Paradise Dross’t

Aftermath desires
rebirth as today’s messiahs
a mixed bag of sorrowful futures
spun to remix, remake
everything old isn’t worth the effort
it never was
but we want the past
a craving out of control
yesterday’s love is castor oil
all we need of tomorrow, spewn from history
match it up
feel it up against what’s felt
there’s no understanding like the present
unless interference is run, confusing now
confusing the current
con and fluent
counter expression
knowledge falls apart
happy and ignorant in the garden
as it has always been best for it to be
a man is a vacuum
a vacuum is the last extreme of death unfulfilled
and what else: purple and moon and love
fire in the grill
pulchritude in the mill
seven minus seven is a null bit again
not to be forgotten
the possum on the roadside rotten
painted like a clown is until
the sunsets on and on alone… in a void Earth
Happy enough at home.

Birds of a Feather

Sleek ruinous sex songs sirenate upon luxurious legs of gazelle
sauntering newborn, wobbly on high heels
begging for tedium and brawn
transparent erections of plumage display. uplifted
expose more than naked chicken ass
out on the pavement pigeons strut
like the last Dodo on dead-end island, mateless
in the blood and breathing Dutchman’s oven
a delightful luncheon for a scurvy crew
follicle roots bleeding, gums all receding
teeth painted in dots as dice
rolling chompers, deceased ivory soldiers
never to penetrate flesh again
whether twilight or dawn
gleaming last or first
pelvic thirst enfevers feeble brains
boiling testosterone stew
tossing in estrogen meat
hop, strut and puff
claw, tear and gnash
sneak, creep and surprise
there are many paths up fuck mountain, mounting
pitchers on their mounds
the grass is on the field
eggs are cracking into skillets. hot
hot, hot, hot
men are warbling on the stage
showmanship of the rod and staff
love this if you can and try hard if you can’t
to take wing and get away
deny all earthly pleasure
keep the flag from flying free, under cassock and God
my indivisibility is failing
I divide and I let loose
like a bird upon the wing
circling celibate hens in monastical coops
zeroing in on targets forbidden
all this love all pent up
I am a swan sticking it home in Leda
O. my child
Behold! For I am the Lord thy God

Bargain Bin Identity

The skull is the first obstacle and final impasse
beyond is the horizon like a pen
closed in all sides by eyes
unable to spot mister mousey stir
in tall grasses two miles off.
The senses explode passages of screams and
light out of our heads
tilting back and gurgling in all worldly dread
too petrified to spit
something other than isolationist love
forces us to swallow
concepts of border, state, nation
and others beyond who need be brought defeat by
the wrath of timetable men bearing
precision clocks, square scales and encyclopedic assurity,
hateful of how their passions leave them abandoned –
inside their love there is no room for breath
no space for the without
no brotherhood and no sisterhood within
the confines
of our “keep your slut-ass away from MY man” world
in which all our greatest devices
are prisons for our keeping
and ultimate retreat
through our senses
away from the brilliance of broad horizons
back to the hush – as heard from the womb
a gradual diminuendo unto the silence
and nothingness that poses no prohibition except for the possibility
we might truly exist should we move forward again and stop seeking rebirth.

Gimme x3

Membership has its privileges
like God’s precious chosen few
the corporation smiles upon you
prayers like dollars
cash is worship
praise holy money
sing it in a song of tithe
first class, blessed
business premium
in the preferred program
line to the sky – to endless wonders
of surplus stock
‘My Walmart ‘tis of thee
vulgar sweet piety’
like wishes
like blessings
‘like’ us on Facebook
and receive the Father’s love
50% off coupons
member rewards
an avalanche of desires
hopeful and lusty
towards one goal – gain
against all others
on streets of gold
card rewards
buying sky miles
purchasing indulgences
by self-serving brand loyalty
a frequent flyer escape
from temporal punishment
of the common yahoos
clambering up the platinum plus ladder to success
in sight of the Kingdom
the apocalyptic utopia of prizes galore
gimme times three
unhappy and wanting to the end

Relentless Trajectory to Afterwards

Dispensed grains of corn and wheat go through
the hourglass, go
downward by design’s default
gravity insists the bottom become bigger
ever grander in its expansive majesty
the fattest asses claim nature’s prize
against the impotent will
the thinning masses dead aim on life
trickle down only trickles within
hungry system’s structure
on railways and through intestines
nature knows its course well
as it courses away, always, from
those who need most
to they who want it all
like nova stars burning out planets
full of bounty – exploding in cry baby fits –
they are empty of empathy
thoughtless consumers
eating mightily
shitting down vast mountains
in which the lesser may climb
for meager crumbs of cake at the top
where the kings of poverty dine on polder
reclaimed from seas of trash
and the misery of billions
so that the hundreds who remain
may fast forward on their senseless and relentless
trajectory to afterward
where the dead await
their one and only grim prize
in a Heaven of credulous coprophages

Selflessness is Not Always a Virtue

Fat Karl, putting his pinko dink down the slave-hole
is this where he gets his ideas
about the owners screwing the workers?
commie cock – thesis
maid minge – antithesis
squalling bastard conception, Manifest Kommunistischen – synthesis
lardy soft hypocrites in luxury
full of their ease and idle thoughts
each and everyone a rare gem set into a hip flask
filled full of moonshine cut with bootleggers’
blood and engine oil – dipstick a swizzle stick
stirring up revolution, confusion, self-immolation
swallowing lotus blossoms under the Bodhi tree
a big bald baby in a diaper, spoiled ingrate
bubbling high on wealth’s wisdom to the poor
embrace your poverty
abandon worries and self
will this work for the working class?
the Buddha and Marx square off in the ring
body blow, fist to gut, tug to beard
sweat, bruises, swollen closed eyes
speaking no common language
except that of privilege and education
time to think – worth dying for and killing
father knows best warriors, panting breathless like lovers
upon their backs, sharing a Marlb red, but Karl
has a final coup – surreptitiously he empties the flask
into the tank, ripping the chord and
chain-sawing through the enlightened fool’s tree
as the Buddha hyperventilates his ass to verticality
to wrestle the Chainsaw from the first Marxist’s clutches
this wonderful machine of tireless teeth, this buzzing tool of violent action
this means of production
the Buddha holds it now, little lost pampered prince,
and knows what he must do
for the good of his class
happiness never decreases by being shared
but power does
he gives it all away
and strikes the Jew down

Wreck

That’s my luck
hydroplaning in drought
“Always” getting closer
than to the back of a Wal-Mart truck
skidding 180˚ backwards to eternity

That’s my time
born right in it,
of it, part of it
neither too early nor late
fitting in comfortably of no use
leaving no mark

That’s my style
formal attire under a skidrow tarp
ready to dance circles around police on the sweep
if you have no partner, grab a broom
and ride, witchy-poo
because

That’s my party
an afternoon of free grocery store samples
crackers, cheese
a shot of Patron coffee liquor
by myself and on the town, waiting
for security to say, “When!”

That’s my pride
wounded out the door

That’s my exit
forced

That’s my scrutiny
laser focused against
all who are not like me
not infected
I am Omega Man in negative
inverted, reversed, flipped and downsized
armed only with belief
that personality is illness
and all the well require sickening

That’s my asshole
shitting all over manicured lawns
this fertilizer’s better
let me give it to you
put it inside you
where wonders will be born
as we go the full 360 together
U.S. highway statistics in love

It Goes

it goes by slow
it goes by tedious
it goes by so it goes
and most importantly it goes,
in hindsight, fast is how by
it seemed to have went
but it did not
that speed is an illusion
the race to the grave – a stall on the freeway

Reservoir Gods

religion is an ignorant thief, chiefly
removing such treasures from the public as
knowledge and freedom
around minds and governments
it builds prisons
and creates a bold herd class
of the aggressively anti-intellectual
those not content to quietly contemplate their faith,
but who are irrationally compelled
to ferociously legislate against all free people,
treating as a blight: liberty, equality and justice
curtailing happiness’ pursuit
they dictate and condemn, arrogantly
propped up by their beliefs
they are immodest, unquestioning and unyielding
relentless in their drive to model society upon their fantasy
intolerant to other views calling their views into question
absolute in their conviction –
conviction, a source of pride,
but also unmistakably their downfall,
and pride comes not before
but as – certain of their innocence,
they are found guilty
contagions of shame, darkness, misinformation
and ultimately – theft
stealing from science education
ripping people off of life’s choices
kidnapping the minds of the young
and falsely imprisoning them within bogus histories
until the Stockholm Syndrome kicks in
and the stolen youth
identify with their abductors
become terrorists themselves
commit the same old stale crimes, gleefully
in the name of all that’s sacred and holy
for the well-being of all
for even those who die
when the perfect crime goes wrong

I Turned Her Off

She turned the expansive white plane of her back to me
a treacle thin spill of semi-employed sunlight
ignited the high hill of her hip
into that warmth a fly alit
I did nothing as she started to talk
“I can be cold,” she let the words drop
from her mouth, careless like cracker crumbs upon the bed
“so cold. I do love you…”
syllable sharp and short as her breath
her voice played absently on my senses
circling the room as a housefly may
when it doesn’t have such a lovely lazy place to lay
I stroked her shoulder, reached around for a long fleshy breast
as blood ran into my loneliest places and crawled
up her lower buttock like a tedious slug up the drain
“…but…”
she turned her head, my finger on her nipple ready to release hell,
tears welled over and fell from deep and shuttered abscessed eyes
“I’m thinking about turning it off. I can
turn it off so fast… like that,” her fingers
snapped so softly, and I rolled her
angry wing taken – a buzz of hateful dismay
the razor swipe of sun sliced
straight across the jumping curve of her belly
like a laser torn Caesarean scar
“I can turn it off…” but I could not
and proceeded, slow, friction, building speed
rubbing two sticks together, trying desperately
to get the hearth ablaze
to fire the prurient passions
I really believed I could, but she…
she had blown out the pilot
it was long since and forever turned off