(Just for fun, let’s play a game: put pen to paper or fingers to keyboards and spill out a poem, every line the first thing that pops into your head. Be as passive as possible, keep editing to a minimum and let’s see what surrealist stuff we come up with. Comment if you participate so I can read yours.)

Here is your
fog warning
you’ve lost your lenses
can’t quite make sense when
the power is out
is the feeling you feel
real
or temporary
nonsense neurons and
chemicals, burned up
by blood-heat
meaningless
out of focus or
broken, bulging
in the kaleidoscope,
your only telescope
for sighting land.
If clarity is the
end goal I think
my arrow is flying
well off target
better adjust
my anchor point,
search for
solid ground
or maybe just
a noose to hang onto
one exquisite
corpse looking for
a mausoleum,
something sturdy
stone or metal,
earth-binding.
Sorry, Universe,
I’m not quite
ready for any more
time in the heavens.

Its eighteen months since her delivery
Now she is penning odes ostensibly
Crayons in both hands: she is standing tall
What Dada says? "No writing on the wall."

With great care baby writes her graffiti
Not much untouched by her audacity
He tries to compromise with a new book
but baby says, "Daa Daa"; with a stern look

He has to admit the walls are hers now
Filled with scribbles and a chromatic cow
Its her version of Van Gogh's Starry Night
without the stars; a novice oversight

She's more surreal than Salvador Dali
The writing's on my wall: Pure Graffiti

when i've reached a proper altitude,
all will be as it should
and when i've reached that final peak
i will then be understood

silence hangs upon the valley
like a cloak of grey despair
nothing comes, nothing goes
never is there fruit to bear

so i leave my place of living,
i run across the county line
somehow i'll make it to the mountain,
no guarantee i'll come back alive

if i do then nothing changes
if i don't no one will cry
and when i've reached that final peak
i’ll finally be seen as I.

The tárogató yells
About the Spiritus Sanctus
While I conduct
Electric orchestra
In more ways than one

Noxious fumes
Piles of elastic dolls
The forge beckons
The crisis averted
God bless America

The working man
He's down on his luck
He kills his boss
Then waits in his blood
For the police with a smile

The wooden flute
The samurai's hat
The question of allegience
The barbed wire fences
God bless America

The muezzin talks
To the director
Looking for the paper
The Luzerne Zeitung
That is what he cried

Will I live to see daylight?
Will I choke on a cloth,
Doused in gasoline
With the rabbit skinner?
God bless America

Purple
Yellow
Indigo
Green
Lime
Curmudgeon
Ocher
Bordeau­x
Magenta
Pink

Does the Creator ever question the existence of her own self, or does she sit upon her clouds, oblivious to our plight, performing the greatest of rituals with no effect and appointing herself God of This, God of That, God of Whatever-Comes-To-Mind, naming herself after whatever we want her to be, believing in simply just letting us believe, calculating until our inevitable doom makes her simply useless and lonesome? Would her angels then weep for humanity? Are there angels? Who are you?

Allah?
Krishnu?
Tezcatlipoca?
Zeus?

Inferno is unleashed on the ******* sagging from my chin
The pain burns, but worse is the humiliation
Even worse is the taste
But I endure it, for I must see the yellow brick road once more

The chest grows
The hair grows
The voice grows higher
She stands tall
In her filth
In her rotting lamb's skin
In the armchair
Where bliss once caught her

And a generation dies under the commanding voice of Whoever-The-****
Why would his name matter when all you'll remember is the count of millions?

God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America
God bless America

Can you dig your own grave, America?
My arms are tired.

A collection of donkeys
Reviewing the depth and girth of light
In a circular channel of platinum white
While the Cold War's puppet master smiles

What is in the creases of the temple?
Built upon the Aztec temptress's armpit
Discovered by the Spanish butcher
And burnt by the pale ghost

Japanese pilots land upon
Upon, upon
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
And question the times.

He asked me why my hair was soft
I severed my ear and lent it
The pianist, unsurprised, played on
With a pyrrhic victory among black and white

Plagiarism runs amok
It is my good friend, the light in the dark
The lightning coiling around my mind
A brilliant idea strikes the gutter

Japanese pilots land upon
Upon, upon
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
A lake of black tar
A lake of black tears
And question the times.

What's your answer?
Among the darkened rain clouds?
What's your answer?
Among ****** handles?
What's your answer?
Among the trumpets and horns?
What's your answer?
To the performance of a life?

Sing no more!
Silence!
This is my noblest music!
The buzzing of nothing!

Vong, they call me
And call to me they do
The stitch, the incision
The lung of a fish
The bite of a tiger

Vong, they call me
Newer now than ever before
The ship sinking almost
My shoes fill with water
But to drown, never

Vong, they call me
Never knowing what made me so
It was somebody else!
All the holes, the drills
The incisions, the wounds

Vong, they call me
But am I Vong?
Or am I not?
Do I miss it?
My life as before?

Vong, they called me
But Quetzal I am
And bury Vong, I must
For he is filth, heresy
For he hurt me, and himself

And the sky turns blue
And the water blue
And Vong's face blue
But he will not drown
He asks for a space on my ship

His body torn in 17
His eyes curmudgeon
His limbs mismatched
His skin a darkened grey
I won't call him Vong

And sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Sail towards the Sun
Without arms, man the ship, protect your kin

Vong, become my brother
You've been through the sea
You've been through the sky
You've flown through the blood red Sun
But still you strive for the ship

Safety, oh you beautiful safety.
To lead a better life, inside the Sun
And wait for the fire to pass
Wait for the ship to rise
Wait, for your love shall be here

Vong, they call me.
But Quetzal I am.

A business man
Losses is head
But does not die
Instead
Three butterfly of increasing sizes
Replace
The head
Making him a living piece art.

As the sun sets
The pillars of salt
Really do come to life
With a vengeance
As the women come back
From seeing the destruction of
***** and gamoro