Ah, Creation!!

let the tea steep
let the ideas stir
let the head wind up
let the typer hum
let the tubes warm
let the music walk and breathe
let the women be beautiful
let the investments mature
let the children grow
let the people be free
let the dancers dance
let the fighters fight
let the games be kept friendly
let the affairs of others go unnoticed

	let the demons who are hunting you
	  	be damned

	let the strength and innate kindness in your
	  	heart flourish

let the fish sparkle in the waters
let the gators have the swamps
let the joke be on all of us
let everyone have it as easy as you can give it to them
let the intricacies of your mind amaze you
let the humility of the wise deter you from
	  speaking that amazement
let the volcanos die and go numb
let the tractors grow weeds underneath
let the parliament have power; funkadelic, that is
let the pope eat his hat on friday
let the cows stay out late
let the spaghetti westerns speak to you
	  as transcendent illumination

brush stroke

brush stroke 
swallow 
incontrovertible
apostasy 
push back the cuticle of spring
something is on the other side 
of the door.......
it is quietly waiting to pounce
w/ its ambush
or surprise party,
it is not known, which it is
leaves fall like paratroopers,
honing in on their targets
another brush stroke
circumspect weather
new viabilities 
woodpecker filling out his 
morning reports 
errand runners scurry about
patents are being filed 
for new shades of sky
a third stroke of the brush 
agoraphobic dust swept out 
for not paying its rent
it is a mindless and selfless act
cut the yard in half 
assign tasks to the flowers 
they have lazed long enough
now, they must be mobilized 
four is the number of strength
four walls stand sturdier than three
four seasons, winds, elements, directions
a fourth brush stroke 
strengthens the picture
smack the mat w/ the broom
the room is changed, now
paint a new picture
make new decisions

Break The Dust

infuse sediment w/ light
scattering tendencies of
cacophony;
send them fluttering, mad
into the never
stir this molten steel brew
in my veins
the broth has thickened and
formed a skin
through which ideas
may not pass
this king must be dethroned and
sent crying,
as he paddles up the waterfall
on a popsicle stick
a quiet coup of the spirit
if you will,
pleasant,
is all that comes to mind
seek desire,
like a spear,
hurled in the dark
so hard,
to be a thing
which has never before existed
no model
nothing to follow
the conundrum
of creation

untitled:

the breath of 24 regiments
is hot inside my curled fists
wine drips from the speakers
and deathly, minted gels
congeal in my skull

you can never be far from home
but links can be severed

it will all be done, soon

razors and taxis will carry you places;
to the highlands, the valleys,
or the jungles

to become possessed,
to be driven in fervor
to draw talismans w/ feathers
is both mad
and divine

the music spills over
the edge of the cup
and no one
notices

untitled:

the centurions are belaboring
the point of chrysalis
many broad surgical incisions of boredom
whet the palate of invention
(steel pancakes + perpetual motion)

as the skin of the great, gray matter beast
is laid back and pinned
by the contractual obligation
of a decidedly inconvenient necessity,
radiant blue caravans of sufficiency
will traverse the untamed, barren tracts of tundra;
the walkways betwixt the hemispheres
of the carnal mind

enough now, of this tired sideshow;
of miserable, blackened attempts at cleverness

there are underdogs
somewhere
under all these
dogs

I will 
find two
if you'll find
one

there may
be one
hiding
under
you

Hand Of Fire/ Hand Of Water

I.

hand of death
abacus of unlearning
each thin bone,
each pale, ivory finger
slides
a bead of sweat
across the face of time

and you, fair seamstress,
every stitch undoes the last

ornaments hang prettily
from the turnstiles,
distracting pedestrians
away from
important negotiations

II.

hand of the strong
rings and signets of distinction
crests of valor, copious decorations
from cabinet members and kings
high officers, ambassadors of
salient authorities

night grinds no pathways in your forehead

sunrise lays no price upon your crown

your mouth greets each meal with hope,
expects it to charge you
w/ command of your faculties

the crone does not dazzle you,
nor hold your children for ransom

III.

hand of the child
you hold all knowledge of the Tao
in your small curled palm
your eyes roll like Saturn and
Sundays mean nothing from Thursdays

You alone know that our pebble throne
shoots itself around the sun
at thirty miles a minute

you, and no other,
can comprehend the spectacle of the
bumblebee

you grow backwards,
strange little sage,
choosing to count your toes
in your mouth
a setting of ornate jewels
scroll of learning
you erase one thing each day
throw away one dream
each night

hagfish demonbirds peck at your eyes
you are impervious to their attacks
since you tell yourself that
you do not see them and
you are still able to believe
what you say
to yourself

questions fall from the trees
and you crawl over them
unconcerned
until tomorrow