Thursday, October 28, 2004

Sacrifice Me

Let me be your lamb tonight
Let me be your meat
Sacrifice me before a prayer
For thy fasted sacrificial meal
Let me be your hunted due
Let your claws sink into my skull
Send love into the Venus transit
Of my eviscerated soul
Let me be your sacrifice
Let me be your meat
Tonight, take my blood
Tonight, take my heat

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Bardstown, Kentucky

Happy Hollow Road
is a place where grain elevators
watch over Ford trucks
in an asphalt parking lot
& steam rises from pipes
as birds fly south
& I lay stretched
and pray for Booker Noe,
master distiller emeritus
to explain why, exactly,
she is lying to me right
now, and I cannot forgive,
should never forgive
as I swallow my pain whole,
hoping for invisible Bourbon
to set my soul alight
as ash burns holes into my chest
and long soft little fingers
move away from me

Savage Pilgrim

Sparks flew off her fingertips
the first time they met, this much
we know. It was a blue flame, a red
dot of light. She had sad dreams, blue eyes.

When he saw her for the first time it was over
before it even began. So terrified was he
of the process, well not the process,
but the end game of love, well,
the Savage Pilgrim was terrified
of the threat of lost love,
what it could do, how it would feel

Terrified of what love can do to him;
but without love, there is death,
death moving in, fine and slow,
in white wings, a mercy

He told her: Keep all my passwords, please,
and my money, my keys, when you receive
this note, don`t look back, just go.

The Savage Pilgrim lies in state tonight.
He loved the girl so much it hurt,
he told her so much it was all he could
do to stunt his words as they crawled up
through his lips, into the Void, that botched
job, That Fake.

Silently, he would ask: Marry me? Bound me
to this mortal soil? She said No.

Preposterous, sayeth she, not the marrying kind,
and so love and failure became simultaneous
epitaphs in his brain. His weakened, tormented,
chemical addled mind. Of the heart?
Who knows for sure? The Savage Pilgrim,
a sprinter, a conjurer, in leather boots,
a time traveler, a breach birth, just another
botched job as it moved through space, a misfit
full of lies and sacred music, his tomb, his life,
his death ... the long distance race ended
when he met her.

Not much choice in these matters: Not for love,
who he loved, who he plundered, where he ran for cover,
like a vampire, he, stealing hearts for fuel, even
in the end (though the Savage Pilgrim knew better),
this is all a test, really, a lesson. Life is practice, see?

So they lay there, on the stones overlooking
the Red Rock valley. He told her: It`s all right
with me if you just want to lay here and die together.

She was completely free (well, not really)
but connected to him (yeah, right buddy)
in ways they would never completely understand.
In the Valley of Death, the psychoanalyst roamed,
she bobbed and weaved through a dotted juniper grove,
stamping through pinion and prickly pear below.

That was right after he saw the face of Gaia
in meditation, of Esha Na Glese, of Changing Woman,
with a broad pudgy face, broad lips, wide forehead,
bad teeth (now that was a detail he would have never
considered ...)

There would be no sexual healing, no earth healing,
for the Savage Pilgrim, who lies in state here,
stretched out, stretched, a stretching wretch,
victim of psychoanalyzing half-truths, and worse,
dopey metaphysical mush about love and lust, truth and trust,
for he knew: The other side of every wing is higher, even,
than the spiritual thing.

Gaia, moving in mysterious ways, was just a manifestation,
and so the Savage Pilgrim moved across the earth and plowed
it asunder; haunting for the sound of her thunder, her body
moving under. For her torso to worship or whip, it was obvious.
His church was her passion, his city her lips, her toes he kissed
in mythic bliss.

But she forgets like the moon bouncing back light, like a monsoon
storm in summer, barren and cold by the fall. Weary and old, with a love
that just scolds, frowning its brow, all enclosed, refusing his heat
as the Savage Pilgrim ran from his dimming soul and found it, again,
on the empty still streets before dawn. For a time, her churned,
for maybe a full moon, maybe an eclipse, maybe two, yearning for her touch.

But ashen and true, a white lunar dust, she made a bland dream
of mountain and bones. The Savage Pilgrim, in a chilly mornin`
moondance, walked into the city square, left on a razor sharp boat,
a fine edge he borrowed from some woman, some new soon-gone tommorrow.
He lifted from here, in the Tao of Ra, dreaming of her ta tas, her
black eyeliner, her jaw, eclipsing his blood within the dark
in staccato chants, morbid, then silent, his last big romance.

Tuesday, October 26, 2004

Seventy Two Hours as a Social Darwinist

To the sound of silent cyberpunk we go:

Spent seventy two hours as a social Darwinist
Gotta get ahead of you (Seventy two hours)
Seventy two hours as a Social Darwinist
Gotta get an edge over the loss,
vengeance is hip you know
Gotta get a handle on the guilt I miss
gotta get a multiple set a girlies to kiss

Spent seventy two hours as a social Darwinist
Gotta get over you (seventy two, seventy two, seventy two hours)
Seventy two fucking shitty hours as a Social Darwinist
As you tried to convince me of your Know Nothing bliss,
I let my eyes look away, if for just a minute (Seventy two, seventy two seventy two)
Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin
You won`t like the feeling, your empty hand will be shaking (seventy two, seventy two)
Won`t like the smell as the whole world is quaking (seventy two, seventy two seventy seventy seventy two)

On the third day I flew across the sky
rebuilt the temple of love, I did pray
Sure, I fell, makin` a heaven of hell,
and man O man let the bunker busters fly.

I ran for cover, O sweet Seventy Two (eyes of blue, eyes of blue)
After Seventy two hours as a social Darwinist
I ran for cover, looking for the way you look at me,
hoping and I`m praying to look up to you.

(Jaggedy Guitar riffs here)

Seventy hours as a social Darwinist
for just three days I forgot about you (seventy two, O, seventy two, yeah)
Seventy two hours of living from your hand to my fist
Seperate but equal, sure, gotta get a step on you.
Treated every living thing like my private little toy
Dreamin of the cosmos now, when I was just a boy
Wore your love like a glove but there was no joy
Gotta get around these blank walls, gotta get over you

Saturday, October 23, 2004

Mythville Book Store -

Friday, October 22, 2004

Black Madonna

In the beginning was de word,
de talking drum & de invention of sword,
followed by de blood of de prophets,
and de blood of de best sanger.
He sang rael well. He was a rael good sanger.
The roll of daughter blues, of Martin Luther Jr. hues,
in France, ders de clues, de meaning & good news,
the ebb and the flow, de coming and de go.
Away from de ego, into our DNA soul.
Her graal is de Grail, since de sweet Sarah did sail.
She sang rael well. She was de rael sangraal.

Monday, October 18, 2004

In the Beginning There Was a Word from Our Sponsors

Welcome, O welcome
the many winged archetypes,
supple and black,
enfolded in milky white,
milky way white,
hanging in midair,
peering through
the portal, the slinky tube
of the time traveling
Dream Catcher wheel.

Help is on the way ...
Hooray. Hooray.
Help is on the way …
Hooray. Hooray.
For whom?
I cannot say.

They exist in the imperfect
Shapeless spaces unifying
Our oppositional own imperfect
Spaces. They resonate in
The ripples of the swimming
Pool light at moonlight,
And intimate choices
Made by man and volcano
Long ago.

Help is on the way …
Hooray. Hooray.
Help is on the way ..

As they wave, pleading,
Begging for business deals,
Moving closer to our dreams,
Tumbling through timeless
Synchronistic switches
That speak our name.
They twitch in the fierce
Firestorm of the Eve-bitten
Apple, and dance,
frightened and purple

Help is on the way,
They hope and pray:
Hooray. Hooray.
Their master, like ours,
Has gone away.

The Gothic Playhouse

She knows we are watching …
The rows of flowers, I mean.
They feel us, our hardness
Beneath impish petals ..
O how they lean. You can just
Burn them in permafrost temptation,
Stunned solidity, escapist solutions,
Theatrical human glue mendings,
The box office disconnects of love,
The heart, the sickened old heart,
The swinging rhythm of the play,
Held over, the amputated hand,
Held taught until it applauses,
Bursts out, busts out, held tight
In the embrace beneath the sacred
geometric Etherian proscenium stares,
Shape changers in the spotlight,
Masonic brick, stone, barbed rebar,
Twisted by the pleasures of rain
Soaking down to the center of the earth,
This hearth, denying Manhattan heat,
Rising equal to the brown cloud,
Distributed in leaflets into a sea of saline
And walking meat, all to the benefit of birds,
Pushed around by sensational breezes …

They come, cloistered here
In this downtown Gothic playhouse,
Sit still, pert, filling up red cushioned seats,
Grinding down their fine eats, whispering
In penumbral light, vanishing into bliss.

The Diva stands, soaks in the night,
Empty inside, a messenger, a portal,
A lacerated vessel of both dark and light,
All sponsored by corporate angels
As the demigods of ego and desire
Blow through her flaxen hair.


The raven mocked the wolf
In telepathic echoes,
In impervious communiques
Bounding off the sandstone
Walls north of Baal.

Bible black carrion and hummock bread –
Each taste a feast of denial, turning thoughts
Of candle oil into acetylene joys
For twenty centuries of drought.

Elijah communes with the One,
Dodging white-hot torment at noon,
Gouging on locusts, batting away
Frisky cave bats at night, shaking,
In silence at snakes that crawl,
Bleachy or blue at until dawn,
Until they are tranquil at dusk,
The calm of heat, brighter than neon
Red, rising at the first spark of stones …

There is smoke and fire enough to eat
All of the grey devils, their brains,
Their wisdom, their greasy flesh,
Feeding electromagnetic energy
Into a second millennia.

Coulda been a habadasher.
Coulda cut stone.
Coulda built three temples
To overshadow the lost innocence
Of the three-fingered whore.

Longed but did not lust. His only error
Was trusting the raw earthen crust.
He could have done better
If he was just one of us.

Saturday, October 16, 2004

Begging for the Muse

Blue lady down the lane,
Dialing up a dream
Of vanilla ice cream
In the morning bright …
Got a light?

True lady on top of the hill,
Sipping from a stream
Of chocolate milk,
Near the high-wire zone …
Got a smoke?

Red-hair runner along the root canal,
Bouncing up dust, a trail of pheromones,
jogging a pot of molten silver
At the end of a world-weary rainbow,
Got a rose? A nose, a toe to hold.

Feeling pretty lonely,
Don’t you know?
It’s Saturday night,
Mexican bandito music
And whoops fill night,
But I aunt quite right.

Centered, alone, feasting on electricity,
Stereo, electromagnetic sparks and TV,
Waiting for the phone,
On my black-metal folding throne,
Ask the mute city stars for answers.

I close my eyes, the vampire
Winged dragon does recall,
His glory days of an angel before the fall:
None, he says, in aged infant ego disdain.
Get answers for yourself. Now go away.

Olive-skinned warrior lass
of flatlands and little hippie towns,
In the sublime corn-fed country
of April floods, crazy need and dread,
Puts a laundry list over her eyes,
tugs bed sheet covers over her head.

Feeling pretty lonely.
It’s a Saturday night.
I aunt quite right.
Centered, alone, feasting on electricity,
Waiting for the phone,
On my black-metal folding throne,
Ask the dirty city street for answers.

Sight, answers the angel,
Of self-possession,
Yearning, awe and woe:
Tis more a matter of how often, you know,
And when. You sin a bit; pay the rent, do it again.
Ask your infant anxiety to halt the ill winds.

Brightly, the archangel Gabriel beams:
Be yourself that you own. Just know.
Stare down this melt of lightweight,
porous pumice stone. Kiss
The maternal metaphysician on the mouth,
Move north, move south … do not doubt.

With that I moved outside
Perfect prison cell and broke
My gravitational sorcerer’s bone,
and floated away, Aye,
In a hot rush of helium
burning in heavenly thin
Rocky Mountain air,
Bidding the eternal
territorial gloom, adieu.

The Second Eclipse

I wept about what I feared,
Feared what she wept,
Wrote up a list of timid sorrows
And faults, fell dead, laying awake,
Trying it out in wordless whispers
Into a mirror: Pride, hypocrisy, manic
Moods and shame; finally fell asleep,
A fuel-stained moment of empty bliss.

She pegged her donkey to a target
And sealed it with a kiss. Told me
I had to wait till the second eclipse.

I turned a half-moon, mooned white my ass,
Unbuttoning my Levi mask of blue ash,
Went back to my puny dry barrio abode,
Listened to the sweet Popsicle truck bells
And faced a loaded gun. Couldn’t keep still.

Her delicate rebirth. My cold season.
My prayer, a whisper of self-made ritual,
My salty Hohokam tongue licking
Small circles around
The anatomy of love.

You crave my body, I crave you,
When moonlight passes cool.
I live in terror and wonder
Of a woman’s churning bones.

Listening to music
So loud it’s not true.
I could go deaf
Trying not to
telephone you.

Friday, October 15, 2004

Le Bicycle Thief

Fear not thy brother in shame.
Given the opportunity, in the past,
I would do the same. May my bicycle
wheels roll you to your dream.

Fear not thy sister in shame.
You did you what did, as did I;
in warlord acts, we are the same.
May my lost sacred things,
propel you to a new dream.

Fear not thy angels of thy mind`s eye,
whose silent code I dare not speak.
You come to me in my lidded twighlight,
your dragon eyes and wide black wings
only come when I know and believe.
May you lead us all to a perfect
pretty dream, as us to you,
reason to bring Ra back home.

Fear not, my love, I am all
now that I do not say. Your life
is tough, but love is enough
to fill my wind-dried sea.

Thursday, October 14, 2004


O you know the magic
words to lay me low
in your unchecked depths
of irrational rationality

Human only half, Horus the other:
In one hand I carry an olive branch,
in the other hand, fitful flighty war.

If we can`t be peaceful as two eagles
flying apart, what is the hope
for the rest?

Let us strike a deal,
O grim Priestess,
to make the dark angel
shudder in woe.

Milton Morning Song

Celestial heavenly lights blinking
At dawn over Camelback Mountain.
The rose is left in view, rosy
And true. The sky is a blue frame
For madness or his nameless name.

Milton wrote, he choked and smoked:
The mind is its own place,
and in itself,
Can make heaven a hell,
A hell of heaven.

But if this the Void,
it`s a Void of truth.
The stirs of green cirrus streaks
In the cloud, the chair-back
Alignment of Venus and Mars,
The waning dusty moon;
All simple proof there`s no real
Distance between me
And unknowable you.

Silhouette of a Praying Monk,
I smolder and move
to get a better view,
lay my shitty pocket things
into a fire pit and sit
on a merry temporary throne.

Light up. Listen to
a raven`s haunting call,
The trickling of cool waters running
Beneath the surface of the desert:
O Milton, poor bastard, you only
Had it half right. Man, his heart;
The only Void in view.

I climb this tree, O Bard,
And sing a sad song for thee:
Thy sun,
thy surface,
thy furnace.

Queen of the Tigress

Done early, done often,
My queen sifts in the shadows
Of silky sheets; in the indivisible
Darkness of morning, she disappears
In a bed of cloud, perfume and loam

I wonder: Is she really there?
Is my dawn receiver recepter
Merely reacting to trickster light?

Returning to mount her,
my Tigress Queen,
And release all the pleasures
Of a spinning soul & sour world.

Hermes the Dog

Chasing birds two-by-two
In morning light, I, a Ra,
Who comes long in shadows,
Dies, trickling at dusk, sifts
In the breeze for cigarette butts
At the hidden hacienda.

Morning here, is lined up with stars,
Camelback Mountain holds back
The rabbits running across
The Manicured trail, a still pool.
The roadrunner is still possible.

In deed we leave Hermes the dog
Suddenly, let go the leash,
And drive away. Oh sure,
Last night she killed some worms
And took them right into her mouth.

Hermes ran and ran, chasing our car,
Despite being tired from chasing birds
Through the prickly pear, the palm,
The lamp-lined thoroughfares. He never
Got to fall asleep, a cuddling kitten.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

Barrio Fire Kiss

Don`t have much time to smoke,
damn, I line up the little critters
in a row upon the ashtray, unfinished
bizness. And unfinished is as business
does and does not. Fear of failure
and whatnot.

What I do know, well, the teen Latinos
line up in the stairwells here,
kissing up a firestorm.

Time enough to swell in the emotions
stirring in your sudden disappearance:
O gawd, how many cassette recordings
you must inspire. O gawd, that hope
you might listen to this song or that,
so you feel what we all end up feeling.

Longing along, leaving it alone.
A kiss under a streetlight, a wave
goodbye. I guess where there`s fire,
there`s hope. I don`t have time to smoke.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Raising Arizona

Caught a hot summer updraft outta Sky Harbor,
lifted over the barrios of the sun, the hosed
prostitutes along Roosevelt, where beauty
is as far away as the savior, his hands,
reaching out, graceful, willing to love,
despite all that damned human DNA in his loins,
as a handout, stay quick for a five-dollar table dance,
the only cure for the moon-bounced heat of el sol,
and water, always lacking, strolls on down the street.

The girl trashed the place. Every living, breathing
thing cussed up a torment. Walked right in, kicked her way
through security, demanding money and vengeance;
Which is quite popular for most. Vengeance is hip, right?
`Cause even if unattended baggage gets the evil eye,
we are living in diaphanous times. When the scroll
unrolls, crackling, and the creaking and the blind
call out for reason and the shreiking: O fuck, I`m leaving.
These night lights, flying over Central in wind-blown Phoenix,
illumines the real issue going on here: The lack of rain.

- Telluride, 1996


Internet accessed
Horus the database,
and banks sold
you my name,
and with my database
you make war.


Jesus walked
two thousand years
away from Hindu masters.

Even Cicero knew:
Nothing is new
with the eternal.

Young Girls

Easy to talk about nothing.
Come like a storm and go in gloom.
Shallow waters dry on a lukewarm,
empty moon.


Glued to the tube.
Swirling, agaze.
Bombing is Olympic sport.

The Weatherford Hotel

Smoking Sher Bidis
in front of brick made Charley`s.
The red wine glasses clink
and loved ones clatter.

Went next door, business booms.
Looking through the round clear glass -
the mug of Ed Abbey,
the monkeywrencher.

That Cowboy hat; ah, el sol nuestro estrella.
That white beard, elfish grin, I tell you,
I still saw the white light in his eagle eyes.

- Flagstaff, 1996

Two Sleeping Tigers

I, the living high-wave amplitude
of sleep disturbance, disturb thee,
my sweet imperfect beauty,
in coughs and sputters
and whoring whirls of ache.
You stir as you hear my sick heart
quicken, hear thunder in eyes that blink
You mutter meek slumber sounds, not a purr,
dreaming of antelope and emu, the great wide plain,
wheels spinning round and round

Soft, hot-soaked meanders of tangled blankets,
cloud banks of knawing pairs, you and I,
we are unruly emotions, unbinding in rules,
tossing in the shallow sleepy deeps
of a dark world imploding, spinning apart,
quaking in the volcano`s molten cone

When I awake before dawn
I kiss thyne eyes
and crawl upon the hearth
a stalking Romeo on misfit earth

There are no little lies in you,
nothing I can find but innocence
and periodic mists of bottomless brood
As you dream, I scheme, scour the earth
for sign of the easiest meatiest meat

Now I rise, being way too careful, remote
and tiptoe out the door and into the heat
having learned how to leave you alone
to let you grow and gather those old woes
for a circle of stones, minding the bad omens
alerting you to self-fulfulling stars, finding
you inert as a lunar eclipse, parched dry lips

And now I, in undying low-wave longitude, long,
lie down, weary and old, grimmacing the hyper-manic
hunt for enduring truth, running from imagined angst
and for this I am grateful, for this I give thanks
for my still strong growl, but still hoping
for a soft purr, a paw, a little tiger smile,
good spirits, good humor, good love
and abundance to last a Serengetti mile

Sioux Me

She gave me an Ogallala Sioux bracelet,
My Ogallala blue-eyed Sue
I wear this key, this bind to keep
From going blind in her underworld.
So it starts to come apart,
My Ogallala blue-eyed Sue

The black porcupine twines unwind.
Entropy threatened to unbind. The blues
are good, oranges, the reds, the yellows,
all kinds of code of striped white peace paint.
O, what happened to you?
O, My Ogallala blue-eyed Sue

The adornment grasped to me, a circle
around my left wrist, and unraveled.
I stumbled in her dark, her bone-dry
Sea of Tranquility rubbed my clockwise
Watch against her counter-clockwise screw.
O, what happened to you
My Ogallala blue-eyed Sue

In a war-painted world, I couldn’t
help but think, this was very bad magic,
so I took it off, sadly, mournful in disgrace,
couldn’t get the star for me to shine in her face.
I asked for more the muse to hand-bound me,
But she was bone-dry in her stormy Sea of Tranquility.
O, what happened to you
O My Ogallala blue-eyed Sue

Rather than give up, I became the re-engineer,
mixed an epoxy of Ogallala Sioux glue:
a mend of Scotch tape, Elmers and wax,
a molten melt of a sacred red candle, which I fire up
whenever her darkness gets outta sight.

Now its on my right wrist, fragile to the touch,
Ghost dancing in the space between my skin
and the porcupine quills, but it`s just too tough,
only our air-tight grasping makes us true,
a tentative clasp is just not enough.
O, what happened to you?
O, My Ogallala blue-eyed Sue