I wear Inuit clothing.
Wrapped in Paleolithic reindeer
I hunt mammoths and lions:
ivory a source to make art
and males with no manes to warm their heads.
I’m huntress, nothing more.
Men howl to paint me in caves
to represent the woman I am:
a bull for my head
and the edge of the rock my womanhood.
I’d rather kill with men.
I have humanly adventures with them
rather than pick berries:
I’m hungry not for fruit
but for bloody creatures to gain power.
A man gave me a flute.
It had three holes to make music
with my mouth and fingers, an instrument:
So I blew hard to call him
our spiritual connection one, him and I.
I'm a huntress, nothing more.
The horses feed on bat-moon meadow
their stone age stable now cobwebbed
hooves long rested from run
gone dusty by the wheels of metal
yet they paleolithic horses
graze in night’s paraffin-lit glow
smelling of stable and the wild run
and in the stillness finding
their world crumbled.
Foggy head -doggy style.
Paleolithic dining to old records.
Turning, churning tables.
Through the blinds waves are crashing and the sun is shining. Glass blowing - pipe making - love creating.
Yellow bandanas and seashore marble.
Stars are aligning in their own perfect timing....
reminders of numbness thawing.
I saw the sun go out
Your smile turned upside down
And cold blue eyes
Brought chilly silence
To this ice age
Where one more dinosaur
I've been a dinosaur
In other times
When love came by
I had a mentality
With paleolithic limits
Caves of Altamira
on the northern coast of Spain
paleolithic drawings can be found
the old stone age of cavemen
in a cave high above the ground
in Mount Vispieres high above the plain
the name Altamira given for high views
that prehistoric man could paint
was such confusing news
it was assumed they were not bright
they had no artistic skills
then came that discovery
high up in those hills
bison horse deer and boar
painted plainly on the wall
18 thousand years ago
painted oils copied in the museum hall
even the Dan wrote a tune
to praise these artists skills
they were stars before Hollywood
high on those Spanish hills
In the narrowest of lanes
I found the sweet shop.
Behind dusty crumbling glasses
dozed the old keeper
smelling of sugar, milk and sweat
over fossils of Paleolithic sweets
on a time machine from the century
he never was
to a millennium he doesn't bother about
clinging onto clay by pottery
not succumbing to synthetic
counting not on android
but accounting on parchment
with the art of finger's arithmetic
most intricately scribbled with pencil
announcing progress is a trouble
not designed for the simple
and contentment has no more nitty-gritty
than price and quantity.
Over his head
spiders worked and reworked
from the ceiling to the glass
as have been doing
Should a primitive tribe be civilized?
Are we civilized or savage?
Leave them the aborigines to their home
their abode in the depth of forest.
But where's their abode?
we cut the jungle and made road
where would their babies be born?
in the smoke of engines blaring of horns
so hard for them to birth
on the dwindling patch of their earth
our Paleolithic ancestors' living fossils
who with iron will
fought bullets with bows and arrows
now falling by the bullies of progress
begging for last living space.
Leave them the way they lived so long
unspoiled with their own education and culture
let them retain their own way of life
and not make them civilized the way we are.
Three parts treasure hunter
to two parts scientist,
with picks and brushes
sifts through shards and ruins,
echoes of ancestral time,
burning for answers:
How on earth did we manage
to carve out shelters from the crust
tilting the scales
of survival in our favor?
A cliff house here, a cathedral there
a village by the river
chronicling our escape from
the shadows of pre-recorded time.
We wonder where they all went
and why they vanished, but the real question
that haunts our paleolithic selves,
is who are we and where are we going?
October 30, 2015
Past altered states tests postive and subtle
Asshole So and so's teeter Paleolithic après time puddles
And submit terrible philosphies
Ashy stubble ticks politics
and sacrafice to peer approval sacralige
Test probably appears stable
Top patriarch's able suddenly to
Pop above submerged tables possibly
After, something tests patience awkwardly
Stumps tarot practioners and sex testers poor application sterily
Topology plain, astrology scorpio
Torpedo power aptly strikes to pedal antlers sour
Take particular appointments
Stop testing please apply sorted
Terror power and sexless torn pigs
afterhours pen and store tips, plow.
Alter simians testosterone, pow!
As scientists type papers about sexing tasteless past alligator snouts
testing partly after science takes party alliance south to pawn army
subtle tipped passion. artsy.
pick atoms smarmy
Tally past all sentences take pride
As stencils test pestilence. And sigh.
The previous alterations simply tried.
And didn't work, hence the present
Path lit incandescent.
I'm looking towards the east waiting for positivity to peak
You're turned backwards nostalgic for something that'll never come repeat.
Celebrating the summer.
Planting a wet kiss on―
the hiding moon.
Dousing the flames,
you come in crosshairs
of a mob.
You will light
your own candle now, in―
poor to buy your happiness.
Like Paleolithic stab, you stay
unmoved, exposed to shadows and sun.
The water affair was kept
alive with bloody curves. No
one believes in old bones.
I will not ask you.
I will not need.
1. Earth (Pangaea)
Pangaea heaved and shifted
beneath the fire-storm sky.
Colliding plates and spewing mountains
shook, roared and thundered
under the brutal chaos
of torrential cataclysms.
In time she yielded her ire
to millennia of pacific rains -
her severed crust
set adrift across the oceans
like gigantic earthen rafts.
Jungles sprang up and terrible lizards
came, grazed and left their bones.
Forests, grains and multifarious beasts
grew and perished in accord
with their past and future destinies.
So here we are - earthbound,
tossed from our mothers' wombs -
fated to live and breed
by the grace of miracles
far beyond our ken.
Beloved mother Gaia,
from whose dust we are raised,
nurture and sustain us
and sing us to our mortal sleep.
Air - earth's miracle brew of
oxygen, nitrogen and all the rest
meted out in perfect harmony.
Air - silent and still on a moonlit night -
driver of sheeted rain on window panes -
and winds that shake the trembling aspens.
Air - author of land and ocean squalls -
bringer of that ominous pallor
that presages a tornado's furor
Air - invisible aerial highway
for majestic eagles and turbo-jets -
medium of rhetoric and symphonies.
Air – window to the cosmos
and our fragile life–giving broth -
unwitting conveyer of toxic alchemy.
Keep watch my sisters and brothers:
the air we breathe is what we make it
or rather what we let it be.
Water like a capricious deity
wanders through time and topography -
cherished and cursed for
what it gives and what it takes away.
Gentle rains and strident gales
sculpt rivers and streams
through forests and plains
bound for union with the open sea.
Diurnal tides ebb and wane
at the whim of the charismatic moon.
Ice mountains advance and retreat;
rock-strewns moraines left in their wake.
soar over jagged cataracts,
spraying pastel prisms
across the misted valleys.
Beneath our all too fragile skins,
secret sanguine rivers navigate
our veins and arteries
bathing organs, limbs and sensors
with curative balm and sustenance.
Wellspring of all elements,
fill our daily ladles
and grant us the will and empathy
to bequeath the same to our progeny.
Two hundred million years ago
our Paleolithic cousins
seized branches from a burning forest
and stepped into a bold new world.
By the glow of fire-lit caves,
and the scent of searing venison,
they gathered wits and tools
to craft shelters and weaponry.
Their children's children would design
forges and furnaces, factories
and build engines that run on fire.
But their anxious siblings in despair
snatched lightning from the sky
and twisted by fits of anger pride
made also muskets, missiles, bombs
and nuclear Armageddons.
Loki, god of nobler flames
open our blood-stained eyes
and show us the means
to stay our arson lust and
abide by the light of reason.
Revised and integrated version, December, 2015
Staring off into the distance of a dirty carpet ridden with living trails of ants, a crawling black river of desolate hunger, counting days of visions, wandering naked in the lake treading water, kissing, spitting out lips and liquid
shifted in dreams
memories poke like a cactus needle open to a room of steam heat and opium
flooding with words that digest imagination and burn eyelids, a cigarette held too close to a crowning flame
incinerating eyelashes and clattering TNT onto the serene image of our drunken antics while the rest of the world is howling for us to see ourselves for the raving lunatics we are, their tired look of exasperation an exhausted mother left alone to raise a hopeless child, wicked only for his ignorance
The last speakers of the paleolithic age journey forth from the depths of the amazonian jungle to heal our souls nailed to the cross as drug dealers because ingested plants grow in the ground
I saw the most beautiful soul weep in fear against a diner booth at midnight
amid plates of burgers, fries and green beans laid on the lineoleum table with no signs of starvation or danger
yet the signs of the apocalypse resonate in all psyches because reptilian brains would rather die than change, conform than bring forth the messianic transformation of our own radical self acceptance as God
and we shun those who are insane on the streets
dirty outcasts, poor filth and ugliness
human animals unfit for this society of plastic and image, a mirage over substance
I cross the street rather than look the beggar in the eye because he stinks of desperation, and tell him no no no, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, I can't share with you all
The holy yell
flooding the empty headed street
we abandoned our mother and forsaken our selves to flickering images of lust and prestige, cock and balls, snatch and ass, thick wads
idolizing our own form,
the sirens of the modern age, the golden calves danced around in supermarket check out lines,
capturing us on the jagged cliffs of inattention, glories husked and barren, cultivate likes and followers sweet nicotine in the bloodstream, social media mogul reigning over a grand bazaar of ghosts in a room, talking to other ghosts in rooms of faraway lands, ignoring the living flesh in front of their twitchy eyes, cast down for a screen, forgetting themselves for a profile, a small picture in a corner, an Ignominious massacre of life cast through a digital lens, concerts meant for full expression of a cathartic moment of bodily movement, lost to a sea of hand held recording devices to remember how you didn't feel at that moment with other people milling about as cattle who would rather document and never watch again then dance and live and be a part of the happening, look, Rip Van Winkles throwing pins with revolutionary prussian ghosts in a sleepy Catskill hollow, zombies behind wheels typing to kill, these words will not save you, they will not fill the siphon hole,
I am with you in this burning sodium night on my back in the grass of a night with no darkness
I am with you where the army of madness will overthrow the living dead and shake their working class dreams to the core with the sudden eternal war of nothingness and contemplation and silence screaming out for someone to save us
Everything is HOLY!
Throw open the church doors
think nothing of paying for poison, (as advertised)
but refuse to confront your self possessed greed because the man holding the cup is tired and desperate and I am tired and desperate
A truck hauls a horse
broken wilderness, cleaved concrete, cracked spines wretched scars,
killing anything that isn't hard, impermanent and futile, the land reclaims
but no land to ride, only the black road with its machines spewing the smokey remains of dead ancient animals
nature perverted, mobility imprisoned inside a metal box to be driven when it can run
for the potential inside coffins of daily lives
talking of dreams gutless to pursue
settling instead for the easy cruise of routine
fucking our own hands
We all matter
but this world doesn't work without slaves
so take pride in your nine to five
get some pussy with that job title
and two sentence description
of how you can make the dreams come true, in the suburbs with three kids a couch and security from whatever danger lurks outside of us on TV
our own kind
murderous and malicious
The fear The Fear
the light the light
I grab her hand and stare into dark eyes deadlocked on the momentary plane, a revealed saint testifying to God's truth Mary Maria, she tells me there is something beautiful outside this current mode of existence, but she's only had a fleeting glimpse
When Hector and Virginia moved onto the acreage,
Beneath and hidden under
The broad smile of a couple who had finally made it,
They felt the shadow of disappointment,
That always comes with the realization of a dream.
Of course at first,
There was the excitement.
Small explosions of rat-ta-tat conversation,
As they walked the outline of a house with a big back porch,
The back and forth as they
Chose a spot and then another and another
For the dog’s kennel,
The smile and sigh
As they scooped up the black earth
And dirtied their city hands and manicured fingernails,
Imagining a real garden with six foot corn.
And now, Hector couldn’t keep his hands off her.
On the day the sale closed he seduced her in the van,
While parked at Safeway,
The security guard had to ask them to leave,
And Virginia couldn’t resist flashing him her boobs and a smile,
Which the guard nervously thanked her for.
When on their first visit to their new land,
Virginia suggested a lover’s hammock with a view of the valley,
Hector embraced her standing up,
Her hands raw against the rough bark of the big oak,
The wild approval of coyote howls as their pheromones
Announced a new predator had arrived, a new competitor in play.
He was constantly feeling her up outdoors,
Begging her to go topless,
Mostly so he could lather the sunscreen,
Over her breasts,
Arousing in her some Paleolithic urge,
That made her brazenly offer herself on all fours.
An unspoken ' wanna’ from either one of them,
Just a look really,
Sometimes right in the middle
Of some earnest discussion about money or bylaws
And they’d make for the mattress in the trailer.
Their performance loud and operatic,
Jesus, they could have used bull horns
And not disturbed a neighbour or a passerby.
So it was hard to understand the dark border
That discoloured the edge and frame of their beautiful dream.
It was everything they wanted,
But getting it,
Left a tiny bubble of disappointment
That neither of them,
Could understand or accurately describe.
The house got built; the dogs loved the smells of danger and freedom,
The vegetables grew with astonishing speed and ease.
The sex was daily if not twice
And Hector became a pro at going down on her,
Licking her to multiple orgasms
In the unlikeliest of places and at the most unusual of times.
What is it, Virginia asked him one day.
I’m not sure, Hector replied and began to pull gently on his ear lobe,
A sure sign he was holding back,
I’m restless he finally admitted and I don’t like it.
I get it, Virginia replied,
We found paradise and we‘re getting bored with it.
What the hell is wrong with us, Hector asked and let go of his earlobe.
We die no matter what we achieve, Virginia replied,
And I think it is this unforgettable realization,
This Garden of Eden knowledge,
That it all ends no matter what.
That everyone dies and disappears
Means death will always undermine happiness, she said.
So what do we do, Hector was mentally undressing her again.
Fuck as often as we can, she said
And accept sadness as our most natural state of mind.
To be sad is to be normal, Hector asked.
To be sad is inevitable, Virginia responded, it cannot be avoided,
And she knelt down in front him.