If we can find the proper restraints,
i give the sign:
hold me down and crack my ribs,
tear out the disease in me,
use a microscope (telescope ?) to find my heart,
insert conscience 'A' into slot 'B'.
Peel back my skin and cover
what's left in stained velour,
complete what i have become,
scarred, barren, torn asunder.
i tore the flesh from my bones
for me, nothing more, trying to
destroy eternity, separating
molecules, better living through chemistry
(FOCUS)
There is a seed inside us all.
What will it become, what will it consume?
(FOCUSFOCUSFOCUS)
i feel the disconnect and cry
stretching wounded arms across
a chasm of my own design.
i would tear myself apart for you,
but not for me.

Youth has killed them all,
the lunatic screams,
bemoaning his plight
to all who will ignore.
those who cry for their
mothers at night,
THEY are the madmen,
whimpering and sniveling
'I don't want to be responsible'
only to realize at some point
later in life that no one
gives a **** what they
want just as long as
they keep their mouths
shut and shovel their
**** to keep the system
as one, man!
All this bull about free will
will take them all of nowhere!
The more they try to capture
youth, the older they
will get and the quicker
they will die!
Don't they see it?*

And even though he
warned himself,
he died the same way.

i like my women
like i like my
life:  crazy
as **** and
under siege.

i am not satisfied
until that woman has
to put her drink down
because she needs
her whole body to
hate me.

i won't gamble with
anything except my life.
A real man plays
Russian Roulette by
handing the woman the
one bullet,
and using the other
five himself.
On himself.

it is better odds
of survival for the man.

an ode to J.
poet of great measure
fallen yet climbing
up towards sanity again
truly an artist
seldom was he not a free-thinker
nor ever one of many words
no impressions
just a red door
and don't forget the color blue
for it is the only true color
Van Gogh knew the truth
anything else is just a color
and what better to be obsessed with?
certainly not television (unless it is blue)
except possibly that oh-so-wonderful
vision maker
J. loves that stuff
he lost a little once he found it
     (well, maybe a lot)
still the same old J. though
ever-daring, never-caring
he can take on the world
     (or at least New York)
$50 and a bus ticket
what else could you need?
he met Ginsberg
can you say that?
i didn't think so.
J. the person
he's the man
pretty pictures did he draw
mainly in blue, but still
he does his best work during his Icehouse seizures
quite a sight, a mural so big
too bad its gone
sort of like J.'s mind

i don't like love songs.
They fill you with the joy of others,
often serving only to remind
     they do not apply to you.
And all the banter and clever friendships
stay seated while you go home.
Not to say they've no meaning,
but the pulse is still slow,
and all the dreams dreamt
wind down till they creep by,
and, reading the fine print,
you see that it really was what
it seemed at first glance,
and nothing more.

Tomorrow, my dear, i will surrender my eyes for you,
since i am blinded regardless by your senseless beauty.
i will uproot my hair and humble myself
before the face you put on and
burn incense of sage to cover
     (because you should love me).
We can shake our heads,
remember the times when we journeyed through the night
with glass walls around our auras
or spoke riddles to the walls of sound
and giggled like imps drunk on our own brand of evil
or were dragged kicking and screaming
back to our blissful misconceptions.
We chant like monks in
a wilderness of god's flesh, saying
we are not the  X  on society's forehead,
only that we were once confused
but we turned out the lights
and suddenly understood:
that sometimes life is the blue-gray
blanket we buried ourselves in once.
We get bruises on top and
hide our scars of fallen grace deep.
We time-share our creativity.
We lie down in cool summer grass with
grasshopper lullabies and drift, drift, drift
away twitching our eyelids to the
beat while we wish we were real.

i need another hole in my head,
something to let the sun in
and the evil out.
A set of beige drapes like
a wet napkin over a bowl of oatmeal.
Size: 4 by 2, color: beige, hardware:
not included.
Just big enough for a three-year-old
to reach his (her?) grubby fingers
in, uncross my wire, accessorize my
space, evaluate my feng shui.

Oh my god, is that a hole in your head?
       --one of several...--

Just an access panel, really.

i am a talented surgeon,
as seen on T.V., spreading
hope and renewal...
BEHOLD!  i have faced death
and returned to you a shaman!
Hear my words, heed my words,
i i i, cast down amongst you,
beseech you: RISE UP!
*Rejoice and tremble,
look upon the beauty that is,
despair no more in the
illusions that were past,
face illusions to come,
as real as we make them.