Back by Editorial Demand

re-imagine these flowers as a million stalks of gold,
what all we could do with them then,
see yourself plucking them, holding them,
casting golden light under your chin,

re-imagine these rutted and dirt bland trees as immovable concrete stems,
what a brilliant throne to lay your bones to rest in,
feel the soul of levy washed in lions mane, laugh like Buddha,
outlined in pale blue acid rain,

          sniff along
     perforated edges
                         wax seals
                 knives dipped in ink
letters opened
          before the cut

re-examine your connection to the neighbor next door,
in each window on each floor, down the same column,
the same blue globes, on the same angles,
showing the same western hemispheres,

re-examine the bloody corpse of the stick-up man,
as the bullet ripped his stinking life to shreds,
and founding fathers safe in their tombs unmoved,
little, if any, price was paid,

powdered insignias
     match the warped floor boards
no kidding
       17c per squared inch
              on the mausoleum score board
there's rain predicted
      for the 8th
                 and oh the bodies of the sinner
they'll be caked in yellow
       and red

there
      one question on
   the scrolling
           screen of the damned
will be hotly debated
     over stiff hearts
                      hollow limb

remarkable mania
37 bullet holes in the horse drawn car
stabbed in the back
left for dead
forgotten her name
stayed in bed

it is with callous misregard that I plot the evening news
one lazy ass fuck one intership muck 101 keys to choose from
plotp plot plip pap down
the anti-biography is next paid for by commericial sponsored rubberbands
a kind hard plastic worm on old war parchment jams

re-iterate what the war room knows
there were always villains operating within in the state
they were all looking to get rich, shoot the score
out the veins of the wrists that cared,

re-iterate what is willingness to remain,
in the hills the brown wood ghosttowns fall without sounds,
there no tax man can hear or there
and the redrawn districts mount for the god of war

and submit
           their only recently
     possessed
souls
            to audit.

There is nothing empty like

Out from the Demon Box
I paid the fee
not for the swinging doors
or doldrums this place
has seen

I paid them from my soul
for something greater
than how the words felt
when we spoke them
clouded with mirth and laughter
over raspberry tarts and lamb

in the ruins of a mind
cradling blue clad insurance agents
of the executive execution squad
(they pay fees daily to the citizens
afraid to raise a brow) biting
at our feet, spilling trends trends
gnarled trends
in the swell, the squall
out from my heart
what few cents I managed to hold onto
I placed at the foot of gods greater
than those we create

We took one swing and knocked
that door in--Kesey felt it
in Oregon heavens out of time--
and he kicked too.

Comics on buses

Gods war above man, beyond men,
in heaven, today I believed in all
time as one time watching the clouds
crawl across the magnificent blue sky
that seemed to stretch on infinitely
full,
hurtling toward us they blanket
our heaving reality, atoms/blah/
molecules/strings/holes torn
in dark matter death cylinders,
a black racer
choosing it victims wisely,
foolishly we host sacrificial
lambs in ancient fires,
turn your back on humanity
it is a vain, arrogant creature,
kneel before the gods
new and unborn,
cruel.