Tuesday, April 9, 2013



The great spring night pivots like a prayerwheel
on the inconsequential circumstances and events
of an unforeseen order of chaos that doesn’t give many hints
of what’s to come. The larval nymphs of hibernial dreams,
sleepwalking through the soporific winter, comatose as snow
are stripping off their eras of clothing like space-suits
and drying their wings like stained glass straight out of the kiln
adapting to the new medium like an open window
breaking up like a miscarriage of ice in desolate bays north of here.

A pregnant pause in the air. The premature hilarity
of late revellers liberating hot tears of alcohol
on the grey acreage of the X-rated pavement down below,
where unknown movie stars write their names in wet cement.

This is the phoney war, the sitzkrieg, the false dawn of Armageddon.
The snapping turtles keep their helmets on.
Felonious spirits man the nightwatch like roosting crows.
The nemetic depths have had enough of superficial catastrophes
crying wolf every time some celebrated non entity
breaks another painted fingernail like the last crescent of the moon
just to flaunt the waning mutability of the law
as Caligula makes his horse a senator
at a see through toga party for transparent government
throwing acid in the eyes of the oracles who can see lightyears beyond
the pernicious longevity of their corporate gene pools.

The moguls, ghouls, and mutants of neo feudalism
crusading like iron chastity belts against birth control
in the lobbies of brothel hotels and banks with the room service
of slummy hospitals and debtor’s prisons for the poor.

Everybody knows they’re swimming through stone
in the cement galoshes of Al Capone as the gangsters
run for office to be of future use to their own careers.
The apple bloom of the human spirit is remedially cankered.
The northern lights that no one has ever lifted like the veils of Isis
are the delirious fever of a solar infection breaking out in sunspots
like mold on an orange. Say it isn’t so, Joe, say it isn’t so.
Yesterday’s grailquest to heal the ailing kingdom
is the dark labyrinth of today’s video game
stockpiling weapons against the expressionless zombies
of the walking dead hiding behind the coffin lids
of their homeless graves like slow-witted assassins
trying to ambush Seal Team 6 like an unemployable working class.

At this preeminent hour the street is lined with eyeless windows
into the human soul downloading an app to livestream its dreams
in high definition like a Caravaggio painting that invites you
to stick your finger in the bullet holes like a doubting Thomas
the wound in Christ’s side chalk-marked like gore on the sidewalk.

Someone’s overturning the gravestones of the angels
that kept their ancient places like a Confederate cemetery.
The barons in their hill forts look down from their overviews
surveying all they own like paranoid pleonaxiacs covetous
of their neighbour’s need to eat and live and breathe and breed
in peace as if he had a birthright to his own regeneration,
one anonymous stem cell of a creative imagination
that all else follows from of its own accord like dragonflies
and leaves on the fourth growth trees and pariahed waters of life.

The dark is supersaturated with the indolent intemperance
of vulpine rabies about to go pandemic in a hydrophobic rage
of anti-biospheric spirit enflamed by a vindictive madness
that will afflict itself on people like King Omega of the Waning Year
on a terminal ward where desolation just wants to get it over with.
Didn’t the poet say, enough, or too much? Desecration
on a crime spree against the laws of hospitality
toward strangers from the past, rape a Brazilian bus.

The stars above the yellow riverside willows coming into leaf
shine more simplistically as the subtlety of our seeing
is dumbed down by the political conditioning of watchers
watching the watchers as they hand out bread and circuses
at a black mass of wafers and viviparous passions
where every contestant regresses through the stations of virtual reality
like an anti Eleusinian mystery play based on classical mycology.

Little tree, little tree, in the Eden we can’t return to,
you’re a soft-hearted thornapple cooler than moonlight
flaking like the flesh of silver fish on a thriving lake
where water preoccupies itself with being alive.

The wisdom of the return journey’s deeper innocence
has been irrevocably lost like the peduncle
in the ensuing phylum, like an empty lifeboat
that drifted away in the fog of an unmoored moment.

The morphology of knowledge forms comes and goes
like a shapeshifter annihilating positrons
looking for God particles to attribute mass
to a Standard Model of Universal Mirages
that can be photo-shopped like a proxy of God to posterity.

Save me, save me from myself cry the chicken little prophets
who keep falling on themselves like skies caving in
to the pressure of laying enough cosmic eggs to meet
a minimum quota of sunny days to come inside.
Power, knowledge, wealth, sex, art, popularity,
Californian encounters with astonishing gods,
as serial killers return the keys to the broken washrooms
abused at roadside gas stations by people passing through
their own digestive tracts, one acidic pit stop after another,
as the wolves dig up teenage girls along the Highway of Tears in B.C.
with cyanotically blue fingernails and mass i.d.
that salves the horror of random killing with an air
of inevitability, given what some of them did for a living,
making love because they couldn’t afford to make war.

The healers are coming up with new placebos all the time
to keep up with the progress of advanced diseases of the mind
The death of so many children fingerpainting in their own blood,
a serious threat to gun rights. Boards of education,
the Praetorian guard. Day care centers at the OK corral.
A run on boomslangs and Bushmasters like Apple i pods,
while everyone sighs trying to milk the moon of human kindness
for anti-venom to undo the paralysis of a child’s mass cardiac arrest.

We’ve been shocked to death by the ferocity
of our own sins of omission trying to put a cold smile on things
like snow on a dungheap, flowers and teddy bears
on the stairs of an abattoir that puts hell with its halberds to shame.
The big fish eat the little fish and the little fish have to be armed.
Evolution is an arms race that can trace its ancestral lifelines
like a bush back to the Burgess Shale. Predatory eyes.
Soft body parts like bleeding hearts in thicker shells.
Heat seekers and siege minds with the internet wired
to their skulls like drone masters in Colorado
with their eye in the sky on the big picture
of draconian starmaps placing their zodiacs
under house arrest in zoological environments
to preserve them from going extinct before they’re questioned.

O Truman, little haberdasher, you let Pandora out of the box
like a nuclear foreign policy that turned the elemental table
against itself like a mad dog biting at its own ulcerations.
Phaeton took charge of the chariot of the sun and set fire to the earth.
Shall we take the reins of Charles’ Wain in the bread basket
of the Midwest and plough the dead under like grain
to renew the half lives of a genetically modified rebirth
as resistant to blight as Jesus in the wilderness harrowing hell
as we reverse the spin on our millenarian myths of origin
and make agriculture the civilized scapegoat for what we cultivate
in our missile siloes? Cain slew Able because his sacrifice
wasn’t acceptable and the crow scratched the earth
like a corporate farmer and said bury him here like this.
Isn’t it true? Now every time we kill a plant
we’re hunting ourselves to death like food?

Greed raised the temperature of the earth five degrees
when the planet came down with us like a fever
and Atlantis sank like an oil platform in the North Sea
all technologically failsafe sailors on board
like true captains of industry manning their executive lifeboats
while we’re left clinging like swim bladders
well over our heads in debt to anything that floats.

Apocalyptic. Martin Sheen on acid in the first scene.
Violent mandalas freaking our punched-out reflections
like spider webs having a nervous breakdown
someone might lift the veil from our face
and see once and for all what we’ve always been,
gravitational eyes shapeshifting empty space
as if, as it never isn’t, I were modelling my inspiration, my muse
into a full body life study in the nude from the inside out
and she had to stand very still in the rain,
in a thin garment of silence, just as I’m about
to say her name like a grave at the back of an orphanage.


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