Friday, April 19, 2013



Fireflies like terrorist acts against the stars.
Truth on the oyster of the tongue spun
like a grain of sand, an irritant fact
into the nacreous lustre of lies. Those are pearls
that were his eyes, the politicians sink so low
they’re flatworms in platform shoes.
Not a good idea to wipe your ass
with your own ideals in public. It
shocks the mob to realize their magi are maggots.
When the mob loses face, heads roll.
The latent rage of a thousand real and imagined ills
swarm out of the pinatas of your May Day festivals
like the nemetic scourge of God whipping the eyes
of the media into a frenzy of visionary vengeance.

Paranoia becomes a civic duty and Big Brother
no more than someone you know in the Mafia
doesn’t give a damn whether you’re related to him or not.
Maternal piety suckles at the poppy’s breast
and we bleed like the dreams of sleepwalkers
on the prophylactic precipice of the razor’s edge.

Down below in the middens of the rejected
the skulls of children heaped like shepherd moons
that didn’t make the cut of random luck
and ideological purity run amok with inhumanity
like secret police with unlimited budgets
to protect the state by interrogating the genomes
of their citizenry for any mutant signs of evolution.

The most bitter and appalled among us profess optimism
like roses in the sunset of a mushroom cloud
as lethal as the Angel of Death when it rains
and amateur survivalists are complaining of stomach pains.

Science is taught to shut its mouth by a thug
that knows what’s good for it is also good
for the Golden Goose that lays the cosmic eggs
in the Eleusinian Mysteries of dialectical materialism.
Covert telescopes replace the glass eyes
of enlightened Cyclops with black ops that move
like Ninjas in the night, the hashashim of the Old Man
of the Mountain, the shining city on a hill,
to eliminate any doubt of the positive outcome
of imperial altruism bearing the white man’s burden
like Coca Cola, ho, ho, ho, come like Santa Claus to Belize,
or Shell to the arctic like the ark of an oil platform
leaking like the shepherds of the black camel
in the white deserts in the land of the midnight sun.

Five billion years of astronomical catastrophes creatively
eliminating species that weren’t related directly to us
and the acclamation of human consciousness as the only
mode of intelligence to make it in the long run
like the Boston marathon through a gauntlet
of pressure cookers that can’t stand up on their own two legs
without cooking nails in the practical crackhouses of hardware stores
prosthetically intent on martyring human femurs
on a pyre of crutches you can’t throw away like a miracle cure
at the top of the cathedral stairs you climbed on your bleeding knees
to walk on air like a prayer to the angels of mercy
listening like drones and satellites high overhead
to the screams of the uncircumspect innocent at the finish line.

Desecration, as if we were angry with our gods
like the Mayans who burnt their temples one day
in desperation for a famine the seven fat kine
the untempered greed of the bankers caused
at the end of civilization that knows more about us
than we do it, with honey for some and locusts for others
in a foreclosed wilderness with radio-controlled wolves,
and nano-sized mosquitoes like puncture wounds
at the beginning of the data chain that leads
like breadcrumbs on the road of knowledge suspiciously
like the photo-shopped streets of London back to us
like a hallucinogenic reality show in highspeed HD.

Decry something sacred, something unanalytically
vulnerable like a misplaced faith in the immunity
of our genetically modified mothers to protect us
from diseases like an insurance policy that didn’t cover us
or the honey bees on the pestilential nicotinoids
that cling like smallpox to the blankets we gave the natives
to keep warm like a guest with a fever in the charnel house of life.
What sweetness mined like pollen from a corpse flower
is ever going to taste like viscous sunshine to a corporate hive
whose growing pains are always parasitical genocide
of one kind or another? Caterpillars against butterflies.

Pervs, perps, terrorists, ghouls and demented one percenters
of the unbikerly kind, the mob won’t die benignly like road kill.
Once the genuflective holiness of the gilded shepherd’s crook
is seen by the sheep who bleated for rescue to be what it is,
a cattle prod in an abattoir of grain-fed coup d’etats,
you’ll be eating the meat of your children boiled
in their mother’s milk, when the mob’s preference
for fair-mindedness is murderously offended like a snakepit
that was minding its own business like Babylon at a ball game
when your bomb went off like a prelude of the apocalypse
you so furtively desire like a plague rat of self-hatred
seeking notoriety in the shadows of things to come
that go boom, boom, boom, like something infernally gargantuan
protecting her young like the infuriated mother of mayhem.




Won’t meet most of you in a lifetime
and know there are six billion of us
and more coming all the time, each trying
to interpret the sign of their own star,
you know, the one that nobody else can see
but for a few rays of light breaking
through the clouds here and there,
that says, this is the way to shine,
this is the way to shine, and that includes
black holes everywhere as well.

Whether you can see through it or not
as a plagiarism of water and sand
every mirage has its own meaning,
every star belongs to a different zodiac,
each with their own totems, mandalas,
and shapeshifting constellations, each
their own houses of worship and disrepute,
we’re all wearing on our foreheads
written in between the lines of fate
like a sidereal bandanna, each
a meme of one we’re hoping will allow
someone to recognize us in isolation
like a prison tat that says we’ve paid our dues
for the last thousand lifetimes without parole
and have a right to be here as well as anyone
because we’ve done our time standing up
just to be alive, whether you’re running from it
or not. Everyone’s got a different approach
to their own departure, and though
there is no gate they must go through,
there’s a garden they must spend
some time in for awhile, telling
the flowers what the roots of our names mean
each as unique as a snowflake
on a petal or an eyelid or a furnace.

Each a theme of their own picture-music,
our lives are not sub-plots of the main narrative.
There’s a whole symphony in the tintinnabula,
like a drop of water reflecting the entire universe
just the same as there is in the first violins.
And everyone brings their own instrument to the jam
whether it be the wind in the silver Russian olives,
a tuba, a burning guitar, or the fossil of the lyre
that used to sing the dead up from hell
to a day of show and tell, and it doesn’t matter
what kind of music you make, whether
it’s the choral riot of your favourite nocturnal animals in a zoo,
or the distant plectra of a hidden nightcreek
playing solo on a harpsichord in a lonely sacred grove,
or you’re riffing on futuristic mystic mantras
like Tibetan prayer bowls that used to sound
like a waterclock of urns, as long as you’re adding
your singularity like the longing high note of a nightbird
to the dendritic staves of the trees. Even the silence sings.

And what is it we’re all really longing for
in the solitary labyrinths we’ve made
of the complexity of our desires,
if it isn’t a world elaborated from
the prime fractal of our love,
as if it fell to each of us now, not god,
that weight was removed from her shoulders
the moment our cosmic egg hatched
and we took to our own wings,
eagles and fireflies and Icarus alike
to provide the image of light upon light
like a masterpiece we leave behind us
that’s everybody’s signed like a self-portrait
of who we were to each other for awhile
when we stood in wonder and awe
at what was arrayed before us knowing
it’s the exact likeness of everyone,
and the star in the eye that’s turned toward us
as if each of us were the direction of prayer
is the same one we’ve been following for light years
like the magi seeking the source of their own radiance,
candles in the dark wondering where
the light’s coming from in billions of creative mirrors
falling on everyone alike like rain and eyes
so that before we close them
like two dew drops of stereoscopic water
falling back to our roots like our last words
from the tips of the tongues of the stargrass
to dream up new blossoms in our sleep
like new moons budding on a dead branch,
we each realize that we’re the myth of origin,
the alpha and omega of all things that begin and end
as well as the unattainable for which there is no metaphor
placed well within the creative reach of everyone of us
though if I were to give it a shot as a poet, I’d say,
knowing what I know of this life in the arts,
like the habitable planets and ripening desert moons
of the low-hanging fruits of our hearts.