Call delicate sirens of the working class!
half-*** minimum wage poverty line
subsidy sages hollow of materialism devils,
devoid of darkness internal fire strike rage
and hellion god bowels light flickering shallow men.
The rich men.
The truly poor men living in clouded manors on
Ignorance Avenue.

Delicate sirens not so poor after all,
not so empty or so full.
God is the prayer call
and siren droll
and *** roll-in-sleep afternoon shore-breeze faint of hope
approaching winter-fall showering divinity flowers the same material as Peter's scraggly beard while he coughs his angelic bronchitis wheezes, purifying the western air.
Peter is apostle
his snores are their own gospel
the doves in his dreams
will always be there.

The battle goes on
the bottle goes up
the rattle hollers out
the chatter not without.

Sirens call! Call with short breaths as
the world cyclones through universal woe.

Humanity is a single tear of eternity
dropping to cement like rain
decimating the smallest scrap of matter
ingrained into the pavement
for only a moment.
Humanity is radiant
and soaked in sadness
a star among stars.
Humanity is humanity,
songs inside symphonies,
telephone calls faint in
circuit across America.
kisses invisible in darkness
coverings warm and soft.
Humanity is.
Just is.

Here we are!
To live and inevitably die.
But before we do,
let’s put it off and ****
all the life encompassing us
until it loops around
and kills us back.

Oh ferocious angels,
lionesque children of Eden
on narrow streets and polluted alleyways
whispering cruel things to each other,
you're radiant in your belligerence
and as my enemies you are virtuous.
Beside me in this carpeted rectangle room
a faint glow exhales
from the tall alpine ivory lamp illuminating
firefly wings of blossoms
alluringly exuberant in the afternoon sun-ray
diamond shine and shimmer.
Dusty tin roofs billow
firewood smoke in the thick violet shade fog over-top cabin potted
mountains and hills sprouting firs and rose bushes abounding.
Spectrum cast chandeliers echo staircases which
jot up and up arduous ruby landings,
hardwood floor cracked
and stacks of novels ballast the senescent hallways
of bookshops where poets works and journals diaries and memoirs blur
the serpentine walls with memories.
Angelic the soul which is too often contaminated with
avarice rebellious to concord living
harmonious midst dew grass and calm waters in residential lakes
empathy equanimity, far from Bodhisattva.
Few kinds of darkness transcendental
subduing other darkness to a weak shadow.
There's an importance to admiring the delirium of metropolitan roads on roads
this intricate unspoken connection to those who
rest by stoplights and crawling traffic metallic molten aura of
cars in July heat.
Paying attention to the open window of adjacent apartments
where Mr. Norris waters his tulips and shares this moment
modern meditations practiced
finding a balance in such an anxious
volatile world like this.
Oh ferocious angels, impetuous
forlorn seraphs,
sing! sing and soar!
Boundless is our ardor
and our passion.
Unenclosed is the lion
in it's bloom.

Our lives are roles in the constant show entertaining
unquenchible audiences of impermanence,
death applauds and bows his hat
the charcoal curtains slide in to dusk
and stage lights flash on break of day.
Everybody to your places!
stars are exploding in distant galaxies
and a black hole the size of twelve billion suns
is absorbing this universe as we laugh and as we weep.
Rome had fallen and we too shall fall as all things do
clap! clap! clap!
Our lives are told from our ankles
we're praying and meditating and chanting
while the candles bury cathedrals on their last few minutes of light.
clap! clap!
dreaded oblivion is in our rifles and bombs,
in our hearts it's lurking that  ruinous leviathan,
The snapping inclination for decadence
is always there backstage shadow of mind.
Progress has been built on increasingly violent tragedies
there's only so much blood this sponge can soak
this earth can take.
clap! clap! clap!
Someday we'll be engulfed by cosmic grenades manufactured by
all those gods we read in books and pamphlets
and while our little corner of the macrocosm fades to black
it'll continue much the same some light years away.
The show must go on!

My mind sings the same
Peaceful songs of Spring Winds.
My thoughts slur drunk on this
Ectasy non alcoholic daybreak
Cloud cover morning
Olive umbrella angelic
Above my dizzy head full of
Music and imagined rhythms.
Slow and sleepy I pass by people
With fogged samsara desires material
Illusory physical elation temporary and unrealized lives littered with impernance they go for the quickest fix for their ocean scale emptiness.
My feet tread clouds and sidewalks both,
My ears hear voices and the enchanting hidden hysteria of life both.
My day is sadness and enlightenment both.
I accept the frailty of my flesh and momentary flash existence of this planet and other planet and Janet the Janitor of nowhereland the books in my bedroom the growing hair on my head this March and next March the midnight coffee in my cup and daisy growing outside the dry cleaner down the street. I accept it all with adoration for the simplicity of living and the Babylon sprouting inside my soul my lungs my heart.
Bus truck semi truck Cadillac station wagon pour in metallic blur beneath solace sunlight, everybody is as happy and hollow as I am though perhaps less content with that circumstance.
God is the conceptual flower in you and me
We dance,  its fundamental I realize now to keep on dancing and keep on laughing.  Else the world be swept in nihilistic tendency and we become outlived by
Our fears.

My tired eyes,
my fatigued mind
falls slow and time becomes obscured by
the drowsy raven sailing sunset sky boulevard.
My phone is ringing orders and misdirection calls,
that funny little radiation box hollering voices
of somewhere, telemarketers in India, automated messages,
spurious connections anywhere but here.
The rain-shine of approaching April Wednesday
trails golden hues among the treeline being viciously
torn like a gradual atomic bomb flattening the hoary hills
and spectacular firs beryl in frequent times of showers.

Each day I hope for that fabled resurgence,
nearly a year my fingers have been crossed
while wars are still wars, politicians still politicians,
gods still gods. Everything is so still, silence among fury.
Carpet bombings, protests, genocides, reforms, riots, the drowsy
raven circles in view of the window and my thoughts cycle around
my washing machine consciousness wiping off the grit of untruths
of everywhere else but within myself. That seems to be the problem
with most people.

As the clouds roll in, as the sun subsides into darkness,
as my mind is clouded by that ever-expanding raven encompassing
night sky and nightmares, I realize I hadn't even gone out at any point
that day and probably wouldn't the next.
We've become so dull some of us.
Vacuums inside of vacuums.