Love, unruliest hope, when fierce Diana went wild
With savage discourse, the arrow-stroke of her tongue—
While rage-hounds bay in wooded Gargaphie—aimed at Actaeon.
Or old Baucis her god-giving bone fat of mind,
Stewed the broth of covenant for Zeus to repay in kind.
Then Parthenope, siren-stung in her whirlpool of sea vines,
Her maiden-voice is a breath of sand for Naples to muse upon.
The body of Helen still lies in ages-old smoke over our cities,
We live in the timberframe of her bones of burned ships.
Why can’t her death be an end to all skies?

All our institutions are infected with
the arrogance of a definite existence
ordained by their sick insistence
that their way is how it has to be,
that their actions are the ultimate
manifestation of mortal man’s morality.

But their certainty bothers me greatly.
Life seems to be made of generalities,
and a myriad of shades that play with
our desire to easily define what is right.

Our errors are laid out in plain sight.
We can observe a minor fraction of the slights
committed against those with little defense,
while we let wicked men gather about them
more wealth and acclaim, a platform to defame,
and rename the victims of their big money games
as enemies of us all. We let them build a wall
between our wisdom, knowledge, and hearts
a black abysmal structure that keeps us apart,

When shared struggles should obviously be
what turns strangers into allies and family.

As the rose-colored spatter
ran across the wall
This genius in budding
felt no remorse at all
Possessed by a craving
for a special shade of red
to complete the special masterpiece
that had always been in his head
He dipped his brush into some blood
that had spilled upon the floor
His masterpiece might have to wait
The police are at the door

Is poetry mimicking the ruling culture class or does it touch the chaotic genius only the subconscious can render like anti-themic slanting word music?

Is poetry novel or intimate like a small boy in a fluttering dress or seen through the lens of social justice, of documentary, of collective resistance, or perhaps the propaganda of public iconography, and imperialism in it's lock step with the prevailing dogma trend lines?

Is the poetic form collapsing like a screaming mouth in a mildewed universe of prison-like isolation, Pandora stripped of her consecrated darkness and without her box?  

I'm in search of a sacred space where language serves the psyche without artifice, and pothole parentheticals that make plain the difference between the conservative public conversation and true innerness so that we see through each other like thin water stained cigarette paper and big doll eyes.

Thrums the bee waggle-dance in a haunt of Indian horsepaths,
Or the shaking leaf one second past the strike of galloping rain
/ Parsimonious lightning, thrifty in its jagged stalks
Against this night of heavy-hearted oaks /
Then the hay-fringed bale of sleep, rolled into a valley of slowed breathing,
Through parting cloud-diabolique, poison-peers the wet toadback of Autumn,
Glowing moon-gristle in the bosky wolf’s beard with its wireframe of teeth.