I've been shaken from the earth
no longer dwell among 
the wretched. I'm a mote
in your eye, a mosquito on the hot
humid night held captive 
in that heart of hearts
you hide like pirate treasure
and caress like gold.  There comes
a moment when we must let the end have
its way, must step aside
and give time its ravishing 
days under the skin of myth
and science.  In that same moment
is a newer morning after this long dark 
night foisted upon us by foolish cave-
dwelling philosphers and desert-dusted 
shaman. These suit-clad professionals
tell me everything, how it works
and why.  Like priestly vestments
they are dry-clean-only and won't be stained
by the gibberish that spills from my pen
won't wait calmly in line 
with all these idols, gods and heroes
that vie endlessly for my feeble
attentions.  I don't listen really
prefer to think that your words 
are the feathers in a bed so comfortable
I could sleep for centuries upon the delicate
strains of each note in this chaotic symphony
we stumble through like dazed children.
And I know you are human, know your fallicies
I wear them like gems on my rings
kiss them when I'm feeling alone
and throw them, everso deftly, before
every swine that charges this way.
One day I'll wake with dim memories 
of these shy little games and timid 
goose-step armies.  You'll lie beside
me in deep-breath dreams, those sun-drenched
green visions that wrap worlds 
and bring my feet firmly 
to the planet we want
bring us stars that we know
like our own empty souls.

A missing by minutes the fumbled remains 
of a dream. The blackened perfection you keep 
in the folds of a skirt like an empty tomorrow 
is a door ever closing. Thin light strains around 
a silhouette curved at the end of my sight. 
How clever your skin, how forgetful 
my palms. This swollen tongue, a naval blockade 
starves an island nation at the pit 
of my gut. No words shred this steely grey 
coat, this lacquer-finished heart. Death sits 
closely to my concrete mouth, says "wait, 
you've no reason to stand". Your feet don't pause 
they walk cleanly away, echo later in keys. I watch 
your steps an ascension of saints
a chasm of inches.

I want time to be a film
the kind with "reverse", the kind to let me
replay, to cut me some slack. Not the ponderous parade
of days, the yet-another-mornings with daydreams
and sleep. I want time to be a film
with direction and pace. Show me how to act
to do it on cue, to answer your finger's snap 
with a click at the heel. Never have we taken 
the night as a slave, made it bend 
to our will, but we know that we could make it 
dance like the gypsy it is. Make it cry
for a touch from the sun. I watch 
your steps an ascension of saints
a chasm of inches.

There is a Place where I can be everything 
that I am; hoped to meet you there. 
But it is a window or a wall, the situation 
is unclear, like waiting for a bus 
that never came, a train 
that never ran. The bluer light of the moon
cradled snowbanks like the air held
my hand. A swept embrace from the ice 
the stealer of heat, the stalker of Prometheus'
Fire, reassures like a slap in the face. 
Walk straight don't fall turn
to see it unfold. I watch your steps
an ascension of saints
a chasm of inches

Occurs to me that we wait
in a collective way for the complete 
demise of humanity.  Like we're too cool to live 
or evolve beyond this Darwinian universe.
Nuclear fires are a neurosis 
of our Collective Unconscious. Off 
on a sapient branch, our ceaseless Hands
kindle and burn the Tahitian sea 
with flames fashioned at the fusion 
of a god's gaseous heart. An unhinged 
piece of the Sun, not descended, 
but made, it bends the sheer beauty of existence 
and redeems in the sense of a damsel's laugh 

at the dragon's demise. They say that the Bomb breathes

so brightly that Night is turned
into Day. Perhaps, weapons made stronger 
than armies will even turn Hate into Love
But do they erase the lines drawn
from cells to societal walls?

Somewhere between we are 
strangers buried in cultural shrouds, 
eyes glazed remnants of a broken Mirror. Seven beasts 
of Christ's arousal lie tame 
at the foot of our benevolent brother 
and we dare everyone to stop us. Prefer to die 
in a fairytale because, at least, sacrifice 
is testimony to the rightness of our way. M.A.D. savior 
waves keep our virgins pure for a rapid deployment 
of force. With cold logic reason calculates 
our dance, like saturated molecules 

at the synapse' final frontier. They say that god breathes 

so sweetly that Death can be taken 
from Life. Perhaps, belief made stronger 
than fact will turn Evil to the wonders of Good. 
But does it teach us to live 
with the litter of ancestral battles?Somewhere we are prostrate 
and throw prescribed words into the unknown. 
Like a fly in the cold we're slower and the sun 
burns away at our skin. Stricture and tradition
project a demonic way of deceit, create what is feared. 
Sin is original because God needs the fallen
as stock for a voluminous flock. During harvest 
Christlike sheep play at Sheparding, they're bouncers 
at the heavenly gate. The price of keeping gods 
is mistrust in the faces we make 
and the battlefield's an altar no matter 
what colors you wear. They say that we breathe

so deeply that Dream can be taken for 
Real. Perhaps a fact made stronger than belief
would imbue Chaos with the chance of a Plan.
But which god lays claim to these games 
of ritual costume? And to whom shall we offer
Energy condensed into Mass?

Somewhere life is the Answer 
and the Question the voice 
in your head. That place is the vision 
between thoughts, the plot 
between words, it is hewn by the hand 
we can't stop. When one day we stand
on this thing that we've built 
and know the virtues of height, 
then will we forgive the sins 
of the past. Then will the gods become 
the sacrificed and we, the cleanser 
of souls.

Just 10 soles to get outta Cusco
ain't got the cash and the plane go
I sit on the street eatin' mango
couple more days I'll be an Andino.

     I listen carefully to your fine carved rock
     but my cold northern heart hears only echoes
     whispers of your secret cities.  A mountainous calm
     still enough to settle these mechanical emotions
     is a legacy left to crumble beneath 
     the slow rage of centuries.

Just 10 soles to get outta Cusco
ain't got the cash and the plane go
I sit on the street eatin' mango
couple more days I'll be an Andino.

     A live-stone waystation, side-altar
     in the cathedral of this life spent
     walking away.  While Neruda's words fly
     with the swallows like clouds embrace
     peaks.  We are blessing and blest.
     Yet even this sacred center 
     cannot stave the restless
     demand of this quest with
     only one end.
     
Just 10 soles to get outta Cusco
ain't got the cash and the plane go
I sit on the street eatin' mango
couple more days I'll be an Andino.

A man walked quickly, some would say
purposefully, into the alley.  He stood askance
the darker corner just out of sight
and waited for just the right moment,
waited for just the right one.

Then he, quite literally, took them.  He made boots
of their skin, a wallet of the scalp.  
Ate the fermented liver with sweet white
wine. Such was his pain. Such was his unrequited
darkness abandoned and blind.  A river of undercurrent
and mayhem ran its banks in the hinterland
consuming all that it found.



Another sat quietly, some would say
reverently, cross-legged in the room.  He sat amid
the candle-fire spectres just out of touch
and waited for just the right moment
waited for just the right one.

Then he, quite literally, took them.  He made books
of their skin, a dance of the scent.
Ate the tastier bits with vintage green
tequila.  Such was his pleasure.  Such was his unrequited
lightness invisible and dissolved.  An ocean of stillborn
desire and calm cradles islands at the center
holds all that it finds.



What chaotic fusion set these two into the same world
with sainthood and war?  That my friend, is the sullen
discontent of enlightenment, the culmination
of philosophical quests.  What twist in the molecules
could bring us here, into the same world 
with poetry and news?

I'm not writing another poem
about all the things that I should have
done. No wishes that life could be
different, no romance.

I'm like a love story with no four
letter words, they've been cut
and buried. I hold the pieces
and rust like this vision I have. It 
must be heaven  cause I'm dying to be 
in. O but I'm not writin' another poem

about all the things that I should have
done. Those stories bore me, they're drills
to the core of this thing. We are a murderer
a rapist, that dude who ate frozen 
little children, saints, the person 
who has stolen your heart. No
I'm writin' a poem 

about the goodness of life, the smile 
when you've spoken in truth. You could say 
I open a vein, that I spill blood to gain 
your applause. Or my body's sex is metaphor
of masturbatory skills. Readings like porn 
for the mind, a way to get off, to bring 
it all home. But I'm not writin' another poem
about all those things we should have 
done. Not gonna itemize our guilt,
not laying the blame. Just tryin' to pull 
one on up, to sculpt the shape of a mind 
at unrest, the curves of a soul that can't stand
to sit still. You know, it is the act of weaving 
the more mobile nature of sculpture 
that is held by this menagerie of molecules
suspended on the air of our room. 

It is the lingering aspect of words
that moves into a heart, into a head
and makes a home amongst discarded notions
and the quaint leavings of faith.  Thought rolls
like a river, does not know the rigid suspense
of power lines, or the dammed insistance of artificial
lakes.  We have swum rapids of time, rode
crests of evolution, just to stand
here and tell tales. So I'm not writin' another poem

about all those things we should 
have done. That story decays 
in my hand. All this revisionist history
all these cover-your-ass drafts, as if today can 
be changed by spinning the past. It is tommorrow 
I'm after, the hope I cuddle and warm.

As I walk through this place
that we like to call our home,
my eyes don't seem to rest
on any sight for longer than it takes


to know that it is not what I want.
Maybe a bit further on and around
the next corner I'll find that feeling
like when the music first hits your ear
and you are certain that you know the song.


Right now, the air is singed and crisp
with the scent of ethnic unrest. 
It seems like my eyes are always squinted
into the wind, like I always watch the horizon
for crosses and hoods.  These archaic assassins of god


reap the hatred they sow like farmers of death. Moved
from cross to church, not a threat any longer,
they just do it.
I fell asleep during a documentary about Kristalnacht
and woke to late night news of burnt up churches


I've been disjointed ever since.  Still don't understand
why we insist that all instability is outside, that we can't
come apart at the seams.
These feeble, few words are all that I've got 
to mend the wound that they've torn.  I stand 


to confront their hatred, for silence is approval's
best friend.  This chaotic deity will not waltz
in my garden.  His quest for war will not find
a home as long as I breathe
and for you give my pen.