I’ve written enough small poetry
to start a nuclear war.
Do you want to die in traffic
behind the wheel of your car? Or in yr rodeer camp next fall.

Control eludes us. The hero
loses urinary control, the unified nation
loses missile control, lost my timepiece, lost my metronome,
now my music is ethereal as an archangel’s.

No owl hoots or duck quacks
or squirrels *******
or spiders spanning rampikes.
The floccinaucinihilipilification of nature.

No greater tragedy than a tipping
point that tests the hero’s gullibility, complicity,
self-control, comity, sense of humor
which is the only remedy not to hate those in authority.

Them guys with guns at the Michigan state house,
fat bearded tattooed ******* white bros.
Norsemen, Crusaders, Vikings, Britons.
For despair there is no forgiveness. Peace out.

Nuclear mischief, mad Man’s most incandescent bloom
and the devil who exists to carry the load
when we misbehave and fight among ourselves.
I wake up to my skin boiling off my bones.

Humor is the only remedy, or is ardor the best way forward.
We’ll see how things work out in the next generation.
The same diverse, spoiled, unpatriotic revolutionaries as at the nation’s
      beginning
trying to reverse the future, making phone calls to get out the vote in
      Georgia, hating the desert for having no water.

Events keep piling up,
the future depends on ourselves.
Conflict is inevitable and in this conflict power must be challenged by
      power
so err on the side of patience, perseverance and impermanence.

Her fairest words not an apology,
Words that bother me, eating her up,
'All that your are is swallowing me; doubting me,
feeling cowardly:' But not what you want to be:
For daily days so hourly, judging men horizontally,
screaming in your head 'acknowledge me,'
'And just apologise to me':

Back when the world was loving,
You for your chest, interests in *******;
They're spending pays on and invest,
Leaving children eggs on your nest:
None of them did impress, but only did undress:
Leaving your hair in a mess, and moving onto the next:
With their sins stealing your bless: To Pastors,
how do you confess? The gave you more,
but made you feel like less:

Child how do you love;
As you're sick of what some of
Them speak of when, they say it's young love?
Taking your portion, and happiest emotions,
Bare on your flesh like erosion,
Rubbing against you like- Their body lotion:

I do try to love you for you,
But can't relate to what you've been through:
They've stuck their hurts on you-
Like glue, more than one time or two:
They used you, abused you, tossed you,
away, straight after they ******* you: Threw you,
Found their release through you: Lining up,
To view you in a-
Queue, fitting their sizes in a small shoe:

I now understand why,
You are who you are in the first verse.
Giving them your worst, from those who
stole your worth: Hands in a bag-
Stealing inside your pursue. So hard for you
To converse, hoping to be anyone else in the entire universe:
I see how it hurts, and how quick you curse:
Told to move forward; trying to have,
All your pains and struggles go in reverse:
They gave you their love by force,
And all of the times it did leave a hurt:
Without remorse, making you their main course.

So as I write this verse,
With tears through the pain of your teen years:
Those darkest moments and your fears. All of those,
Left you after a night shift; shifting their gears:
But I'll try my best dearest sister,
To be right here. When those demons-
Try creeping back in: When the lights are so dim:
But I don't know where you've been,  
But I'll share all of your hurts like a twin.

Raise your chin;
Clear you're skin,
And help you fix what's broken from within.

Pen this verse-
For all of them to know;
That you don't have to face the hurt alone:
Don't feel like you're all on your own,
You could be whole, even if the process is slow:
But I'll help piece back together your shattered Soul.

MOVEMENT I (written to be performed on tárogató, accompanied by acoustic guitar)

"The morn rises o'erhead
The baker bakes the daily bread
The people smell the blooming roses
Happiness in smaller doses

The children go off to their school
And think learning is ever so cruel
But they'll wish these days back
Everyone will wish these days back

Glowing rays crown the apartments
It is, in return, dubbed glorious hence
Though the clouds will later darken
And the air will taste of iron"

MOVEMENT II (written to be performed on baritone saxophone)

"Radiant, glowing
Destructive but invisible
The naked eye suffers
The body faulters and wilts
Crime and agony
Pain and suffering
Endless, endless throes of woes
Breaths draw short
The air becomes thin
The water grows darker
Blackness overtakes
This is the realm of Death
Come to take ye
Who dare tempt his fated word.

You, whose body fails
Whose organs rupture and fall apart
I suggest you tell your fellow man
Die screaming
The alternative is far more sinister."

MOVEMENT III (written to be performed on contrabass clarinet, accompanied by prepared electric guitar and bowed cymbals)

"Bloom (wilt)
Grow (die)
Sane (mind)
Must (cry)
...
Decay (decay (decay (decay (decay))))
And a reminder for the future folk:
Bury your dead far beneath."

~
Memphis
and the King,
plagued up
to his neck
in denial,

turning remote
controls
into staffs,
staffs into snakes,
jackals,
and hounds,

shaking the sistrum,
singing gospels
full of mystery
to a god,
a girl,
and state of mind
he will never solve,

asking skies
of transulent
orange,
from the far corners
of his world,
for pharmacopia,

then granting
Moses
his freedom
in exchange
for a box
of hot glazed
doughnuts,

and always
his little
wild petunia,
painted face
and percolating
body,
skin smooth
as the eastern Delta,

her weighted down heart,
his tyranny,

his self-destructive tongue,
her asp
~