seas write on sand
crushed rocks of
memory, shells –
compass of the dawn
new light
amber
splashing drifting
curious of the experiential
child
staggering by the beach
bound to pink deltas
of seagulls
caverns of stony flowers
circles drawn on its memory
compass of the dusk
old light shaking
drilling venting
off the curious traveler
father space
mistaken for a lady
giving birth to legend
in spacey hospital tombstones
mistaken for beds
on pines
mistaken
for wires
“giant”
comedy time
this evening
musical time
late night
marathon runner
ethos
soccer oldboy
precision
coked dancer
intuition
junky drunkard
superstition:
eyes failed me
this morning
hair combed not
this morning
girls came not
this morning
beer warm was
this morning
& there’s no coffee
in the cupboard
so much for the mythic
breakfast
of a mad/verse/spitting
giant
“model”
what if tears were yawning
vaults of echoes
crowding corridors
of experience – what if
dunes on which I rest
now, were portraits
of a weedy woman
thrown here
by the fisher
men; basking here
w/ the fauna
of pulsar beaches
crying rain of prisms
touching her body
I gasp
at the majesty of portrait
& wonder how the model
actually looked like
at the dawn of time
birth of poetry
death of the warrior; then
I see her
emerging from the seethe
of darkness
bubbling peace
over sterile
troubled bodies
“menageries”
not much choice
of alleys here
the ones that lead
to crumpled
tene
ments, ones that lead
to central station
ones that lead
to smoggy factories
or post-monarchic suburbs
but who would choose
alleys? photo
lens
dances shyly,
shooting mena
geries, times & “Lord of the Ages”
bought in this town
en route to the sea…
…here, they only have
postcards, real storms blow miles
ahead, fishing boats
are seen as rare palms
where my soft mind’s
smoking joints, while
my body kisses the sun
in a sleazy sailor’s bar
“fablemaker”
it’s not an everyday
child’s thing
to write fables & poems
on fauna
channeling its village
drifting w/ the cosmos
on a microwave
stream
not every child’s lucky
to have inspiring grandmas
pilot grandpas
& freewheeling parents
brothers & sisters
down to serious business
the child the only one
conscious
not buying the TV crap
can you imagine it’s six
or a bit older
weaving ruby hammocks
between most distant stars
resting on them
w/ space devouring squirrels
grinding the cosmic nut
such a funny thing
a true naïve birth
most of us wish they’d experienced
“dekadenz”
there’s nothing american
here; except fickle fashions
that sound
like bad poetry
good poetry
shifting
& things dull teens repeat
like mantra
confusing the hip w/ the hep
cats w/ craps
cools w/ dozies
though dozy convinces
the hell out of me
lonely, though together
phasing thru the showrooms
w/ my latest lover
who doesn’t get it
I bet it, spitting out cherry
flavored gum, teeth as
white as my hair
when did I get this old?
there’s nothing to do here
dekadenz sailing
gobbles half my heart
leaving the other to her
my vulture of the
panoramic icons
“hemisphere I & II”
the joke is on you
not clouds
point is in you
not words
but if you ceased to speak
world would save
this wonderful place
from flyers
containing nothing
but dots
moving on the whirlwind:
breath of wonder
would be landing on
pyramids
in a future-ancient city
where motorik
generators
run; the deeply curious yawn
on a spring lazy morning
clouds in streaks
of pastel, barely dabbed colors
tribes dancing
to cha cha electro
years passing slowly
eating fruits
from mutant trees
planted in the dark
eons ago, so
that no one remembers the seeds…
…utopian drifters do nothing
drinking orange
nectars
from brass goblets
that remember the ancients
who made all this art
but forgot to taste it
we’re all rewriting waves
a child saw on the shore
thru the first eyes
of daybreak
on balmy songs
of a giant lark; on a midnight fire
fall of words
that poisoned this civilization
before its time has come
but tribes keep dancing
on the ruins
of places the generals
called shelters –
moon split in half
sun a brown dwarf:
Atlantis
laying a different pulse
on the hemisphere
of drums
“koshalin shanty”
static. miles of
it
errors. months of
id
a child’s rhyme
plain psychedelic journey
back to the day
when first shanty
was written
sailors were savage
surveyors
perched on sea breeze
radius
humming words the waves
brought on
to the deck
wooden emblems glowing
on a vineyard
totem
shore
times you can’t explain
to minds that
clean-cut truth
eyes that mount
vision
above the only line
of defense
