Tuesday, April 9, 2013



Been lied to so long the truth sticks out like a sore thumb
at three in the morning on a deserted highway. I know
some of you think you’re on top of this, but look again,
for all the applause that follows you around like an encore
of professional mourners, you’re not the lightning bolt. You’re
the weathervane, you’re the desk clerk, the hat check girl
that lives like a hot tip of insider trading for pittance
as everyone stops to ask in passing, did time leave any messages?

Nothing for you, I’m sorry, as you pick your spirit up off the floor
in both hands, on either side, like the luggage of death
and make for the door hoping you don’t get caught
as if you’d just stolen the moon like a half-used bar of soap.

Stray images from estranged mindscapes, heralds of smoke
gathering like ghosts at a seance ahead of the field fire
coming this way like a scorched earth policy of scarecrows
seeking lebensraum like real estate agents in the Ukraine.
I’ll take shelter among the stars. Even in the slums of grace
the houses of the zodiac are fireproof. I’ll tune my voice
like a flame to the tongue of serpent fire that’s always
taking the bloom off the candles with their noses pressed
against the window waiting for someone they know well enough
will never come, but have grown accustomed to the absence,

and I’ll sing my heart out like the deathsong of a circumpolar dragon
on the ledge of a high precipice only the truest of lovers
have ever jumped from, scattering the ashes of their shining
on the wind to sow the emptiness with the stars and fireflies
of transmorphic constellations with more than one myth of origin.

I’m sure I’m living someone else’s solitude. What
a palatial abyss! What a hovel this is! Is there
a return address above the door? Does anyone live here
anymore? Am I the only one home? Am I
lingering in the doorway of a pathetic exit
or a grand entrance? Either way I’m lost. I end
where I began, midnight sun, new moon, Venutian Lucifer
under the eyelid of false dawn that turns me on and off
like the lightswitch of a wildflower looking for enlightenment
in the dark heart of a total eclipse that blows the candles out
so it can get a quick glimpse of what it’s waiting for.

Celestial tears of mystic chandeliers aren’t going to water
my roots deeply embedded in star mud or put out
this underground fire that seethes with life
independently of the light like a volcano in the caldera
of an oracular seabed where the dead remind the living
life’s always been more a matter of going to extremes, like breathing,
than hugging shore like a broken mirror clinging to what it reflects,
the white feather of the moon and the nightsea’s tidal regrets.

The truth isn’t sculpted out of Carrara marble like Judaic David
in a body cast with a broken arm Brunelleschi will later sew back on
once Florence isn’t Republican anymore. It’s a cave
that’s always been sand-blasted by upper class hourglasses
of gentrifying lies trying to scrub the meat-eating smell
of the Neanderthals off the walls of their hunting magic
expressed in carbon and red ochre like the secret syllables
for blood and night, to make the place more habitable
for vacationing gazelles with more time on their hands than predators.

The lesser of two lies is still pinging the short straw
on the tine of a tuning fork that bites like a snake
in the middle of a dancefloor where the roses waltz with thorns
to keep their finger on the pulse of a dead cultural life
that makes perfect sense to the unimaginative.

All the white knights have floated away like ice floes and snowmen
that couldn’t take the heat when ice came to fire
as an alternative way of destroying the dragons of the earth
and wept away what little time they had left.
I’ve never been betrayed by anyone or anything
I didn’t believe in first. I’ve cherished the worst with sly ideals.
I once thought I heard the mermaids singing to me
but it was just a pod of killerwhales disciplined by trained seals
to hit the high notes like flying fish out of their depths.

When the glass grows too dark like soot
on the third eye of an imperfectly burning lamp to see
the fireflies and stars deep within, lay the full moon
like a penny on the eyelid of your telescope,
kiss it on the forehead and wish it better dreams next time
than the nightmares it focused on in this life.
Go out to the woods late at night under the early spring stars
and from the bottom of your solitude, without
seeking an answer, speak to the ferocious clarity
of their indifference like a madman drowning in his own eyes.




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.