I know you can’t look at me like that-
                                        You can’t picture my rapid ascension
But I’m telling you
                                                       I was born up there in the heavens
And through a choreographed tumble
                                                          ­   I gave all those jerks stargazing a real fright
Gyrating wildly on a hot tin roof
                                                         Shining like the sign advertising
My entrance in the marquee light
                                                           ­         And all those jerks in the theatre say “Good Heavens!”

I know you can’t look up at me that far
                                     But have you seen those angels
Posing on Sunset Boulevard
                                                  Where­ they hear phosphorescent confessions
From the morning commuters
                                            And the flow of the universe quivers
Staring into their third eyes

I wanna be that guy
                                          I want those jerks watching entertainment news
Fainting under astral projection
                                                And in time
You can be my creative director
You can be my creative director
                                         Pasting me to Tarot Cards and
Fireworking my profile in the night sky
                                            I’ll sponsor a product
  And kids will line up to
                                               Bathe in the votive hot lights of my name
It’s a sign
                               We’re so far reaching

67 miles outta town and
                                    67 million miles from the sun
I know it feels righter than night when UV rays
                                                       Penetrate your credulous face
But the spirit of the west glistens much brighter in the
                                                kinetic shrines of the stubbled L.A. Agents
What a sight the streets are in the
                                alien smog of the neon lunar deities
Give me the keys, we’re going
                                                         67 miles for your troubles
In a bubble of cogito confusion


when you clear your head space to the tune of imported incense
                                                         ­  Us pretty young things take the place of
Nirvana and since then you’ve come to your senses
                                                   I’m not so doe-eyed on the inside
                                                   I’m not so doe-eyed on the inside
When you surf TV channels
                                     And gaze through a medium’s eye
There am I
                                                 The saint of the teenybopper insurrection  
The goddess of hollywood dead resurrection
                                                    ­  On a late night program
Where I’m the last thing they see when they cry

So shake a leg to my manifesto
                                          Like those UFO cults in the rock clubs
And abandoned churches did on the night
                                                           ­   I made the city of angels starry-eyed and searching for
visions, whether in mosh pits, red carpet
                                                          ­           Events or selfish decisions,
made in the name of those wizards who run the whole operation,
                                                                ­The seances, humanoid dolls and TV dinners
The astrology impacting the target market
                                        The facetious “He is risens!"

I’m a scam on the human spirit!
                                                    And you can't blame this on youth, fame, voyeurism
Or even religion
                                        But renewed faith in seeing a
familiar face, the mystery of
                                                    luminaries­ in blacklight  space
The supernova of the pop of a flash, it takes
                                      A lot of unnatural light to keep the kids
Mystified, and the aura
                                       Oh so strong

I know you can’t find the precious time
                                                                ­             But let’s take those jerks outside looking up
to a  heaven in orbit where young stars
                                                           ­   fall from the sky

Shuddering to the peak of a melting release,
my ribs and shoulder blades dissolve
into wax pools
on the sturdy wrap-around porch of your arms.
Breathing simple syrup air of southern rocking-chair swaying, swing me
swooning in dizzy spree, spinning at light speed.
Everything
appears to be standing still -
steaming,
blurred, and
suspended
in the sun's heat.
Staggering
intoxicated off beauty,
pupils pulsing the width of galaxies
shining brighter than any planet, piercing, intent
on absorbing
every fleeting moment,
stretching time's tendrils taught into
slow
motion.
Expanding
the space
sixty seconds
fills,
thickening
richness,
shedding
pretenses,
and
littering them
careless
onto the decomposing blanket
of leaves
pooled at the edges of our naked feet.
Tell me,
that when your eyes close to kiss me
you see sunspots fireworking
in the dark,
that every time you smell lavender
you can ******* skin
warm on your tongue,
that in your dreams
I am the moon
and your celestial body cannot resist my gravity.
And I will reply
that I've been trying
to look into your eyes,
but all I see are stars.