poetry

a doomed delirium
of wild-ass aliveness;
such chance
to dance these steps,
since Daddy Big Bang
laid down those first tracks,
as many as the stars which were
and those which will be,
Dark as a dream,
as blue as a Lover.

throughout this place,
too few hear any Dance songs-
from toddler steps_____crawling
from cave to boat
to padded dirt nap,
the universe is mostly
unaware_____unmindful
of up or down,
fox trot or Funkadelic.

time does not know
what time it is;
a wild dance in the cemetery of the universe;
nor space-time know how deep it goes
or how well hung it is-
left and/or right hanging,
at the speed of light.
it’s all good
if your dance lasts
longer than three minutes

How long will you be here ghost?
Leave the young ones alone,
they miss the body you inhabited,
your acid words and softened touch.

Will you talk throaty and hoarse
through all time? Or what we have left?
Can you answer? I think not, besides,
“Who cares”, says you, finally at rest.

Hang here, in this haunted hut.
Your company will be a welcome relief
to the flyboys of WWII on R&R here
with their 3am cigarettes and yours truly.

They never died of cancer, like you,
but then again, you did not burst apart
on fire, vomiting against 3 G’s;
you have all been hurled faster than light.

I raise a glass
to wild tapping poets,
tongue tied visionaries,
cross-country political purists
looking for the good stuff,
addicted to the story
of childhood nations
good and true and brave,
with all Deities on their side

I like shaking my tits;
she’s watching me dance,
shimmy the world away.
There’s freedom,
on the dance floors,
in America these days.
Lost in the rhythm
between the beats,
there’s easy smiles
and sloppy desires as we’re
emptied out, staggering,
upon more equal streets

I’ll let you tattoo
this Chronic heart,
while my wordy lips
read your angel parts,
taste a hungry tongue,
feel your softened hip.
The throaty murmur,
of an angel’s refrain,
“She’s got another earth.
She’s got some other sky.”
We danced there once,
and made Sappho cry.

I have auspicious tents
of Baily’s Pearls, set aside,
for this dark world girl;
not for her song
of Goddess skin, or
her serrano curls,
but for her being;
which grew gracious,
against a hard white wind.
She’s been my sister,
a sweet silhouette;
a figgy desert oasis.

Thu, 19 Jan 2006

You are The World. You are everything. You are

the feeling that all is right and complete.

You are all that goes into making life right.

You give yourself into everything and succeed

repeatedly. You are The World, you are the

source of true happiness.