Hello there lord in heaven! (the florist)
selling peoples the bouquets of
insanity
and psychopathy
raging
RED
and
******
and
BORING
Hello there lord in heaven
(the taxicab driver)
who's kids have been
gone a long time
and plays the classic rock on
the radio making poor jokes
and passing poor homes
with $3 in his pocket 1994
windshield wipers
sliding sobs
of tears/rain
back & forth.
Why is city so upset?
Tummy rumbling for
chaos and evening news-
-****** boiling in that
fever stomach deterioration/
sufferings/
***** on ****** reaper crazies sidewalks
where Vicky is walking her dog
(who died some years ago or never existed in the first place who's to say)
people yelling
“VICKY!!!” she's seen them
a few times,
two outta three wanna
**** Vicky but she's not having
it today.
Wayward man (our lord in heaven) on bus gazing from back window
eyes O P E N
playing games with nobody in particular and in silence
“count the needles!”
8 on one block.
He's by himself on the bus/at home/at work/at the park on his way to job/
in his sleep he's married
to a girl (dark hair)
who's a fictional fantasy fairy
and leaps from balconies at the end of all his dreams
signaling-
DIGITAL ALARM ON HIS BEDSIDE TABLE WHICH RESTS BESIDE AN OLD FAMILY PHOTOGRAPH AND A STACK OF HENRY MILLER
/STAND STILL LIKE THE HUMMINGBIRD/
AND A SMALL STATUE OF THE BUDDHA.
Lord in HEAVEN
(the office girl)
who's tapping her feet on the elevator up a few stories
to Electric Light Orchestra
and has a dog at home
who loves her like
THE SUN
ON A SUNDAY!
(name is Phillip, after her overdose 2002 brother)
oh that MR BLUE SKY!
“How CLICHE!” she thinks laughing to herself
at the small things.
Lonesomes of somewheres are begging for another cubicle
like her cubicle or a lover
like any lover
praying to that LORD IN HEAVEN
for tiny material wants in
tiny material churches.
LORD in heaven!
(Mundane MUTT *****)
pretending he has Schizophrenia
and conning a middle aged autistic woman
residing in a small Canadian town
out of her government cheque
(1300!!!)
later arrested and
SPIRALED INTO PRISON BY THE LEGAL SYSTEM
AND NOT SOON ENOUGH FOR A VAMPIRE LIKE HIMSELF
to be mangled by
iron bars and
PEOPLE SHOUTING IN THE MORNING
another one for our tax money. He wins in the end, I suppose.
LORD IN HEAVEN!
LORD!
ONE ABOVE
AND BELOW
AND  IN LAYOVER PLANES
HOWLING JETSOUNDS OVER
TAIPEI
TO VANCOUVER/
AND ON THOSE RATTLING BELLS
OF INTERSECTIONS
PICKING OUT OF
TRASH CANS MUMBLING
THE PROMISE OF ETERNITY TO
THOSE NOT LISTENING/
MY BIBLE
IS A FIST FULL OF COINS
PRESET FOR THE COMMUTE TRAIN HOME
AND LISTENING IN ON
BIRDCAGE CONVERSATIONS
OF THAT DISCONNECTED
SYSTEM OF PEOPLE
INFLICTED WITH
A SIMILAR PAIN AS ME
WHO MIGHT NOT LOOK AT ME
BUT UNDERSTAND.

LORD IN HEAVEN!
The leprosy
humanity
going from here to
there
and trying to learn a little
while they're at it again
F
  A
    L
      L
        I
         N
            G

                 A
                      P
                         A
                              R
                                 T

Let love loom bombs over Indonesia and my tropical thoughts, holocaust the taint brandishing my ecstasy.
Vague abstractions permeate inside me dwelling deep and dark through joints and bone and brain.
Opera screams on hilltops viewing cities simulating the feeling of apocalypse. "Eden Blues" make the neighbors weep invisible past thin poster plastered walls.
Violin scatter crescendo while my bus scrolls down the triangle mountain towards fissure threatened oceans.

My face is tired, my umbrellas have gone from yellow to black. Optimists of the soul have become realists and whether or not that's a good thing I don't know.  

I often sleep past my alarm,
I often sleep.
Mostly out of habitual lethargy.

But swift sparks a light!
On this bus I look ahead and see a vision transcendental to all immediate sufferings!

Dotted hazel coronas,
fracture my mirrors,
become my reflection,
my vision and perception.
Freckle gentle lips, rejuvenate my decay,  autumn hair tied back
become loose and
illuminate my tragedies.

In some years I'll be across continents treading Vietnam and India
Crying for our time.

Wake to sad mornings,
Sleep to sad nights,
View sad people,
See sad movies,
Kiss sad women,
Raise sad children,
Pass sad madmen,
Buy sad pets,
Watch sad films,
Hear sad music,
Cry sad tears,
Live sad years,
Pick sad flowers,
Write sad poems,
Keep sad tomes,
Hold sad woes,
Ache sad blows,
Justify sad truths,
Accept sad falsities,
Break sad objects,
Use sad drugs,
***** sad rugs,
Choose sad battles,
Swig sad bottles,
Play sad instruments,
Pray for sad religions,
Spark sad fires,
Keep sad lairs,
Attend sad funerals,
Notice sad cemeteries,
Die a sad death,
Fulfill sad fates.

Do all this, and you'll still be infinitely happier than some.

Lily on my crown,
My soul is rooted with sunflowers,
Love springs from my lungs.
Death is a garden.
Affection a coffin.

Hedge around ribs,
Holy light tightened on heart,
Beating carols only heard by dogs
Like a whistle, thistle on my knees cutting heaven real deep.

Tulips lace my tongue
Taste of angels, backwash of Lucifer.
Eyes pupiled amethyst. The healing stone. My world is healing while thorns and samsara hold my ankles to material and the edge of avarice.

World of loom hill parade ecstasy while weather ignites to 24° psychic readings being hosted in palace atrium & column walls where the archaic clock gongs upward to ****** addict ghosts and mental wards in lucid Babylons.

Lovers screaming against bombs, blister billow black clouds and smoke with marijuana haze in flats and compassion for grief cottoned years.
Rumble of music soaked into ratless insulation, long conversations with the insomniac self who hides from monsters inches over his head.

World of daysetting group understandings amidst orange moonlight. Coalmine haired bereaved droop nose man crawls from darkness for another cigarette on the balcony, 4th floor apartment complex in May. Depression hit like **** **** fogging out the brain.
Emptiness is the west.

Travelers who sway on driftwood face The Cascades acknowledging past times, revolving themes and bullet mouthed villains who seek away from starvation from ego lacking.
Their bile is sentences and the rest, anyways.  

Japanese instrumental rolls through closed eyelids in flashing Technicolor, rabbits watch the highways unaware of mortality.

World of bicycle rides on packed ** Chi Minh
City 2016 Winter where twenty-something North Americans go for pho while others go for broke. Palm trees polka dotting college campus in Afternoon, insects whine for the daydreamers. One is writing poetry in a small Vietnamese cafe sipping earl grey inspired by the Oriental clutter and a redheaded girl back home who paces frantically in the attic besides a crooked lamp scrawling flowers to the rotted whitewood panel work

The artist’s craft is a keepsake for eternity, as wells dry out and desert becomes ocean, poems will melt to matter zipping to outer space, satellite ink spots expanding by forever realms.

Pillow foot sole cracks shell casings on forgotten battlefields in later decades, wiping off grit shoeshine boy corpse particle reformation and fairy spit from brow, the last mad prophet sees visions of Christ as arachnid wretch black widow who venomed our bones with rapture,
doom wax peeling away after the damages had been committed.  

Now I check for spiders beneath my sheets.

Banshee howl symphonic sorrows leak in unison with all lanes of commuting traffic. Denial curse for positivity, mindset slate hiding
The weary souls radiance. On the 15x down Johnson! psychedelic chasm quakes through the wheels and my thoughts are spinning sunshine!
Washing machine dynamo recollections of whiskey spilt over carpet dark sand shade while La Vie En Rose resonates from playerless pianos topped with incense sticks in arabesque ashrams, imaginary shelters. We all have one!

Nick Cave is sleeping by back row while we approach final stop in front of bankrupt Chinese corner stores. He’s murmuring Oblivions and the bus keeps on going.

Death is a garden.
Tears are its rainwater and bucket flow.
Nectar pattern reveries honeybee the flowerpots.
Peoples sprout from them bloomed full.

Rosy reaper blasts past the solar system in a comet rocket since she saved the aliens, she hums Vivaldi and huffs a good huff from her cherry cigar.
She tightens her starlight hood and black holes be born.
Torn apart Pluto goes

B    A    N    G

Comet delirious ignores the decimation
And shouts the Lotus Sutra

“ALL GODS WERE TOO PASSIVE”
Reaper hollers back steering by the milky way and beyond on their hallucinogenic trip.

Lily on my crown.
Crown for the kingdom
wherein Reaper resides
and sings with galaxy ukulele to
the great empty.
Great as all can be.

I see dying people on dying sidewalks.
Dying gulls hover by an ambulance full of dying heroes which save you from sooner dying. The ambulance goes past a funeral home where the dying attend to the dead.
I've passed through this sidewalk before, when I and the world were a little less rotten. I've seen the familiar parked mail truck which has a woman inside usually playing scrabble. She's solved more puzzles, and earned less time.

Did you know it costs money to die? Suicide is illegal, the government has decreed you need to earn your own right to die. You need to die in some accident or from disease or ailment or getting too old. You're serving in a conquest against dying yet either way you'll lose!

I realize as I pass a law firm beside a curiosity shop that my soul is losing its light to power our electricity. My eyes are losing their ability just to watch violence on the news,
My hair will soon be snow.
Im getting sleepier earlier, I'm getting older quicker.
The last thing I wanna do is sleep!
I don't want to weep,
I don't want to be reaped.
My faith is lazy,
My heart is crazy,
Padded up in loveless institutions.
Going to the city makes me feel lonely.
There's one wrinkling man I see here every day, he's wearing a big white sweater, bald spot haloes his skull.
Will I be him one day?
Is he an angel of prophecy?
He writes illegible notes on lined paper from an organized folder in his satchel. I have a satchel, it looks just like his. He is my outcome and my shadow. He is my prayer and my nightmare. He is wise and he is lost, I can tell by his face, his frown, his scowl.

He is dying, more than me.
Maybe thats what his notes are about.
I know mine are.
Despite all these years his weight
Remains the same.
I suppose mine will too.

New poems are written from old tragedies.
Oh I appreciate the selfishness of poets,
stealing death to pocket life.
Life for their sons and daughters
Post secondary tuition.
Life for retirement.
Life for life's own sake.
Let's turn on the TVs and hope
For another war.
Government storms countries for oil,
Parading rifles and bombs to the
Children without education
And the bearded spinners who can't
Afford a break.
Poets claim to be romantics and meditate on dreams of peaceful Eden.
But what poets in recent times have written in yellow ink?
Cynic and Poetry both have a simple
Y.
Y
  Y
     Y?