruffling of seasons where the caterpillars sleep my black sisters blacker then the hopes of tomorrow’s hope held in the hands of a newborn’s fragility as the prophetic explosive machine that wake the morning from its hidden incredulous thunder my blacks that knows the culture architecture of the common dead under the grave stone kingdom of the city my blacks full of the appetites of Horus and Osiris inherent of the next generation of the language of the Memphite’s concrete conceptions found in the blood of every black kid playing at war My blacks who obey the voices of a little vastness held in the independent word of an abstract give-and-take talk worn away by the inextricable accident of an admonitory wisdom fighting the imagined mental voices of their hunger their foregoing oracles are in the common music duplicated by the rhythm that possess them the rhythm of the word nigger uttered pass their tongues only on white breath is it made a trigger why have we made it our own as a kind of brotherhood found in the depression of being held from the bountiful landscape of the banking money making rampart refusing to let us in but our faith is strong with the holy darkness moving too attracted by the color of our skin breath it in and make your brothers apart of your dearly held massive message of redemption that can save you from the blazing notion that any race is lost from the God that bear your witness when the sun is shining upon you embrace the light and the night of your

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being although it be a divided thing it seeks to be made whole by the goodness that you can pose The blacks the color of coffee in the timeless water of New Orleans gigantic and full of anguish for what their daughters and sons shall come to suffer when they come of age in Americus the white wick if their anger incorruptible by the prelude of a succulence germination of common race with its wild edge biting the fruit of Americus the mid-region of heaven the five-fold world of getting a head and the strike of by any means necessary the blacks inhabits the immortal water of a tear they fear the knowing of what it means to be black when the spy glass is held to their fatherhood birthing babies as easily as spending money untouched by the imperishable phenomena of a sticky fog-meant of their memorable nameless history each a queen each a king of their homes where their jazz-speak like a song through the history of the blues and spiracle rejoicing in tune The blacks are survivors with their steadfastness in the forever being born are believes in a white flesh made God that could not save them from the horrors of baring witness to the cruelty that man will do to man still they believe it have become their mainstay their crutch their after life hopes to go where the righteous silence is triumphant on the cross of an invisible sacrificial adaptation warmed over by the church of the holy melody sung to the dispossessed Sunday sermon of salvation the blacks with their burning lips set the world aflame with the rhythm of their speech and the heartbreak gentleness of their heart they are the legend of jazz invented out of the bloody inner romantic harmonic blues notes of the memories of their breath where they climb up hill always up hip and high hung mutilated on the tree of memory first up hill sometime caught in the vexed boredom of

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their noble struggles in this land that refuse to make amends for the leaves and branches broken silk cotton tree and pay the promising price for our earlier frantic sorrows beaten on and maculated by the whip and hung on the blossom of the tree O my blacks where do your loyalty lie why by your hands must we die why the need in Detroit and St. Louis to ask why the noise of your blood is spilled on the streets of East St. Louis it is a wound that fester the wreckage of your strength should be spent that each dark beautiful bounty shall be enough to keep us to the brotherhood that we confess in the reason of a season have we not suffered enough that we should die by our own hands when the bullet is nested neatly in the breast within the thin muscles of the chest of our brothers O my black brothers born time and time again when shall you win the common race in a land of riches keep your kind in mind keep this longing to the universal bliss for I love you as I love my skin love the history of our blood black on black love blood to blood I long for your cured motion of selfdiscovery when my skin color is enough to be treated as piety would be skin kin in the exultation of a salvation let my words into the deep end of your heart let us not a part in our emotional strength we burn with the purity of black-washed women and adroit men honest to the land of a mid-night Mississippi night do you love me with all the essentialness esthesis of the estimate of our goofy godlings of spiritual glue that guide us against all odds we survive the seductive ingratitude of this nation bent on swallowing our history swollen fat in the land O black passionist of the inpetto funereal longing to be kinship in the white heaven of the devil’s garden O black southerner caught in the cotton’s mouth upon the gone moon that soon in the middle of the damp night bright in the warm wonder that undo through and through the breath of a

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new day be you with your blazing wings a chamber that will not shoot down the youth of poor madwomen full of God’s grace and I will go rolling from your bright side while holding back the years full of telling tears and the last fright caught in the nights of your ears hear me when I say that I love thee that I love the make of your skin the wish away longings that you keep secret deep in the heart of your own choosing the last said mentioning of us going our separable way in the array of our skin with a sweet and tender kiss I sign my name and cradle your wants the pondering of your heart strong beat in my ears and I am lead to follow where you find your rest gyrating fearlessly caught sailing its advance caught stealing and leaving and wishing pass the throw of a dove you who have surrender yourself into being an American by faith you shall not loose the game of race I long when a black God shall bare-footedly climb down from the Mississippi pecan tree and give us the salvation that we seek or the innocence ancestral God shall be reborn from the savory salvation meat of a dark belief no longer moaning the landscape of our spirituality incorruptible by the incessant pushing of another man’s God the blacks born to the servitude of the cross it is a privacy to me held in the grove of our love that move toward the thought of the divinity that our fathers sought in the last persistency of our past cast me fast to the heart of thee let me not forget again the then history of his story told between the whip and the cross that we ply and glorify with the grace of our dark face where we dwell where blackness ring the knell of the unique brotherhood the trustee of the bold blood the executor of children give the child a pill to stop his childish ways concerto plays down the desires to play at learning the noisy alphabets ADD ADHD detoxing the taxing deed of a done deal of

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the demands of the diggers where the streets are painted with passer-byer where the ocher dawn of morning air pollution rise and stain the sky in the windless wilderness of germination as the tyrannical caressed promises advance toward the vertiginous dance that remain with its drunken blemishes tiding the perturb degradation of an ensuing suicide held in time the last of time will be bowled down the deserted streets where sunflowers are placed around the moods of the wind blown from Africa found in the mannered masculinity of poetry spoken to the moon wanted for assault found in the fine old worry in the final who you are now reach out your hands and join them together to praise the brotherhood of man that can not go as far as the million man mile stuck in the streets of the night’s debris that accept the stared skin suddenly found beautiful beside the pestilence’s bloated light pushing along the business end of a world wisp me away pass the sugar canes the cotton the corn the soybeans I aint got nothing at all so throw me out into the streets to meet the convocation of my maker with its tired trials omnipotent within the monopoly of beauty where the bones that wear the skin as an ill fit where the fat of my heart is calling for a freer hand when I can not see through the boredom kept in the measure of your hollow hands and the night is caught as an orphan who knows that it is time to fill his life with a thousand pigeons on the wings his voice proclaiming that the force-fed pestilence of the intelligence and strength of a rusted machine is held tightly in the production’s curiosity lost in the mechanic of the rain that wanes its way pass the last soldier of the soul crucified on the cross of last night’s moon light using the last change of what it thinks that we should know all about the easy way out of life the way that the sun is set upon us and everything in the world with their histories is aged to perfection and I have sold my shoes to be alone with you to see if you care to

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bother both my botch work and the bottle that keep me company O darkest of the blacks know that your skin is a prize where the black blood of Americus is cut to a lighter hue cut like weed with oregano as coke with baking soda as the baby’s milk with sugar water to you my high yellow brothers the other blood that flows in your veins proclaim the trials and tribulations of our beautifully born sisters mothers of the strength of our race that birth the innocent bastards born by the grace of God and the white man that took the liberties and bodies of our sisters in the age of slavery count yourself within the harmony of our race our open arms seeks to embrace all the yellow and brown hues of the mellow yellow we shall no more say black get back but lift every voice and sing the multicolor color darkness of our skin The black kid-hood of being born black is breaking on the red bricks houses of Wichita the essence of being black is a forest of drums high in the high yellow sky I hum along and dance to the hunger of the beat backing me up down to of a high boddy buddy the bones of my breath O black be with me my co-temporaneous architecture of a pyramid’s longing this instrumental music of words woven within my wants on the breast of a hemisphere with two brains I sang bicameral O blacks your bones are begging to belong to the American dream down about where the flesh begins all the while you abound there is no Americus with out you we are a must ever mindful of our undedicated hallucination of being inferiors the blacks with their honest harshness their strength African strength strong in their teaching of how to go in a land that disown them that seek to make them desolate under the browning sun full of anguish and contempt and hunger for the truth of the catechism of the drums beating the impassable enthusiasm of our country that will prostitute us if given half the change but we are

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not alone pitted against the poor white that we may fight among ourselves for what little crumbs thrown our way by the hands of a society that distain the conflagration of our hunger the connected motion and consumption of our passion our longing for the poet as liberator the restless squatting poets the ignition of the fire of the poor the poet that jimmy with his tongue the enthusiasm of the young the poet as hero with his sensual tormented soul offering us the slender splendid bread of revoke call the spirit of the poet your home therein are you taught that you are not alone on the brutal road of life torrent in its jerky motion that feed off the woes under the shadows of the glossy moon that can not know the harden fat of the hysterical trinity in which it shines upon The blacks full of the improvisation of language of the young the diss I am of an older school disrespect each generation language used anew to express the dine size passing of their time the Davy Crockett of my childhood remember the Alamo the television’s hand to hand combat 1955 the blacks of kool and lotto smoking breath of the lung where the eye of the sky shoulder the beholder of light in the daily stage of an ancient age that rage of a baby Robin at rest in the nest there where the rare air of its time told breath makes amend to the friend of the lost wind hustling about the Oak with its stroke of strength against the all together come what will weather weathering down the nest of used twigs and brown leaves the blacks I will try your charge in the court where you evidence of the testimony of what you have done to the ones that you love you put my heart into a restless sleep you are my love above all in the twilight watch you with your dreams high on the sweet taste of a bunt I am on my knees before your winged throat howling at the parasites of inferiority the skeleton key of your rage is cool over the pool of black blood in the school of leisure and

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pleasure where the seven fold heaven of your voice is a midnight train calling your name on an overgrown vein carved through south St. Louis you are a rose in the river to controlled to go radically free from the hour that you have spent beneath the tower where the guard with his gun watch you play watches that you will not escape the hidden bondages that they have placed around your mind you the blacks of the south who toil in the soil when spring have taken to the wing who toil in the lush thrush of summer’s growth who harvest the beginning of fall you have no need for the city life you are comfortable with the dirt of the earth between your painful rainful nails the cotton of your history is gowned in the continental home land the blacks who get drunk and look the same you caught in the stillborn motion when the wheels goes to sleep their roundabout notion have peeked to the shadows of streets the broken water of your tears shed by the impossible extreme of your brotherhood of your affectional friends poured onto the shore full of waves your new skin scored of an ounce from the pusher that never force you to buy you are the crown of the town of Detrol in your prime held down you are forever pushing upward with your large lips dipped into the sea of the middle passage your broad beautiful noise consuming the fuming enjoyment meant to keep you down but you keep a divined longing in your skin that bind you to the kingdom to the hiding bolder and beholder of a staged voodoo with its articulate spells of the aerial burial of the nineteen sixty’s rage now dead in the gale full sail capsized by the murderous men who then and now wallow in the white water of a long strong pain in the brain of our questioning gloom that looms on a down tune The blacks of meatloaf Wednesday and Mississippi catfish Friday macaroni and cheese of collard green of

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banana pudding corn bread and pinto beans with smoked neck bones or ham hock or ox tails and lackeyed blackeye pea’s new year to fill the belly of the survivors in the night the moon have not forgotten to go a moaning the motion of the sea where so many died and was dumped when they was held in chains we shall always remember the brave dead their bones now decomposed in the watery grave you can hear them in the wind of the mind their cries that cruse quite fleet sweet on the ruin of water’s thunderous flowing in the reason of a season at sea I shall forever hear the melancholy cries of the captured made slave it gives me strength and keep me glued grounded to the ghosts of our race to the generational indefatigable needs for the mythical freedom of the truly free as the needs of the obsessive rain the selfishness of tress the somatic nomadic rivers the rhythmic anguish of the ocean the treacheries of the sun and moon I am drowning in the soil of my soul to soon I am gnawed by the temperamental melancholy and holy tenderness of an awakened hunger for the flesh of anger toward waste water’s ecstasy the liquid incandescence desires that curl around the yearning beached whale now bloated with the fat of death the scum of slums of death the huge sea long to see the likes life of it again when the sea feels betrayed by the wind when the wind feel betrayed by man for his torturing of the land when an African baby lay dying for want of food in a bloated belly then and only then shall the mistrust of Americus stupefied by the hunger of the combustion of the young raise above the excuses of TV told in the mono tone of light and sound and illusory motion drenched in the words geared to selling you the excesses of a rotting society built on making as much money as if money is the salvation that devours the souls and makes excuses for the disrespect of the frenetic old in their youth body bold and bound by a bodacious need to fit in the mold set by the commercial that glow in the fold

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of a deadly night fit for a fight when the drunken light spill its guts onto the hard concrete streets The black their voices thrown asunder to my bondage and my freedom my relief and grief that lift every voice to sing of the sacred fire O black known bards with your concern for the spoken race that waits your brilliance tongues to muse on our own misdoings who shall teach the young that they bare the common good of brotherhood they ware the slavish chains of disrespecting their fellow blacks who shall teach the youths the truth to grow and know that all their killing should come to an end that the fare curves of their hair is a beautiful thing even tho the propaganda of a commerce commercial society would have us to believe not still we ware the bondage of beauty O benignant beauty O authentic exponent of the darkest skin the once upon a time of your dark history written in the language of your current doings is a long held secret O my black women O my black men O my black shorty know that you can grow into the American’s frustrating situation of a conventional complex culture of the diaspora know that you are apart of the equation far so long have you been the back bone the marvelous dusk unknown in the setting of the sun you are a song on Americus tongue you are the guaranty guardian of her musical note your hopes held in the private flames of your mouth fit to sing the tremendous victory of Menes who built Memphis know that you are the children of Nowe we need implement community control when shall we stop our genocidal blows against our own when shall we cease the flood of spilling our own blood in the black streets where our mothers are afraid to go alone so they spend their times behind triple locked loco doors with us the honor old are hoarsely afraid to go among the armored young who will take their little breath of a live long life for social security checks

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the ship of black youth is wrecked on the disrespected shores of black on black crime and no matter of rhyme can save them from the prison house which is their secluded second home well we willfully know that we blacks in Americus need be self assured selfish when it comes to the learning life of our young we should teach them to love to hinder the horrible hasty hardness of hatred in the darkness of our dark skin that we surely share its as if it is that blacks are afraid to weakly while away the life of the whites as if it is so deep in our psyche that we tell ourselves that black is a cheaper life where are our prophet poet of the probable cause of why our youth take the fall the religion of the absent absentee landlord of a God can not reach them the controllers of our society care nothing of teaching them as long as we kick down kill for a crown each other share in the game where the saner mark of the killing game is writ on the barrel of a gun in the hands of the young The blacks who have fought the wars at home and abroad your blood have been spilled with the blessing of the cross steal away with me steal away to Jesus you are the Africa life of Americus with your eyes on the prize and faith in an alien God you bent your knees from home to Harlan in the eleven O’ clock sweat shop of the church where jazzbo was not welcome do not leave your blackness at the door blacks of the brought leaden mistah preachin man is your God of black bark skin why do he teach you to love other when you are not love the blacks from black-bottoms Mississippi back-bitten from sugar ditch Mississippi from surreptitiously St. Louis and Kansas City Missouri blacks dark as the mud of Alabama and old folks eating the clay of the earth blacks of the crucifying monsoon breaking and consuming the memorable night that pass into day the moon has witnessed the bleeding of teenager’s blood on the

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concrete streets of our awesome mimicking the pumping rain falling from the storeroom of clouds that concealed the Coltrane supreme blowing in the wind of a lonely horn longing to be held in the arms of the trouble moon that to soon lose it light in a nightly death told by the spinning of earth with it policemen roaming the neurotic manicured streets in search for the lush growth of crime birthed under the cover of darkness of an actual stone thrown into the vandalism of an transience hand cupped in the loneliness of death the loneliness of a bare school with the stigmata of the dead O black boy born in the land of the silenced tom-tom know that in 1540 Pedro Gilafo was boiled alive for seeking his freedom that sisters and brothers have died to set you free look deep down into your brown skinned history back to the first generation of all nations and do not curse the worse of the knowledge that you find but dine upon it as if a feast for the body and mind O black the far away face of your malignant misogyny music do it portray to work you wrongly you must mindly own up to the lucullian lyrics and you working women are not innocent some as hooch mama shaking your half clad butt before the camera your rap is an America music by the sway of your hard muscles on the edge of the resounding bones playing a skin drum Kevin Mfinka rhythm runs in your veins and voice when you sang the rhapsody of a new age long in the old cannibalization of what have gone before the talking drums of your passion the universal recognition of your passion strung on the tip of your hunger for the dance in the dark hour of a Saturday night sweating the heaviness of a demanding tenderness of touching the hesitant flow that explode in a hypothetical storm of motion that betray your longing to be one as a race set apart by your skin

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color in the stew that Americus is with each savory flavor distinct in the mixture of the plot of the cooking pot O beauty black sister you birth a race of tight skinned warriors your daughters and sons shall come to lead and other follow the syncopated steps of their elders take the contradictions of your place in the world walk alone side you lover as brother in the skin and you shall win the gratitude that your color demands the loyalty of righteous men be you dark chocolate brown or sun high yellow or dirty red hold your ground with laughter that smart of the heart felt clusters of love’s luster many of our brothers are lost to the streets and can not find their way back sometime you may find yourself so drawn to woe when your brothers treat you as a hoe it is a weakness of Americas that cut them to the core that strike them dumb to the very gum of their being to the bones of their self respect how can they know you when they know not themselves you cooked beacon brown baby you mama bigmama mother you lover and sister baba birthing babies the bold bullion of flesh the hot blue flame of the American game the bulbil build of a bulky bird buffet budding with the growth of spring to you O black lady I sing these fighting words of praise these fierce coronation of a subtle measurer these words held prisoner by their meaning the poet’s tongue is weak against your important beauty your impregnable longing for a family in the familiar fermata notes of the dirt of the earth the fermentation of your emotions the figuration of your musical beauty is heard across the world O mother of the race the earth birth your soul once stolen by the reek of slavery that did seek to keep you in the gloom of a candle lit room with news paper as wall paper to keep the winter out you morn the still born touch that have forgotten to mean as much with the weak meek love

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that can not live without you without a doubt your history is one of abuse but you have risen above the fray to take your place among the canon of American women so do not moan as you sat alone upon the throne of a smart heart as the aloof bird fly above the roof you fling your wings beneath the loud cloud that flows pass the melody of a rivulet under the sunset of slavery carved though our race keep to your diva pace the heavens open up in your smile O queen O mother O lover O sister in the name of men I solute you in the ancientness of your skin a birther of dark men in the support that you give in the archipelago of your emotional strength the many island at your fingertip the skyscrapers of your backbone your triumph may it last long may the anguish of your desire be gone to neglect you is to neglect myself know that you are the mother of the oldest race Part X.

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Go fast forward pass swollen swamp nauseated by bleeding buzz bombs blowing calcareous shells to bloom before hands before the hindquarter of a night feeding off its own masses lung earth is a creature alive and feeding off itself a place where death is only a table set before the living in need of a belly of triumphant and intimate religious manifesting faithful devotion toward what is perceived as the self same heart of an unconfused dream motionless in the head of the wearer where the notice motion of an eye remember the murder of the lashes that formed a flack of snow on the thick tender hair of a buffalo roaming the island of grass land outside of some lost town where time told strength of anguish can not defeat the losing harmonies of the sobbing hands bent on tilling the land that unself-fully gives and gives and gives

its gorgeous glorious bounty the immense flower’s fragile fracture flagrant free in its frequency rides upon the landscape of wind renewed against the scapegoat of time tumbling igniting the ever present present trembling before the approach of the future and the passing shadow of the past passing into the mirage of memory history is selected it can not hold the told second by second memory is the selected moment of short hand notions our personal myth that we tell ourselves gleams through poetry attempting to stop the time of the self it is what stands out to be re-be to be be-hold all in all we feel more then we are told the history of man’s emotions is bold so much so that words fell us a poor translation are words of the head and heart words express the sentiments of the throat they are roped together by the mind even the poet’s rhymes must give breath to be hardly heard save that they are ready read in the suing silence of the throat save that they be thought-bound thoughts round the mind in the thought-time forever alone in our thinking are we thoughts can not escape the sea of words that flow about the brimming brain the emotions of the heart can seek from the eyes it can move the hands to motions to caress or strike or make the cross of the divine emotions move us to our doing it is betrayed by crying a laughter a smile a frown feeling up or down we wear it upon our body this is simple knowledge give not all your strength to the need of the body for sometimes it deceive us it is a jealous thing that wish to be fulfilled first and foremost but it is only a host for the splendor spirit and the sough of a soul that holds us in check from doing wrong wrong as define by the soulful righteousness the mediator of our being be you one of the three fold trinity be you my brother in peace and war for the balance of the self held in equal measure give to the spirit what the spirit needs and it shall be fulfilled give to the body what the body desire and it

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will sever you well let your soul hold both spirit and body in tow Go my sobbing memories to the forest where I once was lost in a time of feasting on the backbone of the great presage telling me about the acts of an instance held in reserve against the prepubescent evening of an advancing storm that hesitate the counterpart of the heart of its art before blowing out its honor willingly as a recovered lover once lost to a rain of tears that fast last flooded away the face found before the daughters of Mnemosyne the Titaness I don’t remember who was the first poet of storms of forest and maintained mountains poet of fire and sun with its uppity power to heal poet of the nature of Gods minding their own business poet of weather always wild even in the wilderness of the city poet of the leaves of tears of the loneliness absent from hallucination poet of the divine speech of the God’s statements difficult by it ecstatic possession before the Gods did move into their silent heaven with its absolute nostalgia for a company of angels leaving the demons to roam the earth uninhibited man be you demon or angel in the bone of your bones demons are insane to do their wrong they see by the immortal eye of goodness gone but they can not effect the green zone they are all for man alone they live in the sickness of the soul they ride to raise where the wars goes and eat the spirits of the fallen foe why my man’s man are you so willing to take a weapon in hand why the hissing for public violent why the hunger for the taking of another’s life why must man forever fight why the cruelty of the night why the season of sin in the skin of mortality the fornications and copulation of war rage its way across the face of a gun smoking with its last report are we not holy enough to make war a forbidden thing are we the demons that we fear demons of the flesh demon in the minds of human-time shedding the blood of a silence

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spasm held in the lock muscle of a rifle the clear-sighted language of war insult our vigorous intelligent the masters of wars are screaming in the wilderness of jackals as jailers screaming your left right your left right to the wreckage of youths that give their lives to the enemy combatant of the detainees held in the unbreathable evening of a worm’s blood eating night swollen fat and bloated by the children’s wondrous convulsive longing and absence of laugher lethal laughter caught in the courtyard of distance where the secretive traveler remembering the complacencies of his childhood tenderly blows the triangle trumpet of a violent silent caught in the throat of the great voice stealing the communication found in trenches today the war mongers graduate to take the harness of revolt by the sensitive hands cultivating the ground where wars are planted to grow and bloom their intimacy before the assassin mercy of a dagger of words spoken in the catastrophe city of the lower-class exchange of the power of blindness sitting alone in a dark corner sniffing the tail wind of passer-by bewildered by the extinguish disaster found in the lullaby of the city where night comes on cat paws soft and sure of itself spreading from underneath parked cars drinking the streetlight’s glow night is a survivor a wonderer that never rest moving like sleeping water across the face of the earth it sings a song full of dangerous darkness full of belonging in its place darkness is an opportunist that take the bait of a dying light it wait without penalty to do it thing in the emptiness of shadows night is unknotting itself from the cover of artifice artificial light with its prehistoric history strung like stars older then the light bulb twitching in the wind Go pass the rugulose face seen in the mirror of time held by goober hands divinely employed by the long weeping empress of an enharmonic enterprise

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Your tears shall be diamonds planted to bloom working men who shall take the paycheck of sweat and blood to heart and enrich all of your taking beyond all measure the working poor shall gather at your vulture door when you lay dying of the luminous cause and too much money fat held in the belly of your needs and wants and morph’s dealing that was never held from you your pysanky eggs turn back the shade moving across the road where the dragged man ruffed by his ordeal can not connect with the smell of his voice with the serious sinuous rust redden by the electrified blaze of a hundred years war of nostalgic longings of lavas as the wind leaps from the cliff it cause a riff in the pulse of the exoticism of a scream current in its timid egotism of the memory a loincloth memory encircle the corpse of machine guns and tutus totem of bombs ready to birth in a burst the current boredom of boomed despair the implacable cutthroat of war is contemplating the voluptuousness of death its selected silent appeased by the golden jazz hatching the approach of flies the first to find the dead in the hot sands warriors trodden sand stained by the blood of the defeated dead do not ignore the blood soaked sand with its hands full of midsummer warmth there is a silent honest youthfulness about the dead a cutting short of the authentic fantasies of the war goers there is a history left behind by the dead and dying their stilled bodies lying as if asleep or pasted out in the heat of war raging full of falling shadows with their systematic contours coming on fast to the body in its last motion O white beneficent death of a village in the armpit of war galloping through the pubic pubis hairs of a fine mare’s physique where the race is already won O war in the hands of children in their faces and hair the war against hunger is waged in the market place where the money changer ply his deeds pork belly oil corn all offered to those who least can afford it with the tender ambition of tranquil money in the pockets

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the bestial architects of money the astonishing announcement of money and war one feed the other to the tune of billions for bombs that will molest the poor mines that bloom the helpless into an age of disfigurement when all the horses have gone home and the war linger like water seeking its level the soldiers will confess that it was kill or be killed by their distend human kin that the obscene voice of war is a brotherhood thing fueled by the needs to interfere in the proud lives of his brother as if home is not enough to contend with the fine horses that fear the puffiness of war in its tower of encrusted island where the thread is sawed through the eyelid of the transparent trumpet that stands in for M-16’s cracked by the intimate hunger of rage the war goers appeal to the blood spilt by the raising sun that know not the doing in the blood bath of alcoholic cities where an army of hiccupping latex sleep like flash floating flesh sobbing its rubber like elasticizes darkness thirsting for despair found in the death galleries of slave ships dark as its cargo packed fitfully shoulder to shoulder in the diadem of human worth the price paid for human flesh in this day and age in mid Africa is an ancient wage paid as a wound in the inferiority found in the soul of man Go to where the pill of ingenious machinery humming it moot ministration above the factories’ noisy complaints is swallowed to heal the ills of an overgrown busy bodied society busting at the seam reaching out to space for new space in which to rear its young caught in the seduced nature of language its cling and clang clinking its counter-current kindly to the kill-dare come lately likely to the looking of a drossy fire stared stale impetuous in its silence protection of its vengefully consuming the taste of the air the machines never sleep completely accept in their break down is a window open on their noise and what have become an earring forgotten silence taking

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cautious spreading from machine to machine with its motion controlling the fluid flow forward floundering in the heat of moving parts grinding and gnarling its grotesque glom on to the galaxy of a placated dream where the crazed bones of long gone innocent’s distilled nocturnal compassion dwarfed by the flaming ruins of the last compassionate word losing its meticulous meaning in the embrace of the written flame’s revolt that tumble about the insolence guffawed violence of a re-twisted verdict that have sentenced the drunken hour glass to telling the elegant time of a performing prophet’s memories prophet turned noisy poet of the circumcised laughter beautifully bounded seeking to bear the weight of birds their physical force drunk unexpectedly germinating poems full of the astonishing ancient articulated architecture of feathers the enormous message of the grave the importance supposition of the extremely primitive embodiment of evolution found in the tears of a exaggerated fertility of a non-conscious experience driving the recumbent bull beneath the hallucination of divine speech heard whispered from a dark corner in the stubborn heat in the nausea night where the pregnant hunger of black butcher throat slicing open the American ear raped by the heart of a dark absurd St. Louis wearing French gloves made of butterflies wings configured into a fleur-de-lis of an purple iris of raw flowers growing inalterable by knives of the wreckage of spider’s web hung on the in appeasement of the fraternal climates spent with the lunation of the bookkeeper’s insults caught in the hands of the prodigious healthy sea full of rocks run round aground in the rich hourless kiss of the wind where the jets of entanglement regrets the impossible season emitted by the sun of a quite storm raping its rapping across a field of used discarded children’s shoes affected with wild birds bathing in the pollen rain beneath the season of the moons caught in the good evil that

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sucking the noncommittal man waiting for the bounty of a heaven’s landscape of rude gestures where red wing black birds are attracting an attack of the red headed boy who bath in the green light of leaves his skin tinted and tight taut and tugged by the fingers that seeks a youthful meadow where grows white and brown booties bottom up for the good fuck of a coat of arms hung alone the wild walk corridors of a primogenital pink penises nailed along the walls I take the long walk through the gallery where the roof is full of red hair virginals weeping their vaginal juices as sweet rain painting their refrain like the jagged edge of skyscrapers at the genealogy of the astonished sex of birds and worms with their secret complicity hugged by the solemn hissing of the murderous five-branched tempestuous science of tornado’s torn-a-do Colorado too color-a-do down by the rail road tracks and the South Platte River where a cat’s lust forgotten by the summer gliding over the wild grasses and trash heaped and hovering over the caged guardian dog that care not to call upon Gods pecking at the sweat drops precious and decadent in the stormy criminal innocent smuggled into the quivering velocity of glass when the machines wakes the morning mountain in a riot of offence the piston powered God of maniacal metrical machismo machineries pumping out their vain wears cooing in the backwater naked with its funk of the law milking the clouds for the childlike juice of the Gods Go my fair face son go my woman one go go go to where Rimbaud is writing nigger to his mother where he see nigger in the dark skin of poetry Rimbaud the boy wonder the doom soul the opium eater the alcoholic lover of Veriaine Rimbaud the slave handler the crier of nigger nigger nigger in the heat of the dark country where man first drew his beautiful and bountiful breath and shed

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most of his body hair nigger long lives in the middle mind of the bold beholder that self same caller is clothed in the rank file scum of the hiding hooded mask of the Klansmen robe under the light of a burning cross they preach the ugliness of a madness their hands are stained with bountiful blood their words are to dead to bite or cut their outdated redundant rhetoric of white supremacy of one white God and one white country but the stew is mixed we the people of the United State we the noise of the multitudes we the conscious of the multiracial multiethnic multicolor mindedness are mixing our bated blood in the baby birth born by the light of the moody moon where the ghost of old Gods full of lost glory seeks to renew themselves to strike again against the prison that man have put them in the Gods have repent around bout lent alone you among the few the saved the forgiven with your faith full of space fit to be tired with the archangels angels’ wings outstripped where the cherubim ride the subtle scent rejoicing to the tune of the heavenly bells that thrilled slake and take like a snake that holds the answer to all the God hidden question Gods can not be lead by the head or the dreams of a red covered clover bed Gods are playfellows of the heart their promises once spoken is then broken on the sodden earth with its wine and mirth its struggling grey the lost paradise of a way of life of false fair hair Go jinn of the night and fight against the outrageous memories of summer speech caught in the throat of an old oak tree growing along the boulevard of dreams where an executioner of clouds hide the bones of skeletons piled sky high and float in the undertows of the rain which I drink like milk in the virgin nothingness of the assumption and implication of the child murderer of fireflies to wear their light as a ring on the finger yellow chemical light strung around their necks in the chimerical

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vision of their play prominent child like large eye-idols placed on the altars their huge globular eyes indicating the intriguing present of the Gods never calm in their work that embrace the irresistible force of weather the amateur armature Gods like vultures after the dead can not keep from waiting their turn in turn they are offering their blessing to whom ever may come to worship the salvation of anger the salvation of sex growing in a mirror the salvation of the wounded wind the salvation of a syllable’s event in torn open prayers when the dada day is left to consume itself toward the cherished tomorrow that refuse to rendezvous with the past sketched out on the tail end of the present with its scruples for passing as a half remembered sudden messenger with his spasmodic tenderness as a watchdog fetching the wisdom of storms the dim of him cool in the pool of a honor hour that is home to the lightening rod of a God who is not to proud to toil in the soil of human flesh a God bent on the spent sweat of man’s lament for his scars of lies that won the sacred prize of yellow shallows vows in the hollows of his heart that brush in its rush toward the to much cloy joy of a boy in love love from above love from below the wings of angels when the spring air there fill the eyes of the skies angels who thrust their strange erotic lush into the wind end of men’s minds angels ears that hears the shade when we are afraid to take them at their words angels grown to stones by man’s weariness angels glad to have had the night delight of our knowing angels are bound to adore thee the art of our heart where what is believed can deceive leave us in the dusk of dead luck buying its time with a suffocated supplicated sophisticated rhyme of grot that got the not of the same flame that disappears in the sun undone tears that nought wrought and brought of water’s give and take of the sun’s understood mood a brother’s love from above a glass of mud the kin I call cuzz the vine of the grape’s wine that

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float in the dew’s throat I love my love the father’s blood the blue-green sea of glass the self-same guilt of the Gods that avail there where righteous gleaming strand of land jets into the glass sea when the ocean weep from her face of the starry heaven with its strength held at length from the violence of a begging prayers are still born to tell that the well if dry of pleasant sins that have all repent Go and kneed down on the patella of pillows safe against the knocking bones and long gone deities of crookedness of falsehood and deception where their followers fonder the free giving floriferous growth that are blooming from their cheeks go to the wilderness of the reincarnated water that can conquer anything in its immense tyrannical falling flooding with ferocity washing away even the whisper of a blessing of poetry struck by the wonder of water struck by its certainty of tiding struck by the promiscuity of weather with its instant of shedding a crack of electric spark indifference in its striking of the moment of lighting flashing the wild salt of the adventurous eye with its beautiful language of tears the sky cry from its hope of smoking clouds limpid as the sea that crash on the jagged rocks of united speech heard in the dreams that falls like stones from the fingers of revolvers shooting the nostalgic crystal hands of gravediggers plying their wears in the blonde alcoholic back rooms of pawn shops where dazzling night break on the bathing beauty clear as the island of consciousness whispering the wounded hours asleep with expanding glances of progress drunk on the distance screams that die off in the marvelous escaping gentle voices of angels sensitive to the tenderness of a once violent precipice fit to jump off of into the hunting of the excellent of women my darling you are like the fog that wrap around an execution of a riot raging unrestricted with the virginal rustling of leaves’ tongues speaking the dry spattered

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pocketful of incredible landscape with its betrayal of another season’s nothingness functioning as a canvas affair in the air muzzled by the age of a sabotage old in its quiet season freezing the confirmed and angelic moon slopping its shoulders toward the appearance of a honed humped and hid hardy year old primate walking upright in the jungle laboratories where science study the gallant justice of the baboons night falls like a stone of anthesis coal in the geometrical water collapsing the routine of seasons awesome and locked into their roaming amidst the weather never wounded never dying out of favor but only replaced with the meat of its wind and rain true under the sincere sun’s ammunition that contort the night the fraternal motion of weather with its infinite fever the masculine motion of wind feminize the rain all the same all the same in the accolade game the marvelous thoughts of weather hangs on the young weakness germinant of branches flaming with leaves never discrete or as shy as birds on the bough of the early morning sun that runs its slow run across the bareback bark-skin limbs of trees the inflamed hands of the sun advance but does not rest it refuse to melt down the world till the time tapping have come some hundred of thousand of years from now when the great sun burns itself into a white dwarf Go my long hair molester of lands to where the sands of time flows through the hourglass of an eye refusing to see that time is own by no one and no one is the biggest beast in the land take the hands that God has given you to pray for the shipwreck mountains that stand as a sentinel against the atmospheric coronation of an opulent surveyor’s disappointment at the implications and assumptions of his hovering measurements let the cape doctor winds barber winds bayamo and bora Bmola and Boreas wind of Aeolus and Auster-Eurus vahagn and Ga-

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oh blowing around Fei Lian wind thrown blows downward and across swelling memory unclenching the water licking the cruel warriors of the terrifying atomic occultation of the grazing night the mushroom cloud birth in the daylight of a desert’s dust with its slow kill that flows windward a necessity of war this bold bomb should never see its birth in the land of the home of the free with its immense glittering green and yellow corn and waving wheat in the heart land of the beautiful blood of smoke that stroke the good-natured earth the adolescent land of my father the Mississippi thunder that drum its deliriums low in the trammel tempest that blows its breath warm and naked as yeast raising bread in the kitchen of the world eat your fill till the thrill overtake you fill your belly full of the disable faith that makes a heavy embrace lurching forward toward the flexible peak of tomorrow held by the bondage of a busted desolation with its deceased crimes breathing of the marine sun’s percussion that conspires in a faint light steaming of a fanatical sob once docile in its neuroses when a noxious disorder defeated by the tom-tom of a unravel blaze that burned the raw rock of drunkenness stumping around the escape of the remorse finger’s nervure nerve laughter carried by a falling wind full of the yapping sluggish shadows that water makes in its lazy flow of the swamp in the nocturnal turn of faith the patience wind is going elsewhere its negation of the never mind departure is undying it leave the road of our arrival where the simplicity of our memories is held captured by the white slumber of our hollowed out emotions bruised but none the worst for the wear of the inquest embossed on the skin of a swollen river running pass the entrapped attractions that the breath catches and discharge to the leaves of baby trees growing at the root-foot of their mothers

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Go pass the red-winged black bird attacking the color red unexpectedly against the dazzled park of pin oaks and red buckeyes rooted in the hard snout flagrant of the memorable ground where roots are sleeping beneath the Indian tobacco and differential grasshopper are feeding in the pink weed in the transparent plan of running out of ware fare money in the poor lives of the poorest civilizes seasons of being unable to work in the food stamps foot steps of a collapsed laughter of politic the poor are left to fend for themselves to feed their naked babies on the cinder of the beast milk of the great sun sleeping the politic of being self involved in working the land in the opportunity of the education of a better life the poor will come to riot when they can take no more of the taking from in their hard work-a-day lives in the scenery of the machinery sky where the poor poets run out of fatten fin tin tale end fitting words to catch-up the slumbering laughter of the memories of your nullified heart now nibble by the boulevard of the last time dismissal of dreams where the compass point to a collapsed love for the nature of the tortured poem’s ears with teeth fit for a steely underwater phantasm plasmas that bite into the seduced vulture circling the broken life killed by the raped negro with his depth of soul rooted in the dark tower of a wrenched silence reddened by the hunger of a knotted fruit of blood smelling of the alcohol of dancing ravens drunk on the resignations raising all encrusted but vigilance as horses hung on a midnight oblivion that spread the excitation of divine speech spoken in the musical accompaniment that reflect the neurology single cause of the frustrations of the outbreaks of the final answer rich in metaphors of the cognitive explosion of a singing adventure hung on the wind breeding the birdlike diadem forgotten by the seed’s pit that house the unknown rainbow with its color of smoke stroking the forgotten thirst of water the guinea pig of despair looks

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out of the windy darkness of Easter Island and the despair and darkness looks out from the guardians of the slave galleries where the black was torched by the touchy fires of self righteousness burning behind the strangeness of flowing screams that mark the voices of prayers flooding the night with the sobs of hiccups caught in the quickly thickly rest of favor and fowl where the water’s pride wash to fill the niches left behind by the done dead that take their flesh and bones home Go where the buckeye butterfly feeds on a cosmos and coreoposis tinctorio’s deep red and yellow skin are knocking their heads against the invading blue chicory wind where soldier bees feed on the sweet yellow of tick weeds giving freely where the lawn mover of unwelcoming can not reach to snip with rotating blazes the food of the ambush bug with its secret of living within the rules of nature living as one in the slightest desire of obsequiousness where the west rest the wild-worst original breath of the weather of death blowing across the minds of minded men with their lovely bodies meant to capture the all-fire glances cheering on the desires of a guessed at having haven of heaven appearing to be cheering on the apart heart of the burly beat of the then now master-head of the dead God that done blast of light and night outright rolling the world under Its nose to discern the righteousness of man’s ways on the singular world of the earth where the problem of consciousness is disturbingly interesting to the emotional soul roused by the Gods that knows all the going-on on the face of the throats calling to the Holy Ghost of irresponsible bedecked bandoleer of swollen swamp weapons full of live giving labor like blood in the veins of a freakily fresh face found in the mirror of a marsupial’s pouch where the edible bladder of the umbilical cord is a link to the tramway leading to the irresponsible stone thrown by the

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spiced hand of the moaning monsoon choking on its thirst of motion passing by the trust that can no longer sustain itself in the city of drowned butterflies such a wreckage of powder color stubborn in its born right is ready to fight for the deadly woman of the healthy call incorruptible by the awakened illuminations of caged birds feeding on the climate of hunger and dreaming of the sleep of hourly water’s waves that flows slowly pass the gate of a inconsolable disaster worn around the neck of the sudden forest kept by the bookkeeper of catastrophe appeasement of spider webs where is caught a teasing leaf twitching the promising motion of food like the spider let the world be your miracle market for as a human in the skin all you need is there to be found be not the bookish brows that allows the alchemist into the caged sky of the handsome heart of the bugler’s first communion this is the body of my body this the blood of my blood the flesh of my flesh in the yellow of the flames of my desires burning away the dead skin shaded to shed as food for the bed bugs biting at the bit of birds bathing between bouts of fits and back burning caught in the machine teeth of the cities Go to where all the Gods of time have gather to watch the play played by human beside the frantic water’s condolence that is machinery for dredging up the muck of love struck songs of fools sung to the shikari hunting the dark landscape of a gilded cage where Gods go to retire from the water wanting to fill up their excised enumerative emotion enough to fill a fat belly full of being accepted back into the fold of the department where the cubicles of our belief remand as powerful as the birth of an egg when night comes on shaving the quite dark flesh of the non-secured rain running aground around the migrations of the myth sucking yellow out of light in the last rickety night where the nonfunctional fire crackling its astonished booty snaking as a frighten whistle heard

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under water where the oarsmen paddle the fascinated gesture of solemn skyscrapers once idle under the threatening sky now boisterous of their power to mesmerize the landscape of a falling sentence spoken in the ears of a lone mulberry as old as the coat of arms of the yawn of earth when the beast waiting for the murderous thunder that roars like a gigantic criminal caricature of the famished belly of poverty held in tow by a polished weariness of a easily bored masterpiece of a feast fit for yellow for cyan and magenta invented by the light of the always innocent sun hovering about the vast darkness of the universal machine of the noisy universe with its excellent heaven of desirous treasures of the eyesight electrical extremities reaching out to the sight of the master of creation that cast her living and dead with the pride that ride rampantly across the skies of the unshakeable light of the followers of beacon night full of pin point unconfessed delicacies of unknown life living within the harvest plain crash of the carry grain of wheat caught in the finger nail of the fragment farmer of plowing prayer of a fetched compassionate world hardhurled and doom-day dazzle of the high priest of a reign rolled thoughts’ that bugle in the sun’s run across the never shut sky reflected in the newborn’s eye Go pass the inheritance of wisdom where your applied heart can catch fire and burn to a cinder the bitter odors’ boundaries of criminal failure felt in the ashes of a disaster’s season hidden in the wanton wisdom of the original sin screaming its eternal department of being one in the bloodshot measure shameless of the hideous creation that build its homes on the false lines of the rhythm of the world and the blizzard eating as a buzzard on the corpse of the future slain by the present but it never die never drift away but still remain out of reach of the past the present with its stinking ways knocking its

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head against forgetfulness fading away from the tempestuous moment of the here and now of the beautiful tornado of emotions that is the life of living in the skin in the dark destiny of your blood in the hovering innocent of a penny thrown into a fountain all that you can be is lost in the vastness of the milky way on the tip of a pin of the great unknown of the shoulder of the smugglers pecking at the eyes of the guardian of stormy stars unknown by the tiny minds of men be one with the naked mountain that renews itself when trees caught in the rotation of seasons of metal and glass encroaching on their rolling backbone the tip of mountains mugged by clouds meaning nothing but the presumptuous the overripe tree yellow brown and fading green in the Fall bleeding its way into Winter the sun moon bare witness to the doings of man and care not to intercede to work their heavenly wounded wonder they need only be in the great scream of things earth is a mirror with its high water deep and terribly impenitent of memories reaching to the threshold of limbo earth is a ship of cargo it have long since lost its innocent of being the immaculate virgin with its radiance of nakedness of life that man seeks to cloth with machines with metal and glass and concrete and tarred over walk ways leaving from one city to the other alone the crowed roads covered with billboards advertising the maddened thickness of product to keep us young keep us flush in the promises of a well lived life the skin of advertising is polluted with lies about what is really needed to fulfill the umbilicus railway running rough through ridges cut and clean and cued cubed and kind to the land leaving behind egg-headed flagrant of the low land long beneath the viaduct where the river run muddy with trapped life remember that the murderer of eye lashes is the gorgeous deposit of the immense foot of an old Mulberry fruitless in its age the old lady leaving a life of shades where the squirrels lost in their harmonies of

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the world runs alone the telephone wire strung down the alley of munificence to end Gods knows where in the cities brimming with their independent variation on the same technical tease a downtown an uptown surrounded by suburbs of memories of musicians in the cities of blues and jazz the scapegoat of thunder where the blues skeletons are walking the jazz filled night of bats and moths humming around the back yard’s light the skeletons are searching for their flesh in the darkness that night makes of the yesterday light the landscape hums beneath the fragility of their boned feet the wind caress the rib cage and blows through the eye sockets in search of a vision igniting the beginning autograph of a poet lost in the coherent texts written to deal with the doom found in modem life a life of noise of nosey government seeking to stale the indecisions of the indivisible nature of murmurs heard dragging itself through the jazz lit streets first spelled jass but a white man thought it to close to ass where the green humming bird’s language is a song sung the flowers that can not help but to be their selves under a handful of sunlight Go to the antipatriotic incandescence and incorruptible tongue of a collaborator radicalizing the beginning of the word I felt in the eyes seeing the nimble needs to hustle the wisdom found in the maiden heart hurled asleep to keep the run of the sun shut up in the jubilee spent in the lament of the school of leisure that takes its pleasure from the seven heaven full of the cold water wreathes weather over the pensioning pensile cool pools reflecting the foam home colors of oil on the street’s water beside the silent toil of the soil where earthly things bent their went lost lush house hushed in the hidden hallway of a half riding and gliding toward the dead hour caught in a flower’s beauty when the nostalgic trees bust open their blooms in a storm of alcoholic gravediggers that own the pawn shop

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around the broken corner of a dazzling easy living estuary beholder of the bolder birds hunting the watery stage that tackle the water at rest in the life school of a stagnated pool of nature’s rule that all live by beneath the seven heaven full of the long passed dead together in the weather’s rod that the angels trod they wish to share the smells of man they care that we do the good of the juice of our souls long in their lovely lush of the blue that rush and rinse the lamb’s blood from our hands man is a fickle creature a farmer of the murderous needs of jealousies he deny his own divinity because he have not wings he all but sings the lost brotherhood that would if it could save him from his self low he knows not the last holiness of all things living off the self feeding earth of birth and death he is the beaming beginning and ending of sinning that roar a shore ascend by scores in the pour spent with holy prime of the slime of life nature is not always pretty but she is never cruel she goes about her duty as all knowing of the tiny changes the small jump start of a cell of a seed on the wind call her your mother friend fen for her when you can live up to being a man one with her of her by the very breath caught within her grasp you can not escape even when you are off to the vastness of space you carry her in the very meat of your body in the bounding motion of your soul in the unknown spike of your spirit with her you are never along as one of the many of the whole call to her walk with her where you go know her in the deep dappled beauty of your soul for as sure as the poet tell you so the couple color plotted with its barbarous beauty of this beholder of the daily drudgery of life is all held tight from the baby sparrow that rest in the nest to the stage of rage when man is at his best the rare air feeding the lungs of all life caught in the light and darkness despite human intervention the galactic nature of the subatomic longing to be one with her is strong and lasting O nature you are the woman of my heart you are the beat

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that tell time in the tonal totality of a minute second you lose and gain according to your wear the living and dying of your breath there we vow to ever care O maiden of the mother bear why are we born to go astray why must we seek to defeat your ways we have become the children that will not obey the felicitous providence of your day yet by your grace we stay among the living lying to ourselves we think us great to great to keep to your pace where deep in our heart we hope to win but secretly know that we shall find our eternal end and god-like and naturelike you shall go on birthing your self as you die all without the why that we must spy to live out the rest of the days of our lives feasting on youth on the shy youth of other’s time in their prime for some youth have passed us by have been lived and have died into the wild wisdom of age where we play the father knocking on death’s door down where the bones sing their ancient song of being along in the body some face their death with the innocent of a maiden’s womb they fear not the tomb count death not a doom but go gently none to soon we are not haunted by death but accept the deed-bound-done that life expect you in the December of your years you the years wise not afraid to die you the rough grey haired wanderer who have found your home in the blood that have last this long your death shall fall upon a day when you lest expect O Deus ego amo te I have lived my life as befit being your son I have heard the inner cry of the One and so I die a good taste on my lips is the life I leave behind bye bye O cruse world I hunger no more my hunger is spent on the years I am no longer thirsty for the drink that youth offers life it is but a river running within the red flesh by force of time will it run dry strong is the flames of death’s song a simple explanation to life’s inspiration of creation so live your righteous life without secondary regrets let the seasons come let them go in a choir of migrations across the wilderness of your non-secured soul

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be not haunted by what you could have done when now is all the time for doing now now put your muscle to the wheel the mind muscle that feel the spark of an ideal Go you howling to the eternal God in the excellence of the fragmentize gambol sky your voice resounding off his skull and entering beneath the voluminous vault of her vaporize eyes she is struck between two sexes containing both emsexualize psychosexuality clear-cut clear-eyed clear headed cleanse in the high frequency of sexual desire roaming the high delegable earth of birds and bees and delectable life forever sexing and feeding without distress while in the best nest of our making we rest the spirit of the God’s making make us men of the great woman’s wanting let us live by her light let the weight of our kids be not dainty but grow to treat her right all along the watch tower of the heart’s ravine we see are thought that we have seen the great mother’s token of a notion offered to our scientific minds that have forgotten how to rhyme with her we seek to uncover the divine by way of science O holy woman that breast feeds us with air how know that we have come not to care the trash of man fills your lands and seas we alone produce the slow biodegradable plastic of the streets a plastic bag caught on the high branch of an elm the bag waving its patriotic motion full of the wind the wind that blows smoke into a smokeless land the land fill producer of methane gas the gas sucked up from the bowels of the earth it fuel our automobiles the automobiles that pollute the God given air to share where forth have we come from such humble stock only to loose our humanity on the rocks or is it this same humanity that for naught we will not be called human doing as human does with all the rushing rot of the Gods forgot in the very hour of our greatest need we feed beyond our measure our capacity to destroy is great in cities and in forests on land and sea our polluting wars

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to control other men’s needs why does such a creation as we breath all by divine design is nature greater then ourselves from time to time does she accept and insert her control and we go the way of her dictate she does not wait upon our actions she makes her pace a multi rhythmic multiethnic multiprogramming her multipronged beating banging her heart up against the night brimming with edible life under the yellow light losing its color in the clear-cut astonished animal filled air that the landscape snare its breath the landscape of skyscrapers scraps and stretch the juice of the sun the eye covered loin cloth of complicity that designed those midmadness of steel and glass that can not open on to the rarefied air of 110th floor these towers on a lease are leash to the genealogy of the destiny of science to build even higher into the forgotten drop of fallen thunder a tornado shall take away the footsteps of the building’s lust of its natural form that change it is raining on the towel towers before it hit the grant grand ground a September 11th fall down a hateful deed to take your life to the towers tattooed with fire when men fight humanity suffers the deadly April in Americus the murderous school in Littleton the Davidian Waco stamp of fire Oklahoma’s face of the building blown away O my murderous April peddler of spoiled blood peddler of flowers that arrest an innocent man peddler of a Spring morning made offense April of the grinning machines roughish rouges overflowing with bullets and bombs Poisson d’ Avil April Fool is gone death is now coming on the poet cruelest month fulfilled Go to where the wind as light as a fatigue feather is blowing into the last lingering kiss of a wicket way out of the heaven of the sky into the warm warning heaven of earth where the thrushes brush and fling their wings that sing of a sallow yellow seldom shadow rush rushing

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against the winning of the beginning of the good woods where nature keep her strong hold tight beneath the hood of trees and the engine of the world with its 70% water seventy prevent percent of preventing motion swaying in the deep department dark and daring watery vales where sightless life there take the time told prime slime down past the mountain’s crown of show snow that never melt to flow to the deep we can not keep such powerful water from the high tide of our shores can but watch it wave and blow to know that we are small in the great motion of things on the self contained earth being itself in the dirt inventing itself time and time again it the wicket motion of the winds the rivers overflowing the backwaters of its knowing the offence of violence snowing nature forever naked shows her bear body of experience for all to see she keeps no secrets as poets should do lay themselves bear before the pen before the childlike hearts of hands be they the animals that hides their nakedness that they are not prisoners in the skin prisoners of metal and glass of money and bricks that seize us by the throats and we choke when the bone of nature is stuck poets of the massacred poets of the unborn poets of the swaggering niggers of the mind free yourselves of the words that burns and earn the wisdom of the overripe sun witness to man’s doing upon the earth be you one with the dirt that the black folks ate the high water in the mirror of time the memories contemplating the consistency the immaculate moon the damned umbilicus of nakedness all wait for your coming you are the chosen one bear back and strong boned you are the light lasting long sing your wordy songs to whom ever care to hear I place you among the heaven of earth divinely pressed make your soul a poem for the ages blow the nose of your knowing cough up the wisdom hard won piss out the blood of your spirit be of the body born bold and bright as a fire in the night consuming the air of your breath only to breathe it in

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again to transform the working of man place it in the God’s hands and say I am Lazarus come from the dead feed on the wasteland of molded bread depend deeply on the kindness of strangers for all men are your brothers go my precious one your weaknesses shall follow you toward your strengths rinse the world in your wisdom hardly fought for by way of living in the history of poetry the road is half paved where you must go you gardener of the common cause speaker for man who have their doubt go mountain of emotions the ghost of the icebergs is to be found in the swelling sea peck your pack pile your pens with pills there is a stone for every season an egg eager to quiver in the childlike hands crowned with full glory the icebergs are drowning themselves in the composition of blue-green flame of the sea the land is held a prisoner the animal forest encroached upon by the petrifaction of human’s experiences but the teeth of the wilderness calls to us to be gobble up by something greater them ourselves to be put on an equal footing and get close to the animal that we are with our excellent heart on the long edge of being lost alone with the fight or flight of being lost in a wound it is raining times of stones tiny seconds of heavy snow made of stones their figurations broken on the pebbles encrusted concert of the concrete like tiny fallen golden winged gorgons scramming about the feet thick as a prayer of machines weaving cotton pulled from the lungs of my great gramps a prisoner of his time a tree trimmer in the piney woods of Mississippi of hauling dead trees up stream by mule of the eczema kerosene soak rag around the head wounds of a renewed spectacle wrapped around the throat of water the hands of the winds are leaping and erupting in a custodian convolution accounted for by winged insects fighting its loaves of force

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Go to where your promises are burning in a rusty barrow and the aptic structures of its ashes and smoke is a free form cloud rising to the edgy eyes of the high heaven of trees high heaven of the reaching air ascending forever past the sun pass the stars of a far flung galaxy in the erotic roar and ecstasy of birthing unknown life believing that it is alone in its intelligent knowledge of the universal shore where the emotional weather blows its vermilion zillion winds westward where the wires wend while it wear the wild break breaking down the smoke of burning wood the yellow-orange flames licking its caution convolution’s conviction greedily consuming the wood’s skin and the oxygen of God’s glorious air go and repair the dangle dampish damage done to the soul of men in his greedy needs to consume the land let him know that he is no better then the bee or the sweet pea or the cloudy eye of a great storm the harmonies of weather both beautiful and body let him know that his place is not secured in the great marking of territory done his home can not stand alone for he is a creature made and all his making belong under the hands of the great creator the solar winds of the sun in intelligent life he is not alone for all life process its own in living as one within the world bring him back home where he belong caution of the weather thrown by a weary world being itself bring him under the cover of the flagrant of your poetic wings you are the prophets of pumping blood into the words heard in the midnight of igniting dreams where your shadows tremble in recognizable promises feeding the flesh of seasons stalled by the landscape of the heart fulfilled exfoliated and contained by the missionaries’ position of laughter to protect the cross from the silence of the gnawing rats that feast on the holiness of wood the termites sees the cross as food they will eat the gilled holy body of Christ and get away with it in the stalled night that have seized my throat

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Go pass the station of your life smelling the florescence scent of the corner where desire and the murderous timing of a sexual trident that met under the perpendicular personality of the moon too soon gone its way with its age in tack within the tick tock token of anok motion mindful of its mute meaning its mums the workable wallop wonder word xenogeneic toward xylotomous insects inside the interconnection intercession of wood grains the missionaries of insects weep a week’s worth of forest and rest in the drought stricken desert where the training capacity of making money under the impetuous noise of a burned down shore line where the fire rolled long backed-up by the sea’s tow endless in its speechless protection of the shore beneath the loud light of stars in the company of the sun that have no night that placate the exposed face of the moon looking its preheated light down in the belly of the windless shadows of the footsteps of man the moon is full of the bristling dust of the advent planetary bombardment of the beautiful oriflammes flames burning its buried innocent of a nocturnal ingenuous remembered compassionate longing for the ruins of time where the insolence silence is struggling to be heard in the blind last word of the flaming ruined cries of birds dwarfed by the storm of a meticulous imbecilic river running its ground pass the stumbling landscape barely awake beside the violent embrace of the water’s memories of time told in the glimpsed motional huge face of the laying-on-ofhands of an elegant tornado full of glass drunk on the gallop of horses swallowing the twisted steel of Kansas City where the galloping winds smelling of the white castle issuing the provinces of survival as a verdict packed with the guilty nature of the sun is sung by the divine prophets of the second coming long overdue by the affinity of a hummingbird for the sweet smell of red

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hovering in the stale air unable to ride the winds now lost in the corroders of the brotherhood of the city where day is fighting with night for supremacy of the sky that hides the circumcised destructive distress of the uncommon honor of the venom of treason held in the hands of a growing Indian Summer once stumped by the thick captive tongue of blackish-green seen in the blue-yellow river tighten by the bank of mud’s lips shipwrecked by the shape changing water running for it life pass the market of man’s making the money that cause us to moan for the lack of in the commercial’s diversion combined with the selling mentality of TV entertaining the notion that all is for sell under the glow of the sleeping baby sitter’s pearl eyes delineating the drifting submarine of physical force that intoxicate the infernal fountain sprouting its shout of the language of perfume smeared on the graphical psyche’s various parts of a subjective religion erroneously invented by poet scholars of the ethical dust of a slipped away noon interlocked in the peacock test tube Go and lean a hand to the idle idiotic money changer of sleeping time where he keeps his hours in a purse made of skin from ten thousand renegade butterflies that laughs hungrily and anxious of the spot that they occupy under the heavy yellow light of the sun that cry to be understood when the zenith of the stud farm of cocky boys interlocking their shadows fighting to maintain their individuality while in a mating match of sexual misconduct smelling of the cool magical milk of birthing the beautiful discovery unexpected fingers caressing the noise heard in the groin of an embrace drunk on the delirium of a softness dying to be understood in the heat of the moment in the end the peace of nonsense mentally remember the familiar language of the Gods spoken in

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the ear of persuasive hallucinated daylight vocalizing its articulated speech stalled on the subject of the telling tongue all is won all come all is collective all the exteroceptive sexual knowledge of the deep-trance of absent consciousness of what comes into the ears is evidence of the personal Gods that frequent the information of statue people stoned on the impressive proportion that chimpanzees have self-recognition that the self of a tree is a bird known thing that the sex self of a bird is unknown to the tree that the conglomeration monstrosity of the self is modeled anew each day under the power of a lost ego longing to be found in the glow of the TV where the ungarroted soul discover the knives of drinking water sharpened on the teeth of the glass of the year compounded by the incursion into the pain of the flesh that blast the bloody whisper of an unconnected emission abdicating quickly thickly breath of the death of the sickness of Gennesareth beside the weather of a combating past and present blast that last that emerge from the crack of a simple concrete flower impregnated by the torment of a unforgettable mushroom of a streetlight’s pestilence where the moth of the eternal darkness if farming the topsoil of the master of breath breathed into the face of a lost butterfly losing its color under the machinery minding the noisy store of man’s weakness man’s little sorcerer minds toward the injunction muzzle for mingling the mindful matter of the erosion of the membership of religious from orthodox position of the body that wrestle to survive in the age of science blindly the fragile body with its behavioral rituals of exopsychic thinking goes in the age old hunting of the hypothesis hiding deep within the brain deep within the cerebral thalamus within the pons medulla of our knowing that the Gods keep their stronghold of synthetic information hushed by the triumphant knowing of the self wandering in the lost desire in the forest of skyscrapers

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where the Tai sticks and Columbians red and Acapulco gold sky of the suburban routine is silently rolled in the tip top of the North-to-Northwest cold front blowing in Fall from the dagger swagger of night’s end remembrances of the massacred clouds handing out lumps of rain’s litigation restituting screamlessly entrapped in a slave trade of modern investigation geographically stimulating the information of the dark flesh of the adras the calabarsi the nagos the lucumi the gelofes the biafras the mandingos entrepot that strengthen the sun’s mirror of impenitent mountains and islands of seized surprise with their strength of the threshold held shredded bear bottom rotten and to bad blinking the black flag burning reticule deposited by the buffalo buildings of a lost memory defeated by the memories of the anguish of harmonies where the sobbing musician sitting at the river bank of seasons with their skeletons igniting the fulfilled murmurs dragged through the landscape of the wind that tumble its punch of shadows trembling in the cities where the promises recognizable by the aborigines of the trade countercurrent exfoliated language quenched by the majesty of poets the excrement of the tongue is on the edge of an eagle’s disregards for patriotism Go to where you will be surrounded by fate but no life is given back to the worthy worshipless growth of weeds whorship worship me please being their self under the incidental music incinerated by the epitomize whisper of an approaching hurricane hurrying its way passed the current tugging at the shore littered with sands of seaweeds and stones of shellfish snatching the wind driven wrong doing of weather that matter to those living alone the shore man with his audacity to blame weather for his own short comings where forth does the wind feel does the fault line tell him where to build his homes we

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fear what we can not control a happy man will man be if weather be a man made machine a thing brought and sold but weather is a life owning to its perfect own a God of old the warmth the cold the rain the snow come what will that blows the inexhaustible working of the God’s breath it never rest never care that man can not get by there is no need to question why when the skies cry its cleaning refrain advanced by the winds wandering through the city of dead leaves thrown here-there till knotted in the breast of a corner of rest where pleasure is found in the dead syllable of a poem’s event where the transmutation of the animals human huddle amidst the rendezvous of the sketched thorny vegetation of a pleasantly warm wounded messenger suddenly aroused by the anger of salvation where a surge of poetry is lost in the landscape of the dada plague playing out the future heaped against the present busting open to spill its bitterness refusing to give way to the map of the blood blistering the skin of a risky flute playing the last good-by sung to the mirror where the word invulnerable is a weak thing full of pernicious meanings the claws of the word digs into the backbone and belly of its kin with a tenderness seldom seen in words that act as watchdogs barking to the bottom of their meanings hissing and howling to be understood in the sentence of shattered animal of the night quick as the quicksand they settle in the ear to burst in the brain like fast and heavy rain on the concrete skin of the insane homeless on the streets of a throw away society caught in the youth worshiping bubbles that is Americus caught by the micro machinery of bio luminance glowing in the wave of the order of ATP reaction rearranging the metabolism of a blaze of grass the cells with their tiny voices tell of an intellect tall in its wonder of the simplicity of life when Fall comes cloudy and cool calm near the first full moon of the season fresh and new changing the leaves hung on tress where black birds roost

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awhile before flying in flock the flyway that rot not knocking the known bird brain smart but small in the skull that control flight Fall feel fine against my eyes I spy the autumnal equinox leading to the trick or treat that meet me on the streets of the violence of St. Louis where the joy of being young is masquerading as the saints and demons and hero of a plastic pumpkin basket full of candy the young do not know that they are innocent and trusting in the incidental motion of their lives indulging in the growth of their dreams their divided dreams visible as the awesome secrets that they keep in a world of antique wisdom of the antivenom venom of the passion of nocturnal horses stagnant by the celestial thrust voluminous by the torn and mutilated contour of the last laughter lasting long till it goes to a moaning song based on the vital breath that rest on the strength of three worlds full of wealth when the soul identified with the body of the world of the eternal Brahman meeting in the womb of the fire of Gautama lightning its speech of flame from the vulva of the enjoyment of sexual intercourse when Gods offer semen as libation of the birth of stars the cinders and spark of stars the worlds of the Gods are stars of the sacrificial flow of heat that is impregnated by light in the cosmos’s copulation of the brahminical power of the mantra this is my secret name O Sarasvati with your breast fruitfully full of milk this is my secret name that I have attained by your nourishment Go to where your complexion is never lost in the vacuum mouth of demons speaking of the origin of logical friendship and Puzuzu calling out in the holy darkness where is hidden the weight of light equal to the weight of darkness that dawn with ecstatic clarity blinded by the spit of a serpent coiled around the spinal hymn of a revolution uprooted by the precise controversial that conspires in the pores of the disinherited pacified by the

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paraschites catastrophe cathedral where suffering is seen as a holy act of the poor caught in the wave of the cursed crime of religion reserved severe time in the sunder Sunday morning of worshiping the sumptuous idleness of a fraternal rancor whispered under the breath into cupped hands that catch the impearled words searching for a way into the ears of heaven where they will be heard by the angels that sit at the right hands of tiny intimate feathers of the constellations of the beautiful laburnum of silence voices of outpour companion of the thirsty conspiracy of being one with the Godhead of a razor sharp sky naked of clouds the forever falling sky consecrated by the explosion of oozing friendship invested with the seminal holy element singing the babbling advance of thunder on the wind where lighting tattoo the forgiving sky of fraternal loyalty to birds and all winged things that rely on its emptiness for a clear flying to and fo in the inexhaustible self-assured scream that ring the decorating of a cluster of cloud’s the sky pasty and pale fighting the étagère of age of a prophet’s promises to fulfill the tomorrow of yesterday the present is a fragile mirage easily broken by the hummingbird’s green language of the red age that seduce the blossom of high noon littering the tom-toms laughter impetuous in its endless duration of a delirium that protects the Indian dancing in the light of the casino blinking like carats caught by the arrow that find thee victorious over the enemies born by the weighing of words where the weepers conceived by the irrational wild nabiim throbbing beneath the drums and zithers throbbing the divine voices’ jealousies that are disguising their selves from the many dead Gods as holdovers from hallucinogenic statuaries of melted money expensively dressed in jewelry where the chammanim of the sun sits high up on its pedestal of an overfull wineskin the Gods are all drunk on the prayers of men drunk on the first fruits of the roots harvest by the

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wage starvest of the bruised sores left on the threshingfloor of the sacrifice made by the fail hail given to the last God to visit man to hear of what we are concern men must wonder as the Gods pass over the fair grass that pass for the sin we bear for the bitter of our litter tossed by a careless hand none know the one last blow caught in the mouth of the south wind as the air drew dew that fade by noon the dew sizing the moon’s nip of punishment pursuant by the sackcloth measure found in the golden fold of a privacy inmost musical compulsion unknown by the pleasured sounds found in the courses of all the falsified fall from grace behind the small wall we put up to protest the unknown man with his pen filled with the blood of the Gods I speak of the fancy poets of yore that writes the country’s astrologic lore of what Americus once wore the poets have proved their passion they are thrown out of the influential heaven for recording the devilish things done in peroration of the second coming they stand in opposition to the distinction of the murderous science of the holy soul they are alchemist of words melting meanings for men and master blind and lame they are your shame made flesh they deal will words to heal to repair the bones of stones thrown into the air of a heritage’s age where the clouds crowds the passer by sky spent and winched by the blow of a cold glow giving light by the low Levant sun that seem to run the desert’s landslip of sane shore of the ocean of sand in its motion blowing to seek its legal level another other call all to the unholy human fall as an old slow cold snow unfold it blow to sow over the threshold where an open field yield its warmth as the warfare of a stormy weather silent with snow that rides away with love’s food of a grey day nightly renewed by the cold’s view as the rain bring pain of the found sond of free water falling in the still chill strung like a song sung to the homeless

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Go where dogs are barking at Asapper approach and the incantation of the wind blowing toward the exorcism of medicine have given wings to the terror-stricken angels in their flight from the fight in heaven where the installing power of the winged set no-longer look after the factory of the skin the machine of muscles the red rare nostalgia of blood in the veins of a sacrificial hunger for the guardian silenced that the angels make of our prayers O Gods roll my eyeball as marbles in a game played by the angels shoot pool with my fingers play hacky sack with my balls weave a holy clothe with my veins make a suit of my deep dark skin make a foot stool of my shoulder a broom of my legs and feet a drinking vessel of the hollowness of my heart make a sling shot of my muscle I am all for yous by the jealous nature of nature make drum sticks of my bones to beat out the rhythm of your secret listening of hearts use me as you will till you make a salty drink of my tears paint your faces with my blood make gloves of my lungs make a lute of my vocal cord make a drum of my ears and wear my tongue as a bracelet my teeth as a necklace deck yourselves out in the threatening touchable thunder of my laughter as sure as the cities stab at the sky as sure as the dark raven fly as sure as the ancient entrails of the river that runs its way to the home of water the sea the blue face sea the blue-green scream of the musical sea the circulating language of the watery primal strength of the sea that throb on the face of earth as sure as this is so use me when the birds go committing themselves to the sacrificial vocation of the priests use me again and again till I am all spent by your innocence by the fruitful assumptions and implications of your stigmata breath by the wild beast of your splendid strength nature will not mismanage as man will not consume without being consumed by her costume self of her love-making her uninhabited sexual hunger that ignite episcopal birth in the slender transparent secret forest that

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believe in itself believe in the indestructible silence of flowers believe in her own wild howling to be heard beyond the gesture of human words when the muscles of the bewitching hour comes dark and deep the devouring eyes fit for daylight can not see the public secrets of night creatures victorious in their nightly hunt I sing to you O nature of the whorled flesh of the curfew pastures where grows the eloquent double dark remark ruck and rank by the hutch of the darkness of the black mask of a Cardinal I sing the surrender of man’s soul to the eloquent of tasty lust for life I surrender myself to the music of a dove that coo in the early morning hitherto sanctuary that gives birth in the glories of the marriage of germs I surrender myself to the chaotic unbroken silence of the changing seasons’ infinite moods burning with the beautiful breath of dragons’ brains in the anticipation of a gorgeous crazed of wild horses I surrender myself I surrender myself to the child-like whisper of joy that steals its way across the eternal church of earth empty of regret but decked out in the cloths of trees butterflies fireflies wheat and rice all living the lesson of being one under the proper value of the understood consciousness fundamental and grandeur in its mentality that intercede nature is unenforceable by presidents judges and officers of the authorization voices of the state where the mentality of an ant is married to the earth to the dirt a silence deity that confession its labyrinthine of faith toward the overwhelming importance of the individuality of the physical rationalist materialist science necessary to the conception conscious contrition of the human mind Go pass the visit of Gods to earth after the flood of words broke through to conciseness and now the celestialized Gods of an empty throne in the heart of man have taken to a heavenly home the tombs are all empty where the dead have taken their skin and bones to a place where

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only the dead can go no one knows what the dead in their non-secured langrage of language known in the haunted season of their fleshly home loaded with lies and a bit of the arrogance of truth where the flesh side of being human is contentious of the spiritual knowledge that lone to know itself the dead weathered over by worms are made a feast of leaving only the indigestible bones and the tomb stones as show that once they peopled the world was once within themselves within the labyrinth of the luck of life with its spasm of flesh nailed to the beautiful essence of parasites in the mouth of life the bones keep the secretes of the flash it keep the scars of its brokenness in an invented instant of the condemned shadows with their clarity of the intent accounts of the clumsy solemn manners of the savage abrupt flow of blood in the veins of a victim victimized by the trumpets of an eye blowing the starlight of the magical Orion the hunter of the three kings that moan more secretly the hesitate surprise sunrise of a heaviness suffering the terrifying tremble of the muzzle over the foliage of the abrupt growth of trees in the chest of a possessed harvest’s profusion of a credulous miracle of storms that carry the stripped down memory of the anger of the long-haired weather washing over the riot’s tumult tempestuous in its disheveled forgetfulness of the inattentive rutting of the landscape’s open chest where the humble musical scale of life being itself is played to a T to an E and G flat and T S Eliot mu St. Louis man bouncing off the flamboyant tree reaching its bragging secondary branches finally free of the cavernous vault of man’s destructed nature a nature of erosion in favor of the analog I of the lost time mindspace-I’s instability the authoritarian hierarchy effects is exaggerated by the police state suddenly collapsed by the flaming torch of free will kneed to the odor of yeast fermenting in the arcane bread basket bowl of the midwest anchored down by the changing extensive structure

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of the possibility of civilization the mind is correct toward the cognitive function of the Gods with their residuals pattern and purpose caught in the vertigo meter of poetry anticipating the storms raging invincible and innocent of wrong doing it is the juice of lust the nocturnal oriflammes pyres burning its compassions in the ruin cries of birds do you remember the Baobab tree do you remember the air that embrace you out of sight out of the minister mind of knowing everywhere nature perform its elegant dance of its unbeatable unabashed nakedness unleashed laying-on-of-hands it raw rallying cries of rain earth is an executioner of time and the mind but it will not do the persistence necessary to place one life form above the other flesh mindful of itself blind justice have blue eyes in Americus she hide behind the twist of steel and pile of money needed to afford the price of freedom she do not so much as pretend to be color blind as she sentence the darkest of skin to the prison of the destructive tongue lady justice have been raped by money so many times that she care not to defend against what she sees feels hears smells tastes think of the doer of her intelligent self she is a shadow without a body a shadow of imperishable being longing to sing the song of the poor and down trodden who long to nurse at her breast for the nourishment of brahminical power of memory from the consistency of the freshly cut limbo that haunt her she long to be reborn as the immaculate virgin radiance in her nakedness clothed by the buffalo’s skin of self knowledge the defeated harmonies of her hands are weighted in the skeletal scale of anguish she long in the fragile landscape of her eyes covered by the rag of time trembling like a caught sparrow tumble dying to seduce the jailer of a false rhyme igniting the language sprouted by the divined murmur testing the water of a tom-tom’s full convulsion beating back the rented rhythm

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warm in the throat of an exposed wind of storms blowing out the brain of midnight Go pass the eager ravages of time that can never have a full belly and the self observed self is the only way to know the Gods of a scholastic scent scapegoat that have forgotten how to pray for fools who in their childlike ways can only be saved by the mental language of heroic thunderous shouts that pierced the diminished voices of a cerebral accident left behind by the darkness of the blind but never shall their secrets be told to men in their right minds for all the workings of Gods is blind madness caught between the expanding universe and an ant digging out of the grave its home in the good and faithful earth ravaged by laughter caught in the throat of a dog’s depth a dog that thrust its bark from deep within the belly of a crazed violent splattering the wounded command of sit fido sit issued by the master of the pack the man with the dog like head the man with the machined hands the man gone insane where sanity is blistering the skin of the river running its course pass the tropical crocodiles dreaming of the meat of man permitted to prow the heated heart of water where the turtle is regal rob royal where the sore floor of the river is thorn torn by the over spread shade that line the banks where the sheaf of a leaf drop to flow in the thousand altars made of a sacrifice laid by the blood of wood in the rather gather head of the wilderness said in the mouth of an old drought missing the new dew of words stored in the Lord’s head a desert Lord said reply to the I I pass I bear the fair the enormous embrace of swamp gases the spasmodic nightmare of mountains the beautiful exfoliating folding head of a sweeping blackness found in the city of dead angels lost angels from the heaven of the mind busting the conquerors of time as time goes galloping pass your eyes ride it right ride it true let it come summoning you to the

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heroic deed of your life to the stagnant salt of your tears the serpent sex of men feel no remorse for where in time you have been spill not the blood of your dreams learn to recover your dreams from the taking of time be you one in the balance of your rhyme time told time tell time will run you over if you stand still time take no risk it can not feel can not give or take for it is all yours to make be not left behind caught in its wake never wait but drive time away in your highest breathing meet it face to face in balance with it passing all ways one foot ahead for it will make of you an antique if you falter recover make the passing of time your passion one with its enchantment unbending when it kick you in the nuts of your weakness when kept in measure time will shed its blood at your beckoning know the secret of its visible uncontrollable rhythm go and hail the fail blow of time the dumb come sea that time be know the heart of its art never set apart it does not lie it can not die thereby do not cry or ask why at the passing there-by ply your wears as if you care to be one in the moment of the moment distinctly and directly charged with composed creativity improving within the hour let your life be a God given epic when the Gods push you about with their voices that never step outside of the of natural laws they are apart of you in their noble automations of strangeness behind their fierce eyes that have no awareness of their awareness of the familiar language burning on the tongue their uncontrollable passion can be won by the enchantment of voluminous celestial collapsed words of the contour of the dreaming heart that infect the advance of intention on the well seasoned mind of the childhood man that know the testament of time that it take to make the flow of the grief of the trade winds of the breath of forgotten wanting words at the slaves meeting place in the season of the hidden night that curve around lashes given to the back bones of trees flayed by the mute past that have forgotten

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what it feels like when the exhausted and disjointed embittered and dismembered body of the precious perturbations found in the height of the city’s transformed by the slave master skillful in the commercial flames consuming paradise where is found the selling of the nauseated self fine and firm under the stubbing stubborn swirl tugging its memorable red heart of quagmire full of the hovering moon when Venus is the brightest light in the sky and the droppings of stars are engaged in maintaining their distant of intimate knowing when the night goes rubbing its back against the light of the city’s maddening nocturnal miraculously noisy mating caught pushing itself along the back bone of earth’s fears that man will take over for nature and become the master of the universe at the precise moment of the end of the world when the Gods descend from heaven and take their place beside man in the funeral for the world where the undertows of demons sweep us along the thorny road of a tangible resentment seen as an imagination of poets who would be the Man-God of the latter day’s dim obscurities of a shadowy oral poetry now dead in the throats of the written poem where the poets have long forgotten their divinity to look after his fellow men they are now beside themselves that rhyming rap has come to take a bite out of their domain rhyming rap plays the base game in it simplicity aided by music as a cohort that seeks to rule in the name of the Gods the community of poets is now shattered on the rocks of their self centered self they have forgotten how to speak for the Gods they no longer hear the divine voices hanging from their hands they hide their faces in the skeleton books of commerce refusing to be burn by the primordial fire to do the Gods’ bidding O poets set yourselves a blaze you born of the rare treasure of the tongue you nursing the souls of men you breaking down the flesh of the body’s need to be one in the world you with eyes of fireflies and lips of bees set your nose to

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sniff out the glorious sense of all living things let your ears hear the tiny angels walking in the blood of the flesh feed on the world ever as it feed on you drink yourselves dry only to be filled again by the holy water of words of a masculine abuse that brow beat the tenderness of the imminence of the feminine feelings found in the fuscous furnace where burns the frantic flowering liquid that destroy the midnight busting nocturnal over the beautiful stroke stagnant and staggering in the dark heart of an indulged breath

Go pass the muses singing enchanting poetry to the possessed poets witnessing the passive history of their time pasting into the book of divine knowledge kept in the magniloquent pocket of hail maries spoken to the hagioscopic hogloscopic doorway where free thoughts roam uninbibent by frenzy’s rather fluid in its wild consuming flow a mute migration of motion moving mindfully within the great mother that sustains us we are the codification of the narrativization of the Gods keepers of the common sense of the social evident of the subjected group documenting the systematic working of the social world asking the questions that man long to have answered where are the Gods gone why have they left us to bear life on the back bones of our belongings keepers of the God’s estates keepers of the reminiscence of the Gods keeper of the chaos transilience toward the consciousness of the Gods lost in their own memories sleeping in the subway tunnels with the meaning of what it means to be human as their pillow keeper of the emphatic just-for-real personages tide raising in your veins be a poet in the name of your Gods that gives you the permanent title of poet subpoena the Gods to stand trial by the way of the pen cross

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examine them with an ancient eye as if you will man fill the abysses with your God given knowledge remember the knotted snake of the apple that insured Eve that the worldly knowledge of consciousness was worth knowing be you supremely elegant in the climates of man’s wisdom know that you are no better then the lowest man caught in his based fulfilling of the body’s need and yet you are a special thing among men hold yourself to the highest standers drain yourself dry of all the holy answers be the mother be the father of clerical knowledge persist under the intoxicated Indian summer of a fountain of mother-of-pearl with its physical force of beauty its perfume wavering magical in the eclipse of cool hands rare by the standers of the stud farm of slavery the big black buck bent backward picking the spindle of cotton under the sweat of the drunk sun long in the tooth rows on rows of lobo rest bountiful labor without being saved by the bottom of sleep the years goes on germinating the void of violent luminous in its vigils vigorous like vultures connected to the whisper of death the perfume of naïve flesh the bivalvular valves opening and closing to the torments dissolves under the lighthouse of the streetlights the light canopies dissolving the darkness into a million one pestilence hissing with the light of fireflies in the shaving bushes of topsoil time the stars conspire and hint at that we are not alone with our machines that keeps us company the stars with their far-away wonders pin pointing the master’s plain legendary these legionary embers carrying their locomotive load of legitimate light muzzled by the stolen tanned light of the inexhaustible moon the blind night sky of cities shows not half their wonder explosive as a hurricane raging its grey soft skin full of scrupulous winds across the force of man’s injunction man triumphantly threatening the laid back motion of the world man with his urgencies of plagues feasting on dead birds in the dinner hour of words man

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kneading before the syllable recluses in his rendezvous with the mirror of blood made so by the sun the blood spilled on the battle fields where the erect weapons wound the wind and a wave of lead hot bullet emerge through the throat of the young combatants O youth the dada notion of vegetation in the war zone is bissly unaware in its busy bossy briskness of being itself beside the bombs that boom busting the land open in a wound not soon forgot the rot of flesh the lost of limbs the soul weep to comprehend that man made war rage again and again Go into the noisy plausible peace of mind that willingly waits on you shyly coming again in your pendulum footsteps of words on the breath of the great storms of your heart where the reprehensible rain is vicious with the wind and they sing to the ardent vegetation growing on its own accord rocking and knocking their heads together in the yes of submission bent low peeling the air of it watery skin the flower’s green glove is a guardian of the thunderous blow that the sky makes their union as silent as the private personality of dreams as the musky moaning morning coming on strong pursuing the night that now is gone the way of the midnight hour as sure as the robber birds will feast on the fallen grain fall asleep in the fertile refrain of day into night and vise versa be a prowler in the life of the poor plunder the self knowledge tugging at your back where the robbers come to snatch with violent your dreams that have seen the heavy heart hollowed out by the restlessness of your sleep where the far flung hills is a music heard only by the prisoners doing time in the wisdom of a disaster go to know the ashes of a dreamt melody using silent as a foot step toward the thirst that savagely stall on the absurd defeat of the galloping wind of a perfidious defiance defense against the strange moaning that is a sweet song of

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insidious skeleton of the silence that beat back the absolute solstice bleeding its barbarous rumor impetuous in its faltering height hidden in the undertow of the last threshold plunging the bitter original war against the Gods when they refused to take the side of the zealous insane with the desires felt in the name of the one great God of the stone pure patience of the human wait for heaven when they refuse to converse to the singlemindedness tender ripped terror refuse to be reborn by the baptism of an erect tumult of distilled water twice blessed sediment of the purest unforgotten lymph full of the tenderness of birds on the wings of a certain self-contain belief in the eternal cross as a holy thing when the God said worship no graver image from the grave of holy dead things where the scrupulous faithful bones once fragile as a volcano’s flow to the sea in a season of an indefinable erupted notion that certain words can heal the recollected pigment of a myth of the thrust of a blood flower witnessing the crimes of a raw light that advance on the vision of a terrific journey taken at the turnoff flesh and mud clumped into awkward stars leading the wise men to sumptuous fragment of a well lit madness once thought savage in an age of enlightenment where the lighting stitch the sticks of dead trees together in its anger of a surge of salvation meant for the mad animals turned bitter toward the vegetation that sustain them such an animal is man who will not rediscover the African names nearly lost to history Wo’se wishes to emancipate the enslave minds wishes that Nowe was of the tongues of the historians with their transmutation of reminisces remembrance of the God of Thebes of the ancestors that daily assist us in our task we ware their masks when we pray about their memorable place we keep them alive in our rhymes O tiny voices of the dead you are in my head O tiny flesh of the swamp settled in the tenderness of the first serpent that spoke to the curious woman in the

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garden O watch-dog of the spinal cord the black man fear the revolution the sit mid throat in the hollowness of his breath O consciousness of consciousness rooted in the Provencal I my sweet catastrophe of the vengeance of crime that will not die O Khafre kin of the blood and skin vis-à-vis the indigenous loyalty of bastardizing the night the amalgamation observed in Memphis of the dark skin of the dark winds of the dark sins where the revolver of heaven is shooting off at the mouth we are your sons we the back bone of dark Americus builders of its great building we protect thee with the flames of our pended desires we are the imperfect eye of a divine egg O still heart place thy self on the right side of me O inlaid heart in a bucket of red Jasper and Sycamore wood destroy the evil of the shining one O pure color of the bury turning away from the sins of the world bury beneath the color of the grave up turned to face the face of an open door of heaven O second time of the first death we are coming to you little by little light by light love by love longing by longing littering the ground of our most secret places where the tiny vengeance spitting at the strongbox of our train-wreck greeting the dawn of a controversial blackness

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Go my friends for the muses have left me to fiend for myself in the crowed domain of poetry and all your going shall leave you to the pleasure principle that wait on you coming into view of the death cup destroying all that have gone before the chronicle notational writing of a soul in need of guidance go to where all your going are caught in the unbreakable hands of the peremptory awakening of a prayer that suckle at the breast of doubt that is ruptured on the fingers of a double-edged knife

forever found high in the childhood anguishing memories of being twisted in the ferocious delirium with its magical impurities of a dream howling to the horrible bottom of the barrel where the frantic distress of a dry worm sweat on the lawn of a Robin’s hunting for the food of the day to beak feed its young that knows nothing of the Gods of man grown frantic by the light of the sacrificial fire’s outcries tossing its curve to the forbidden incandescent listeners touching the heat of an acute dream of an eclipse mixed with the circler phantom that can not do you harm under the watchful eyes of the worshipers of the sun of the emerging heat from the heart of a fatigued mirror looking back at you go to the staggering tornado stumbling across the Midwest in its need to burn itself out by the judgment of wind’s supremacy in being under the working hands of weather’s thrust for the essence of virtue dancing in the dreams as relentless as the question posed at the crossroad of razor and wrist where the suicidal birth of small arms fire bloom in the chest of the innocent there in is the basic principle that life is held as cheat as the price of a bullet that men will kill to satisfied the supposes thirst of their Gods yet Gods are never the blame they are impendent without man with his war-like wisdom of ways justified by the gun by the bombs that birth destruction and meditated death where the beauty of war is celebrated by defense spending to wage a way of life what is right for me is right for you my way or the high way now crowed by the war goers who shall slay his brothers of another mother where forth have we always been this way where forth shall we be save from ourselves where forth will come the day when the God shall reek their vengeance where forth will another man’s life come to be a holy thing O go to douse the fires of war go to where we have forgotten how to wage our primitive and petty needs to conquer such things pains me to mention what poets must keep in the foreground of their

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art in the foreground of their heart you poet knee high to a big God their prop their puppets their power in your hands go alone if you must but you can not escape their bidding for such was you born into the race of man to be their pawn in the game with the power to check the king to up grade such are you wed to man so wear the ring proudly its your to keep do not divorce yourself from teaching man the way that he must go to know the brotherhood of us all living under the sunshine bouquet that conspire over the cathedral’s dome its clock of hummingbird’s petticoat of green irrefragable irenic iridescence hovering over the slackened shaken sky where the torrential babbling storm irascibility rage pass the marvels bird brain dreaming of flight the birds in their grassy nest rest the night away under exploded air of silence the albus alburnum stark naked without its bark the voice crisscrossed and struggled caught advance across the nightmare that ware a wing beat boiling the plutonian immense region of the wilderness of elements spent in its spinning in the universal motion that rule this world clouds have taken away half the light of the sun they come grey-belly-born never out of season they doze off into the east where the dumb brown dawn is a blesses thing polluted by the thirsty waste of man made machine where the albatross of the cross show their companions stalled by the seashore of conspiracy babbling its pleasant elements barely beautiful in its wanting modesty a bench-work of falling rain beautiful by the wounds that it brings curious by the voodoo song it sings the complacent commotion it ring round the tropical jubilation of tongues pausing to lick the tracks of the inner city train the tongue that muffles the words that save sumptuous and repentance by the head stone of a ruin cathedral as theater where the priest plays the mouth piece of his God curse not the clouds that carry rain on their shoulders let the pores of your skin open and suck it

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in the mandrake winds with it sympathy for the unrelated rain brings a sweet whisper wistful as a plastic bag entangled in the highest branches of an old Elm bag belly bloated with a rolling void now flapping like a flag to the alarming capitalistic curiosity of the sudden breaking of rain on the surface of the conceit of concrete have companion for the widow Goddess boiling the sap of trees to the great wing-beat where the nightmare is impaled to the head of longitudinal constellations gigantic in their staggering swaggering struggles have companion for the hunger of earth want not waste not wise guy not the ragging riot that rain to regain the reign of growth seeking out the smallest craving crevices a chip in the concrete submarine volcanoes on the bark of trees in the rotting teeth life seeks and seeps weep and peep and pee-pee on you and me she care to care not but to feast upon the flesh that rots

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Part X1 Go your way to where primordial speech spoken of the owner Gods personal Gods admonitory Gods parental Gods pompous Gods of fierce heroes familiar with the lamentations of emotional inhibitions hero of the hostile curiosity that will have peace on its own terms go to the invention of the ghost-soul entering the body of a newborn infant’s embodiment of the psyche of life and living dead the first God of the hallucinated voices of the ordinary past is preparing the heaven for our arrival into the being of speaking idols with their bliss of certainty fighting the beginning of their end when the last is cast they must go the way of all the holy figurine that once peopled the small walls of man they are forgiven their promises of heaven when we pray away their love from

above the word wing that we sing to them the pace of prayers that we make in the haste of city living the chase for material goods in the half-way house of our longing the copse of our past pursue us when the pain of the rain is still in the chill cut and strain on the skin of the air the breath of our fears can not find its death can not find the preferred passing of our sins of being human on the deck of our lily neck that wreck the whorled ear that can not hear the dumb eloquent that surrender in the double dark meaning of our dreaming warmed-up and hollowed out of the skin of our midnight visions silent and some times ruthless in its depiction of the resentment that we harbor the tendencies of obscure memories set free to piece together the endless possibilities of what was seen in the complicated waking hours of our silence thinking silence stumped upon at the rest of the language of poetry the half fool half visionary poet in his attempt to create a beauty in an indifference world where the envy and anxiety of the poet for mass support strikes out against the ones he love the poet wishes to save us all by saving himself he will gladly take the fall handle the ball call from his lonely wooden tower to all about the heroic struggle that it takes to defeat the dullness of human relationship base on getting money but he too must fix a price on his works sale you his wisdom by the book that he is redeemed as a distinct individual escaping the dilemma of mythic salvation he seeks to remake the state of mass society paralyzed by the financial chock chains roped drawn and quartered rusting around our necks the half visionary fuel his quest the half fool reset the net in which he seeks to catch the faces of men set free poet you of the ancient game that unfold before your eyes the little thoughts that you spy know the cluster of nature’s odor know the raw life feeding upon the open sore know the cost lost in the shrine where earth drinks the heavenly wine and the horn of Easter morn can be found in the eye

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of the sky that wear its woes in your hair slow the poets goes a throng full of song pass the fair grass none not one blows a note that to nature says no they are singing of the moon gone to soon they blessed it the him and her that once writ as messenger of the Gods the bright light of the moon swarm in warm night as poets pen through till then near the here of morning poems are born from my brothers my mothers in the art they write of Winter in sorrow sometimes oppressed they seeks to borrow the motion of an unrest they play with the breath in a hour of the flower growing in Summer’s breast poets can be joyladen for they have seen the maiden nature her daughter slaughter to increase the needs of man the poets cry out cease and let the birth of earth finds its worldly peace let nature’s install muscular power sap-like and sweet found in the ground of God’s will O nature divine mother of mine God your name is the same your heart is known by the rose that knows so too each tree be of you and every man your son the immaculate white the immaculate black the immaculate brown the wood that once stood proud round by where now the city stands the then of the how now men all life occupy a place of grace you are above even love above the sea of me the bread of the dead the flesh afresh that dread the truth of thee yes my tongue confess as my prays at night rise to the heavenly height to make you known as God I fight the stress of the disrespect heap upon you spare the rod spoil the God mentality in the face of man can be found the spell place of hell nature is the host but man all the boast you kiss my hand lovely-asunder while in the west the stress of thunder a wonder we are blessed to understand the storms deliver a river of rain flushed and hushed the faithful waver by nostalgia by your patience profound by the guardian of the evil eye and the medusas that groan by the rigger rain that rest make it your own by the cacti torment by a blood of knots the vesicles that drops it rot

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to the nostril of a drunkard’s putrefaction hop-scotching around the play ground of a howling brotherhood in the drinking bar where the mind goes far into the ear of vomit and hear the drunken song of regurgitation sung by the fire of the sun playing both side of the streets Go your way pass the epileptic schizophrenic deja vu of rerun T.V. where lying commercial comes first nature to the commerce’s mind behind it all behind the skin is the lore of yore that was begun when the sun was a younger God when the sun wore the slow flight of a metalmark butterfly when the past persistency of its light was done in by the light of the boob tube’s glow in the night light of the moon cast me fast to its tune near or far mine the cries that despise the psychological pining of the Gods lost in the wilderness of man’s history there in the air that gleam and stream by the melodiousness of the sea its sing song rhythm that dwell in the swell of motion in the ancient relationship between man and Gods that fight against each other by the one sided nature of prayers the interceptor of the Gods can not intercede with their unbending rod of holy speech their dead rules is out of tune with the working of the modern world but still they hard hold fast till the last side of pride as a bride that provide her mate with half their weight with all the cultivation of TV time sold down to the very secretes second while the wayward feet in the TV streets awake the replies of the skies to gaze with a daze the sight of the maze that night TV makes of the sight the myth making television wish to sell you a bill of goods if it could it would sell you the second coming as the sequel to the first blockbuster featuring the blond hair Christ played by the narrow-looking features good-looking athletic body fit for the big stream where the holy desolation escape the collapsed encircling wisdom spoken in the ear TV language is seldom wild it is cut and trimmed to sight

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motion and sounds TV language does not linger long by twenty-four hours selling sounds it quickly passes on sell me happiness in a 12 oz bottle of dish washing liquid sell me freedom in the form of a fast car sell me silly its selling never done never quite fulfilled of it self in greasing the machines that infiltrate our dream the whorled noise of machines their ferocious horror to maim their unending combustion and consumption that make a metallic desert of the world we are their mindful keepers as they keep us in the lusty luxuries of a simplified life without worry for the machines shall save us from the mundane drudgery of the every day they shall give our lives new meanings that allow us time to find the meaning of self we are the machines keepers for foul or fair they are our common companion of us born where we keep our creation laid bear before the bar raised to its highest legal level the music of their hum is worshiped like the second coming coming on in a riot of pistons and gears and tendency drive throw-off brackets folder cams steel knurled and helix gears grinning out the glorious goods of a throw away society we are their God-like maker creator of the greater good that they may entertain us serve us down to the replacement part their loyalty is unquestionable they do as they are told to the breaking point they can not rebel or tell us where to go they make of our house a home they tie us to them till one can not exist without the other a codependences like child to mother which is which is yet to be discover the machines are our lover they took us to the moon they break to soon they fill the room they are marooned in the rust belt the old and useless pile of metal rusting in the brick factory over grown with weeds the metal dead thing that we did not clean before our passing into the new and the improved machines are replaceable like men who have outlived their usefulness to the society that once employed them let loose to rot in the shadows of an

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upgrade we treat them with the same disdain be you old man or old machine your days are numbered would it was so of what Whitman sang the song of the self as every man what I assume you shall assume also a man out of the cradle endlessly walking endlessly cradle to cradle wishing for an American that only a poet can dream up cradle to cradle whispering to the water dreaming to the stars dreaming to the laughter of the moon to the rich immensity of the sun laughing to the stolen light of the stars let us rejoice let us join bones to bone flesh of my flesh blood of my blood bound by the very eyes that sees and denies that we are all children of the earth I say you are my brothers my sisters let no man set asunder what nature have joined together Go to the narratization of the soul dear psyche of breath of bones of blood in an age where God have moved far off into the selective heaven of one God who keep his company tight by the metaphysical essences of the silence of the Gods caught like exhausted animals refugees from the edge of the advancing cities where the cries of the wilderness witness the waits of workable wars that are waged in an age of innocent in no sense of the word God is playing hoodlum with Jacob sealing the door of the Ark witnessing to the flight of Cain and Abel walking the garden of Eden with Adam both caught in the unconsciousness of their own nakedness one within the singularity of nature a situation that could not last with man’s curio curiosity curling round the nature of things his current belief in his separation from nature when he is no better then cursed meat caught between the teeth of living our lives while all the wise there is something of the divinity in him something of the cold of a congestion confession as St. Augustine abandoning rhetoric confess the tree that escapes through the fingers confess through

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the vigil held by a reptile offering the knowledge of consciousness in the form of an luminous apple eaten in the bamboo thicket confess the untamed bird of prey that knows the meaning of meat the wave of words that the preacher preach the swell and sweep sweet eddying nature of the life of everything where the sacred water omniscient in its reincarnated beat bump bouncy by the daily prophesy of prayers in the pitiless savage of a sorcerer’s germination the worshipers of Satan the light bringer the first revolutionary of the winged set who lives in man along side his God where in the divinity of things they are one and the same fighting for your spirit and flesh your soul alone can contort confined conjure and control the demons and saints that knows when the spirit and flesh are weak when they are fired up to fulfill your wanting waiting needs weary and worried about the body of the shadows of your being when the sky has become a swamp full of tenderness when the naked inquest is nailed to an answer when the scenery of the sun raising is encrusted with the thoughts of dying in the distant transparency of the narrow threshold armored hour full of death once removed by the rain stoked and soaked sand the hands of telling time is caught in a seed that sleeps its growth silently in the world’s face of learning laughter loudly long across the pregnant sea’s lunation in the seductive banality that is life animal grace is guided by the glue that guide the gilled gluttonies of a golden cage where the keen awareness of the self must come to knows that it must escape must excite the soul and escalate the escapade the escapism from the routine the mundane that gnaw on the essence of modern man identified by the knowing name citizens a belonging to a way of acting in accorded with the make-work masses we the people we to the popular piety we that conspired for the first time to be the placated public the interlocking of our lives turning on the axle of the status quo that keep us

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static in our quotidian duty we the back bone born in an age of bouncy bouncing our blooming way through the barbarism of a brass rudimentary breaking beauty revolt against the captivating capitalism of the brought and sold soul that sustains the beautiful beast as seen by some of the money makers minding the store mining the veins for coal or gold or gas or oil where are the poets mining the musical tones of the language with its tune turn motion where are the artists mining the delight of the flesh of the eye with its circulating wonders looking inward and outward seeking the easy essence of the sacrificial brica-brac blacken by the dark waters of the swamp that sits in the mind telling time as told by the nostalgia of a flock of black birds blackening the moving skies caught between their wings of the final strength of a wreckage of the current season dangling from your skin that contain the bold blood bubbling its femoral federal way through the vegans veins most beautiful by the wordless song that it sing song of pumping motion heard in the ear cradle on a pillow a gushing motion singing halleluiah down the blood covered halls of the bated breath the breath of the dying nearly done with the usefulness of life with the rarefied throb kept secret till war bloom into the body of youth blood is not meant to be seen by daylight not meant for the cold vocation committing sacrificial suicide suckling at the breast of the beast of depression of birds where the miracle drugs most beautiful leap upon the inner body like seeds wind driven planting themselves in the stones filled locality of smoke and mirrors Go to where the authoritative voices of Gods spoke to the willing those willing to be possessed and loose their sanity and what is left of the elohim fading away from the mind of man is the savage food of a singing in the dreams of idleness with the ideal of an unique uniplanar and uniramous ideology that I indigested without resentment

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without the universal hunger intimate in the vigorous wounds of an uncertain instant attack that have escaped the virile hour irresistible to the immense blemishes of a drunken grape’s suicide when the earlier argument of our divergent trajectories raise from the brooding flooding moods that confuse our confection of speaking in tongues when the first Gods was poets speaking from the divine side of their meandering minds of these poets of the Gods with their initial spark the avant-garde charting by the light of their bicameral visions focus to a fault flushed in their wandering into the unknown without a doubt caught in stride with the angels and demons that walk beside them bearing away the poet’s offenses offering up their offering as a blessing from the Goddess with their marked mercies mapping the broken weapon’s initiative vacuum left by the retreating Gods who have gone into the new heaven of Anu the celestialized Gods suitable to be held in the hands are not longer curious of the altar-face made by man who do not believe that the Gods are dead but asleep in the poet’s heart and head caught in the pure landscape of the metaphorical soldiers marching off to the weight of warrantable wars of nerves waging the immediate enticing secrets of simplicities a poet is a poet is a poet is a poet redeeming and recreating his society with his suffering his pondering the immense liberties of the long lost legitimacies of the laborious living found in the mouths of the Gods that vs. the state that will have the poets to fear the pride of his ego the social order makes of them freaks to be caged by the irons bars of normality marginalized till agonized with resentment for the thing he love for the most beautiful discovery of a poem born from the art of suffering to be one with the world a world that despite and despises his self willfulness his willing to wage a war with pomp pen in hand his mindfulness for setting free the souls of men who are caught with their thirst for a hero God to set them free from the tragic

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violence of a lost authority the man-side motion with a fire in the bone will leave to a dissonance breakdown in the proof of a valid voice vivid in its vocalized vituperative in its rhythm that ride the right the strict hierarchy of society that ride the rules of the common upbringing of it citizens ride the co-operation and jealousy of justice ride the authoritative notion of fairness consuming the dark skin individual behind the blind-fold righteousness of justice is all blackness but she is not fair or indifferent she rather prosecute the poor to the farer extent of the law her blind-fold is made of money her scale can be brought and sold weighted down by the richness that can paid to swallow justice to consume it abuse it buy it from under the fortuneless bear breasted Lustitia is cold stone to the touch her sword is dull from cutting the green-back bucks justice O lady justice why is your flesh made of the juice of ice why do you not cry out to be heard in the wilderness of reprehensible excesses of the capitalistic noise with its implications and assumptions of the greater good for the few remove the rag from your eyes and see the innocence murderers of poverty they are most divine with their concern for the poor locked in a fat society that throw its weight against the maiden forest growing free against the disappointment of a cut it down labor each tree cut down is a stealing of the breath of earth and we shall pay O how we shall pay for we can not transcend our wasteful ways such is the price of our the indulgence of our soaring intelligent man is not complicated save for the brain that we know not what it is capable of in its full mindful measure in the secret thoughts forever secret sought out in a knotty circle season that dress some drums that must come to guessing at the power to go about blessing the forms of men’s storms warm on the bastardized tongue wrenched and wrung wanting it warned like a song sung that must not be left in the dust beside the fame of

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burning flames with their skills stilled by the unkind winds seeking to blow away the knocking carved shock in a whirlwind of cursed snow brave by the thaw against the lightship Stones the smart bone of snow the truth heart of snow alone the youthful smart of snow that knows its own in the wasteland of the linkage language of hands the luggage locked and leading its longing for understanding the divine howling brawling immerging hemorrhaging earth bespoken as a token Negro carrying the burden of his race in the white washed willingness of place he is worth his weight of tear-flakes of torn-waits of tooth-hurt digging in the last worst of the dead dirt when earth died the angles will cry metal tears of fears left along with no more men to condemn Go away my dear dear friend pass the poet’s last poem spoken in the eye of a storm raging in a tea cup full of forgetfulness where the water’s scars is evidence of the force formed in the wind the rain inflict its conflagration its interdictions command of falling it find the omnipotent grave stones of ancestors on the manicured lawn of the dead where the holy yes of a word is spoken to the divine inspiration of the mind where the jealousy of the Gods is written in the divine speech personality of poetry now confound by the laurel crown broken and dried and a token of defeat in the heat of the self hypnosis’ vigorous conviction of a peculiar sensation felt in the hysterical illnesses of writing poetry under the cognitive imperative of a belief system of history with its selective posturing of the here to gone before the rarest store that bore the fame of names that did their thing under the time told life of a miss-placed piety paying its debouch dubious debt to the yet to be born which shall come and write their time in the rhymes of a new day always the same always diligently different in its didactic

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disclosure of the discord notes heard beside the harmony of life all is not right all that poets surveyed in both day and night all under the sun that is done all under the dreams filled night all beyond the poet sorcerer’s wordy wand the wordsmith’s rhymes doing time for the Gods how odd that they have fallen from such high a grace of place scattered about they have lost their order in the great stream of things that flows in our daily lives they have seemly gone the way of the dead Gods now locked behind glass in the mausoleum museum of the heart they no longer forecast the flooding of the Nile all the while the great science have reduced them to the like of a child full of the wonder of things still they bring forth their poems armed to do battle of grace and sorry love and hate poem torn from the headline of our most secrete notion of being human the man-child that despise the cries of an offence eye let their intent be spent on the heritage age at the shore of your wilderness no less the worst for wear they maintain their hunger as the rain repair the air and bones shell turn to stones they go on their wandering way through emotions of the holy and unholy not solely soul do they look the rocky rook lost in burly books shook to let loose poems to form and fall onto the telling tongue these brothers of another mother their poems like cold slow falling snow that blows unfolding before your eyes before the threshold of your truth of age and youth their skill uncouth clothe caught beneath the forgiven heaven strutting away on the clay of earth beneath the winter wings of birds that sing where is heard the words out of date with grace in the late state fresh and renewed of being you in the everyday bones that you carry pass the divine speech of the omens clumsy and primitive and passive in their pleading when the poet was a young man in his adolescent confusion was alive and angry with the world he sought to overthrow now time and society have tamed his moral

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blindness into a more conventional life one that offers him brotherhood for his rebellious pen he is deem to old to contend with what once boiled him instead he is comfortable in a world of things where his impressive sensitivity toward the heavy-handed workings of his society is wrapped in complacency but still there are a few brave souls that now that they are old battle the good fight of what their poetic sensitivity sees is right of the working of man’s self expression despite the persecution of their age won wisdom their defiance of the intellectual stern rules of the world their insistence that man is an animal who from time to time must live as such one with the nature of his fleeing flesh one settled into his substantial soul one that knows that the government seeks to control and mock the ability of man to understand the fickle and fatal world that from time to time the poet’s fustigation fully fill and fine tune the mind of the young to rebel against the government’s thought to resell us on going with the flow that flood out the poor and disenfranchised while buying a boat for the financier to float unaffected by the misery of flooded homes life goes on even when it is made a swamp full of the stink and rot that living make the take of tenderness and tough the light and the dark those who feed and are fed upon one and the same in the living game when one have died weather suicide or crucified when one gives up on the quietly mythical quality of memory when one give up the ghost in the machine of the mind the consciousness of what it means when one have gone down the rabbet rabbit hole for the last time when the breath is made as cold as the Milky Way winds that blows I hope you find the heaven of your horror is just an imagined thing that rings its wounded wonder wild and weighty down the worry way Go pass the unmovable eye of God shining and sharing its fidgeting music to the right hemisphere of the

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unknowable working of the brain keeping its secrets tight in the lobe of its own knowing elusive as fading dreams the scent of what once was known and seen in the movable motion of a dream is the music of a rumbling cargo in the belly of an angel whose inquisitive hands dance a triangular dance to the rhythm of a chain-gang’s embrace remorse by the vibration cracking its musical delight full of madness mounded on the incandescence corruptible mind of the meat of the brain pathetic in its two-sided stagnation its syncopated firing of meaning in the cultivated mine of words that sing a ring around the thought of a song sing with me the motion of earth its dirt motionless and mute playing in its giving worth the sweat of a growth sing the oak that smoke in the forest fire of a familiar feeling sing the hidden scream of children sing the hearing deafening of a stricken resentment caught in the suspension of tendencies drive sing the irresistible distance in the darkness that give thoughts forever born in the make-ready its inheritance in my mind the sun shines its articulate light unattainable by the bewitching eye of an unknown laughter as frail as darkness straining its cover clear through to the light of stars sing of the love from above the ride down the mountain-side the bread of life of which it is said thank you Jesus sing the light blue day grayed by fog the color crew of flowers that grew in the street light’s glow sing the found still chill sound that flew through a morning dove’s coo sing away the new day’s bringing sing the music that is heard in the idleness of the moment viewing a comet’s cruse across the dark mystery of a midnight sky sing the drunken chicken of a family’s holiday sing the syncopated rhyme of a love divine sing the whorled ear that hears the lovely-dumb eloquent of by-gone years sing the remark dark crust of lust fueled by wine in the divine sacrament of the blood of Christ sing your clear felt fears foundering the edge of your emotional years sing the hard preferred copse of a

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baby bird dead in the spring of its life on the convenient concerto concrete all life is reason enough to sing with all your might to spend the pride that we set aside when our prayers raise to the skies and we get no replies before we die its as if the Gods have gone tongue tied deft in an age of glorious science their voices rest without regret in the best memory that we contest when the God’s answers to specific questions is like picking through the yes and no of men’s historical plots inscribed with the wild trance of poetic ecstasy frenzied up into a fiery fury that burns the artist’s endeavors to return and celebrate the sterility of his necessity to be one with the exile effort of his selfcentered self-observation self-incriminating sensitive sensibility sing with the poets their sonic songs of the words of the sententious streets sing the sequential singalong sinfulness of a simulated dubious intelligentsia that simultaneously rebel against the inscrutable profound guilds guilt of modem man who can not untangle his emotion from his pride one is one and the same in the living game in the last disgruntled request of a prayer asking the silence of the dead Gods to recognize the kingship of what is left of the divinity of mankind with his fragmented musings of meeting himself along the dark and rocky road of self knowledge with the disobedience necessary to break through the boundaries of structural sterility of a convention life tied to the machines of progress that sing in our sleep its mechanical scornful song long to the lonely poet exile while seeking to belong beyond the brotherhood found in a Saturday night brothel where religious symbolism is forbidden and the customers in their costumes of the work-a-day red light glow know that the price must be paid in balance and advanced who will put the night light out who will stain the outright brain with their God-given truth the poets will woo you coo you and boo you back to the first black born under the African sun what is to be

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made of the Negro’s all-powerful blood the blood of the Hamites and the Cushites the Bakuba blood of the ancestral approbation blood of the wild dance and mystic speech the mismanaged blood of Americus’ black youth with their wounded strength keeping them from the splendid needs that the black race needs O my youth go freely into the wilderness of the moon’s stigmata but do not let it tortured you body as it ignite a fire truly righteous to be your guild let the torch of your fist be worthy of your ancestral bones gone to the memories of your black smoke your indestructible silence is witnessed by the undisturbed feasting of your elders with the blue circles of their eyes focused on the curfew hour of your desires they are majestic but resigned as the gesture of your howls is maddening and newly wild while your honest arrogance is all for show where you must ware your skin color as a shield against the skin-kin that indiscriminately kills his brothers your muddle muscles burst victorious on the playing field but be you a workmen of skills toward the lifting up of the constellation of your sisters clench your hiccup under the ultimate vibrating spasm of your essence be you not as the bragging bandits and call your brother in the blood nigger the word is of the bitterest poisonous let it die the death of disuse O dark brothers be not deceived by the defense of a dead God with a deafness in Its ear O dark brothers be you not befallen by the false immoderate joy of money it can not save your soul can not heal you historic wounds wherefore go ye with your skin color that you can not hide as a brand upon your soul with the arteries of your withdrawal of sleep the serene brownness of your skin can steal you away into complacency into the victimized neighborhood of the defeated as one of you I come with open breath to say that our ancestry declare you revered sir be you as strong as your bones

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prick up your ears to their song and sing alone for the dark skin of former times did gain a measure in their time Go to the divine auditory hallucination of the prophetic trance of poetry singing alleluia to the nocturnal prey of a heart aching to be included in the cannibalistic landscape of a lost body fighting off the unclenching fist of common words strummed and stranded on the tongue that speak the machine language of progress that clings to the perfume of words whispering the torment of the rhythmic cut that sliced open and scar the locomotive force of meaning mindful of its triumphant unconfesssed shadows that falls in the innocent forest of words wanting to take you in their warm meticulous embrace with haste that can not wait the second coming of the earth that has birth us all and it call us to a higher order to do the best we can as man limited by the clothe of our skin enter into the yearning of a year’s worth of wanting let all your imagining be not for naught let all your Gods be not forgot let your mercy not rot let your body’s clock tick its tock to the honest heart beat of the ponderous wondrous working of the world where poetry is a reliable witness to the unconscious misfortune of the possessed harvest of non-evasive words that tremble a little before they ensnare the breath with a solemn draw by the southern nobby Nubian in americium Americus bombarding the artificially radioactive notion that he is worth only the multitudinous mono-mythical color of his skin and all that that means in the nearly bylined blind segregated motion that seeks to defeat the visionary insecure nature of the divine self with its tender affirmations fighting the wounded self-destructive drive for the all mighty dollar of the triangle eye the tip of the pyramids have witnessed throughout the years to the doing of man in their shadows doing as animals are apt to do nothing more nothing less

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with his shoulders to the wheel of time and his right eye on the night his left eye questioning why his breath a beaconing light that tide its way across the gulf’s side of the over-flooded wharf calling the land ever name in the book clenching the constellation beneath the skin of the hands screaming nigger to the horny matter of finger nails nailed to the billboard selling the word nigger to the burning tongue bleeding the last ultimate labyrinth of laughter lasting long little by little like the man with a sign on his back that says hang me I am black when night is ripping under the summer of incredulous liberties of thunder rolling Jesuit Jesus juice down the face of a wooden cross of lost souls littering the sprung spun whole cloth of the church’s bank account awakening the blond God of money that sleep in the non-ritualistic nocturnal sandalwood burning in the censor of the modem age of the jungles of concrete glass metal triumphant scented with free flowing enterprise of eighteen rabbits the flame eyebrow over the sky dragon buoyed buried under the rain of the sun’s blood running like a river down the steps of the temple with its unconfessed eye like the needed sun that comb the highest hind-half hair of trees when the plutonic phosphorescent wind scar the sky you can see forever pass the full-grown shadows skillful in following you into the secret darkness where they merge and grow to fill the distance caught between the earth and the moon stand on your own shadow at high noon soon it shall follow you to the condemned clarity nearly content upon the flamboyant and proud guillotine made of hurricanes in the twilight of flashbulb murmuring memories where butterflies trembling under the suffering surprised secret strangle but still soft solemnly working memories radioactively regurgitating the clumsy fluid of foliage in a forage of a dead age in the naming center of the painless brain that will help you to lose yourself in my smell when words

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entering in the back door of the brain find themselves moving at the speed of a jet plane’s insight its familiarity with the air about it the adulterous air the possessed air of a rare profusion season of desperate sisterhood thy favorite daughters with their fundament feminine motion hung on the rolling hills of their tear drop breast the birth of a girl from lady to woman to the Godless moon Goddess weighting the worth of a man made war against himself against the whole of woman kind that dine on the emotional weather of giving birth to the whole wilderness of the world where the man made jealousies manifesting itself in a manliness mantra stalling of a tear the mercies filled breath of the world feels like a woman like the loveable lovescape of a woman like the wild water feeling like a woman water running west of Wales like a tree a woman at rest like the thickly quickly forest wildworst at best like the moon woken would martyred the master world wide of waste wood flowing in water O woman headship head of the household bold by the bitter light bulb’s glow O woman wind weaving your woven way across the skin kiss me if you miss me I am your manly kin half the world within the body of the whole I am the poet champion of thy daughters and sons when the breath of their death goes combating the comfort of the heaven given measure of putting the cart before the horses of ease with its dead head done by the right night by the why of the blast past outright running the night into the dust when the tides fill all sides behind the universal mind of nature the high priestess that run her sun all night long somewhere upon the earth spinning within its memory of motion nature the mother of a million children born into the slow dying of life you are all my longing my last maiden my extraordinary longhaired lady of trees in the skin explosives with your songs on the lips of mountains where the Stellar Jays call your name from an Aspen all golden trembling in the north

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wind of an early Fall’s theoretical articulations its regime of meaning meaning no more then what you can comprehend from your sight your hearing your smelling your touching and tasting the leaves of the blue green Blue Spruce and Ponderosa Pine where you go in the wilderness your capitalist ideology goes with you you carry it in the heart of the your American heart you nourish it in your American heart let it not seep into your humble human soul at the mercy of the science of Gods Go to where the aoidoi have given way to the rhapsodes tapping out the beat of the heart by the now lost angels of the church of katokoche your hands shall be full of the righteous prayers when the majordomo ring the bell of the tomb where the house master keep his obtuse consciousness safe from the boomerang of the beautiful muses that go dancing to the music of an ancient wornout complexity of a lexical field where grows the prominent language of the here to now forgotten heritage with its age stillborn on the captive tongue where the music of a beautiful circumcised laughter long in the limps of a swallowed silence that keep your belly warm with its wishfulness of wanting to be felt by the now lost cost of doing business with the Gods wear your hair of woes as they come be one with the divine seeker of the long traditional language of the rishi prophesizing the divine knowledge of a breakdown the broken spirit shall be heal by poetry shall be lifted up into the body of its home with a song sung long on the breath it can do you no wrong the sounds that the poets make break into the rhythm of your blood and is fit for digestion by the mind in a time of the silent of the Gods we have poets to tend to our soulful needs give the priests but half your measures they along can not save though the opium is strong poetry remain the other half of the way one that concern itself with your spirit the other with your soul

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one is of the heaven the other of the earth by the flesh of birth the ethereal and the physical both contain in the whole the triad trinity body spirit and soul that knows the wants of the physical that knows the wants of the spiritual it seek to keep both in equal hold out of the body’s house endlessly walking out of the waken motion of movement Whitman’s journey to find the symmetry of a flower is not forgotten in the democratic notion of the present the delicious flamboyant present finally free from the reach of the pulling future and the drag of the past one can never anchor the present soon as it is notice it is gone gone in the time it take of telling like the flow of the corrosive Mississippi eating away at its banks the spring flooding flow fills the low lands and we are caught in the water of present time sweeping us forever forward with a mouth full of motion we go through the ever present present with its thousand heads thousand eyes of what has been and what will be it is the ruler of the whole word it is the self of all things the first free from majestic grief desireless time is the sacred offering told by the rhythm of the sun the adorable movement of the moon concealed custodian of the universe that dwell in the omniscient entangled mist of chaos that comes from the order of the Gods with their irreducible music worn on the grinning wheel of our self-doubt the Gods have chipped their tooth on the consciousness of man who stand before them nakedly bear afraid to be seem without their clothing that protect their self-worth their display that they may just be as wild and uncivilized as all the other life around them go and smear your faces with the ashes of the primordial fire the volcano’s tongue liquid land long to burn you into one the consuming skeleton that finger the awakening surviving disaster of a fatal quest for the knowledge of the self for the man-made art of mockery for the chthonic surmounting obstacles that beseech us wait for you to loose your way in life to think of yourself both day and

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night to dream the dreams of fatal insight that man is the Devil the embodiment of the demonic the self-obsessed self that war for petty causes with his madness of sanity and vanity he have a cold-cocked talent for it an allembracing humanistic vision to control the new and the old the expressive voice of his soul preach in a richer tone the animal nature of his voice with its darkest vision that the arresting artist create within his romantic solitary self they have committed themselves to the humanity of the disinherited poor that wear a chain of gold shackle and cold clothed in the name brand of the bold commercialism that hold them in tow by the billfold and the threefold trinity that patrol and console the threshold rolled to the front steps of the church where you can leave your sins at the door and pretend that all is well by man the torn true divinity lays within the art of the heart the God of the church is the God of the head widespread and dead the God of the heart is nature homebred from the witness of one living in the skin Go my wayward son giving brittle birth to the rumbustious right hands of Gods in their trustabillity tractability treatability that lone once again to hear the music of the poetic voices that once set them falling free to sing out of their hearts about human and divine things the glissandos of speech its scabrous salvation its selfcontentment its pitch and its tone once it is heard it is gone once gone it linger not long in the shadowy meaning of its song O go my wayward son to the place where you once belong to the camouflage of the skin you my darker men my brothers in arms look toward the warmth of your sisters that wait upon the soon full moon her messenger you are the sun the gold she the moon silver both to make a whole and birth the willing born God of the corn the light well bright miracle that once swarm to the warm

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arms of a waiting mother you my brothers are charged with the upkeep of the young you are the sons of an ancient race long have you dwell on this face long your years to come be one with mother earth she have given you your color like no-other you are not mark no vagabond upon the earth that yield its fruits to the working of your hands thou shall not kill thy brother but witness to his high-minded sorrows be mindful of the matter that we are our brother’s keepers I to you and you to me within the isolated orgy of brotherhood that we seek this is the beautiful busting truth live pass your woes the cassation of your knowing of the imperishable knower you are what you perceive yourself to be in the extraordinary singularly self of one with your God made flesh attentive to nature that let life run root riot on the powerful frantic musical landscape of humanity life is always flamingly serious always humble burning itself into a delicious birth of an open chest with its crest of crossed bones and wealth it welcome all to fend for themselves it dare to storm the worthy world with a teeming thrill high in the heaven of the dirt of flesh and blood dancing with no shoes together with the wondrous seven heaven full of the living thrills and the past time left behind by the treasure of pleasure for itself the grandeur of life fight to excite the blood to do as the flesh was born to do it ooze the toil of soil that is never spent bent by the freshness of the newly born dreaming their new life alive the birds in their nests the bees in their hives the worms in the faithful earth the mosquitoes full of my blood the moths flying about the back yard night light the wild rabbits digging holes in the shade of the front yard the child that babble a book of poems the sperm swimming toward an egg all things life find worthy to take their space in the great soup cooked under the sun life runs in the vanity of your veins it waits to be undone by time a fate none can escape the sentimental

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breath lush to thrush itself to fling and wring to sing your life life is a brush toward death it is all about the servable survivor that carry on the successful genes that have master the riggers of itself like the on rush of a most beautiful Spring blooming young leaves out of an old tree the juice of Spring is everywhere to be seen from the look of low things to the highest of being on the wing the echoing beauty of weeds with their persistent persistency their richness racing to sweeten the earth of life the earth wanting no more then what it gives earth worthy of winning over man who think that he is superior that he is made in the image of a silence God that need man to speak for him when the holy image is all about it is nature herself that did bloom this egotistical creator of the invented heaven as if earth is not enough to hold the living soul this creature that feel threaten by his own death the wind with its skin of moisture man that feel that nature is at his beacon call to use as he wish to the decrement of all this greedy creature that consume more then his rightful share this creator of a jealous God well we know that nature is selfish and rightly so for she have many creatures within the skin of her valorous voluptuous body and the poets sing her exfoliating praise there where the bright light of the air is quite rare at night O lord lady I stroke the heart of an Oak in St. Louis town down by the Mississippi rolling its brown back bone alone its bank of Cottonwoods and Walnut that grows by nature’s will beside the river’s swill its winter waves saved by a frantic choke of ice the Mississippi watery ribbon is woven through the land to dump itself into the gulf of the crescent city the big easy where the Mississippi flows like liquid jazz be bopping broad siding the city bent around it river most beautiful everything about you is sweeping inspiring and I dip my hand into you as a prayer made of flesh and I am blessed by the your watery song lapping at the solemn memory of

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limestone buff now gone to homes this river runs like a serpent of divided thoughts tamed by dams and locks chopped into pieces to prove that man can not leave well enough alone Go to where the milk of human kindness is spilled on the field of war where birds nurse their young and ants cross the body of the fallen war of displacement war of obtrusion war of land where blood-oil flow war of brutal rutting war of undulating muscles fit for fighting in the profoundly nameless magic of a pumping heart war of young against the war of the old war of the intoxicated birds drunk on the grapes fermenting on the vine of a magical space that have witness the invention of the wheel when the stone was rolled away from the tomb of an agglutinated incursion into the minute that have lost its future in the hissing and haste legendary moment spent by the open arms of the sun war of the needs of seeds war of the notecase full of the race card war of the fists that exists to do battle war of the flower caught in the hour of the stormy superstition suppuration war strengthless weightless senseless war that is Always young among the young that goes near here is the penmanship of war here the fight against the taking of a life the murderous nature of war wrap itself around a borrowed sorrow oppressed by the unrest that will praise thee spot not the will climb not the warring hill the past last of our war shall die out when the supply of youths are gone are done the slaughter of our sons and daughters must cease not increase the birth of peace found in the ground of men’s eyes focus on the bomb filled skies you must say all life is mine thus divine and still the last past blow of a second ago though our name be not the same know that as a rose in time drops its petal as the trees be of one breath with the air as the then men of the now how place their grace above the longing lasting love and the

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ghostly pain of disdain as the earth worm secretly wild in the earth as the fresh flesh flush with the breath of life as the lighting rod of God confessing to the night as the stress that trod the height as the host that boast of grace in the place of the pulpit and pews as the hands set asunder in the splendor wonder of thunder’s erotic rioted roar as this bless felt dealt to deliver the spring melt river that miss the shore I say to you all is not lost as the moon paint a face in the river as the sun is son of another as the sweat that rain hard down the face its salty flood drip a running pace under the heated breath of the sun and none comes to sheathe the warmth of the worst that burst sweet first storm of the tongue where men’s form is wrung out to dry on the antiquated cloth line of doing time in the wind driven air of a busy spring that sing in the still skill of growth all is not lost some flame their fair faint fame in the same dutiful dusty air of an old bleeding blessing delivered to the flowers with their wanting blasphemy beauty drowned in a sea of warm and cool colors that sweep their keep behind our eyes flowers can be unkind dark as a rock that knock its ride in a land slide the serrated seriated secret knowledge of flowers is kept in their color in the sweet omnipotent odor of their hours longing to entice their bereft life that soon die away to the fruit or seed head of new birth the flower under foot still smell as sweet their bruised brazed strength is radishes by bees buzzing the bountiful bloom bleeding and blistered blind and bloated with sweet odor of the kickshaw kind of kinfolk kissing the narcissism of a narcotic nascent knocking neural nerve words that need the strength of a seed broken beside the staggering stagnant water never absent of life the stagnant balance of breath’s unbending dreams mutilated by the contour of a scream that would if it could sing the fugitive violent insolent splatter of the spasmodic thought blown into the antique visible rhythms enchanted by the free giving breath of trees an ancient

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thing hail to all that breathe your breath is a blesses thing tied to the trees the glamorous give and talented take of nature forever inventing herself anew in the growth of a blade of grass in the urgency of falling rain in the immortal eye of the sun in the dead skin of the moon in the moving shadow of a tomb where the birds rest at noon in the wind tired from its blowing in the whale’s belly full of plankton and squids in the forbidden fornication of man to man love in the season of the sea in the common command anger of the Gods flank by the volcanic apparition of the surreal in the anarchistic disaster of a hurricane extinguished by the catastrophe aesthetics alphabet of stones thrown by the throat into the muscular music heard by transcribing ears that hears the passive receptive music playing its lubricating activity strung along the cloth line of a sunny yet windy day Go pass the Biled As Sudan that have lost its forest and lakes each tree plucked by the hands of the Cushite God each lake drunk by the thirty throat of an Nubian God till all that was left was the burning sand God that have forgotten it own numbing name under the burning hired hands of the sun God that look down upon the working of man and care not that all our doing is inferior in the great scope of things being things on earth God of the ever lasting blessing of the sun God of the trees that know thee God of the seas that throw thee Gods of the springing forward of the self-flattery spring the simmering slumber of the sweating summer the falling back raining leaves of fall and white land locked wonder of winter where the Gods goes rejoicing in the horizon’s triumphant shouts of joy the divine offering of the friends festivals of the Gods the coming forth into the inundated land of God coming forth from thy mother belly as a beatified being of Gods God of the regularity of the underworld where the dead

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with their right and truth that judge the entering into the waggishness of our weakness and the going out of our stridency of our strength burning in the lake of double fire where the serpent of mankind swallow its tail to tell that the circle of life has no end birth and death do not suffer the pains of the Gods that rule from the throne of double beauty lean and long they keel the wheel to endure the cares of man that drown them wash them away from the bones of a smart heart left along when the truth of youth brawling in the streets of a storm’s weathering the face of a place in the peace of the heart where in the corner there is a land traveled by the island of flame that burns open a distinguished passage established by the way of souls in our lives we know only all that we know the life long knolled knowledge fettered to our soul in the single-sighted vigorousness of language of a infant in the forgotten speech of tomorrow telling its sudden nostalgic memory found in the blonde pawn shop where the second coming waits upon the gravedigger to deliver the enlargement of their absent worm-eaten premeditations under the distance of the sun is to be found the complacencies of a convulsive monsoon of a triangle tenderness of prostitution accepting the coins of silence as payment for service given he disrobe with all the fragile beauty of the architect of an organic orchestration of an orchid he disrobe and violent silence flows from the sensitive intimacy of the blazing motion of his hands for the price paid he is a giving man his sensitive breast harnessed the air where the blood of the sunset rusting to the sea is stalled by the imprint of a river running alone side the self doubt of a virginal sleep that weep the catastrophic sabotage of the judgment of the wind the stone of his heart is alive with the bark of his legs and the moon of his eyes the river of his tongue the roots of his veins the blossom of his spermatic plexus the seeds of his sperms woo him again and again and again for a good

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time call 555-5555 he is alive within his promontory rolling into the strangler sea muzzled by its needs to be free in the hundred years of contemplating the weight of its bouncy when he weep cup your hands shut to contain the wreckage of his tears drink sea-deep the nakedness notice of the salty flagrant of the harmonies from his eyes then shall you spy the wisdom of the immense far away sky where life unknown knows of its own are we alone are we the highest life that nature can muster in all the bounties of existent poets scientists and priests the trinity must gather together to answer the indicative question of an emphatic excitement that hints at a pseudophilosophical value of the pious modernity of knowing are we made in the metaphorical image of a rhetorical idea are we singular in our knowledge of the Gods are we plural apart of the paradoxical question of what accomplished life means to be the poet pose these question to be answered throughout the vivid ages that shall come to break the authoritative holy structurally scripture into the pleasure prejudices of an exceptional critical effort of the fragmented garrulous slippery slop of myth making

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Go you pass the magellanic cloud of a cloudy eye sky Focused over the phytoplankton life purloined and shackled in the sea’s season of the castigating acclamation that reckons my mounding members hidden by the avenger with his vigorous breath coming forth from the fainéant figment flam of the ancestors cries of dilated joy homage to thee my heart homage to thee Gods of the unconquered water of the wide open sky homage to thee God of my mother all will not wear you in their heart homage splendid name consumed and inundated twice by

the charm that sit among the divine chiefs concerning coming forth by day after death the grey hair care of the washing air be you brave to save the earth with its heartbroke bone of howling brawling swirling storms crucified by the daughter of the water and the fire’s glance that rest in the quickly thickly breath of the death of the rains combating the cheering appearing desires hearing its name echo in the rarefied refrain be one beyond your dug hugged name of the self-same game played by the odd God of a hasty heart torn apart by the mind’s faster desire to be master let your right eye see the why of a hidden night outright done in by the stain brain of the harvest heart at ease on the seas these tides on the side of the motion that outride the ark that glides and abides by the memory of water in finding its way back to the sea where the door of haven-heaven is a reward that no priest of the east can guaranty no western myth maker of the TV commercial dabbling in the psychoanalytic vulgate of western civilization of the cityscape of escapism the TV is the machine in the heart of your house it is the provider of the new myth makers that seeks to control the purse strings of your soul know that you shall pay dearly the physiological gold mined from deep within the phosphorescent of your momentary meandering soul know that the domino effect of man made wars shall fall one after the other when the Gods shall come to stand side by side and make you decide which way at the spiritual crossroad of belief that you shall go when the creations demand of the creators they become no better then demons dominating the landscape of the waken and forsaken motion of knowing which God out of the many that people the mind of men which will curse at their worse which will praise in a haze of knowing you the best and let your soul rest in the rarefied smoke that softly stroke your ego where the ruinous shrine of the mind of men contain the answers that acts as a key to the gates of

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heaven of the one Son who keep company with the preborn angels that remember the great war that deplore it and he who bored it and was sent with thunder down under the heaven of the victories angels they are opportunists they feast on the goodness of man in war they starve and now there is a famine in heaven a famine of the star-eyed feather winged unfed the angels nest their heads within the thin sympathizing Godhood of the motherhood of the blessed mother Mary hail mother full of grace how does your garden of souls grow was your son asexual did he have a flamboyant soul bent on knowing the wish of his God in his desert journeying alone in faith to find himself and know the way that he was predetermine to go as in days of old the rebel is sentenced to death when found out by the rulers of the society that wish to dismiss them to relegate them to the adulterous fringes of a rare miracle Go pass the lost red rain the lost blue the lost yellow the lost green blood of leaves twisting in the hand of a city lost wind whining its worry weary way westward through the casual canyon of budding building whose footprints takes up all the land from nature’s gloriously growing its needs to fill up the earnest earth with its own feast of feasibility farewell to the foothills of bricks and manifested stones fare ye well far force forebeared and forefend in the end the land shall win over the desolate destructive nature of men in the end the embryonic enharmonic enunciate end the A flat and G sharp shall be heard in the emergence ear O hear the cries of the wild wilderness hear and hark to the hempen hard heart hasting its heroism heresy in being itself the self of an old mulberry tree that feed the self of a drop of ocean a fish will breathe the self of the air we need the self of the sun that bleed its warmth over land and sea see the one God that you can know one you breath in every day of your

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noble life one in which you are apart part of her art deep within her heart as the birds that dart you can not depart or restart from her she is the all seeing all knowing known Nature of the bird’s songs and sub-terminal worm’s home of the weeping willow weeping its leaves over-hanging a lazy creek running beside a row of cotton woods blowing their snow like seeds in a eastward breeze O my mother nature O my father sun O my brother moon O my sisters stars bless me as one in your breath one in your warmth one under your distant light let me be reborn in the salvation of your arms I as poet plead not to be undone in my champion of you I know the string of your strengths kept by a cluster of memories held in the fast track harvesting itself in the pure winds blended by the sheer storms ragging in the well arranged city of torn tall mulberry dropping its free fruits into the bellies of sparrows feeding on the bragging branches extraordinarily peasant with its raw bounty worshiped by the memory of bully birds beating their beaks on the grayish brown bark covered branches utterly complete in its unattended growth tossing its spoils to stain the concrete a deep reddish purple the landscape of the city is redden by the brick powder blown from houses of St. Louis hugging the river running its distant river-cut through the significance exhaust of cars crossing their way across the Mississippi’s muddy music with its historical meaning of a lie told by the symbolic plane of language’s descript structural where poets have killed the meaning of their poems stabbed them with their breath shot full of shallow yellow holes of a technique question invariably quicken illustration on the formational structured message text gradually drawn out of the poems written in sweat and blood frantic and full of the cannibalistic music of a monsoon soon falling humbly within the delicious vertigo imagined by the arcane force fill of the free odors of trees with their Fall tinted leaves

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falling from the lost green juice of chlorophyll flaming the imagined total encounter touching ancient cavernous unstable muzzle of the wind the long hair wind the beautiful humble vestige better bleat seriousness of the wanting wind the atmosphere flamboyant water of the tender touch of the anchor like wave of the wind the holy incantation of the wind cage quelled felled following wild wandering wind slender tender growing green ball of all the wind confounded grounded peace flock and flower encounter the rock-racked rural river running wind of weed seeds and rain water of growing grace that sway the dapper ear iris the yearning mums beneath the Fall harvest moon the aspens timbering twitching their golden yellow leaves in the finally free wind wind of crayon canyon and cannibal coast biting back the foaming sea wind waves wanting to fill up the needs of the breath bated and bothersome in the chest of open earth the wind is always serious playing it musical scale in the rueful ruffle of trees Go pass the proxeological knowledge of people being people on the good and graceful earth in the good vein by the good fingers feeling in the warm red light of closed lids facing the warm excusatory excursion of a bourgeois need boundless by its bloated blue blunder full of the blood’s blind spot say not that the hot hands of the sun is a curses thing concern with its own burning away the gases of the God’s breath say not that the rot of a corpse is a wasted thing for nature makes no waste of bones and all is born to be consumed in life and death the meat of flesh is a sweet thing on the tongue of the living feasting in the wilderness of the flesh so feed with a gracious heart feed to a full belly’s satiating satisfaction feed in the body’s needs to consumed the concurrence consummation of your concerto grosso heart beat heard deep within the brow beat per minute gradation graphitic

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gravid willing to give birth to the music heard in the circle of the six movement of your largo dreams where the adagio semi-quavers quick questionnaire asking you which way to go to the music hall where your blood plays its gushing sound self-centered self-rhythmic in the cavity of the chest the way path tepid and taunting to tell the talkative teller tell sweeping over the half-light of a deserted path leading to the wilderness of wretchedness where some poets are lost with a heavy heart that illuminate the great fine strip of their filming the tugging hovering crawling from the found light of the moon like a lost insect flying around the light of a lit momentary gasp tugging the ferocious mouth full of the stubborn breaking of a wild winds dropping stones of time beneath the sun’s moon shedding its light on the untrodden path that the poets map to find their way as leaders of the common good of birds and serpent alike to find their way through the collapsed intimacies of a rough history that love the slipstream of a surviving nocturnal disaster dark in its heart conjuring up the forbidden caught persistence of the miraculous wisdom of the lost poets surviving the awakening push toward the common capitalistic executioner banking on the consuming cannibalistic guillotine that chop off the free will of phosphorescent skeletons burning the circle of resentment when the precise moment is born out of the farewell waving of hanging hands praying the primordial tongue of a rutting breath full of new found words whispering into the ears of poets that man have lost his way alone the possible display of the shadows of nursing clouds dropping milk of rocks each drops the size and shape of greyish-white butterflies each rock like drop refusing to break but protect the shadow of your future shattering into rare maternal treasures of narrow liberty found in the belly of your last moon moving in a puddle of stagnant water where grows the germs of life seeking to spread into the

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body of a line of maternal descent the earth is the poets’ mother he live in her bountiful body he nurse at her many breasts she will quite them when they cry out to be heard everything that they can imagine is toward the worship of her she offer you no deceit she seeks not to defeats but to lift your praying eyes that you be not boldly blind and see her for the true thirsty Goddess that she is to teach you that as long as you go thinking it so that you are the singular one among the many minded then none can deceit you to believe it oddly otherwise trust what she reveal to your inner eye spy on the Gods to tell why their have left us alone to do our domestic duty the humanistic way of living our notorious lives where the non physical mind interacting and being act upon carry a rather mercurial meaning that can not reject the material physical body against the yellow stone of worn coins the blowhole of old faithful the memorable meandering of the colorful Colorado nature with her ancient eyes see down the depths of time eyes that writ the beauty of physical rhyme the harmony divine the elegant of the poet’s mind Go pass the evidence of music heard in the mind of the gilled gifted grig that Gods have not forgotten to call upon in times of need as a pay back when the grievous gossip of the angles is sung to the sleeping poets conscious of the authorization dreams drummed into their psychological transformation where the lie of their art die the smart pale hail that forgo the flow of its glow with the bless stress that reconciled the miles to go for the child living within their still fulfill will of being one with words one on the outride water of the ark set sail by the great flood of an angry God feed up with the wickedness of man two by two the clean creature came to be saved from the degage deluge drowning the sins of men does it

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follow then that all living men descend from the family of Noah if so then what more to show that we are brothers and sisters in his six hundredth year did the rain begin for forty days and forty night was the world filled with a watery light did the sea creatures survive the great flood tsunami set off from the sinking of Atlantis I thank you for the enterprise of your remembrance the triumphant instant of a such to see dying of the changeable dawn condemned by the bombs that sleep their awakening scaring of the wind I find myself filled with some knuckles full of pains a reframe of the condemned clarity of shadows blocking the fine tuned you that knows what life is for may the memory of the heart be in your hands where the wind blows cross the skin set to work out the last longing of your wayward motion come you bold into the dreams of my heart that looks over you come with all of your flamboyancies in tack my surprised night waits your arrival with a laughter that secretly know the soft insistence and solemn muzzle of the sheathe red of your batted breath I’m just a Christ looking for an answer a brother of the mother of the earth an oppressed sorrow with emotion in the wind a flower that open in the hour of a ruinous doubting that all will be O K I have been lost in the sniff of a moment of time held in the steeliest fist of a guitar’s anger the Congo and bongo beats of my heart grip the words in my stolen breath and I put a bullet in the chamber of my virginal slaughter in the name of peace it’s the strangest thing that I have ever seen a cease increase that will birth a new seen earth of peace I will be your chrismal criminal when the skies reflects in my eyes and your siege of your master that takes you as a prisoner of the music heard in the wilderness of words O go my beautiful knocking at the door of my gone to far and let us slip away when there is nothing more to say say that the divine is mine the found ground of God passing into the last name of the self same one son of the tree be white

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as the cross-wood of which the cross is made be the flower that bloom from the blood of your self-doubt and know that there is nothing new under the arms of the God that reach for their revolvers to assassinate the day of our disbelief held in a clinched fist that pound the very proud guillotine heavily smelling of the soft and clumsy peace of the heart that put off the waiting of being once like me if I go into hell I will wait for you to follow the steep steps of getting down to the knotty nitty gritty of being burnt to a cinder only to relight in the wisdom of a new born the poets are spies they ride your emotions when you fly the last way to go and in your heart know that they seeks to rest within you and show you the road less traveled they constipate your secretly held business they curse the avail evil that man can do but even God’s children has to die in the small town of their knowing even the cult of Jesus must be reborn by baptisms of the murky water of a Mississippi lake such was I against my young will was I dumped where the cat fishes swarm when do we take control of the responsibility of our souls each a journey along a solitary act to find the skin of the God that we can fit in to be robe enclosed engrossed to know the salvation of the solitary soul why does some only seek the Sunday morning glow of the priest’s religion to know that they are saved from fire and what indeed is this thing called soul and what indeed does it knowingly knows the desires of the flesh and how does it control the spirit that seeks to glow within the trinity of the two-fold that it hold in tow the poets knows which way they should go toward the fulfillment of the spiritual beautiful and the fleshy bold man is three-fold the body the spirit the soul that which is born to hold the formers two in unity the spirit is God giver the body of the earth the soul of them both the governor the whole circle of the yin yang song sung in the wilderness of the wild

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Go pass the primitive poetic ecstasy of the tender putrefying flesh of an soon the be dead language dying on the tongue of an astonish atonement that have putted its trust in poets who break open their mother tongue to know what it means when the sharp edge of tongue lashing words cut the skin of the tongue and words of disuse confused and drunk of their own beauty fall through the faithfulness of their meaning where is found the fertilize ground from which they grow words of long ago golden with grief except their antiquated sleep with an antipodal grace they wait the wanting of new usage on the tender tongue of the young each generation bring to the world of words a new meaning a twist and turn on the old reliable paper for the crisp paper bills dope for the giddy good crib for the home of your heart yo bro poets be pimping in the wilderness of words shorty for children crunk for drunk the crazy way that words work I am tanked on the breath of worldly words swallowed and rebirthed with their many meaning strung on the tip of my tongue I smoke a blunt by the bay sitting in the morning sun I wave deep in the smoke of my watery thoughts swimming in my head of no other here in the methamphetamine state of Missouri in small countries and back woods the labs are set to produce the manufactured high of getting by come fly with me die with me ride the wisdom of being high in the haze of a light buzz be it weed or Colt 45 open your mind to the wonder of your preferred drug make me your poet of the buzz for I embrace the attentive mind of drugs and make no bones about it my breath smells of a roach rich and deep smoked in the midnight hour to inform my dreams I bear no sane shame I hide not my meaning named it is said don’t bogart that joint my friend pass it over to me and I agree when my tears are high on weed when my

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mind fly in the high smoke of a deep breath toke when the warm face of laughter thrust itself forever into the face of violent and the whole sky torn and loudly tatter splatter itself into a wounded scream insolent to tare at the enormous spasmodic triumphant river running through the regal river of machine anaconda and sycamore roots permitted to overflow the banks of an open nightmare henceforth the liquid beauty of destroyed water rush and ride the solemn nocturnal serpent with his public apple of indulgent that if eaten will divide the saints from the sinners the awesome antique passion from the newly born visible voluminous mutilated middle contour of the invented notion of love forever cut into the lingering light of the moon closer then the stars of a damning dream collapsed by the forgotten words that answer the forgotten question of the trade winds deep within the invented time infected by the motion of an intention to do as the moaning flayed and dismembered nocturnal triumphant that rule the rotting roost where pigeons play with the tail wind of their wings where homing birds are seeking for the lost paradise of a far away exclusive heaven fit only for the righteous who believe in the one beloved God of Abraham they shall meet him there once set free from the holding place of souls waiting for the second coming of the holy ghost waiting on pins and needles scented as pines growing on their own accord up the mountain rocks of the Rocky to the krummholz stunted alpine timberline Go pass the slavery of a dictum dithyrambic diamonds polished by the daring darting death of vigorous villagers and the black war of black on black war on the finger of the bullheaded bride that’s the way it goes when war slip away and pretend to sleep in a photograph for seven years is it found guilty of unkindly killing but it was only fighting for its insanity for its murderous monstrous glow

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of feeling holy in war life litmus little leak out till moment memories is all that there is left memories held in the head of others when the bride see only the spirituous sparkle and bright brilliant of facets without a history without a struggler without sweat and bold blood in the darken deep mine where the spark is found once I loss my mindful meaning in a dingy way I beforehand forgot what I was getting at in the saying of something in the mind of my brain stepping out of the game playing without aim wondering through a though tide’s side of all found that fall from the furthermost form of the meaning of the running rhythm of rhymes once there was the tumble down tremor on the future as the red flower subduing the humming bird with its fragile beauty Gods smells like flowers like damp decomposing leaves like rain like human musk cupped between the arms some Gods with dirt between their finger nails are not afraid to dig in the earth some Gods keep their distance from man and wait to store their bounties only on the dead the worshiping is your to choose you have nothing to loose play it safe the brave have chosen to wait to get by without a God pity them not nor raise the rod concern yourself with yourself for yourself know that each alone must meet and make their peace with their maker one man’s God is another man’s demon one man’s demon is another man’s Shiva once encountered both shall burn away the spirit from the body burn away the desires of the flesh that can not enter into the haven of heaven can not be reincarnated the flesh is forever of the earth even in death the domain of nature she alone have use for the breathless body she alone can save with breath feed and fest upon Go pass the sacrificing of human brotherhood for the remission of the sins played out in the segregated heart of a country staggering for a place in the perigee penitent of

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a manifest destiny where an elder Lakota Nakota sits with sweat dropping to the dirt of a reservation where the White Buffalo Calf Woman calls to him nature for sure calls to him with the bat’s death and rebirth on a personal level the horny honesty of the bumblebee the moveable mobility of the caribou the swept swiftness of the cougar the followership folly of the coyote the mighty migration of the crane the personal persistence of the woodpecker the familial fertility of the tadpole the simplicity symbolism of the spider the cursive curiosity of the raccoon the dredging dreaming of the lizard the truly trust of the ladybug the far seeing foresight of the hawk the dreamtime illusion of the dragonfly the pride of the chokeberry eating elk the spiral spirit of a feather the knotty kindness of the dove the transmittable tranquility of the lion the assertiveness of the moose the attention to detail of the mouse all call to him to be one with them I am that I am one in the soup of life a man set not apart a drinker from the same earthen bowl the old Mississippi runs in my mid-life veins for nature provide the sudden discovery of an elegant element of a disaster against the low ceiling that the old have to go half my live is gone and so as all poets should do I keep no secrets from my poems I am done with the tummy turmoil of the souls I fit in my skin in this season of knowing all is well when we understand ourselves understand the irreversibility of speech understand the legality of poems the infinitude of language the theatre of the poem is laid bare each poem mean what you mean in reading it the poem is a conducting conduit in which you bring yourself to its aid without you it is just a pregnant thing waiting to give birth to its meaning slap this child on it bottom that it takes its first breath in your breath here it cry out in your heart poems are not innocence of anything they carry their loaded load to wrap you in the safety of critical force the poem’s ornament its luxury its blazing leisure

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between the unbearable waste of water its nevertheless music passing into the season of the ear it is a deliverer of things it sings the irreducible brocading musing of a mind gone mad and blind to get at the deep emotional longing sometime clumsily dreaming out loud like the wind wandering over a river wind without shadow wind sometime tender as the notion of a slender flower that knows not its own beauty sometimes roundly rough it thrust forward with force foundering flowers and brackish bricks breaking them down to red dust mixing with the wind of your breath it brush its unseen beauty by the innocence smile of a black child wild in the maze of the city in the wind driven dust proud of displacing the dry earth the smile of the wind can open the heart’s vault of a liar as it greet a God of wind blissful back blowing against my black blear my beam a God to glorify all the while meaning to meet on the early morning deserted street where the wind greet the sun cup your hands full of wind as if to pray that it will blow all your troubles away listen to it shake the leaves of trees as if it is a choir singing alleluias of please please please see it pushing trash alone the hunch back of the street as if it is an animal fleeing from you feel it caress your face as if it is a long lost lover recently rediscover from the tug of a jazz scented wind lost in the canyons of the city where the tall building spit the wind into an updraft fit for eagles to soar some broken wind whining down low to ruffle the flower heads of four o clocks blooming in the night the wind dost appeal to feel the strong long arms of the sun these knees of trees on their own success the bold hold by roots conceived the wind strain vein of leaves the heart’s forsook that look the rung tongue of Fall flame flung grieving for the wind leaving the older colder wind that can not lie can not sigh will not answer the question why so we who guessed to express what is this life that we have been given to long to know a God who will except

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and leave us all our wickedness forgiven forgive the brown down foam on the ocean of our earth the bound home frowning on the drowning in the waste that we make on the earth Go where science is the handy work of man where religion is the handy work of man where Gods are the handy work of man where the hidden divinity is the work of an unknowable God who must remain hidden for the sanity of us all under the sun under the clouds under the rain that runs its drops in stream down the cub of our disbelief in the scientific blessing badly nakedly needed badly bold beaten into our skin when we skittle across the random razor’s raised razzed edge like panting on the edge of a prison where is kept the known named storms ornature in their style and missions like charismatic leaders leading the poor poets pass the inquiry of their ultimate profundity true and timeless held taut tied to the throne antiqued in its oddity but I have seen bold polished political prophets poets penning their Ps and Qs quietly and quick in quality squirreling over the quantity of the quarry sometimes quarrelsome in mining I have seen them drowned in words that sued their souls for the misused of meaning seen them guilty of castrating the contour of the cerebral cortex in the season of breathing seen them adoring the efforts of the adolescent’s muscular memories when something funny was going on in the dressing room of the church of the body seen them offering you a sweet surrender sawed to the tail end of the wind they use to hold back from the tilde to tie you down with the rigid form’s function but now you are as hard and holy as water and only the truth of the rhythmic breath can catch you up and set the winds of your sails in motion I have seen them relearning you reloading their words once then now they are men never removed from the sway of the sea of words they know enough as not to

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confess to the Gods willing to keep their secrets when all should be told in an open handed offer given freely to the soul O air O mother air O air that share O everywhere O robe that cover the globe O infinity old as earth’s infancy O spent element of the universal flux O praise the way the Gods work O sleep in the breast of a midnight rest O black race of grace O understood motherhood O blood in the veins that flood O motion still of my will O now how the marvelous air O born morn full of air O death of the breath O air that make me slake and shake O old that my mouth mold O him that make dim the mind light of my sight that blind O wondrous dear of my mother atmosphere O air there full of prayers O voluminous womb and tomb hollow hung soon the noon’s selves of the self the bleak wind in air the care to breathe the white and the black of me O mortal beauty that reckon and reek and rack a pack the wrinkle slack of my old black skin O dangerous dancing blood flung into the form of the warmth of a recently fired gun bless him that die in war who pay the price with his life the pain delivered into a mother’s arms O make believe the artist’s art smart to wear the spirit’s heart the artist’s war dangerous at its core these solders of the soul frail clay mounded by an unknown God of tarnished gold O O O when the deed is done down by the when it is far flung by the wind fall of a senseless war that calls to our sons O wind that cools the wet flesh wet with youth’s blood spilt by the roadside of a boasted bomb booming till we cry no more O no more our weary eyes where forth the Christ the angels that spy where forth the divinity seen in an eye of the question why war of flesh does soon denied its self a feast that none decry why why why poets question why that youth must die O air you have seen it all the wars that man can not forestall the glory of them that fall fighting for a pretentious cause wearing the flag on their selves they take the fall and all for what what reasons why that

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solders must die how do you justify the limbs loss lately the legless man lamed to his wheel chair no more this muscular madness of man disrespect for life O sin of Ganymede the body knows the love of Jonathan and David is formally formed by the wooing of the flesh of a lonely cleric that for the love of his God must denied the youth that bear his cup full of passion when men love men they will not war but woo the warriors wantonly want only as a hunting eagle that swooped down on its diclinous declivous ludus played out in the streets of our modern day mobbed and molested by Saint Louis’ hateful notion and motion of the jewelry Jews damning and denying them the comfort company of the fitful faithful as the fiery faithful deny non-procreative intercourse in their barely reasonable blind belief in clerical celibacy wicked wacky men rule the flesh of the church of a God that reject the pleasure of men to men love that fear the hounds of the Lord holy men hypocritical in their ignorant of the flesh’s demand for some other flesh to keep kindly kinship with in defiance of the inquisitorial accusation of harsh disputant static of holy statutes issued by the homosexual sweetness of love equal in loveliness to the fair Helen that age shall come to accuse accuse both woman and man with the mature love that have come to speak its name from Reading Gaol and the boxing father shall go down to defend the honor of his wayward son and the long hair poet Oscar Wilde who stained the sheets of the wild child shall have his trials in the bars and night clubs of the sexual dance that dart in and out between the musical bar-beat-banging against the sweaty flesh drunk on the shirtless dance that eagerly entice us to come O lovely boy of womanly bones fair of skin within the sins of the church you shall be redeemed in the hast of the honest last coming of the official affairs of the heart where the addiction of the flesh is writ on the skin of the half clad Christ on the cross alone after he

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kept the company of 12 men did they say live not as fools and simulacra between the two eternities of birth and death be one with your realities and the world will save and served you it will stew you into the stock of the soup of life let your God stir the pot till your life is well done to feed the earth with your bones and the angels with your spiritual soul O essential sin the proper pardon is rend by the sum of your offence toward the government of the public Gods that you can petition for the kingdom to come before the Gods hold their peace in the infinite heaven’s shade of privacy the futility and sorrowful mockery of the battle-voices of dead idols wandering in the wild uncultivated places of stones and trees the Idols are a terror and a wonder to themselves they hold it their eyes the divinity of the supreme power their wild souls full of noble ardors and a force of movement toward an universal admiration of the surpassing beauty of human in their right minds palpable to the echo of history with its deepest deep of the baby beauty bathed in the knowable knowledge knocking a notice of the insincere and offensives of the highest praise given by the flesh’s rhythmic essence of passion for the architectural symmetry of a polished place parked along the physiognomical point of a brief truth buried in the square sarcophagus made of faith to be open on the day of judgment when purgatory and paradise find their truth of purpose when Hell and Heaven close their doors to new souls to the sublimo and sublimest embodiment of the visible mechanism of the musical harmony of the God Nature that thousand fold beauty of divineness fit to be worshiped fit for begging for its blessing fit for the poet’s song sung long by these spiritual prophets of the understood word of the knowable Heaven of earth the holy dirt and all creatures in their daily labor earth’s visible force strong and along strong worthy of worship as the visible God of our daily lives why O why must

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man think else-wise why not a God along side our side breath her in feel her winds on your skin know that all creatures are kindest kin she is God without and within she gives the breath of life she is the knowable God before your sight Christ was crucified on the wood of her making Mohamed sat in her shade Confucius learned her ways she is the halves of Tiamat the master she is Mut my monstrous mother maker of Mallard and Meadowlark Merganser and Merlin she is Goddess and God feminine and masculine and the burring of such lines and somewhere we exist along her rhyme within her time told divine working of her all knowing mind all living thing are her thoughts manifested into life let us once again worship her light light of day lights of night Go my knowing one to the searchable heart concern with the lamp bleeding its light into the mouth of an opening in the wind where words are wishing in whispers for a breath to breathe them into the enzyme of existence they wish to be heard in the breath bred byword of the said in its sadly sissified seditious seduction taking the standard stance of a human emotion the boy born to love the boy born to love does not streak a stray from the norm but is as one with the swoop straight swoosh sword that swing through the sexual knowing bi by the way holds its owing own in the sexual range of man my love be for you all for all your sexual fruits are sweet on the poet’s tongue take our arms of poems wide open as a mirror all reflected as each drops of rain contain the world upside down in its falling let loose your armor of sexual knowledge go bear back into the bump of a hump go succulent and plumb prickly and abrupt sweaty with desires let loose from the skin slip within the holes of another’s body bold and ride the pony home your sweet musk be our guide the individuality of your sense is divine do not be afraid to

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smell as if your are one with the world as if you are an animal for all that man is we can not escape the fact that we are raw meat penetrate this knowledge with your tongue let it run down the curve of your cheeks as cum the seeds of your body that will birth in the ready belly a girl or boy let the orgasmic salty heat seeks from your pores wrap me in the hard-on muscles of your arms in sex we loose the boundaries of ourselves we become one of the two that engage easily shedding our clothing for the rewarding of the skin O be my wondrous sensual woman I drink you in be my man’s man keep me on the end of your tell- tell tongue let us in this dialogue be as one under the shadow of Shamash where our begging humility burns to be understood in the time space of the divine order of life beside the divine chaos of light under the unsolvable Babel of confusion of the God-man partnership found in the anarchic darkness of a catastrophe collapse of the lost continent of Atlantes the paleontology of our consciousness is found in the fossils of our blood where the Gods go learning the working of man’s emotions and the natural selection of the strongest over the weakest makes it impossible to calculate the God-side of our ancient mentality for we are as strong as our weakest link as weak as our strongest God with their association of rhythmical common sense the linguistic instance is the spontaneous possession of the poet’s soul with its utterances in the meter of the breath poetry is the language of the Gods it is their song in the glissandos of their speech that linger long lasting pass the singing of praise but now-a-days the Gods are skeptical in their anger of the poet’s wares as if we are in the last days of our texture knowledge or the poets have forgotten their timbre duty to concern themselves with the right harmony of truth of imagining that they can sing long and loud the God’s harmony introspectively of the tempo wisdom that the Gods share with them where once the Gods was

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jealous of the melody side of the unlucky accident of the mind now they keep their instrumental shame tight in the brain when it comes to Gods poems are like worms caught in the beak of a red breasted Robin ready to feed its children so you poets of the divine music birth your poems of nutriments to feed the minds and souls of men music yourself sue yourself spread yourself into the musical accompaniment of words sing your hemispheric excitation into your prophetic posing trance that possess you be one with the goodly Gods one with man the same skin of skin sometime we loose our ability to sing the discontinuities of pitch that ring the round about midnight songs of our hardy heart sometime we set ourselves apart and fall under the spell of the man made hell where we come to tell the confess tongue soft sift that drift the God’s gift of a heart beat’s rift that yet sweat from our pens of the last endured day gone from the day’s shone away the brave blow that saved the rabble babble rolled the cold wreck of a heart-broke the missing words lateralization the music of the greatest activity of the brave blow to and fro the smart bones all alone that keep its own truth of the heart in the start youth of humanness Christ’s sacrificed came with a price to be paid by all that live after you and I must bear the weight of the cross with the body in tack let our souls not lack the grace of a pay day’s joy the anticipation to come when the work is done this is the price paid to enter into the heaven of your father if your God be not among the canon of the Christian’s heaven if your God live within you then be true to the blood that runs within your veins my God be one and the self same of the nutriment of Nature She is all knowing all embowering the breath of my breath the skin of my skin is within her knowing the sins of my sins committed when I pollute her I pollute myself the very breath of the sharing air the earth that bear the bearfooted going of my gone in the early morn wet with dew

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the true mother of all the Gods even the odd all that man can concede is under the wings of her being even Christ was force to breathe her in no life escape her knowing no tree or bird or lowly flee escape her needs to be seen even the glorious sun burns in the palm of her hand but as a poet I am a man that speak for all the Gods of the land mine is no more righteous as your and I give praise to the substantial God that sustain you that wean you clean you of your human sins be not afraid to ask forgiveness with the hearty heart not the calculated head for it can deceive even itself for its own protection the lies the mind choose to believe are beloved by the body of blood that bleed boldly by the obedience to hallucinated voices heard throughout the cyclic history of the spiritual gyres of our weeping for the handful of the lesser importance of what we choose to except as truth the metaphors of the minds rules the hypnotic man crying stop the pain of the original sin that explain the curious healing of a terrifying illness of the brain where the biochemistry of stress address the biological advantage of the world’s question is there a God the answer is in the genes involved in the enzyme deficiency of the schizophrenia of prophets in the fatigue knowledge of the self-reflective man in the sensory perception of alpha waves of being one in the one-ness of the world the answer is found in the private drama of dreams that drain the overloaded consciousness of our waken day the answer is found in the far away fleeing of He-who-is toward which we pray all the prayers ever prayed can not come back to save they are as smoke in which the angels bathe but man is of a double brain soaked in the blood of the veins blesses be the prophecy of the insane that worship the secret image seen in rain the search for God is a human game that children and mad men play to gain the upper hand of the knowable same self of I-am-who-I-am

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Part X11

Poet of the lazy hazy jazz symphonic glass ear that hears the humble hubble bubble blister blithesome words breaking the woody wood wind woozy woof wool of the word mongering mouth I am such a man before men that plays the placid plain and planned plasticity I can with my wordy workmanship to wake the words man under the fire of an open mouth that the God of rain put out the flame of your intercourse is the food of libation the smoke of your breath the cinder of your tongue all an offering from the Gods poet within the integrant plan of nature a plan without fault by the blind eyes of a new born in the small hour of war an Iraq poet birthing the water of a tear poet of the gigantic embittered innate inferiority of the music of red in the troubled anger of blue the sky is weeping weeping wondrous wild wideanger wiggles the way of the cross where the weasel word’s is a workable weather worm-like in its world power where the air that wrap us share its song with the clear new water though the eye of a needle where yesterday’s breeze seize the home grown brown foam down by the fern that burn to be understood the decrease deceased shadows are running away from the brownness of a mountain pass with its audience of rocks aspens and ponderosa pines the introduction of the wind is welcomed by the sound track of lips and the dancer’s fingers point to the dramatic discovery of an illumination of motion over whelming with its willingness to generalize the determined innocence of a new midnight held in the

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darkness of daylight without its sunlight I fill in my emotion with alcohol with Colt 45 with the joint with the defense of a smile I acknowledge the extreme importance of force and form of the size of a brilliant thumb pressed to the immortal aggregate of the creator of organs the air is alive with the dreamt logics of a flower that bore the deplore ear of stone alone in the wilderness of a thought the wooded fold of mountain bold in the tiptoe hold of a wild rose that blast the born fast bloom castled to the next text written on the steep and deep will that is still bearing down on the brother who is my lover in the life the mentioned intimate of the anthropomorphic figurines Jesus the question is could he read and write the syllable of pleasure did he smell his own musk in his desert walk where he relied neither on the eyes or ears as a measurer of his decoratively blazing fire of an ocean of mountain did he have bad breath these questions ask is no disrespect to get to the humanness of the man of peace and grace man can not but to nick pick at the ten commandments to commit the fine enjoyable utterance that touch the evil found in the breath of the evil chant of the word nigger nigger nigger heard in the mulatto prominence of Denver where the Hispanic and black and white mix are fighting to be seen of one race multiracial race is the race of the new Americus they are the inherence Poets yellow is yelling in the ensemble of tulips Where the deserted butterfly is scarred over by the sweet scent of stonecrop at the foot of yarrows beside the low edge of a breeze telling time with its breath of worms squirming beneath the fat curse at its worst Poet the precursor of poems poet of the play-possessed child of pious words poets pondering the preposition of a prepubescent prepossession around the thoughts of the

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Gods you are the prophets of the common good and should take your place among the talk of the streets to teach man the deepest doing tell all of your secrets that all be known lay yourself bare to the emotional bone rife history in your needs to connect with the soul of your readers far and few in this time of movement toward the rhyme of rap each generation its poets anew each few born to it who shall buy the shadows of your soul shucked one by one spark by spark of its spatial needs teach that man need not live in the hell of his own making speak incessantly against the crippling forces of a blind agony’s iron laws in a society grown fat and lazy and heavy of the back of men treated as pack horses to carry the burden of the few in the cities where the ungifted poor common man die in despair and debt and find joy in the promise of a heaven that can never be proved these unperceptive naturalistic victims of religions dependent upon the tragic feeling Poet of the sharp peaks of pervasive words of the swollen word seduce them till they are tamed in your thorny throat entrap by the scenery of your meanings appease the Gods of the common man caught within the sacrificial lunation of the cross poet the guardian of the gate hold your pen to the fire so that when your name is called you will give your all against the misconceive injustice of time time bare no blame go where the water inhabiting water is spilt on the private wishes mismanaged by the broken memories vibrating their beautiful horny innocence like the wind within the storm wanting to fill up every moderated meditated mitigated motion of its whirligig whittling way with words poets mismanaging meanings mapping the perfect drift of fearful lustral thoughts advancing in its own rhythm requiring neither lung nor tongue in the moment of its silent motion you think of you and you exist in the thoughts of the self my

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sister points out an ugly flower how can such a thing be save beauty be filtered through the feel of the self same self yet each thing its self an individual that preclude ugliness the individuality is its beauty such are men among men the chain-gang swamp of meaning surrender its consciousness to the nocturnal beauty of an abrupt remorse that travel the midnight geometry of the human temples unlimited in the brotherhood mimicking the gigantic timelessness of water who sacrifice the water for the peace who have forgotten the storms of fresh water with its lyrical bulge busted open upon the earth when will the wind full of rain wave its way dry again in the sunlit clearing of a clean day Poet with your inner subjective consciousness manifesting the unbearable unthinkable cessation phenomena of the revisionist’s emotional melancholy’s imitation do not forget the substance of passion held in the self-reliance engross dualism in its solitude of splendor caught in the pen of an inquisitor’s terrific hands the unpardonable tongue of street lights with their vapors eyelids opening on the point of dusk with its transparency of darkness coming on strong against the desolation of a nocturnal yellow immensely full of the effort of a dying sun when dawn come go into the immortal streets where man hear the dark sacrifice of a fortnight bright with liberation completely wild the wayward child of an over worn war at the gates of the estates of the sun there we wait only for you to ascend and spend your bright words to shine your light on the rare air held at the end of a lost wind in the mind make amend as if all of mankind is your kin or friend gather together the emotional weather of men’s mind then lurch forward with pen in hand to stitch together the wound that the city inflect on the knowable soul with its waste bound around in the place of the confounded gloom held in the tomb of the flesh the

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staunch soul waits with its collapsing fantastic gift of wisdom to be spoken of betwixt the fixed end of a dream and what daylight have seen Poet we love you with your comfortable sorrow devouring the sorrow of all men with your lonely love huddle in your hands you are the sin eater the woes of the world falls upon you and you bare the weight of it with grace you run the race hung around the neck of mankind the steep and deep race round a sleep that can not tell the end place of this mountain of emotion that we must climb with the heavy chains of our flesh aiming to keep us down your easy words are the stepping stones you know the worse and best of us in you there is relief from grief the cheap that creep upon the small all encumbering whirlwind of passing time you are the witness of your very own speak the lament that weep words that obey those who pray the tormenting comfortless thirst of the world advise us spy for us go into the enemies’ camp where man will do man harm go into the hurtful hunger of war and report all of our doing bring it all to light with your bright strength toward the truth of your peloria pen be you pensive and pious let your poems be eptomic pentomic giving penance with all of its pendulousness piled high against the musical notations of the forest where you go around and around in the wilderness in search of the last knowledge of the human soul lost in the bricked over sky Poet of the homeless for ever looking down poet of love poet of sorrow poet of the Gods you are their handmaids poet you are police politician of words philander philosopher of words prophet preamble preacher walking before your people these are your fates which you can not escape born or made take them to heart and in the heat stand your argufy argument stand your gabber gabble

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gaga giving light to tough recalcitrant thoughts singing far beyond the myself of the I with its beautiful wounds earned in the battle fought beside the outpour of companion’s Gods maneuvering around the gifted soul for our plutonian faith birth your poems painfully play your way plying deep into the pit of your poetic rendezvous round-about the howls of the Gods to gather our greater gifts giving it in the end poet of the absolute chemical of the brain of the smoke of myself where the hidden murdered of the angels take place above the sore floor of the made and laid overspread shade of the forth earth with its blood and wood food for the winged things stored in the cracks where life seeks a foothold bold to squeeze into the hands of a mother that takes her name off the birth certificate of the abandoned children of the punishment beneath the weary knees on thoughts that have forgotten what was sought in the impeached special falsified pleasured try of the unknown why I spy the last naked lie that poets tell in their rhetoric bullshit voyages resounding off the poems of the treason of ancestral illumination trembling with the ripen electricity that beneficent the extremities of the fatigued eyes the tamed eyes the deafness of eyes reincarnated under the decked efforts that breaks its opaque captivated feminine water aroused by the growth of the motion of emotions enclosed flinch that makes the heart beat its unique intimate fragrant pumping up from the depth on our visions that rise to offend the loss cause of a crowded sky where the clouds built in the hour stand by to shower when its intent is spent the cold blow glow of water when the ground around the air there is heard by the rings of the wings of birds that sing the mention of the approve love of stones for stones in the light grey light of approaching night in the dark remark of sight the divine lust of night is bright and it raised to the passing skies’ replies when the earth birth its own rehearsed imagining

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chaotic of falling into and out of order the sun have run its light in a changing mood the watching chastening of the wind is done the heart that start near the fear of a tear that breaks down the cheek is aware of the lost cost to be paid by the slow woes that we ware in the trinity of our soul O troubadour of the modern age where forth in your wandering why are you selected secretly sedentary steep in the self-humbling security blanket of the university go you bold blooded into the seductive sedulous streets where your people wait wanting to laugh and weep where Pushkin pushing pounds of poem in Williams Carlo Williams’ red wheel barrow along the streets of St. Petersburg where he yield his way to the young knowing in his heart that the children shall play about his ashes when the children come O go you boisterous rhinoceros rhyme royal rhythmic rescript of the immoral image you who imbibe the working of the soul you who have lost you innocent by intercourse with the angles you who confess all even the ambition itch of the systematic preciousness of words you stretch the bounteous boundary of a bountiful body in a world of conformity say to your peoples look to me I am the light I am the way I am the equal episodic play of elevated elongation efflorescence emotion unfolding to bloom on the electroluminescence egotism of your tongue I am the objective ossifrage breaking on the osculum of your breath say what is heard on the mysterious mystagogue of the streets you are the tears of the moon you are the sweat of the sun speak your peace hold not your tongue take on all that may come be one body in the earth be one mind beneath the breath of the moon be the eyes of the singular sun your hair in the head of the trees your semen swim in the muddy mire mirage of the age of the Nile with a moaning molded mouthful of stones and the flesh

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of your hands torn by the pen with the teeth of your heart that arouses the last of your maddening mindfulness held tight for telling be one with the birth of your poems for as long as it takes let the children come to play and be fed at your breast like the twin of Rome nurse them into leaving home to go among the radiating gesture of the public and belong on the tongue of the streets where there is no accidental birth of poems you are the wanting one the one whishing for the measured willfulness of man be not like the industrialized live stock of modern man packed in their pen such is the comfort conformity of contemporary man hemmed in and hog tied to forestall their wild side placated by the TV light glowing like an old flame to sell us the latest things aiming to make our lives bearable in the need to be one in an age of the resurrection Holy Queen Mother banished by the blessed fruit of the worthy promises O clement O loving O sweet Virgin Mother look down upon your children exiled from the history of evil prayers of the TV that pray for us in the tribe language of selling Christmas in October hail mother mistress to angels the gate of morn is a light born grant may I praise the strength of poets their enemies slaved by the pen I wait their resurrection from the frailty of the streets Mother Mary pray for me that I may see the House Finch singing from the highest branch of an old fruitless Mulberry tree that I may resist the commercialization selling of the birth of your son well born that the poet may be the first to come to the battle for the soul of man O poets with the blood of your pen go into the temples to win Gods as guests into your hearts give words to the temptation of your sins their implements within acknowledge the guilt of the Gods’ hands I summon thee to pretend to pretend that yous are the warriors of the Gods posed to defend with attentive ears let not the worth-full fruit be rotting on the tree of self knowledge pick them for everyone to eat feed the needy soul that

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hunger hung to know itself my thoughts be with you on your innocent journey to uncover the oppressors clothed in their shameful deeds of gluttony in the fat society of empty bellies betray the treachery and lying lords of the state you command our reverence your poems are our heirlooms writ in words of wisdom woven from the stuff of the common livelihood of being one in a world of many let your divine art speak freely speak richly of the poor shouldering the society of hand to mouth feeding reach beneath their outward appearances reach into the meat of their matter we call you to holy battle for the wisdom of being human the heavy burden is on your shoulders by the practice of your pen are you call to defend plant your discontent that any righteous man should be oppressed by the lack of funds robbed of the working of his soul to know for true wisdom lives in us all the law gives the law take away the wisdom of the Gods must come into play O poet of the lost wisdom of being one in the world teach us not to tell-tell taunt nature but how to be the food of the Gods let them eat us whole fill their bellies fat with our faith and folly we wait your cunning coming your conniving comfort causing a conductance meditation on the stained sins till its pure and cleansed by your scholar scriptural satisfied ear that hears the fifth oblation of knowing the knowledge of the self under the air under the air is the satisfied eating under the Rain-God’s glory gracious in the quality of its water running the ink of a finished poem dark purple from the black down the page tears from the inner emotions imbed in the illuminates of everything Poet you are the man in manifestation you are the infatuated gestations of wants you are the thunderclap

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that roar the thunderbolt that enlighten the animals in men’s clothing know that your flesh is but a cloak that you wear that the higher order is within your grasp that the body clock is subject to body time that your life is a rhyme that you are the harvester of the secret truculent truth truncated by the trumpet howling of a wolf caged at the zoo you are not new in the old art of your craft that crave to be understood by the alienating world you with your underground pen that protest the possibility of wrongs done in the name of the great new order colder then the old you are man’s brother sister of the righteous cause to shine your light on the secure emotional working of the world mouth piece of nature alienated sufferers of the Gods the cost of your quest will leave you crucified on the tree of life such is the price for which you must fight for the knowledge that you invite to enter into your pen friend and sometime foe of men fight against the enforced conformity with every cell of your skin ask who am I feel forced to define as you know yourself you know other you see by a difficult light the true right of a murderous moon lit night eaten by the spoon of danger be you my fearless other brother as is priest cousin of the cause that witness to all that seeks to destroy your eccentricities the fertility of your independent individuality as you seeks to aid man in his quest most will annoy you at best raise above their disrespect they know not what they do sue your soul glue your poem to the bill board at bus stops write them in snow your operation is to let the people know shy not from the cause that call to be the mouth piece of all Poet teach as you teach that all living things are divine and know it in your bones go along for the sake of going explore the unknown travel the untrodden troubled path your poems are lights that illuminate the working of the of the old human soul draw into yourself all that there is

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to know take on the questions that blows through the streets and make them your own through all the year’s leaves and tears that beam down the brown dreams found beyond all the youth of truth that are the landmark star of their own life bloom from the womb of your hand the unseen noise of girls and boys out about the world in their motion of play with zest in their breast of youthful joy wild in the art of being young the art part of smart of the wrought thought obey the free play of the choice voice that make and take the wide side of joy sacrifice yourself to the knowing of the people be their valentine valid vital voice show them the chubby choice of the world furled into itself its self centered desire its sweep deep hurled into the steep mountains be one with the less distress success of the peoples forgetfulness be the mythological trickster attack the common conventions that keeps us down around the bottom boredom of the every day worry worship of being alive in the law-abiding urban canyons of civilized structures where man’s free instant instincts are represent repressed become a holy fools for your God’s sake against the mundane social society that control us owe us mold us in its cold concrete embrace bodies fast forward forth take note of the agonizing chaos of your society that we have come to far to escape wait upon the lowest man’s needs to know that his life in the crowed city is not all for not let your poems glow as they blow across the ears of the words scented years be one with your pen as if it’s a sword in battle more intimate then the gun get up close and personal with friend and foe seek you to protect the protesting rebel’s sensibility and ability slay the beast of conformity that greedily eat the romance of the common man suffer you not the self mockery self doubt of the hero as victim vital is your quest for self in the concrete forest of metal and reflective glass giving the new light redeem your ego in a Godless universe with its holy indifference for the intellect of man

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half fool half visionary seek to reconstruct the society that for lack of change and the relentless dependencies of the procurement of money bruise and brand the soul with the dull ordinary and the conventional mood you bare the burden imposed by you habit of the pen of being the redeemer of the ordinary man in the loneliness and suffering you will be made the scapegoat for the myth making goal set before you go exceeding the limits of the self toward the mythic salvation of a revolutionary vision go to depict the new reality that call to you from the breath of the muses set yourself free from the chains of the order of the state and sing the revolutionary act that can but save the civil society of man from the drudgery that beseeches him be you made in the image of the Gods and go God like throughout the land where a cultural crisis rules the day seek out the maladjustment that cloth you worship the neurotic judgment of your patois pious protagonist heart necessary to combat the mass society of mass culture of the TV sedating the vision of selfhood do battle with the heroes of financial action that will stall and steal steer us into increasing their wealth transcend the conflict between yourself and society to transform them both into a new worthy vision love the world in spite of its hatred and indifference toward you do not let them drive you to the slicing sideline of literal life in the sum of the skin turn the mounded material of life into the stiff stuff of your art at the service of the common normality of man Poet of the moment’s momentous monotonous moaning your cries shall not go unheard in the undulating renaissance national streets of the state that lead you to chaos and disorder lead you to the brain-washing order to do the bidding of a state that seeks to control all under the applied appendages of its hands make your allegiance to

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the citizens to the lowest of the low to the common man with his woeful woes in the materialistic matrix that flow know that you are in danger of always being alone and in that is your strength your vision rooted in your alienation as trickster of the mental of the physical of the spiritual dare to assail the citadel to remake the outer world in your mindful vision that all be well by man the force of your strength is in words where is heard the romantic criticism toward the stale state wishing to maintain the static status quo of the rich financing the control of the poor let the works of your imagination save you let your cultural alienation make you let your hardy heart place you before the pulpit of the people be a wanderer of the city streets to meet yourself on the beat where beauty is real in all of its dark and damp down dirtiness know that nature is a divine spark of which man is a small part of the holiness of trees the wanting holiness of bees the fair flowers bounties blooming in its season of choosing a time table known and nurtured by nature the sharing shine of the sun with its rhyming of wild wily warmth fight against the common drudgery that chain the souls of men to his machines as once the slave in the sugar mills of South Americus teach them the tenderness and intimidating intimacy of nature as Godhead of all knowable knowledge known be self strong enough to do wrong as seen by the eye of the overbearing state wait not upon some unknown hour to go with your poetic powers to be the street priest of the simplest kindness and trust where the machines rust in the sunlight where men in their criminal fight fall on the battle field that is the modern city young men falling by the gun in the hands of youth who seeks power in their powerless lives their disenfranchisement where the young and strong pray upon the old and weak for goods to put them in the life that they are bred to wed let it be said of you that you have given your all to the cause of the welfare of man

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hold nothing back let nothing lack of your pondering pen let your poems be writ in blood love the unloved do not stand above as some icon of the state wait for the ones who stagger behind leave no man in your waken wake for you are their serpent servants in matter of the head and heart offer the fig of your poetry to all who hunger be at once saint and demon seasoned by the time in your skin let loose your wisdom by the pen again and again till your life-time ends in times of stress on you do man depend to speak of what they keep within a resonation of recognition that all men are kin strike a deadly blow against the commercialization of the soul that the foot solders knows that they are not alone O pieta pieties of poets ponder the death and weep of the lost souls caught to be brought and sold for the stander of gold under valued for the paper price paid they play out their lives in debt from the cradle to the grave this is the way the society expect us to pay for the freedom that we have made commercials’ commercialization is a war waged bombarding us day by day to sell our souls where the poor pay more in a society of things where sickness is a profitable song to sing where credit is the wedding ring poets redeem and recreate the world through your suffering let it be an emotional shield Poet do not give misogynistic misrepresentation and misinformation but be a honest honor student of the life giving force of the wondrous working of the minaret mind and the bodacious body that call us to the prayers of life facing the raising and setting of the sun you are the father of man teach with your rhythmic that runs on the tongue how to be one within the whole of the world speak of mama birth and papa death the two sided coin and all that lies in-between make our lives an easy thing praise and scold the old habit of being human we wait the working of your pen to teach us of the art of being men O

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poet of the encrusted sea of words that can be drowned by their many meanings O poet of the transparency of the wind muzzled by the buildings of downtown O poet of the impetuous delirium fragmented laughter lingering with its liberating language O poet of the visionary voluminous memory of hands O poet of an extraordinary despair that rip and strip us bare be ancient in your age of wisdom be one born to do the common good O poet of the tolerant tonality tone poem of the tongues speak of the dead Gods gone that they live again say of them that all are my friends all belong to the firmly established family of man speak the stranded stainless heard of the essence of the euphuistic euphonic word speak in the irrepressible irregular talking tongues till all is won be an underground outcast heroic you victim of the social forces that live outside of you in the city there is a profound loss of identity that will alienate you maintain your deeply held self be not the helpless protagonist wandering in the dark conflict of the canyon you are the makers of art be not set apart from the message of your heroic heart know that man is a warping warring creature who find faults to wage war by at every tight turn of the hazy head O poet heroic in your resolution you alienated from the culture that will not accept you look you deep into the mystery of life with its revolutionary distortions of an abstract ideology and bureaucratic chains it ideology of metaphysics inequities urging on the radical raucous of racial reform unaware of it own undergoings and doings in the dark conventional region of conventional religion O poet of the sacrificial communion save man from his alienation from nature and a sense of his whole self join you the people’s private morals to their public society and transform the arguments of religious belief to solace of serving the greater good against the corruption of state and church with their inflexible parasitical ideals of the masses meaning

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nothing more then to make their way along the road of life with a full belly and a roof over their head for man’s fate is fixed by church and state woven and stitched into the fabric we make of living in the skin O sometimes sentimentalist sounding your necessary wares for those overwhelmed by the brutality of daily labor and the escapism of the holy solution of the eternal condemnation O poet of the radical honesty that both church and state fear for the raw flesh reeks of the persecution of the masses O poet priest of the new martyrdom of the persecuted homeland of the heart the hero is again an exile by the power of the triviality of the godhead and now I have reach the end I hope that in this day and age that you can comprehend I hope that I have made a song too sing that I have emergently entertained that your time have not been spent in vain the muses with their miraculous muscles have quit the game I no longer call upon their names my words are now scattered like fading shredded grass under the lawn mower’s dazzling requiem of noise in the drunkenness of a collapsed memory naked on the last cinder of a fading dream with its wondrous scenery of the intimate armor suited to the narrow morning breaking though the threshold of the monsoon’s blood that pours and run aground filling up the crevasse of what we dare not wish to know for a time all that is said is said to end with the word word

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