The barn is burning
The race-track is over
Farmers run out w/
buckets of water
The horse flesh is burning
They’re kicking the stalls
(panic in a horse’s eye
That can spread & fill
an entire sky.)

The clouds flow by
& tell a story

about the lightning bolt & the mast
on the steeple

Some people have a hard time
describing sailors to the
undernourished.

The decks are starving
Time to throw the cargo over

Now down & the high-sailing
fluttering of smiles on the air
w/its cool night time disturbance

Tropic corridor
Tropic Treasure

What got us this far to this
mild equator

Now we need something
& someone new
when all else fails
we can whip the horse’s eyes
& make them cry
& sleep
~~~

France is 1st, Nogales round-up
Cross over the border-
land of eternal adolescence
quality of despair unmatched
anywhere on the perimeter
Message from the outskirts
calling us home
This is the private space of a
new order. We need saviors
To help us survive the journey.
Now who will come
Now hear this
We have started the crossing
Who knows? it may end badly

The actors are assembled;
immediately they become
enchanted
I, for one, am in ecstasy
enthralled.
Can I convince you to smile?

No wise men now.
Each on his own
grab your daughter & run
~~~

“Oh God, she cried
I never knew what
it meant to be real
I thought all this was a joke,
I never let the horror, or
the sweetness & the dignity
penetrate my brain”

“Let me up to see
the window. Dark Riders
pass in the sunset
coming home from
raiding parties.
The taverns will be
full of laughter, wine,
& later dancing, later
dangerous knife throws.

Antonio will be there
& that *****, Blue Lady
playing cards w/silver
decks & smiling at the night,
& full glasses held aloft
& spilled to the moon.
I’m sad, so full of sadness”
~~~

She’s selling news in the market
Time in the hall
The girls of the factory
Rolling cigars
They haven’t invented musak yet
So I read to them
From The BOOK OF DAYS
a horror story from the Gothic age
a gruesome romance
From the LA
Plague.

I have a vision of America
Seen from the air
28,000 ft. & going fast

A one-armed man in a Texas
parking labyrinth
A burnt tree like a giant primeval bird
in an empty lot in Fresno
Miles & miles of hotel corridors
& elevators, filled w/ citizens

Motel Money ****** Madness
Change the mood from glad to sadness

play the ghost song baby
~~~

a young woman, bound silently, on
a hostpital table, obviously pregnant,
is gutted & rifled of her empire

objects of oblivion
~~~

Drugs *** drunkenness battle
return to the water-world
Sea-belly
Mother of man
Monstrous sleep-waking gentle swarming
atomic world
Anomic in social life

how can we hate or love or judge
in the sea-swarm world of atoms
All one, one All
How can we play or not play
How can we put one foot before us
or revolutionize or write
~~~

Does the house burn? So be it.
The World, a film which men devise.
Smoke drifts thru these chambers
Murders occur in a bedroom.
Mummers chant, birds hush & coo.
Will this do?
Take Two.
~~~

each day is a drive thru history

How many more beautiful hearts will I spoil
All high and unavailable, their eyes occluded
With sorrow as they watch me slip towards a sorry death

How many times can I keep walking into a
Burning building, a sea of tongues I cannot keep pace with
Before I stop returning, always short of breath

How many years have I wasted wringing
My hands in quiet discomfort and worrying
When all this worrying will stop

How many more patient friends will slip from view
As I blind myself with false changes, as I lie in waste
Through my solitude, wondering why no one is here

To rinse the poverty from my ruined eyes

Anomic gloom and arrogant fear
Every invisible rumbling is a machine bent on my death.
Nothing conveys me to power
For I'm left to retroactively question each choice I make
As if logic was absent and I wasn't acting by choice
But impelled to be insolent
By the inner rust and complicated working
Of my meat-and-bones practice run
For my Faberge machine body
             (even as I admit this
I wrench open a kind of window
Into a mostly forgotten dream
Of a conference with some kind of
Goddess)
I'll soon be surprised
With a sudden initiation into reality
Elfin mischief and hysterical laughter spiraling around me in a climactic fireworks display
"This is really happening. This is what it was all about. This is what it's all been leading towards. This is where there's no turning back" it laughs in my face as the agony of endless ****** nearly knocks me senseless and motionless
There are souls caught up in the works and the kingdom of heaven is in disarray as we sort out our identity crisis of species here on profane planet earth. Gaia holds her breath and hopes we do not leave too big a mark when we explode ourselves.

An old man
An old rich man
An old rich lonely man
with his
big belly
half curly, well maintained  
but anomic white hairs
and long grey beard
walks on the busy yet lonely
street of  
New York
every evening
aimlessly
hopelessly and  
creating a kind of roughness
inside his heart,  on his face
and in the atmosphere  
unknowingly  


A little girl
with her favourite balloons
In her little tiny hands
and smile of satisfaction
in her eyes
walks on the same road
every evening
Greets every moving and non-moving objects
come on her way
with the most soft brisk  
‘’Hi’’
With a hope that
before the night turns too dark
Her colourful balloons
someone will buy  

But a wandering silence
covers her face
when she meets the old man
The old rich lonely man  


Sometimes, once in a while
a feeling, a wish
also breaks the walls
made of desolation and devastation
and enters into the closed heart of  
the man
the old rich lonely man
that
If he had a daughter
his life would have colours
just like the balloons

His dreams would have a purpose
and
his breaths would have a cause  


One day
the man
the old rich lonely man
tried hard  
gathered all his courage
and smiled at the little girl  

The girl’s smile
take a pause
But the very next moment
she jumped into the hands of
the man
and said
I was thinking
I know you
I saw you  somewhere
Now I got
You are  
The same Santa Claus
My Santa Claus    
Who came last year
and brought me
a pink frock
that I love to wear

And
after that
I never saw
the old man
the old rich but may not be lonely man
walking on the street of New York
searching for a cause

He once held a foe
and painted his nose
but he dies there
a notorious speaker
with his fortuity in croquet
quashed at the brink there it square rather
and this polarity is left behind
where Agamemnon knew his anomic basket
with revenue shortfall miss credited country.

Not quite an impediment,
Seldom a detriment
Just a self-conscious
Propensity to
Pensively reconsider
Each word that I choose
Like anomic aphasia
But undiagnosed
When I can’t comprehend
Even thought’s innermost
Best syntactic formation
Dictates fluctuation
And makes me some ramble-on,
Scrambling to find
What I even intended to say
Half the time
And then oh!
There it is
Where I’m going with this
Yes a piece about speech
And the topics it shifts