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Saturday, March 19, 2011

Lines from Club Charles

xii. la palma

Long wild year
sure to disappoint
everything except reflections
rigging truth to be what else:

Heavy days, away with words,
110% humidity,
nothing but gone.
Still in the August daze,
limbs overreaching their interest
for a taste of something 
more than allowed--

tests inconclusive
state secrets stolen
stocks on the rise
the bubble goes pop….

We all face La Palma.
If it comes if it doesn't,
like the worst kinds of wars--
the ones we don't know we are fighting.


Lines from Club Charles

xi. bizarro

Pretty sure we are not doing
no ordinary life
so why not more
extraordinary push?


Life impels unjustified
action to make the best of.
A moment dawns mid-33.
The time is free
beyond the orbit.
Come with me.

If everything is true we’ve seen
fear is an angel.

I praised the herbivores--
mad bucks who broke the mouths of wolves and leopards,
praised the Zulu against impossible odds;

praised conquistador-in-shell
sent to circumnavigate
his shadow carousel,
lay from his hands the expansion
of infinite matter and sound,

reach past the hypergiants
knowing nothing but next
and doing what comes
to his immediate mind.

The blood on his hands is a shame.
And yet among the dead
you know his name,


the supertraitor
equal in all betrayals.

I walk in the way of extremely rare men
though something less would suit me.

I praise the herbivores
but the carnivores win.

Til the herbivores win.

Til the carnivores win.
 

Killing me kills you
as always.

This is the way of revolutions
or at least
dead revolutionaries.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

After the Shrooms

Ever see the stars? Ever see the stars look fierce?

Black road ● Rose light ● White sleep ● Red eyes ● Blue road

Stand in the lanes in the rain in the rise,
the night a tsunami overcoming the treeline?

Black road ● Rose light ● White sleep ● Red eyes ● Blue road

Everyone was searching for a loophole in The Plan.
At 5 a.m., men were rummaging trash cans,
roaming the halogen fields
looking for Sunday.

Black road ● Rose light ● White sleep ● Red eyes ● Blue road

Astrophysicists by the pool. Banjo players in the drive.
No cops we didn't need, no criminals we didn't want.
We sent up Ginsberg; it was all defeated

but the ladies had afros out to  h    e      r        e.

Rose light ● White sleep ● Red eyes ● Blue road

Maybe you know me.
I've stayed awake longer than you,
saw dawn in the rain on a road
halfway back from affirmation.

White sleep ● Red eyes ● Blue road

Saw my life take the turn I've wanted,
safe at the end of my red eyes and the blue road.

Ever see the stars? Ever see the stars look fierce?
I saw them, left them saying
no more no more and no more.

The edge of the world has incredible views,
but tonight I want to be home.

Blue road ● Blue road ● Blue road ● Blue road ● Blue road

I'm not an honest man, but I know when to run.

Cuz those stars. Those stars look fierce.

You can't fuck with those stars get more serious
every time out.

Unshielded

I was a bourgeois dude
hacking as a starving art collector,
the other way around
or something.
It would behoove me to be less weird:
less "sexually flame retardant"
less of a "cave man swatting at shadows"
less warped into normalcy
like a crushed plastic bottle
bent back to form
with milk-white cracks
where it proved resilient.

But everyone's got a deep-sea deception 
waiting to manifest,

one-upping one another's torture fantasies,

trapped in the neverending rectangles of colliding dioramas,
red-carpet walks through infamy's underpantsless volcanectomy,

ultraviolet-keyboard-roller-coaster-ride
through-cartoon-style-decapitation-and-return,

aquablue wolverines crawling out of the sky and Brahms in the air baby, please.

The speech is free, the meaning is pricey.

As our fear-filled future leaders
sling dicks and scrap it out
in chortle-heavy DC air,
Filet-o-Excess with Carbon Classic
and the balls of war make me
a better friend of pleasure,
ambition’s enemy.

Some unbeing ozone afternoons,
I throw the sourness away—find my way
of washing the silver
off of the miracle,
silencing flags,
colors loud
as the dictator’s bullhorn,

staking claim to invented trinities, infinities,
proud to be fodder for the legalese,
for eviscerated mysteries
unfolding like Times Square--
for policies you've never known,
crawling toward an everlasting...life

goes calmly
if you don't watch it unfold.

When my loves are invisible
I keep my eyes closed.

Mission Creep

I first felt it slipping away while it was coming on strong


like a perfect storm of perfect storms
half over once the clouds blow along.
 
Anticipation is 3/4 of all pain,
 
all agony, all incremental gains on violent collapse.

For vampires to hemophiliac,
I take the blame,
go rightless by accession;
force-fed in extreme silence
by those unlimited in dreams
who pander to the emptiness
inside my inner libertine:
jungle lawyers, secret coroners
tending to the furnace of their golden ages
where fa├žade and superstructure turn dispensable
as the cries
of a billion creatures
oiled up by Extradispensable Needs,
scams and shams
and outrages dispensed into ether
assuring more mayhem,
the way it should be.
It's so easy to get dark
when who controls the darkness prospers.

Overfull of myself
like triathletes who inject their own blood
the day before racing
where the advantage wanes
there comes tremendous pain;
I tried to map the impossible
nexus of variables
tangling up to Us.

But every time voices
voices chime in
like a jet with an acronym
muscling into my sun--
lest some lost wing of calculus
lets me plaster the last
cornice of Babel
and witness the foundation hold--
 
the answers answer less and less,
expand their libraries, divide their librarians,
til eternity turns into a monster
ventilated, uncontrollable, lawful in the extreme.


So the Tower crumbles here
gets constructed there.
So you cannot gather up the ocean
without drowning in its arms.
So smile for the chimera
mutable as species
too delicate to last:
Nimrod, Icarus, Washington.

 
I am quiet but in me
the songs of your cul-de-sac
do not go unsung.