Children in exile
Playing with fire
First to call attention
To their plight
Then to warm
The stark cold nature
Of their soul
Marooned too long
The flame became
The color of their madness
--who would rule as lord
--who would roast as pig

He kinetically arrived
with 1973.

Night is the longest day,
here come the warm jets,
served on a cold plate.

Play it back at half-speed
and you've got auditory wallpaper,

it must be as ignorable
as it is interesting.

His own world spins within a device:
cacophony of sound
mixed in a blender
and xeroxed;
a little snake guitar,
a little Leslie piano

— music to resign you
to the possibility of death.

Then came 1983
and beyond just him.

Tamper tantrum hotline,
amplifiers on the balcony,
secretly taping Edge
and Adam Clayton
on a 4th of July.

The numbered streets
and desert rain
add soul to this heartland,
it's the gospel truth
he wiped the deck clean.
(sort of and maybe).

His device spins within its own world:
manageable hums,
danceable drones,
welded into night;
daytime variations
held together
no better (and no worse)
than a cloud.

Then there's sfumato:
music without lines or borders,
in the manner of smoke
— theatrical fog
— a different kind of blue.

Densely layered,
so impossible to track,
this being lost in
the magnetic hush
of airports and
  other strange kiosks,
it all falls into a creative lull.

Guess it's time for
Oblique Strategies...

Pretty pixies
In step with a song
Along the estate path
Planted as decoy
For thieving hearts
Pace is the trick

There she is!
Delicately misty
The modest nature
Shielding her countenance
Before she falls
Upon his beloved eyes

Once lifted
In the cathedral
By the fingertips
He hopes to seal
This with a kiss
And she hopes to find
A lasting home
In each other's arms

~
Two kinds of horizon
Pausing for connection
Fingers covering the sun
The place between your *******

Talk amongst the trees
Reflections on falling leaves
Your voice in other rooms
There's something you're not saying

Clouds of flowers
Sounds of bells
A halo of electric bulbs
The worn surface of a heart
I loved you on this day
~

The American dream
had a tough childhood
and is developing symptoms
of a sinkhole personality

I take back everything
I said about the Panama Canal
there's nothing wrong
about being artificial
so long as it brings others together

If we bring it down to eye level
Mr. Paranoia feels outnumbered
the fruits of his labor
are all store bought

There are no more
drive-in movies within
walking distance
'cause Cinderella's dead
says the cult leader

I think too many people
equate love with
passionate fireworks,
and while love can certainly
produce this,
it in itself is not love.

Love is more than
a feeling or a fancy,
it is a principle,
a preserver,
a law that governs action
and behavior.

To put it simply,
it's a can of Spam
in the back of the cupboard
that remains good
long after everything
around it has come and gone.

I wonder how old your smile,

how far your hemisphere:

fringes of your admired shape,
traces of your desired smell.

Might they reveal what clouds know.

Perhaps measure a held glance,
the flowers in your hair.

Perhaps discover
a here without a where.

~
Inundate your love
for this sacred village,
on bended knee,
facing the freshet,
supplicated hands pressed together,
one of grace, one of charity,
lips of sweet euphony,
whispering into the morning sun,
a language deep and pounding
inside your heart's timpani,
abiding like unsheltered waters
that nourish the vine
~

The language of Los Angeles
gets lost in translation.
Even the rain clouds
drop their contents
with an unfamiliar accent.
The peculiar way
she tilts her head,
the distinct way
she crosses her legs,
are every bit incorrect.
The uninvolved way
she sits, steps, speaks,
alludes to her lack
of the irrepressible nature
surrounding her day.
"The rest is rust
and stardust."

She is quite
American.

There is no turning of the shadow
under a European sun.
The silence of her heart,
the stillness in her limbs,
is barren, muted,
her leaves brittle.
In the breezy part
of the afternoon,
her core lay hollow
and unfelt,
regardless of...
He wakes her,
demurely she makes
an effort at soixante-neuf,
arbitrarily she bends for him.
"Her dream-gray gaze
never flinches."

She is quite
American.

~
No longer hyperbole

No longer making time

As children of the technological sea

Landfill up their dreams

Pour them like liquid

Pluck them like chickens

Aquarium their little minds:

Tell them they're lucky starfish

Better off without daylight

Able to live underwater

As offspring of nobody

No longer making memories

No longer exaggeratory
~