Old Purpose Remembered

i feel sick digesting my history
not from lament or remorse or headaches
but real indigestion of Purpose;
there're images that stick and people we see
punctuation marks on life that last
to conflagrate our visions of Purpose;
i'll go through this mighty realm of others and read
all about their stories in books and magazines
and ponder what they mean to my Purpose;
what does poetry do on paper, jealous leaves,
when all it does is muck up your mind
and all you want is to crum up that purpose;
that purpose is old and dirty prose
keeping me from my duty
my newfound gifts of futuresome deeds
and Purpose.

Economics

copper up a holy sacrifice
of learning
we build up a mighty ladder
reach out starved as the stars
and open wide the pockets for
pennies that we love.
there is a great grumbling that kills
because it is Death
coppery tasting death of lives and
their minds and all the cats and dogs.
regard the absurd, regard the circling
viscousness. hope yourself and anyone
you can hold out of the empty mine.
this dust is beautiful and useful.
both beautiful and useful.
copper tongues to copper minds.

Call Me Christian

call me Christian
though your dogma disallows it
for I love Jesus, that holy soul of yesteryear.
he who taught us to be greater lovers of each other
taught us that the old men knew nothing of their God.
learn that lesson happily from your great master
that you were no better learned than they were.
he who called himself son of God
called you also
and me also.
so acknowledge that common blood
and make a New Jerusalem of all your brothers.

Ten Days of Feasting with Trees

ten days
magic number of change
timber roads fly at the future
release their great airy green musk
open God's mouth for eating
to begin the feast.
coax my stomach to be gentle
for smooth easy eating.
fine earthy growth
good preparartion for owing up
to the Father
the old old men
grow up my Baby!
run by them sweet green trees
your happy country mothers.
feed them with this small future
the next can eat itself.
yet ten days are forever.
mighty holy ten.
oh rumble of my belly!
goose egg number now
nine and one gone
the sky the great waste
no stars but death
a hell of a waste
but oh, that meal.
it'll go till the end
till my armageddon wins
more than ten
the future feeds another
we make another
God owes up to another
ten to one there'll be another
and another
my home holds many trees
behind and around this house
behind and into this town
far and away they speak
far and about they grow
its hard to learn begin from end
harder to hold on
but ten comes
again and again.

Swimming Forever

toga wrapped toes tip
down generations of us
Romans till the East comes
or flags unfurl forever.
we, mighty men of reptile
and fishy becomings, fly
from our parents into
the parenthood of dying.
dog days call out and our
ears always listen. for-
getting our own selves
in trying to be people.
i meet my music hushed
to scent out it's tenor
pause out its rhythm for
having its past, that mad
maker of reason and receiver
of reinvention. my children
can eat my heart a day later
cause there's a growing loud
rose to prick my feet for now.
big beautiful petals to love
me tender love me mad and
kiss those steps that touch
every moment everywhere at once.
it's a strange lesson full of
must be's and paper monkeys.
but i'm almost invincible now,
weak in spots that make me
springy. my hard parts move
amongst the airy space like
the elements they swim in,
pieces of Nature and parts of
God. It is indeed fun to be
a shiny happy mortal deity
most sublime to a world
of tragic darkness and pretty
vampires. i'll have to get
use to being dead when i'm
just another horsefly.
bye bye!

counterbalance

the sublime badness machine,
he lurks on my fringes
a shadow of passionate criminal beauty
infinite power to a nothing.

cheers to my destiny

The saga of slow death invites me to destiny
Full of intriguing possibilities to amaze my future
And make the faults of success never too hasty
For a comedy of soothing personal tragedies.
The headaches answer my apolgetic insults
And fill me with two inevitable mistakes
That are doubled masks of tranquility.
Salvation is a tricky drink of bitter wine and poison,
A timely rescue that can only come when the Fates are ready
To quench the burning futile flames of tobacco.
Four twenty comes and it's time for another fix
The world surrounds to claim another work of beauty
Lungish brains will cope with the straining transcendance.
I cannot help the task of readiness in my heart canopy
It is too big, too wild, too needful of resolution to quit
Its heroic battle against itself, the unequal nature and needs.
Is there a communion trial of help that will steady this balance
Forever change the loaded dice that are my desires trinity
And make those timeless fainting joys more easy.
Perhaps the rite of love will come a stumbling as grace
Falling as from above to appease these hurried glances of happiness
For once and then forever to make a good life of me.

relics

i grind my teeth now
a tribute to my past
my mouth speaking volumes
where words will not last
in time they may wear
the remedy isn't fast
but life will have its way
and leaves the mighty task

taker trying

what if I go faster?
tender pouting petals love me better
be a more mother to me
and make this a bee's life of trying.
can they honor more a man of destiny?
that word an act of agency within
rather than old grace.
I would give him many garlands,
he who o'erturned the Fates,
they witches that take.

ordinary

what if this is the end
downhill trodding to grave
the last great thing done and
undone. for me and by me.
i am bored of wasted lives
their natural, lazy, hopeful lives
being and unbeing before me,
my brethren.
i am another man of the world,
and no moneyed, worthy family will do.
my hunger has ulcerated
and the feast grants no satisfaction.
i have missed the good meal
and doomed myself to die,
to die for a very long time.

the help

square my coffee
red my design
eat my horror
and make me whole
a fine friend is completeness
corrector smile of fullness
hopeful fellow sleeper.

to write

pat pat pat
a cat and a rat
all the poet devices.
i take a few and bleed the pages black,
leech my heart of expectation
and prepare a coffin.
we all do with our work
with houses and kids and monuments
prepare our death for a life well lived.
life has a way of vexing that good death
and makes mockery of our artifices
till we doubt Descartes
and kill our minds with desire
and leave the living to bigger mouths.

living (part 2)

the Void calls out
sings out his soft song
in desperate harmony
counterpoint to all the world
forever and ever and never
siren to the alternative
mirror to an un-universe
a liar.
he cannot kill this world
that is better than eternal
it is now, always.
then and then and then
as it,
the ultimate object,
ourselves collective,
the ends of beginning all,
a book of God.

living (part 1)

the unhappy kindness haunts us
again and forever finds us
unprepared for silence

busto magnet's salvation

my writings on splatter paper
cross out each other with desire
talk to my motives
and always find where they started
crack open the expectations
by building a house of betrayal
they won't get me this time though
i've got psycho armor magic
applaude me all my followers!
brethren sages, busto magnets,
find your master music to dance to.
creep out this world to kill their laws
and make a happy stable chaos
that we can all be proud of.
we can all have separate meals together.

old intentions

wipe my dusty eyes
scribe my packed up dreams
find these horseshoe horoscopes
and get on my boots
it's try try again
again.

rant

"I go off on you
have my goat and eat it too-
it gives me good to take my pities,
bitch my troubles, fight my father
vicariously."
"I'll get it soon,
my money, my honey, big car,
smart house, and all the eyes out there-
but you don't want to go that far
not with me."
"I wanted it right
a good wild ride to safety,
but you ain't buying another's dreams
with your mysterious needs
and reasons.
"I could go off
and hate my self-"

Nicotine High and Headache

a calm brain drinks deeply
of filtered smoke spiced sweetly
loses the time
talks in rhyme
though it don't hold conversation
memories hold back
cloudy eyes roll back
to look and feel
slowly peel
now from then and then.
weary but fine
resting for sleep
holding off the line
that means another week
buzzing to a new headache.

Agone

heat
sleep
burning eyes and burning mind
fumbling pens following inner voices
the tingle, the pressure
and that old settling
History can come knocking now
with Dreams, his entertainer
if, that is,
they find the brain is working.
the triplets, Madness, Badness, and Sadness
have all gone home now
this world being too slow for them.
a sock
a book and a cup
the world can revolve around these now
the sun having distant affairs
and nature's Law having better things to do
one isn't lonely
who isn't with himself.

Agone, Alone, and Someone
Agone, Alone, and Someone lived in a hungry house
Agone wasn't there
and Alone knew where
cause Someone let him out.