Auroras of Orpheus in full







                            Auroras of Orpheus



                                     Poems by


                                Chris Robideaux

‘”Conditioned to ecstasy, the poet is like a gorgeous unknown bird mired in the ashes of thought. If he succeeds in freeing himself, it is to make a sacrificial flight to the sun. His dreams of a regenerate world are but the reverberations of his own fevered pulse beats. He imagines the world will follow him, but in the blue he finds himself alone. Alone but surrounded by his creations; sustained, therefore to meet the supreme sacrifice.

–          Henry Miller

A poet is not an apostle; he drives out devils only by the power of the devil.”

–  Søren Kierkegaard,  Fear and Trembling



An Author’s Word


I speak spells out to the wind and earth and sun…poems only they receive, the distinction not to write down, but to declare softly in my heart to her, to spell and dispel, to hold the love, and claim my immortality from the cosmic well…I’ve only caught a portion of it in print…

Modern Visions


I saw that heaven-light crowning the climbing desertroad leading to a gambler’s Canaan…>>> “This, this is the way, fools, to an expensive classroom–a money-cleanse dawning in the dry and spurious night.”

bike = freedom = a soul’s certain ecstasy no one else knows…sweep pathways for signs of life or a frisson of earthlust delight, if one. the heartless infrastructure falls like Grendel on slo-mo, Goliath, Christ from Golgotha in pale capitulation, into the seminal soil of a garden of eternal spiritual blooms so beauteous the Sun weeps

a new kind of light…

Tender your rage with meaning for the age, and the New Way, says the descendent of Gallic swordsmen. “the hallucinating hermit” comes again, as bougainvillea leaves in a purple dance make a certain ballet of my window-view afternoon. nature at play and a surfeit of childlike expression…as you and I become one with Creation, and expand in a an illustrious caravan of world-sized love. This audacious whorl of action breeds new beings from the mud of anguished existences–existence as smooth as a summer lake’s morning across mountains like stubborn years.

Delicate. Eyes. Painless. Live in the skies.

The wind blew the cat back in. Nature a living Swiss clock, and we are her devoted machinery, too. She wants me punished for my humanity, though my supplication, sometimes in dank northern woods, is a zenith of fealty engorged. With eyes like knife-wounds the child-seer did distract the hounds of hell awhile…what holy vagabounds gone unseen have been messiahs of the science age?

And here’s a wine maven I speak to of “intentional serendipity” and a palate’s vocabulary and of the sweet grape’s offerings in a busy marketplace on Beltane itself as the Bel-fires summon me…on same day I speak to my poet friend of the Brentavious and the purity of the creative moment, and the poetic visionaries, of non-objectivity and bourgeois ignorance of the academic literati.

My cat is a certain musician, and musicians mimic a cat’s forlorn cries with notes of

wailing electronic alchemy–

And will we ever see Lyra again?



What treasures will this season’s Bel-fire whirlwind unearth? Wind, which

carries the greater province of irreduceable human detritus, but to fall to an ocean’s pit.

Ignorance. Perstilence.

Stablemates of this pure horror of existence.

Entire gardens waving at me–like the palo verde today who tossed his mane at my passage.

The wind right now whipping my herb-garden into animated semiotics of Persephone’s


Unadulterated heavens.

Rotten fruit of this collective flesh, trashing its birthright, spoilng its jeweled home.

But a cornucopia of Zen magic saves us,

A glorious Cult of Truth,

This is my home and my province,

This the incising, rhetorical tooth.

(eye like a vagina,

moist with doubt for all things

eggs the spermatic spear of Truth

Onward, in its million-dimension crusade…)

This, my home and province,

A glorious Cult of Truth,

I’ve sucked its fulsome teats dry today,

And sacked the devils with no proof


I am million-breasted as my hills darken and sleep. The first light of dawn awakes me, and I am the day, made of every flower, speck of sand on beach or roaring river; I am the ocean’s entirety, my depths sung by immense-tailed beings in these dark blue worlds, ringing with my felicitous vibrations. I am every debutante and mad slave to commerce; I am every shattered continent recovering from the billion frissons of this cosmic ballet–and I am the hot gun and the surprised murdered…and so are you.

Together are we one, writing this giant opera which incorporates the audience’s arias, and all the specters of the seas and mountains and icy crevasses. We are old empires dazed and shopping, deceiving, and we are old maids once believing, now hiding in windows, frozen in fear’s ice palace, torn by its machinery. We are the austere, whistling wind in northern climes, the Sun our only friend, and we are sleeping happy drunk in a Belgian meadow. We are the orgy, cotillion, and alleyway celebration, and we are one and we are all now, but no invitation to the pow wow…

We are the vacation and the vexation, the shaman/artist’s visions, calling up the TRILLION BRUSHSTROKES OF THIS SIDE OF ETERNITY…

…here, drink the plausive wine of forever’s sweetest shadows!

[They drink for a season entire, quite possibly 1,000 years, and live happily in the Green Forest loosed of all

material conquest-sense or greed or fallacy…]

These rhythms of audacity, colored strange–mathematical pathways of spirits working till they collapse dead from ignorance, denoted by cheap burials & sorrow & circumstance not outriding the daily news.

O, what contrivance of illusive greed! What did we feed on?

Children going off to war, taught that God expects their complicit martyrdom, and that God, country, and family will celebrate their valor as they die for zero gain but for the demons of commerce and control. Souls recycled once again (and I can see them in flight along a silver ladder) to learn finally to trust their own voice & sovereignty.  I people my hellish basins with these students of life badly in need of their cosmic lesson books.


Whirlwind Poem

Another decadent for your annals has his soul’s eyes caught up in the storm

of Man’s culmination, and prepares the sacraments of Transcendent elation.

Here in the heart of Aztlan and Navajo, where desert devils volatize the rabid

inhabitants of pedestrian progress like a mother chiding a lazy child; here, where Progress, bastard child of Enterprise, stagnates into stenches of canal-sewers and the waste of disinterested peasants, breaking their bottles in vain; here, where the thousandfold stew of impertinent existence erects a meaningless flag, ominously extorting the peace of our senses, do the false seasons fold-in the plastic tents of this sad epoch’s gangly illusions…

…and I turn and worship a magnificent race from

faraway Leo, as their purrs have replaced

a strung up ‘messiah’!

The next day we open on a long, deep canopy of blue.

Blue! A blue the hue of unattainability.

As we reap the mad harvest of our predecessors–innocent as some of us are–these cats mew

in supplication to their old masters,

from dynasties lost and golden, and their phantoms spy us even now! We walk out, hand in hand,

smiling into the furious vortex ignored by these denizens of waste. I return home a long time later

and pray to my feline maker to spare us the long famine to come, as we’ve had few thoughts

of our own hunger, as we’ve seen those many visions of the children of Kandahar,

New Orleans, and Darfur in our shared theater of empathy…

O Pluto and Isis, let us live!

In life unending, ever-dreaming in the shade & solace of old date palms,

adrift, maybe, upon the Nile, or Dordogne–any place the parallel illusion

will allow us passage;

I and my colony of feline lovers lead an army of

nomadic animals, slaves, scoundrels,

troubadors, and a race of lost men…

We sail way out beyond the Hesperidian gates,

to Hyperborea, and to fantastic realms of blue ice–

We ride the waves from New Babylon sunk, its flames finally

extinguished forever; and after 140 days we come to the New Eden

of consciousness and vitality restored! Delivered from the sad, intrepid whirlwind



Here, where the wine flows like the reluctant blood of old and new martyrs,

I drink the sacrifice of Jeanne d’Arc and a thousand others down! and take a hit off Bob Marley’s

last spliff, after I carried him from the hospital killing ground to a Jamaican beach, and we lie and smile

and wave across the water to the new light falling; I’ve drunk down the blood-wine of the visionaries of

Obscurity & taste their bitter toil in the alchemy of proffered taste.

I sip slowly some nights, preserving each nanosecond of pleasure, feeding every winsome

vision, each quintessence of youthful propagation of their own eternal kingdoms of satiety.

And I make love with 100 salacious demigoddesses a day, as we sip the ancient grape within the

Walls of villas haunted and strange. With Beauty as our God, cradled in our hearts like a quaich,

catching earthblood dreams.

In this inscrutable paradise, that other multi-dimensional patter of our long romance,

O dynasty of melancholy, cosmic consummation! I recall, I do, those stars and aeons, my loves,

So much a part of me and Creation’s canvas…where I paused with you in the cypress-shade

the vineyards stretching downward toward our soul’s ocean…

And we shadowed that bright azure with suns of our own, sun-and-shadowed one, one with

Infinity and her many armies’ triumphs and “sacrifices”. Pro patria, communion wafer of ash & lava

& ignorance has awaited us & the undeserving denizens of Nature’s rage-stage;

How she fumes, then blows! Our goddess, giver, mother, friend, Terra.



In the empire of soul/nectar of sleep

overcore of slight madness;

in-fugued mind a tapestry of sloughs

denote breakfasts of deceived serfs

and the dusting of the cosmic shelves

means one more book unread–

All is information & forgetting, for

there is no meaning here in this place–

So I will drink away the material waste

of this colossal mistake woven by TV tyrants

with hands like rakes.

with bestial proclivity yawning

the biblical score is low, the tender heart is slow;

Midsummer eve is here, an iambic iris dots heaven’s i’s

Soulful Sigfried is just around the corner

Practicing his routine with a bowler hat and a wolverine.

“Your body desperately needs…” go the first words of a recent

medical piece. You don’t know the half of it.

Here comes the Precipitous Hobnob of Missing Truth,

galloping down the stairs of his burned out galleon —

And here is his Bride of Swords unmasque-ing her long

schismatic realms, with a delicious smile of unfettered freedom

And here’s the brutal Madman of mammon and his

warren of birds

Driving black jeeps from jungle to beaches strung with Undine’s hair;

Accessing the negative dream to the tune of our trillions…

O happiest day!

that twitch is is, in this realm of cutthroat biz.

That witch is, is, too trifling to see and feel truth’s big green

Teats. Matter-hammer forthwith in my backward glans, I see a

Boy become a man, fast in time-lapse light. Musty smells of

100-year old gymnasiums, where Maestro Weather sends his

garish children to cities boundless confused.

Enemy scars vexational-relational

tango, elimination of debt, fear, cowardice.

Come, let’s pack the morbid mule, my love…And leave this wasted land

of walking, smiling corpses behind!

(Among the stars we reclined, O Stella Stardust regale us…)

dynopsis ouvroir mellancy dispack bundled swarm shawl underneath

Over and in between the dark land Sylvanos, our whole Empire of Soul

Adventure ours become one Now. This a new kind of hedge-maze for our day!

Lyzonic! A craze of apple-worshiping pesters apes

the non-historical westerns;

With the wind and many cities,

wrath of kin and kin of pith, #’s 82 and 199 for starters,

scramble these, their have-to days, too bad.

We all learn the Big Song eventually.


From The Chet Baker School of Reconstitution-Orthodontics




A Response To Verlaine’s “Somber Landscapes”

A Greenwich Village penthouse triangle of light on wall

heralds the iconic frisson of pink on a woman’s shadow-hall

A forerunner of punk poetry, and what is it of hope?

Hope so frail it shed its body one million times, and haunts

As it piques out from its ivory drawing room?

What of devastated fishing families and gulfs and a planet’s future?

What meaning, light falling in a New York penthouse in 1975?

What meaning, then, this spreading black stain of corporate need?

The cattle-fed and these feeble dawns, and this

profundity to be had in the most mundane of rooms,

becoming a shrine made of dust and blood and wine–

we hover in a gallery hall to gaze upon a daguerrotype

even as Tibets of all kinds are invaded again and again

By they whose blue lips dry up from ignorance,

as savants wait in sun-served rooms of unspoiled grace.

Like the mornings hereafter where I shine, following the night’s

Candleglow, and my wine-soaked musings

of Syrah & Zinfandel, my friends, my sales,

My deep-red poems.

Like the fragile wind tossing the eucalyptus softly,

I am touched by this small uproar on a corner acre

Of a desperate planet, the shopping-cart rhapsodies

in my head at first light get their heart

As lost years’ snows still melt.

In this cavernous and astonishing body called the universe

or Life, do the friendly, lovely maids come calling,

In a sweetly singing troupe

to revive me in my ivory tower.

As a hot mind crawls across a many-tower’d land;

And brings this high-hoisted love down like a torn flag.


The Map of Everything

The fruit eternal bade me here…

made of it, grown infernal,

the map of everything so clear–

boundless brutality, war without end

spawned by one cruel epoch of man’s bent:

our recalcitrant rider, one brutal ape-man’s stance;

and from these loins endless battles hence.

An almost libidinous lust for violence

drives low-lifes through dark centuries,

killing what they cannot be–seeing

death where is life

blood where water flows

a foe where there is a friend

darkness where shines this sun, where

Self-hatred for the soldier

promises death for everyone

(though the light-age with coronal laurels

for the sweet-smart is at hand)





~Meditation Movie~

Let the birdsong be of joy;

make the impractical practical,

the impossible possible;

Raise we seer sons, o esteemed Creator,

to the Temple of Heiros and Isis, and

let the apotheosis of love be done!

O great book of alchemy, let the great-souled

Awakening be done! The vicissitudes of men with

good eyes given light – I am a lightbody come

Unto “no-time”. My grief is over, the overlords’

World lost!

Good day to you, teacher overwrought, cut to the bone,

Nailed to the quick. Good day, my love, feeding the

Inchoate minds unappreciating…how blind!


you don’t have me!

you “winners of hearts and minds”

a song foreign to your markets and commerce

calls me out from the great, loveless stain

to grind against the ignorant crusade

Now, in Tammuz are we stalks beside

the austere walk; here in the clutches of

Midsummer graces, we make the sun go up and down

and the blistering winds blow insane…

so I pour the silky maroon liquid into my

Glass goblet, and let this wine of strength

saturate my depths, again. I’ll go sing to the birds,

let the wine drink me, roll my waves to the awesome sea;

pathway upon pathway

and punish all the jailers & set all prisoners free

as the impotent epoch wallows

in malignant effluence,

not proud,

not stirring a stone…

Ouroboros Imaginos

Happy birthday, Brutus, my friend of late

Whose Queen of Muses stands high, awaits

The happiest of happies hence, O Creator

Down my lover’s rabbit-hole ’tis better;

But crave or drive or worship or flee

Drink down the summer wine’s warm pedigree,

“The film noir queen steps down from the screen

and waters my orchids with her tears”;

I build skyscrapers in imaginary heavens

swarmed by gardens warm and mad;

I hear heavy metal saints singing to their

Battalions, and I dream what I never had.

And here, here comes the oily tide!

And the irradiated glow of sick wormwood.

Our Chernobyl, our stupid cataclysm,

Our complacent stare at the colored tube,

And banal peasant chatter filling the air,

As fetid lives await the black seas,

Wrecking Nature’s delicate symphony,

Au revoir, sanity!

Sayonara, fragilest Spring!

Kiss goodbye grasshopper-summers,

as Satan seduces the world again.

But here are there dancers, poets, and friends,

and here is there wine enough, and (as yet) no end.

What comes around goes away,

With rough sweetness she came to play,

now disappeared without a trace!

And I’m stuck in a Purgatorio’s train station

Strumming for the invisible guardians of fate.

What comes around always goes away

On the dark plank of uncertainties–

I see the angry storms mottle these

pseudo-tropical horizons, electric entities

prodding me till love leaps up into the

Firmament of a truer freedom’s kingdom,

Soaring ineffably around the blue realms

Like an ancient mystic returned

To reclaim his singing futures, quite like

the Romans–and I mean the poets–and quite

like the moments I polish with words,

for your mindgallery seasons you’ll carry with you

Throughout all your lives, in all the universes,

Though you die here and leap from the morass into the

Silver-lightning’d Infinity with a silken heart,

Riding a blue star of phantom grace.








Cryptos Imaginos

Raise the Titanic

Raise the mimetic

Skim the islands of lost Kosmos

Red skin of twin suns

Twisted glories and soft suits

& strange sands of gas-giant moons

Where you spend your birthdays in such sullen moods

Gloriously jeweled white ghost of saying, stopped & whelmed

By Fabreges of lust. We imitate what’s popular:

Gryphon-mold-muddled in the caverns of rough alien grace,

Heretics all golden now in their otherness.

Laws change with time and weather, Solstice runner stages,

Project what and where I want–Summer ’67 if I want,

A big blue bird-woman to fly me to Shangri-La or Eden II–

Behind those eyes a virtuoso; behind the watchers a mummified

King of the Sun or Goddess beatific seducing the ethers…

Troubadours fill an ancient graveyard at night; one of them

Pulls out the ritualistic concoction, a set of wings for the mind

infused with gold dust–and plays a living melody on her guitar.

Vast midnights gone are here again in the self-same languid moment

Eternal, and in a cruel citadel whose children killed the Old Guard

To prepare the way, and to open the doorway to this troupe of musical

Explorers. And the daughters that sang with them, and sons who blew

Horns, and struck strings! They took the red-gold citadel for a season entire,

& shook the lands and stars with new songs! Evening fires & musical shores

followed simple days of warmth, turning to nights of erotic tapestry

Wined and full and lustrous with love. And a bard spoke, “On Universal wings

carried by breath of supernovas, like all of these worlds, do we come”.

“We left our shadows in the false reign!” shouts another, “Here, where we

become our own gods and goddesses in the magic-seeing days & evenings

crucible for our bright alchemy”

Lofty symphonies, O children of tyranny beget, & in the shallows

of the timeless pool ride the cygnet to the Sun.

The swarming future perspective eats its own tail–the past–in the slow

consummation, an assimilation of those fast, dumb years become our

counsel and blackboard-fountain.




A Twilight Fantastique              9/9/10

Thoughts like delicate music played on gossamer strings

Fly me to haunted celluloid halls, where we behold

What the goddess brings; where all of Life celebrates

in that Light of all Lights–and Heaven serenades us

With discreetly supple breasts full of sweet wine.

An elder thespian takes us further in;

Perhaps Thespius himself, and one of his younger

Daughters take the stage to enact the eventide play,

Though we have fallen away, to where the Crimson Chanteuse

Enchants us to drunkenness by a dark river;

Our spirits set free as hummingbirds or starlight quiver.

But it’s here, where these sable devils run in and

Poison the pure forest waters; where our chanteuse nightly

bathes, sings, and beckons. They kidnap her away, though she smiles

All the time–they gruffly throw her down on a hillside;

But she laughs a shrill and deafening laugh, which scatters them,


And the great star swells in the sky, and glows like

Night’s own lover–Betelgeuse or Aldebaran? No, ’tis a new

Blue-white giant, cosmic soul-temple, an abstruse salvation

As the dark forest land, tressed in sylvan whispers where

The White Lady wanders, and where all sun-covered moments

Are as sweet as the mysterious widow’s pie.


And much later, after the snowstorm of light,

Once all the forest creatures had fallen to Morpheus’ grasp

While listening to the sea, whispers of life began

The process of bringing Summer back to the sun-starved land.

It was here, in this swarming midnight hour, that life rivaled death,

at last, and the hell-hawks were driven out of the glens and vales,

And the wishing wells orgasmically fountained up with the potent

Spring water, seminal & unassailed.

But soft…across numinous Sylvanos and into the village…

“Not that kind of painter,” said the scruffy, savage man with

stained trousers and persistent cough. There was a look in his

Eyes like all the starving peasants in the world smiling. He took

a languid swig on a violet bottle of wine, perused the enthralled

denizens of the room, laughed a hearty Buddha laugh, then

smashed the doomed bottle in the corner.

“Nothing of your kind,”  said the bohemian figure, then

sauntering out onto the cobblestones, to his second-floor

retreat where he will posit new shapes, forms, ideas, colors,

perspicuities, revolts…

…and faraway, into the twilight fantastique, the brighter stars

played a new symphony for heaven and earth, as clouds

summoned up and swarmed a full moon bejeweled in the

Awesome morass of forever.

Where the harlequin wino stumbled and fell

Down the hidden wishing well;

And Picasso, kissed by Modigliani, thrusts His

creative prowess into the moon goddess’s chamber,

Counting a spell for all the children of endless war’s Hell –

now come to know first love.












 A Stormtide Rapture in an Eschatological October Dark




The Etymology of Lust                                                             10/27/10

The watchmen of the temple

disgrace the last laughing prince

& spoil the innocence of a gullible Ophelia

with topaz eyes.

The virgin whore adorns the sad room,

and the pious killer infects the womb.

The ancient calendar that never was found

hides the sound of ecstatic wives all around!

The merciless choir then stalked the glen,

As ravenous animals acted like men,

with little difference, except for the hen.

The virgin whore, aloof orgiast

Of brainy intercourse, her love lost in the stream  –

Brought upon the world a kind of new dream.

Washed, too, in the Poem of the Sea,

Strident barges racing by in a fit of glee.

And, still standing, green-limbed with a lifetime

Ahead, in the blue sunlight were we.

There are oceans I cannot promise you

And realms in me you cannot see.

And we all tangle with meanings, words, and

Self-ideas; but to me, you ARE the magnificence

of crashing azure seas, foaming within

One woman’s soul and body…

…and I know far more than you let me know.

But you, me, the virgin whore, the lost calendar

And pious killer all dance in a synaesthesia of

Certain human graces, adding to the chorus

Of mad strangeness, as we take our places.














this u cannot ancient musician astronaut,

of life in a newmind contend; but where other

heads bobbed & souls sang up in someone’s

unlikely photodust of a century;

candy for historians,

wristology of curators & doctors allover

the magic artopolis/

this u say of a realm

mighty colors and a balm –

character windways transitions

astrolicity cusp-ish brazen change

needing a tart eye negative to realm-ish

deal with the avalanche of gluttonous souls

wandering waste-lust mad & I give a spectral eye

to artificially painted skies & hum “wellll” again, I,

in this blanched seafood waste of space doing the sales walk

what can a monster tell you,

all shit-evolved where mastery robotic

had swelled & coalesced & faded all in one

afternoon’s tricky dissolve

specs are too peered, peeled away

if you never had a real thought –

caress of weeping streams

& you said blur of sounds as yr soul creeps,

stops, hides, roars/and

what can a monster tell you when it’s you

& what of the nearest skies & cities lost

here’s another day for your soul, soul for

your day. So I request a new machine, new words,

new means, new skies, here today as the full moon sky roared

& threw planes off course & mizzened its clouds like

unkempt mansions & where did pleasant discourse set itself afire?

O the lover who caved in jelly of my brain & eyes,

hard-rolled under same

godcloak daywind newsbomb Sunday

but I don’t.

so ever again do,

molt of the eyeward pigeon’s

coat of smell these ponds hold.

golden canteen I hold & ponder & envy,

whatever you can sell & assail to get-get

to flow on.


can stick u in my heart

as flowers in an old vase,

aching in a desert casement.

angling, O did, and a rush up of a

heaving heart & we the human running onward

& base & I no longer care of news only my own.

November Lament (for Jaco Pastorius)

Demoniac virtuoso, what drove you from your stars?
– Karate-chop into Music Heaven –
Don’t stop now, the lights are getting low.
Are you and God speaking now?
The repeated motif is the voice in your head
You flourish w/ one hand tied
Weaving poems with music’s threads;
Strange stages, manic hands –
Only you tell you where to stand
And where to play,
All day
Like when you were an excitable child,
Wild, pulling at the skies.

Another name writ on water,
One more silver Spyder gone under,
Too many wunderkinds lost,
Too many grieving mothers –
And, to what kingdom were they tossed?
A Sahara where my tears’ well was;
Flies, my naked soul it draws.

Out, out
Over the lost hillocks of youth
I scream and scratch and run uncouth,
Another and another,
Gabriel late for the slaughter.
No time for dreaming now,
We’ve a great blooding to do.







Sugary Prague In Orange Light                     11/29/10

Sugary Prague in orange light draped

in gentle snowfall hides love but calls it out as well,

As the church spires still reach for heaven,

Finding dark chill, still echoing her defenestrations

and Kafka-gloom, but Sugary Prague finally falls,

And pillows our hardy feet, searching for love

amongst the cold stones & hot hearts & graffiti.

O Sugary Prague uneaten, eats loneliness,

its Cosmic Clock ticking out civilization in the Square,

where sugary women split the darkness

with bright green eyes

& find feasts & friends in the medieval town far freer than

the “world beacon” is; & where contented love looms

in this beauty’s future, her labors not lost,

her soul in sugar tossed.

love & chaos  11/29-12/7/10

Canto I

How can the sun shine so, and freeze us still?

In my body there’s an unearthly chill

& I think of a woman

and wonder why gargantuan love

must dwell alone…

Why the pink-bloomed tree is never touched once

by hands alike, & then I think

each cloud,

each tree,

each soul must go on alone,

drop leaves or rain or words as its destiny;

& there are children hungry, crying, abandoned somewhere,

& there is unique beauty stifled once again,

& there is ignorance & unfettered chaos reigning supreme

In the broken deserts of faith, and in the “powerful” minds.

And there are starry storms whose planets I would someday know,

When this darkness is conquered, & there is perfect love

I go to where she smiles & touches my cheek & I kiss her hand

& she makes her love and mine one.

But this garish symphony aplomb yielding, carrying me aways

across desert streams & years & robust mountains

painting masterpieces of godlust colorsent telegraphs to the

supremely aware…

Where she of the mountains and glades ate trees & colored

the skies & bathed in hidden streams rippling with cosmiclight

and fountaining the waterways; for her, love was an earthly

consummation of fiery flesh, swarming in the alive cosmos

w/ passions Titanic, swollen by supernovae, saying

Staruvpoem! Speak! Here are your jewels, for Eternity to reap!

Of their alchemized sorrow say, she of the snowy cities

(lusting for love & pleasure & warm nights)

Drinking the wines of Old Bohemia, filling her veins

with their blood–enough for a cosmopolitan brood–

where not often enough the sun-dappled brooks run

Underneath a shining arm of the galaxy,

where here she may smile…

Astral crossings of the dynastic wise,

when will my silvery soul meet your eyes?

In love & chaos evermore do we ride, or is there a reprieve

this time? Colloquial bane of disintegrated unions, who calls

love out, here is Nature’s lone call and fearsome night! Let us grant

Ourselves the soulful revolt that gains the needed epochal quarry!

Cosmic appendage of love-ghosts making us aware,

Teach us to disbelieve and re-learn in these Dark Ages again;

& we will share such stories as to make the planets sing!

The Music of the Spheres all we hear, at last to remake love.

I’ll press this flower in a book for her

I’ll pour some tea and set a place for her

And think well of her, even though she may

Not think the same. Pink blooms on the tree,

even in winter & all this lifeshine in the chill

I wear in the blue-canopied air,

chopped by a shrill engine.

I press this dying bloom in a favorite book for her, for the aeons,

For love entire filling up time; this bloom I enfold is talisman to

rooted beings & feathered ones, & lonely lusting, haunted ones

As well! I stroke the lovestrings, where in this time, this life, this hour,

I’m more enamored of existence than ever.

Canto II

This kind of death, as the embers burn low,

and the sylphs dance above me in the blue heights,

executes the solidity of glee,

the palpable body and crying soul awaiting;

This kind of familiar torture sacks the golden promise

Of unspoiled gardens interminable –

This gold inflammable, this existential prism

Besmirched by trickster gods irrepressible,

though our great disc of fire rises again.


Certain, I, this labyrinth of petty pavement may

Yet hide some cosmic friends or comforts or signs.

Crown of wool and mouth-mad, the fumbling heart

& lost guitar strings of the coronation songs –

In these wombs I grow, delivered into heady streets

On magnanimous constitutions set adrift,

each lofty day I look,

And each black table of unsung night.

& somehow get the gold, like love that pours from her

Green eyes! Green gold in rough rivers in my soul;

Where Xanadus on sun-tinged clouds run by.

The listening heart, even, that beats out its own

True paeans to cruel trains & feminine stars.

But it seems these gods aren’t enough

To heal the jagged schism torn by us.

So, rise we must into their places,

And write the unifying tractates,

Sing the death-killing songs,

And chant the starlight-spreading incantations.

Like the monk, burning in his sovereign fire,

Surely pondering the spiritual sort as he

Ceased Earthly reckoning. Supreme sacrifice,

Or useless, life-wasting gesture? The smell of life

Rendered ash must have horribly stricken the nostrils

Gathered on that tropic summer morning, somewhere

South of hell, somewhere in the cult of meaning.

And starmen and dragons bent, and music men inhaling

The perfumes of the muses, as lost as any, though found

as well – amongst the phantom stones of ancient demesne,

We march through an autumn fog. But take me to where

Virgin rivers flow and nurture green lands, and take me there

With your great, golden hands that spread peace and

Beauty rare! I feel a new rain gathering, to raise

New spirits of love to re-make life un-crazed.

The prancing sun on leafy lagoons says:

“Let us weave a tapestry of enlightened sojourns

in new lives, towns, lands, and ways through.”

And when I lay down my last

And this arrow of time has fallen,

Your name in my heart so indelibly strong

Will somehow help me live on.

And though we have our different ways,

I’m glad to have been in you, as you’ve been in me,

In this, the bullseye of our destiny.

Canto III (Romanity Rise)

Infant entrance of my benign beliefs arrayed

Like Rhea’s milk dotting stars against night’s blackboard;

Where I catch stirrings of the ghosts of sacred songs,

Piped and strummed by 10,000 minstrels, with words

Written by the supreme bards of ancient light –

I wandered in Boetia, Caer Sidi, Phoenicia, and Crete,

On a flair from suns both ancient and fleet!

“Rest in rimrocked vales, my son, and consort with

an Empire of eidolons, the wise men will come for you.

But not the Bacchae this time – these tame ladies

wouldn’t know rough revels from a shrew!”

I consult the Sidhe for my next fey lines,

And drink from my flask of crimson wine.

Looking out on the day, Winter Solstice has the

palm trees frozen in a miasma of grey.

Thick pine trees wait, their arms outstretched

With patient cones; Mother Nature is pregnant again,

resting, writing her Odes. A yellow carpet of leaves scatters

Desert ravens to search for scant seeds; but where the

Sigils are unkind, we’ll need a new Taliesin to decipher

These myths: Here I am, to propitiate the Boetian yields

with a hymn to the golden eye above us!

And now we do as the Romans did, celebrating

the re-birth of the Sun; this morphed Saturnalia

A poor charade, though, for proper homage to Nature,

her elementals, and the stars…

Pan-ic, Babelic,

Romanity drafted in dreamscape epochs,

the rain-pregnant sky has its headache, too.

Haunting music espouses the emperor’s queer demands

to train slaves for death.

& Rhea’s milk falls like Pompeiian rain, as we fall –

like markets or music or hearts, in a scarred

Symposium of clouded oracles & abused doctrines…

Romanity now must rise, just as centurions rose

before the Sun for battle,

or slavedom itself under Spartacus did,

Just as Thebes rose and bled;

Where the blond grain leaps upward into Apollo’s hands,

Where the North Wind blows in with its deathdreams

and sharp lesson of “elsewhere”.

As the Demiurge flexes, and the Cult of the Bloody Rose

begins its masses in the craggy hills of Cybele,

and the coastal glades of Anglesey; in Judea, Persia,

and Avalon, too.

Romanity has another bloody fix to do!

With all my eyes watching you,

A hiss-tory is played out for heartless lions,

As I plant my seeds underneath a weeping sky,

My armor of rage blazing silver as I fly,

With all my eyes watching you,

Planet spinning, savages grinning, peace-

makers falling behind; Entire nations sleeping,

Disobeying life’s highest law!

Dead flowers fall from the night’s wound;

Years come ’round with blinding orbs impenetrable

& graces strange, blithe, chthonian, meet in

Zeus’ garden, as a deep vault at Knossos

Holds a great world secret…

These grim pregnancies beg

Philippic prostrations; these deva-stations held crimson

bleed blue beauty by day’s station, where awkward

Exchange left me pulling away – entitled to a possible

Flood & scuttled desert ride.

If caught in Cimmeria, O lost winds fashioning

Cryptic rises, lofty horizons long-shadow’d,

We would pack the horses & ride west

With a prayer to Isis

& 20 miles to the sea,

Saying farewell to Bloody Romanity!

Canto IV

Haute lens for unsure eyes, germ of turning histories,

Totem of token landscapes –

Visions and pied interludes whorl in my brain,

As the shadow-count of learning love

Hides its hard husk in the cloudy cove.

And among the pines and magnolia,

I spin bright wheels for ever-escaping soulity,

a golden-limbed bodhisattva of capricious trails,

Importuning strange faces with self-same smiles!

This world is so large & strange with its trillion

corridors & morphemes & calyxes, passivities,

Wra(I)ths & clouds–it numbs me with a galactic

Smorgasbord of meaning: Here am I hard-progressing,

Upon magnified seas, drawing my Mayflower on and on,

Where hallucinatory Dariuses and Grendels taunt me,

Where garlands of mysterious flags wave in spirited

Wonder from afar, coloring the Great Now with an elusive


Where my flesh like old fruit wavers, and I like

Skies possessed & jewelled let the

Spears of logic fly. Just as these embers of emotion burn,

And we these twain sexes endure,

To atone in deafening rooms blank of pinnacles,

Like lovers who fall into lotuses & never notice

They’ve fallen, but awake to perfumed dawns

Where summers pass on their joyful yield

In the ever-rejuvenating field of at least one ignored flower….

Pasts patina’d still, crying will, overing yet–

A glory in the word must rise now to reclaim a

Holy air. Here glow the godly arms perpetual,

like Siddhartha’s escaping soul and steed; still

Leaping from earthly jail, orient hearts and kimono

edges flutter & empires partly slain recompose

despotic dead-leaf vacancies, all the bystanders

In full wail.

The defining edge to these years dissolves as my

Prow delivers escape. This, my ritual as I’ve rendered it:

A few turns of the wheels like Beethoven-phrases of

Ecstatic transcendence, a few breaths of otherness,

the exercise of daily seeing I keep on the

mystic mantleplace, where the urged verses define the roads;

Where still a blond-haired boy in me cries out

from his vestiges drowning in wonder, untainted, a lover

Of these dreamlike, blood-painted skies.

Canto V – The Sickly Cinderella

The sickly Cinderella scrubs the hallways of Hell;

And where she’s headed is easy to tell!

This sad woman is sick with the world,

A clockwork struggle builds her daily frown,

Her self-imposed servitude to broken lines frays,

And like a grizzled packmule, hear how she brays!

She wanders down the tracks, drinking

Sour-grape wine, bemoaning her childless

Days, though she’s smothered her own child inside!

Watch as she assassinates Erotic love,

Reeling her umbilical cord in instead,

passing her hours in bitternesses red,

Those who’ve loved her intimately

Never able to do right in her eyes.

Who is this woman who points out all wrongs, excepting her own?

Who cleans out the raven’s stoop, though disdains

The free flight of birds, whoever have flown?

Who hears only her own thoughts, as misguided

As they can be?

This Cinderella, sickly, can never truly know a man.

She’s much too busy forming her mothering mind

For his estate her heart to find.

‘Tis a scathing pity as well–for love layed her down

Gently, and was eminently in dark mornings  hers

Softly raised to sweet insights; there was she with

Love’s pulse innately. What can a woman be, if she cannot live for others?

Family, society, Nature, and the man who smiles on her so pure

Of heart and mind?

She heads for an Old Maid’s and spinster’s bed, sadly, instead.

But mothers and the childless alike may go mad!

So, teacher, servile woman of bitterest scorn,

you should brood awhile,

Cocooned in your mother’s back room,

Where yet you may find even some dark smile,

Where crimson words bleed, all slashed with false swords;

There is no heaven for a guilty Cinderella

Which isn’t prefaced by Hell’s banal ambitions!

Woe, o worm of withered hearts once happy!

The pedant makes her lists–judges, scoffs, opines,

gluttons, defecates, dozes, sleeps the sourest sleep,

then awakens and does it all again, her anger fathoms-deep!

O backbroken Cinderella, self-made Ophelia, how sickly you are!

You bear the weight of family, and sublimate all your

self-inflicted scars.

When will you emerge from your mother’s womb, and shadow?

When will you let a man, your chosen one, show you a different

Type of labour and love?

For surely you’ve no doubt, lest you be naked-mad,

That a woman of such years can’t behold herself glad, beneath

Those who’d better be serviced by her happiness?

That future family and home you talk of, in terms all your own,

Will ever-elude you in your self and love-defeating state!

O glorious tree of most vivacious leaf,

Don’t leave love blinded by your grief!

The time to cut the fleshy cord and walk free

Guides you to the pleasant pastures of your destiny!

You’d do well to find some joy in the sun before too long;

Make your own palace – of wood, stone, and free song,

For time and your tethered thinking weigh you down

like sinker and line,

To the murky waters where no reason you’ll find,

And where no happy sun can shine.

O precious flowering flame…what secret’s in your name?

Only you can know, and until that day you are lamed.










Joelma                                                                                     2/12/11

Why do we coax such finishing fire in our race for architectural glory?

A warm Sao Paulo day now long gone needs cool air and irony

To douse its fires of commerce

& water its heroic fields, fallow, with the blood of ordinary martyrs.

Would St. Paul lead us out to safety?

Where money changers in the citadel tower

Keep their trapped minions – a collateral expense of souls

Leaping away from unleashed heat, so easy climbing,

Devouring human finery in a flash

As it blackens a nave of our truth

Beneath the Southern Cross.

Joelma, that saw the blast of angry fire undo these lives,

Where bodies adjust to gravity’s toll; heavy, heavy,

This lesson of elemental lust, grim, fanning its

Wings of fire! Phoenix! What can we come to, those

Who’ve prayed to Jesus, solemn, and laughed and loved

In these days beauteous-tropic-soft?

This once again negates the idea of a Superman,

Racing in to save distressed mortals,

meek rescuing horde and horrified, astonished eyes;

Nor Hercules and a band of giants to lower us down

When we’ve overreached technology’s bounds

& reside contentedly in safety’s embrace, bosomed warm

As mothers – like those who wailed for sons who jumped!

And forevers unhanded the happier clan; fevers striped

with needless fire, hungry for love, survival –

As these fires die, too. Here, the siren’s wail echoes through

History, into faded film archives admonishing, bleeding,

Choking, bleating out a helpless cry…

…”Beware, beware of fire!

Incendio, in fire devouring souls,

O keeper close, where is Prometheus now? Do not the flowers

Bloom in the summer fields this year? Does not the blue tide

Wash our late sins away? Won’t the stars shine their dim beams

Afar, from our black roof tonight? Restless light ever-made and seen,

Ever-making? What can turn a blue-morning-black to gold again

And put guarding love in the afearing heart? Forever?

What child of wisdom, never to bear the flame of human folly again

Will look upon these cities?

Who will hoist these scarred souls to Heaven?

How many heroes to stand and watch powerless,

Pitying, doomed themselves? Joelma is Kali,

Melting the human into awe, to light, to ash –

A fearsome take alarms the human ear for death.

Joelma, the world and her ghosts now rest.






Aquarius Suite ’11                                2/16/11


Looking at himself inside the movie, the poet-drunk

Beholds the smudged Hollywood tapestry: glamour

And myth and no sins barred, performer and producer alike.

Man’s shabby display mirrors man’s shabby display.

Contours of dysphoria drink the common swill down again:

perverse contract with lusterless gods.

“Quiver, lady, and I’ll be damned.”

– “Then let’s make love on the ocean strand.”

The baser dramas and the finer myths

Never joined on the same zenith.

Yin & Yang bearing fangs,

Misplace love’s reason with the junk mail and slang.


She lost her blooms by December – that’s why I’ll always

Remember the way she moved in my soul. In the place out

Behind my dreams, even when haggard fools floated

In the once pristine air, feverish. O Brigid, where’s our

poetry now? Will I always write these drama-vows, your

Special captive? Gross-fission subterfuge constrains

The million wayward captains of boats estranged!

Does death dream of us?

Breath of your young summers may yet tell…


Dynastic, backward, gold-leaf deities

with their backs turned to us in sunsets strange,

from the otherworldly parapets,

Lizard-fish striking,

& bones marred; death sits, vacant season,

“Here’s to your health,” another drunk’s reason,

Let me drink in the full depths of this heady brew,

But bring me grace & comfort

When fast we’re through.

May 18th, 2011

O Spring without death, coming
into the radiant castle of unknown fantasy;
it’s here I fall into the dazzling heather with you,
O lakes, O toils, O mysteries!
Clean, your soulness new,
climbing yesterdays’ seasons – just a breath!
& who you are I can’t despoil or your
shipwrecks anymore w/ their bounties
And now grief’s high wall sends the wave
to carry us home.












I pooled under it:
tanned as I,
feathered as a poolbird
or ancient hunter;
She’s up on Frank Lloyd Wright –
I await her call
to ferry her across Mordor, home
The light is her wanting;
est’qu vous-voudriez bois du vin, mademoiselle?
here, she calls to say her friend will drive –
and we talk of being together again
this week’s end

The machine runs down…
What are we to do?
Wait for night and try & not be blue?
But I am
I’m medium cool
Just waiting for you
To join me at the pool.








5.21.11 – Journal Nexus

Where the Gemini energy took hold, snake of eternal power

held in the teeth of these volatile twins

Who double existence’s game, asking “Where’s your

secret self? Where and what are you today?” and authority

retracts, questioning itself; an astonishing morning of lost lusts

and ungovernable appetites cedes to the Rites of Spring

and a man’s glowing need to wander eternally.

Woman of the twinned mind testing my waters out, to see

What I am. “I don’t trust men,” she says the other night

In her feathered pink underwear, strutting, a sensual feast,

analytical, seductive, denying, re-arranging desire’s chessboard,

calling me back (after we’ve shared Casanova’s wine),

apparently, whenever…


In the inflection of probity,

in the election of fobs & liars,

in this ever-transmogrifying paradigm;

I cannot pander to what the ersatz epoch

demands! We need a visual-visceral catharsis

Where pathos marries beauty; where jackals have

replaced lions & delirium reason – does inking heal?

To what my inklings heel…the ferrous loam refracts a

touchless secret and wealth of our tenuous breadth.

Another local journey circles mediocrity’s parking lot,

As Cochise did the pioneers of this colossal mishap,

entertaining these joyous agonies

no more.


Righteous stab –

life gets up and looks at me;

Pain is an expanding company,

Incorporated & taking over the omniverse;

but the smell of her hair

& pinkness so curiously redolent,

womanly-unique, sleeps in the upper quadrant

of beauty a bldg. away

What bounty & what longing today, this day

Of memory & forgetting & grim vacation.


opening doors to the dawn,

she escapes a little into a wan interlude;

The schloss hides a mote of their star-being;

A note of their opus multiplies as 1,000 songs!

Mercury, here, prances before the Sun, as she does;

her lover & Winifred’s leaves are turning, too!

But why does she turn to the Moon when walking the certain road?

Gitti hides her Teutonic beauty like our laughter hides tears;

Where now, as all along, we fade with all the bright years.


To swim the spectral seas and recover thee, my ancient lover!

As the afternoon bird coos & earthrhythms heal softly;

I forsake empty toil and dream of life as a bird so lofty!

Car horn blares as my hairy imago stares from the

mantleplace of self-awareness & the jazz-movie rolls –

rhythms crowned holy, the sepulchral stage shedding note-ions

of truth. Such wild gyrations! I would be as chocolate is the

gourmand’s proof, that spells being so, the plow that

blesses the cut worm on his earthen roof.


Choose an odd day of the floor-bed reading brilliance;

choose a rabbit; choose the choking audacity of life;

the new corpse with scattered hair and self-imposed stigmata

once again excoriates the idea of any ‘benevolent’ god.

Choose to forget. Choose life. Choose death. Make strides.

Read about the silent mountains. Do a blue-laser shuffle.

Read about the big lie; forge a novel belief system, because.

New car driveable less, as the juggled tasks & cost of gas coalesce;

Zeus’ beard longer today; swan in the desert swamp stays;

cars at a light carry anonymous souls quietened in their ways.

Chosen stigmata prison-bars, cinema debunking the soul;

Strangeness of laughing flesh and silent stars; melodic un-dyings

returned, as I wheel and wheel endless through ambition’s

specious pathways un-burned. Hump of her relevance fades,

As steely masks like satanic lightning fall;

like Hebraic monikers of statesmen herald the western fall.

Demonic oppression shrugs as the times spiral into mad chaos,

Logorrhea unlocks the unknown portals of doom;

What has happened to our promised land?

–                    Broken, like all the empires that ever bloom’d.


I’ve perfected lust on a shoestring,

elemental widows of fate!

Unceremoniously paraded & courted

between rolling treks outlandish –

I’ve perfected lust, at long last!

Her dainty intellect carrying innocence,

kindred astrology exotic, limn-strewn

through universes & neighborhoods familiar

& might the Yank & Limey join hands & eyes & hearts?

Love’s theoretical palace in ashes draws

the last howling beasts to the hole.


Neruda, Gould, and my guitar

On a night of such playful nears and fars,

Where the feline graces step without toil,

With heat monsters kept at bay;

Dickian treatise bared, where back I softly stare

At memory & its nanobytes of beauty!

Neruda, Gould, and my guitar –

Venus long divorced of Mars,

(though separate planets plunge onward alone

through the space of God’s love so black),

Again visited the ken of intellectual scalpel attacks –

I recoil to my terroir of sojourns joyous!

Tavern of games & books & high country girl-next-door

beams of innocent heart. I drink & keep drinking

from these new wells & their visionations,

careen through these outposts without a scream

Or paramour or ancient lakes’ chateaux. Temporal cloisters,

the moments cascade like a tempest’s tears;

Who with this blood saw what timespace did?

Who with their classical filigree or monographed life

Shone like a desert road? Hark, the herald angels fall –

Sent to spy on our errata; we call.


Solstice, and I hardly saw the sun;

was hardly out of doors at all; sat at my

Desk all day and all night, at home not venturing

Out, but opting to study Mahler & G. Gould, and how

paranoia & hypochondria wracked Gould, genius, and

tragedy & early death stalked Mahler – both dead at 50.

In both narratives of their lives is heard the word “untenable”.

Something incongruous and solitary about how they lived their

half-lives, but also something a bit pedantic in them.

Solstice, and hardly did I see the sun!

Silent night, opposed to the Yule, hoists up high

this back-broken mule.

She dances for the dead,                                10/1/11

in a burning consummation;

she twirls and mounts them

this necromantic zealot forlorn –

making love with the austere remains

of those who went beyond,

exploring the pathways of the dead

to defeat this life’s unknown scenario,

communion with the departed

a macabre perversion

to solve her restless pangs unborn

–        inspired by film“Kissed”

Tropes of honesty in your frozen words –

sometimes bravery is all we have;

Groping for your dozing piety,

My skies are filled with feverish birds!

Dickensonian affairs of the mind

Are now the indicators of my time.

And where society fails,

We must grant ourselves the line.

Errata ex Machina

The standard-bearer of forgotten love

Stands defiant in his golden gloves

& leaps into the winding river strange,

Emerging, later, a child deranged –

he dances on an excited flame

(the very one that bequeathed his name),

As a cloud in the shape of a gun

Shadows all that we’ve become

And shoots soft bullets all night at you;

I cry a false death and follow suit.

Privy to a crime of tears,

She undoes herself and forbids the years

Any intrusion. Exalted love that alchemizes

The soul, dies on its vines, strangles joy

In the loam! Death in Springtime!

Farewell, love!

(opportunists in love, opportunists in hate,

Both pass through the cemetery gate!)

And life’s great dark swindle carries on,

Plays Russian Roulette with our fates;

We carry on.

Death, inch by inch,

Solves the elusive riddle for us –

Leaves us stranded in morning’s forest,

The unborn reaches of existence floored,

In years like cheetahs drawn by Horace.


Charming feeble tracks zoological

omnipresent nervous charge of life long

despoiled, I soliloquize to a Spring throng

a changeless bounty: perhaps, I too am the seasons,

planet, life, universe! A war-like state hoists a brutal,

incomprehensible flag; warns the world not to flinch

Or “we’ll eviscerate you, too.” I recoil to a Naturalism

long overdue, missing out on all that relevant news…




Rites of the Holy Non-Sequitur                6.26.11


She sees a road & the dog-death comes;

Love at school and some have tried.

A rare breed and the atom bomb.

A blue tree and the night is long.

Or not, the divided ice-cream bed –

Summers un-forgotten; a rocket to the stars.

Plebes in the grid – Before the empires bled.

Us, and the walls, and where we go.

She sees herself in the Great Divide;

Atom bomb and a sense of pride.

Rush, summer streams, and cars that leer;

Stuffed closets full; history, hate.

World’s forests and highways of death.

Sounds numbing the purple towns’ regrets.

Zephyrs of wasted time. A crumpled vow.

Perpetuity’s vibration becoming Now.

Insanity. Mortal looks, breathtaking tapestry.

Unfettered commerce, animal wails.

Love “back there”, “in here”, future swarms assail.

He’d die for anyone, but would not say:

“A sickle for your wrinkled eyes.”


Blood of the holy virgin; nape of her untouched neck;

Slaves, holidays, revolts, marketplaces.

The gentle stream of her stare; meaning bleeding out, too.

“That empire never ended”; those days I walked with you.

A golden irony orbiting my heart as the talking screen

Walks me through history; As a tapestry of passions squawks

through my radar in the hideous night; and again, on these

Spectral trails, where a jackrabbit’s heart has more true

Industry than this entire nation – I speak to the departed

and perfect my soliloquy. A ranger of deathless flights

of seeming; this nation which I’ve too long romanced,

I fix my soul’s eyes now upon a future spent abroad,

recalling warily a time when I, under a heavy spell,

Adored her beating heart.

The Secret Coronation

by Chris Robideaux on Thursday, August 18, 2011 at 8:04pm

Women made of flowers dance in the deluge,

twirling in rain-soaked Gallic fields;

Even as time wrinkles their prim bodies,

They laugh a hearty, chthonian laughter

that makes the clouds caress them

And the sunsets remain a while longer.

Flower-hewn women struggle up from the banal

Toward pagan heights of bliss, and release in

the Pelagic mists; here, where we string up our heart-fires

And join these gentle ladies in their dance!

Parkin is a pagan prince, stoic and bright,

and with his new-crowned princess doth the light

strew itself again delicately through his slats,

Though her eyes turn red with tears, the sea having

Sung wildly in her veins. Back home, the hearths

are all cold and the forest quiet. Where is her love?

“My heart has moved so,” she says, and climbs the

Humid summer fields, breathless, to find her prince.

She does – sore and beaten, her prize a human

stump of their unformed tree of future love, though

Brown and melancholy eyes peruse the void of their

Hearts and, finally, collapse in the Night’s arms.






Lines Inspired By the Film “Spare Parts”

Through the smokestacks of Krsko

I see your blond hair wafting like smoke in springtime,

Where a thousand years of memories greet me

When you arrive like forest rain, and smile on me;

Here, where we die for freedom in the natural way,

Stuffed into cars, dreaming bright borderland dreams

of Italia and all Europa at our broken feet;

Where once we were Ljubljana beggars, or

Albanian merchants and farmers. And then you came,

like spring smoke and honey, where the dawn is full

Of poison & of promise & men cashing in on the

Great Divide, drinking it all away nightly in Slovenian

Watering holes & brothels, raw as naked flesh,

Harsh as irradiated earth. Here, where we die of

What our lives are & live as invisible flowers.




Death Lessons (for Laura Carter)

There is no crueler bullet, nor any sadder place than this land

wild with promise, with young blood drowning her;

This place where young hearts, laughing, die & leering

killers control the world; Here, where songs, even, cannot

Save us, & Wordsworthian tomes sit choking on dust,

Sloughed from apathetic brains who grind to Gaga’s lusts;

We won’t let the guns of Ohio grievously discharge again!

We owe it to the executed debutantes to brim ever with

vitality, life-devoted, to laugh at death, and reclaim

festering city-wounds from the drug-gun-poverty parade of






9ine/9ine                                                          11/22/11

She’s putting the pain in painter again,
and it’s not just ice, but fire, too –
& there are sperm sprouts in the mulch swamps,
& there are hotbeds of uncertainty awash in mercenary wine;
So watch a woman’s joy and strength in Music,
and watch her transform,
As your nights do you,
and what do I ride for?
I saw the Headless Horseman
glide across coyote lawns;
I saw false jewels sparkling in the hills,
I’ve drunk from the fountains of fear
Under gray ceilings incontrovertible, and I’ve
sucked hot sounds from the seminal earth,
while playing python games in the mind,
mixing love and hate together,
trying to read the list of loves gone,
with eyes that drowned long ago.







L’Usurper de l’Amour                           12/14/11

She was prone to moonwrath;
She was coming to goldenness;
It was an outblown image of primed potential –
Forever was smiling and playing with her hair.
Catullus was laughing bitterly,
And butterflies opened like hearts,
The slaves all walked to the sea, now dark,
But she…she was prone to moonwrath,
Unleashed upon tides, economies, minds,
With a necklace of conquests
Adorning her like a Yuletide wreath

“This is where I bleed through for you,”

I say, (in the unlikely rain, incessant)

Where Phoenix’ wings molt without

Sol touching & the songs all playing,

And where I have no more of time, and

“Who are you?” I ask on this night of

Desert rain, of she, prone to moonwrath

And dire changes; But she leers, vanishes,

As this desert rain pours its tears down

Upon the silent cars and lives,

Wept rivers poured back into the void of this land,

“Black teacher, lend me a hand!”

Joy will push through me,

Buzzing and weeping, wavering swiftly,

I an otherworldly being…

“…can they even see me?”









Feathered Opus Panorama                          12.27.11

there it was on the freeway exit ramp today,

Black still life improbability, on an ocean ,

This Icarus is spoiled on the tarmac, too,

Distracting me from my expressway sidling,

A speedway glance, and my cocksure fate,

thwarted delicately by fickle-feathered death clowns;

Cruel associates, such, these dueling continuities

Of life trifling…who are we?

I know how this dulcet goes.

Impossible offices never have to breathe

Or anticipate or die with unknown hearts…










Improvi-satori                                              1/12/12

Growl in hunger lines where music pierces softly

and where Icarian troubadours are their own sirens

Drowning themselves in romantic ends strangely

that stab and stare in the dark, in a dark age

that somehow know where its soul must land

The insanity of imagining it all! & all day the cells

Bristle, mortality shrugs and whistles, emptying

this life of real joy, till a push comes upon me

and I feel the body in revolt or surrender fall in torpor

reaching some soft sky of lost interludes born again

through me, today’s imprimatur.

And after tomorrow life leaping –

songs never to be played again yet echo,

and promise more of this, offspring of this endless life,

yearning life through notes I’ve cried, constructing these

Auroras of Orpheus in golden lands I scale & question,

But who would eat these bitter breads, or drink from

Poisoned wells? Not I, so instead I erect these steles

& wait in hunger lines where music pierces mosaic hells,

and consecrate this private heaven’s new ground

The novel tales and new consciousness to tell.










Le Visage Sanglante de la Lune                     1/11/12

Watch this death’s-head moon eerily rise, O love;

‘Tis an oblique skull dusted in pale-red ochre powder –

The dried blood of our eons of hate & murder

& will you come with me & watch it rise  rise      rise

On this Capricorn night of bleak bargains, O my love?

Time has flown the coop, and ever-too-late’s the hour

of perfected life – and now this death’s-head moon arises

For you, lovely lady! To show you what we’ve been, the

Blood that flowed, congealed, forgotten, in juntas of

Misunderstanding, in seasons without eyes –

So I will sing this eternal song, chant this potent spell;

And somehow I will show you the way, like this moon,

but radiating life, instead of history’s blood and shadows

From bones, from eyes, from winter wakes & beauteous hells;

Walking through the ruins of love’s fatal blaze,

I pass by your mother’s house, on my path of pasts

Resurrected, corpses carried in by the Great Wave

surrender, and even troubadours swim out strangely,

Drawn by some other music, dwarfed by the Gods of

Chaos, sprinkling our moon with the dust of blood-oceans

Spilling over…into the eldritch ranks of Eternity.

…Take my hand, O love!…


Powdered blood masks the insane moon,

Dust shed from the earth’s hallowed grounds

Where war had caustically fared as death swooned,

Dried blood colors her face – a mad maid in a mirror

Pouting to go out on the town, who to see;

Her oblique head rides the eternal, black wave

swallowing all this cosmic dread, singing brave

My love, how we laughed, and how I strummed

These strings and sang for you! The blood our hearts

Allotted our lives flowed not in vain – but in strangest

Rivers flowed back again; this baleful night, long after

Our farewell, is like the River Styx unloosed on the upper

World, the psychopomp fix, and I think of a table we shared

In Bavaria, & how, drunk on love, I jumped off its high bridge,

Expecting, insanely, to fly with you in my grateful arms.

…Take my hand, O my love!






The Transformation of Orpheus

O cruel river, lift him up! Do not drown, don’t snuff this one’s fire…

transform this gentle Orpheus into living light

that joyful heals all our hearts!

Did he reach for musical notes in that Mississippi sun

and fall short in the eddies of derangement and confusion?

Too good to live? Again? How many magic-men of song

Ripped away by jealous devils, in deaths so wrong?

Ah, but he transforms, changes light itself

His soul freed in darkened river-stealth;

Yes, he must transform, come to lie in watery lairs;

Desultory dynasties burn down the ignorant stairs!

Daydream Ulysses to His Inamorata

…but I fell at Circe’s garden gate, wanderer from the wars of men

To find this gentler sun, a requiem for tigresses who leapt too late
On prey lost to the twilight…whose tired eyes consume the prize

of this fight: with the cartoon cannons still lighting up my mind

I cross your fields, desperate for a petal of truth or serenade

of abandon.

And there I revived and swam in your seas a while –

then midday on the whitewashed shore dined on

figs and wine and rested while others worked in the sun’s factory.

And you joined me in the cove on a blanket of blinding white

A pearly light, where we consummate the reasons

For these elder and disjointed seasons of deep desire…

She comes like sunlight in the prismatic morning,                   2.3.12

takes my breath and blues away like a starling,

reigns over my days & nights & years,

pulls my soul-string like a girl kite-flying,

Lonely monarch – I am, too!

Where are we going? Let’s drown our fears,

One by one – here we go – I’ll catch the moon in my arms –

Defy wretched centuries & czars – hey lover try again –

challenge of cities?

Life is…

a desert of unknowns

a billion flowers growing and wilting per hour

love and art our only recourse from world-power,

love and art our sacred well of passions…











Moon-Mirror                                                         2.10.12

In which we see our own light,

are we dying?

Only to our long-held misconstruing and disorder?

Like a once-bright star, you are –

Greta Garbo, sad eyes fixed on a sad world,

And you’ve been

hiding in strange clouds amongst savages,

But to you I will sing these heart-songs out loud,

Near where I fish my lost selves

from the revenant canals of Mnemosyne

and claim my star-shield suchness, becoming divine,

O brighten our ways and airs and lives, dear Mother!


































Narcissus in Reverse                                      2.22.12


Today he sees naught his own image inlaid,

Though his gaze in ubiquity bathes;

In this fact he finds a novel triumph –

that mirror-face so often before getting in the way

Now, now his pardoned eyes and inner vision

Lay upon all things, all as all, without his visage…

Where mixed-media midnights end days that feast on toil;

One looks for the mystical seed or country – the

realm of realms where there can be a return to self;

“On a Himalayan or Patagonian view?” Construed idealistic,

verily over & above the bland milieu, watch autocrats roil…

Kali is dancing, and Juno retires to bed, their enchanted temple

Alights, brings us spiritual bread.

We, her beloved cosmonauts!

And the bearded fence of orchids, purple-mouthed,

wants rainfall, but the raiment is dry in this windy

Lotus Land of might-have-beens and shining prows –

I can see the mansion of destiny turning its leaves now!

See more of what our hearts choose,

sum of right choices moves

quietly, like sunsets through mental ante-rooms

& gardens alive in the Sales Age; jittery, breath-short

at crowded table of forced eyes – playing roles

to romance affluence.

See more of what our hearts choose,

like the bee choosing the hibiscus bloom;

like Hopkins chose poetry and God; like the Moon

chose Earth, and assassins chose their guns.

Pre-figurer vying blue through unending seasons of rue,

Where perfumes of malice sweetly mask jayhawks shrewd

In closeted skies of deserted grandeur. No!

Let flow freely these dry channels, and forgive the

Sweat of useless circumstance…

In long hearts reckoning; through peaceful wars

And warring peace; stand these imprisoned eyes

That deny the flowering, and that this pain is the bloom

opening – that the sun, the rain, the bee will come!

12s of 10s will have their ones, auditory lens

Sensing these earthly hums – O how it runs!

Up to golden sun disk Ra of our eternal selfness!

Stunning in its healing size, bright life fountaining –

its homunculus in us awakening, smiling…

Then suddenly it occurred to me – that there is nothing

Solid in this world! Even the past is changing, too! Added context

of its application – of memories still teaching, reaching, always

Growing; like children crying out for nurturance & meaning, they ripple

& shed their jackets & labels & [1978] becomes

“Shimmer-12-Nowness,” or “Untitled earthpiece” by God,

this Now, these hearts, this sensing – ever-renewing – all-eternal

DNA, Earth, Cosmos, Light ~ whether:

1299                \

30 AD               \

2012                   /   it’s all the light shining forth, earth turning, souls becoming…

10,000 BC       /








Playing Scrabble with Sylvia Plath                         4.1.12

I let my hunger run free,

As far too many tomorrows see me

Playing Scrabble with Sylvia Plath

in the harbor of destroyed harmony.

And I’m

Selling the vine to the oblivious bourgeoisie

Studying unknown dimensions of being,

with my eyes of wanton audacity,

astride this hard-scrabble, sylvan path.

Here, where I let my hunger run free,

Sunday pilgrims come to me,

For just a glimmer of humanity,

the marketplace dull as lead.

Even with the rainbow piles of produce

Do I let my hunger run free,

On a whetstone of writhing dimensions of glee,

Here, dabbling in the Cosmos’ supercilious lap.

Sylvia, O Sylvia, when will our words

Make sense? Conjoin these conflicting

Sensations, and let’s flee,

To the corners of our humanity,

Letting our hunger run free…at last.

Welsh Sea-Song

The Welsh voices of the sea’s undead brighten

and rise with the public servants and merchants

In the dark before the sun, and there, on some

Clockwork Monday-workday, cause an eerie

Turn in the delivery man, who double-takes

A look at the southern hill, sea-mist shrouded,

Dappled with rock apple of Gogarth, and with

Ocean-whimsy petaled; he looks, waits, stays,

a certain epoch at the green light, his soul leaping

Upon Sir John’s Hill, and slaying the darkness

With a gleaming claymore, his ardour joining

with the Secret Lady of the Irish Sea; Radyr Hawkweed

there smiling, drawing him to the edge, where 1,000 feet

Call you also to the sea’s trunk of ghost-dancers

in chilling sea-chanty misadventure under blinding moons.

The Mermaid of Mumbles, and all along the English-castled

Coast those Undinal fey who chant against those incursions,

Seen-unseen wash the dead & say their sea-prayers

To cleanse the ears and souls of devotees who hear the life

Inside the Earth and Seas; Ley’s Whitebeam draws your

seashored eye through the dream where the son of the wave

Greets you jollily, singing an ancient ode, raising the

Lazaruses of the bogs, who’ve lain dead beneath countless moons,

where drunken time skirts the logs,

Where weavers’ daughters and sprites and witches all peered

Prophetic through the strange fog grown; now the deadwind

blowing loons and voices across the ages from Mold to Mumbles,

and beyond to Lands unknown; she comes! You come!

To Llywelyn’s tomb and its immortal hums;

To Owain Glyndwr’s secret kingdom, last Welsh prince, he

Moves Welsh pens ethereal, the sundered land but free soul of Wales

Lives apart from crowned clutches, as Jack-the-Union falls,

And Wales, the most poetic land, makes you

As immortal as the Sea.


You demons!

You wasps of sleep!

(O could I sleep)

–         Or, I could keep

But the cosmos smirks,

“It’s all been done.”

O, not in my wrathful skull, not in this;

I shall go mad, and keep going,

and quite mad will my soul be,

Having flung off this oddity,

And will buzz, blow, fly, flit around

The cosmic marketplace like a drunken bee

or dragonfly, or intrepid bird of vengeance!

Here on the breasted, magnum shore

Frozen fire-wave thrown,

I copulate with scrawl, dead-of-torn

In release of mown, clockwork blown

desert waysides by, each scowled-upon leaf,

or busied, crescendoed task emotive hurled,

Showers of endogenous trade, sparks of the line

Wake the mind in this morning-midnight-haze.

I exasperate the notions

of propriety’s maudlin oceans,

and dodge that rape & degraded symbol

Of consumed beingness

w/ a lower woman’s bark

speed my edge sun O speed some

Lake of Spirit ever in my mind, undone

Spiritual supper O eat my crumb

Heavy the bridge O light over water

And some cosmos in, up, on, around

The births of supercilious towns run aground

Pregnant with other things O ruminative,

reviewed fresh words’ diadems,

Sylvanos opens her grand arms;

the sun yawns us forward.














From A YouTube Comment on a Doors Video

To be nineteen and full of dreams,

in love and music and your lover’s gleam

in a colored field of blooms in summertime

with no cares but wine and laughter there,

tales from a wizard echo through the ancient forest

where you make love in a sun-filled glen

in a world you made true again.

Tales from a wizard-friend to you

A great love sends.












For Linda and Shakespeare on their Birthday                           4.23.12

Shakespeare blows out the candles on another year –
See him gentrify lust and tragedy! Love explodes in the air
As it leaps off of his tongue so spritely –
And he speaks beyond his birthday bed and grave.
In Paris or Glasgow she thinks of him
Who shares this anniversary, as friends toast her,
The candles all smoking. A bookstore on the Seine
records the great Human Play, which evolves again
in the sign of the Dionysian bull,
Under smoldering Venus, her love all aflame.
He whispers to her, “To love is to create…always”
And this day of bards brings the love of northern suns
To rainy hearts, mystified, upraised…









For Jim, 40 Years On

In the perfidious ephemeral,

Where Christs of music play out

Quick star-dreams in media crucifixions,

Those with most gifts carry least materiel

and so clear out of Western hells,

Escape the Bacchae and Pharisees

To sip more refined wines across the sea,

Though trapped in Gethsemane again.

So, wave goodbye with numbed body

as the circus descends. I will see you one day, friend…













Murmurs of Eternity: Scenes from the Life of Shelley

Night, Pisa, 1818

“Darling, what do you think of when I say, ‘The pit’?” asks the poet of his drowsing wife.

“What, my dear?”

“What’s the first thing that comes into your mind when I say, ‘The pit’ or ‘a pit’?”

(Ponderous) “Well…I should think the bottomless pit. Of hell.”

“Ah ha! Another lamentably well-trained mind, clinging to man’s worst connotations syndicated to fearing souls. Why think you not of a peach pit, which I have here in my hand? Or the pitted, mottled face of the Giant’s Causeway, or the like?”

Mary smiles a wan yet playful smile. “More games, my love?”

“Au contrare, mi amore…I’m just proving here that people’s minds are as warped as their spirits by these overlords of culture, language, and thought. If I say ‘death’, you tremble in fear. But not if clarified to ‘Death of anxiety,’ or ‘Death of war’. There are good deaths. And beautiful pits. Those in power degrade the contextual sublimity and subjectivity of language to put negativity into us and make us their slaves of fear.”

“Yes…yes, my love. I see your point exactly. ‘Tis true, these devils make us their pets through language manipulation, it would seem.”

“Aye, milady…”

Shelley smiles broadly, his point won and driven home like soon his love is to be in her revelatory reliquary, Orion beaming from outside, above…


“Shelley, my dear,” Mary inquires, kissing his shoulder.

“Yes?” (He is deeply into a new text by Byron.)

“What do you think of when I say…lust?”

A playful pinch; a salacious kiss. “You,” of course. “Lust is among the finest virtues, milady.”

“No negative connotations, then?”

“Not a one, with Eros for company.”

“But what about…”lust for power?”

“Ah…when in the right hands, ’tis well…”

“Yes, but when not in the right hands?”

“Then the right hands must lust for power to o’ertake the meager pretenders to the halls of power. Revolution must take place. You knew my answer, dear lady…”

The candle is blown to midnight dust as they make mad shapes of the bedding…

Day, Lake Como, 1818

Shelley is working furiously on Prometheus Unbound. It is a rapaciously warm and humid day; a foreboding storm is building out on the water, threatening distraction and discord, though it is feeding Shelley’s imaginative fire, of course. Guests Leigh Hunt, Lord Byron and his mistress arrive minutes apart in the early afternoon to join Shelley, Mary, and Mary’s sister Claire Claremont. Shelley has been working like an inferno since early morning. Mary enters his study to announce their guests’ arrival. They are all planning a boating excursion out on the lake and a walk to a nearby church and winery.

Shelley continues writing at an indefatigable pace, inking his monsters and heroes onto the sheaf before him, as lightning flashes dramatically in the distance. A window pane is blown in and wavers in the storm-breeze. Mary closes it, but the poet motions wordlessly for her to keep it open, which she does, as it pounds out a strange rhythm. As Mary exits to tell the guests that Shelley is still working, Byron’s thunderous bellow fills the grand drawing room with demonic glee and fervor, and Shelley imagines it to be the sonic report to the lake-stirring lightning beyond his window.

“He is not yet ready to greet you all, I’m afraid. Working at a furious clip, he is. Should be finished shortly.”

Byron says, “I would not feign to quench such a fire that burns with that ferocity, and which elicits so beautiful a language in revolt, O my friends. We shall wait for the great man, and dabble a bit in the local wine in the meantime, eh my love?” (To his buxom companion.)

Mary sets the tea aside in favor of Byron’s wine, and suggests they sit out on the verandah and watch the storm roll in while Shelley works. A few minutes later a muffled groan is heard, as an object hits the wall.  Mary runs in to see her beloved with his head down on his desk, the invading storm-wind ruffling his flame-like hair into exasperated snakes. His pen is on the floor near the wall, drops of inky blood dribbling from its wound.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

Slow nod of a drained head.

“Are you finished for now? We’re enjoying a spot of wine on the verandah. Byron and company are here.”

The poet rises, collates his scattered sheaf, and motions for her to read. “Please, my dear.”

“Now? But we have…Oh, yes, of course, my love,” says Mary, as she accepts his latest scrawlings of fire, and reads. Byron’s bellowing mingles with Italian thunder and beats at the window: “Come, Shelley, let the wine entreat you!!!”

She reads, rapt, then looks into his eternal eyes, ocean to ocean, pulled into them to share a devout, briny kiss.

“Let us to our friends and never end,” says Shelley, as lightning vamps upon the drear earth,

and those friends share a sun-and-storm day upon the water, fire, air, and earth.






































A Fragment Embroidered upon a Friend’s First Line (“Da Jinn Are Held Down By a Feather”)

Da jinn herald all kinds of weather;
A tomb of dreams opens to a spring sky,
As long-haired demons cuckold the church bells,
Intoning a shriek of martyred skylark, possessing
The dark dust’s jongleur…


















Earth! O, Earth!                                    4.30.12


Earth! O, Earth!

Verily let me undo your dearth!

A martyr of the grim species

succors your health;

An offering of kindly stealth,

bones of Rabelais rattling, fey

Daughters of pale skies sobbing away,

Where rivers, heavy, melt the anguished joy

and death tiptoes across these foetid firmaments

putting bodies in chaos, minds in cosmic penitentiary.

Earth! O, Earth!

Allow me best undo your dearth,

and I shall lift prurience’s grimy skirt

and the corporate mask

undawning papal grass!

How shall we last?

O vivify the drear Edenic cast,

unwelcomed, ready, confined,

dubious with culture-slaying gluttony,

ribboned, patted, false with wealth –

Too much dust on the hero’s shelf!

Let me find my other mind…

O Earth!

Your sanctity my singular heart’s vow, constant.

Where bubbling melodies brook in my blood;

O Harmony!

The welter of sylvan music broods in deathless skies;

Earth, Earth,

you leave me sad and breathless!

Poet, Poet,

on witness stand upon-frowned

Prays sword of justice crashing down,

severs all unworthy, wheedling hearts,

and power-goblins shrewd,

In one talon-swoop, sharp and true.











To Eurydice


Where an aboriginal human left her footprints across my escarpment

light dissolves into numinous dimensions, and the celebratory

magic revives a Saturnalia, whose participants may recall

the source of these eclogues, or the Primitivo in which the

seasons coalesce for Roman spirits blessed by commerce.

But now this concrete glance affords me no whisper of certainty;

Even a wandering orphan can state the human condition

better…meant as we are for futurity along canals barely quenching

these dumbfounded thirsts, though wanderlust is fawning

on the ordinary afternoons of a life half expended.

white lies in your stars

when I lie down my last

and you had great joys

and knew just who you were

and how the Universe went

and that it’s not all a scam,

the bounds of pleasure rocked

and here you and the stars were

with their dust in your blood

where you lie with untaken eye

as ungodly laws fall away

as some sang in camera’d seasons

& some just came to play

& ages went down all the way

–        a trick of mind, plain

together, stab at a past

perfection’s beams glorious

in splattering temples of light

and I had you and love

and I had you and love.

tell the peremptor of peace

his wife is on her knees

death even in her eyes

and that these winter skies

will even the score,

the hoarfrost and sunburn of justice

upon his brow.

Night’s petulant doorway, where a door keeps

slamming on me; dark lines blur, and the heaven-breach

prolapses once again. Night, like a torture chamber

fumbles me – a constricting buzz alive in my bones

could pause my heart at any point and recall the

psychopomp! Just to pleasure cowardly death?

And where I could have slept right through,

this arousal of all my atoms strangely has me curled

up on my floor, under desk, twined in Ariadne’s hair;

I, surprised on awakening, not being rowed across

the Styx by the robust and greedy Charon, feel

1,000,000 ocean tides fall against me in mortification.

And here Julianna of the Fields happy comes

where the unfettered songs leap into

her heart, and the deep blue skies

smile all summer long;

summery unction

seized O often

dark, the windows brighten

lusts, the din O tempting…

She comes like sunlight in the morning

and takes my breath and blues away like a starling,

reigns over my days and nights and years fondling,

Lonely monarch – I am too!

Where are we going? Let us drown these fears –

here we go – I’ll catch the moon in my arms for you;

Defy wretched centuries – hey lover, try again – this,

the challenge of cities? – and of power?

I’ll catch Hermes by the heel…

Leaves like sun-strikes plead

with all my overing suchness bled;

It is not today, or any day, nor time at all where we’re led;

suchness leaves my wherewithal roadside, bled.

Burning if cosmic roads reign simple.

It is not dead today or any day, and it lifts

nostalgia to my nose and eyes, computerized –

I am a child again, O teaser god!









Neptune and Eros

When existence wants to sleep,

and souls drowse, spiraling into infinity,

some are caught in the briny beard of he

Who spies his dreaming children,

Bleeding for want of truth; and there do they flounder,

Roil and implore the gods to show them what life is for,

Love taken by seasons of nonsensical gore.

As the fathomless sea, where all lost loves go,

churns beneath a warren of stars,

Wandering lovers pilot fog-lost ships, watching

For breakers to send them to a hell-deep end.

And there, Orpheus tunes his lyre, headless,

Gazing across the aeons for Eurydice, feckless,

The carapace of his desire these outcroppings

Where playful nereids splash back at his songs.

Neptune bellows and sends rough rains to wash

The wounds of careless love, ere his mysterious

Moons mark his tides loveless. And Eros, wan, lends

his spectral tongue to lashed believers, the congregation

Stilled by blinded hearts warmed by the lulling days;

How many fatal paramours come to breathe his deeps
When naught of life can seem as warm as death?








L.A. Folie a Deux                  6/4/12

Decrepitude of fools denied,

he drank himself into rooms across the years

past racetracks and relationships

until entropy itself sang a brown song, boozy,

uncaring. Then one night, as feverish as a fetish,

One of his midnights made love to his lady,

more princely than he, and darker—but only just,

and out he ran, to outdrink lust.




















When I am ashen; when I turn white as your stars,

When I am as bright as your light is, when I’ve traveled as far,

Will you let me go easy, like the albatross alighting

Across the ageless sea?

When, as enfeebled as an imprisoned phantom I go,

Will there be a grave filled with mead,

Or an afterlife like soft, falling snow?














10th of June

This is the land that made me,

bright and wide and true;

Its hazards never forsake me,

its fruitful skies are blue.

This is the land that made me,

Where iron tigers smile at you.

Satanic signals firing all day and night,

Ruin love, replace trust with fright,

And sail beneath the backward moon.

Every day the last ember of sun

ravishes the yielding sea;

And every night the ancient moon

Floats by and freezes me.

But it was many, many rhymes ago

her heart appeared, like cartoon sunshine,

then dropped away again.

Then dead-end ways invaded and

overtook the happy glens.

So, you sail a boat called yesterday,

Out of the harbor, onto a tangerine sea.

Your companion bought a bag of drudgery –

You toss it overboard with swift gallantry.

She sits and speaks her fears, her loss,

You brush shining gold strands from tearful, azure eyes.

And potent silence envelopes you as

the horizon sends zephyrs loving and wise.










The Eyes of 2012                                            6/21/12

Holy, holy, holy is this meal,
where every single atom of importance
shimmers with pied energy invigorating,
and every single river of change is wild
In this temple of otherness sharing unity.
The Eyes of the Universe, electrified, view
each morsel of abundance inviolate;
We shed waste even respectfully now, and glad
Taste every sphere of dear delight!
For holy, holy, holy is every name, face, heart,
Being beak-humming, searching for sanctity
And environs undying, untouched by anxiety,
Where every single mote of restless biology
hankers for its adjoining aspect; as Nature
Overthrows this grim regime with hands and eyes
And winds we become, with creative certitude
Unbounded, alive!

















Litha Song (for Summer Solstice)


Sun dropping on the longest day,

slow, a few bright hours left still

here, where merchant ships drop their sails,

light elongates sharply, and crazed denizens soften

into silence, but…

Where are the bonfires and feasts? The happy children

and abounding beasts?

Sun dropping on the longest day,

slow, a few bright hours left still

Here it comes now, slanting across my page

As the hummingbird hides; but high is the tell-tale

whippoorwill – or, is that a hoot owl perched in the

Pinetops of this midsummer’s desert?

Light, O brilliant unending so proudly gives.

For whosoever climbs this Tree of Life,

whatever comes, death shall not touch

The happy soul who joined hands with love.


















Bastille Night

Immortal summer,
serpentine sands –
where I would not lose her eyes,
when I should not leave these lands;
where steeped in living majesty
the roving minstrels call;
violent, vulnerable
passions in their luminous revolt
for your fire’s teased soul
feather the matinee’d dust
in frissons of capricious lust.

In the stern roads the joyless cars
where activates the crystal fire
Eyes glow as if for the first time
Selling oneness’ masque; O buy, and buy well!
Enjoy your day, your way, your life–don’t die!
And when I awake tomorrow with an unsure heart,
I shall live in that gracious mansion made of summer light
Called Love, but singing, like Orpheus, to desolate woods
Far from the city wants and wastes.
Queer flies the crow,
Queer flies the crow,
And the moon shall ever know
How queer flies the crow.







Life as a Raindrop

falls the rain falls the rain falls the rain

I am a raindrop, see me fall like pain

I am a raindrop, clear and cooling

I am a raindrop, and what do I see?

Fifty billion more like me.

Down, down, down we all fall,

But who dreads the end, when changes call,

and duly find their altars of relief? We change into

Canal, river, pond, lake…our waters stirring

Fascinate. But, why couldn’t they see before

The numinous beauty of life as a drop of rain? Instead,

They dread their collision with earth…again.
























Programmed for Terror: On the Dark Knight Massacre                         7.20.12

Hi, my name’s James, I like neuroscience;

I’m getting my doctorate, and I am very “quiet”.

Just a loner, that’s me, young and ambitious,

I met some people, though, who’ve made me vicious.

Turned my head around, got me some guns,

Taught me to stalk and kill movie-goers–daughters and sons.

Yeah, I think I’ll drop out of that PhD program –

I have bigger fish to fry–that’s just how I am.

Believe me, I’d prefer to be tinkering with people’s heads,

But those spooks got to mine first, that’s why your friends are all dead.

Yes, I’m quite the loner, I just keep to myself.

Like Sirhan and Loughner, Oswald and the rest;

I sabotaged my academic self to be the best

Killer out there–traded my beakers, wires and hypotheses

For paramilitary black, shotguns, pistols, and gas.

Now I feel better–this is really who I am. Hair dyed red like

The Joker, of the Batman movies I’m a fan!

I could have been a brain doctor, such a bright future ahead,

But here I am at the local cineplex to make mincemeat of you, instead!

It doesn’t really make any sense,

I can’t figure it out myself.

Maybe I’ll get off on an insanity plea,

Maybe get a book deal, go on Oprah, or the Today Show–you’ll see;

Make something of my murdering self again, can it be?

Lord only knows how I got here, with this smoking

Gun in my dyed red hand. But one day, someday

We’ll all understand. Why good lives are wasted

And paraded on TV news; seems I’m just a pawn in the game

Where the fear is created, the terror-agenda is used.

Look at my face–I’m just a programmed Joker

In my own movie, taking pot-shots at fame and society,

But larger forces are doing their bloody improprieties,

See the clues…?

I Swim With You, Through Ancient Mirror-fountains Blue

Blond of my course, prettiest leg to set tongue along,

base of my spark, she of my walkways, who needs a suitor

Now to raze her false bonds, O place of joining souls, make us

a deathless heart!

Where this should sail us to Marquesas or Rangiroa

one day of the tearless year and endless ocean garden,

inside and anywhere the wave sets us…

where Winter preached Spring in our trees,

you said “I dreamed our child,” then returned

to a marriage defiled; as my keys grew

In high-reaching tones for you…forgotten?

I’m left with the dreams of a child that cannot be,

though understanding is a starving beast…

So I swim with you, through these ancient mirror-fountains blue,

in a stupefaction of vicissitudes,

in your torsoed lunacy,

bathing in the appropriate visions,

the scholars in all their cities

hail these broken boundaries

like fighter pilots taught to scorch the earth

soaring over their alma maters

all the donors prancing hollow

as I take your flower’d hand

and excoriate confusion’s last stand

through the blue fountains’ mirrors,

and across the scablands curious,

sunward, to the alpine village of the white-handed hearts.

To the Starchild Angel Who Couldn’t Stay, for My Friend I’ll Never Know

soul brother star child I miss you–luminous angel– friend across the deathless years I cry for you. Part of my heart squeezed by time, beautiful you revisit us in trusty old clips and I stand in awe as grief shakes the leaves, rains in summers of our Phoenix, our Rivers, whose truth solemnly leads them away, but whose troupe of jolly dancers in young vicissitudes grope onward, Your glowing penumbra scatters the users and H-wood ghouls Until one night–“Hell Night”–they got back at you.

My dear soul brother River, I miss you.

“Unknown Number”

Rattles my black device with a friend’s voice

From the Northern wilds to gab some about

railroadery, legalities, furtive authority heavy-handing,

As Will Shakespeare in the background

Plays his ruffians’ plays; as the cabal dies out;

As peasant fires glow in Elizabethan faces,

And men revel where crowns and ales do flow –

Where modern Bedouins who voyage across the seas

Of heat buy and wait, sigh and coolly fade.

What is this unknown number?

What would Marlowe do with an ‘unknown knife’

Aimed at his eye? Or, Will S. his Earl to gentrify

When callers unbidden call and court as friends

may complain and cavort with rough ends?

‘We are the poets,’ they say (though said for them),

These lauded bards of the land of plagues.

What unknown number is drawn by Thanatos, veiled?

By the moon, it is (The bard, with ink-stained hands

is content to lie in the buff beneath the fan

where relentless sun reigns over merriment, or

thinking, or exertion, sinking.)

Friends, dear friends, we leave the centuries behind

blown by breath of their ghosts to move a lazy horse!

…”O, damn, damn the moon in its course!”

cries the unknown man, with unknown numbers

Flying through his head.

The Magic Game

Hunted down with a kiss,

Walking out of the abyss,

You ravage me with a fame

Inside your magic game

Where Sibyls ride charged beasts

Into the heart of the human storm;

Where the crystal core of the Earth

Knows the minds that ferried mirth

And how the heart always wins out,

After the final shout

Carries us back to Canaan.

Samizdat Daydream

Fetch of tawny skin I mirror, do you bleed like I do?

Do you pray to the rain and implore the wet trees their

Sacred portion, O un-ridiculed life and semiotics of youth?

What of this grand disappearing act? What did piano recitals

& endless homework mean, now the vampire has bled out?

Yards that bloomed I flowed through not knowing what this was,

(A bounty sacred beyond money)

teach me we must all be our own Supermen,

but will food sprout forth still? Could a woman respect a man?

I wait on all of this, all things, and plot my course,

But have left the path of deaf ears to play in the cosmic ocean;

Turn my trammeled web to catch the good gossamer

Roundshine stab of my eternal light.

Path of forgotten deserts, who made no region false his own,

could check the Mahabarata for laws and codes,

Propriety to tell angels what to wear or say?

Causal merely of calendric reason, we stay

To make mystery soup, as the wreaking ball cometh,

Dear paramour self-darkened, abandoned, remembered,

How filled those houses were in the long, young years,

We shouted as Youth’s last stand burned down Atlanta in a rage!

Tortion of ghosts I pasted, figures in lost rooms

Where teachers grayed reached a golden toll half-expended,

Warrior’d, wanting; phantom lisp, O revive all scenes!

We left a ghost back there on TV, where Squad 51 blared,

Mangione played, and bionic women leapt into desire’s abyss.

Where the certain class war strangles inlaid virtues

I now must joules expend to cut them out.

Veneer of shadowplays where I muscle wheels fiery-black

To extoll the mystery of seeing back, beyond, before,

Amidst the jangling fits worried, of racing drones to

Sun-drenched homes, O yes. Dawn spreads over the world again,

Turns the sour moon upon its head. Cicadas awake and buzz

In unison, engine hoisting the sun, the womb in my soul

houses this child I’ve never stopped filming. And dawn spreads

over the earth again, and I feel as mutable as water – each molecule

Of life am I; each ripple an insight; each pond a secret; each ocean a

Lifetime: it feels, here before the sun, as if the world were being

Made again. Meal for an ostentatious king, all the attendees

Rise early to pound out his bread and glaze his cakes.

Dog walkers shuffle as silently as the dead, as the

Volume of habit is slowly turned up, and warmth’s apotheosis

Lands where the crowded-in rut without end.

To He, Drunk on the Vowels of Bohemia

To the gay proto-punk who stabbing at priests,

parents, and fools, fought for the forbidden visions

and knowledge delirious, to keep as sworn pet;

To the gay proto-punk, walking warning of

Cruel futures, who predicted the A-bomb

and stuffed desire under rank beds patina’d

With Winter curses; he who bottles of

slow lightning drowned, carries

Only those yearning limbs rheumatic,

only that Winter sunlight invigorating,

under clouds and minds fixed like rain,

the one leaf-swept graveyard or rumbling

Innards by the wharf in the dance of time

and her timelets; skies and their skylets,  smitten.

A walk through history shames the commandants

spotted with stains and lies, such young blood

where sad indigo and mauve wave farewell

In a hidden realm where only the poets and fairies know

And they revel with the drunken runaway

In a northern glade where mad train whistles die

And a sylvan girl lights your heart-candle

Where, instead of ham slices and cakes,

you devour ideas and esoterica, a secret nova

Burst and blown through you, through slow seasons,

Like a freight car on zephyr-tracks reasonless,

soaring down to fogged seas glorious,

in days newborn and peeking out

At the lilting worlds from pond lily to alpine den,

where the clear fire of poets sleeps not until

they sing a Jovian ballad renowned by Calliope’s

suitors and the mistrals of happy news…



Miles for Miles

The doctorreador is in.

Miles on the floor, Montreux ’73,

slow moody electric narcotic

he stares at a summer trumpet

hiding behind big dark shades
barely a groove groans, low bass grin

far out

he’s conducting the sonic action

from within and without

each second’s a droplet

of played space

where notes fall up through men

and down through the roof of the world

electric screech importunate is

hot waiting, yearning

autonauts percolate, thrumming things

echoing off summer sun on Swiss waters

Lake Geneva saves a sea

for you and me

for bathers priming

in symphonies of soul

entering the sky’s strand

finally on a zephyr of communal sound…

Lilith and the Lion-Hearted Man                     9.2.12

He still saw bright towers in her absent eyes

When in love-gone seasons

his heart agonized under rudest skies –

His woman stilleth

the sapling joyous;

Here was Lilith!

(In love’s flesh riotous.)

Where they made love a home

and roaring future,

Kept like his pet lion, ‘Victor,’

In the halls of infamy and delight

Become hells when wooing hearts

Turn traitors on whimsical heels.

He, to the virtuous blood-aims devoted

Watched his dearest creature become

Blasphemy, bloated.

‘Staunch this wound, O love, and let me

in life walk free,’ said he.

‘I cannot make a home with you again,

Once a heart has changed its name,’ said she.
And with her army of slaughtering harpies,

Killed all dawns and celebrations in the land,

Retreating him to roar like the Minotaur

In his hollow alcoves’ privations;

The lion Victor his only consort,

All his calls and letters vain rejects

To pad the mouldering gate

Where grey is the heart of anxious fate –

Lilith in love – with him, no more!

But then he spied a burning totem –
To take the lion’s heart as his own!

To walk the pure beast from kingdom to kingdom

and make mincemeat of hers – a natural recompense,

as natural as pearls!

Where she took some new Solomon

To better suit her plans and eyes,

‘Traitor to divine love, goes she,’ Victor

said in voiceless guise.

And they walked the path to karmic reverie,

a chained heart growling, hungry for

comeuppance, howling,

A vengeant bone of wrath to pick.

To devour the source of sad blood

And cruel fire needs careful timing,

‘I will have her one more time, my friend,

Before you on dead love dine.’

Was that her flowered gate he spied?

Reveling figures in windows decried

‘A party, ah. This visitation will send them

To scatterlings.’

‘Twas the lion that led him, then,

Forthright, when his reason paused.

The great beast led and tugged the chain,

And had become the man’s very heart and claws.

‘Now, my wrath shall eat what is mine,’ spoke he,

‘And let all her eyeless revelers see what scheming

traitors in love receive.’

And with that said, the wild pair entered

the doorgate, and silence o’ertook the manor;

Laughter ceased as the cat’s chthonian roar

hammered, that could from Zeus have issued


Frozen were the pale masqueraders now!

As he let slip the chain whose beast sought

She, and knew by instinct to feed upon the sow

Who’d littered forgotten floors with her vows.

For where…where is love now?


















Digital Daughters (From Lilith’s Journal in “Victor and Lilith”)

Breezy edges descend

through tired swarms

heretics may recommend

Pain’s temple fleshed out

Until knowing stops.

Digital daughters

engender wrath

in housed passivity

conformed to no wild wind

Nature’s laws broken blind…

“Now now, girls, follow my blood.”

Ode to the Mystic Mountain

It nods
through our sun, why
and holding road of breath –

To talk of relations, seeing
that once knows, and with heart goes –
The mountain brings magic life, we
lost not but in the green highs
tangled in moss of the fae
where we could be always;
we’ve become sunlets in stray cosmicity
where forge we soul friction and pass
beyond this will of the way,
grasping pearls of alpine grace.

To Chase the Small Gods (Inspired by the film Blade Runner)

He bleeds fury at the fount, who kills –

Watched by a strange heroine who fills

His empty nights with a deadly beauty –

Cast out into the night like a child,

Where hunting the simulated human strikes

A latent chord of grim, desirous love, without

Cries. Lumbering in the teeming night

Though Off-World beckons, the riff-raff

Toys wait – Killers, all, though they can’t kill fate.

And, what of the grievous night gives light?

Roy’s a manufactured Lucifer – brightest,

Prodigal Son the company could create.

Bright! Though captive of time, savage twins –

In this grand chess match, no one wins.

The Elohim in his tower and robe revisits

His fiery angel, once fallen, now out to rob

The cradle of Life. Where the small gods imitate

The propagators of stars; when a manufactured soul

With plastic hand seeks vengeance on his maker,

The sun of his wit and seat of his love, irreal,

Heavy as L.A. rain, doth crush the life out of

The small god’s reign.

Whose Jericho awaits on grimy neon streets?

To fulfill some heartless mission in hovering

Fleets? Where scavengers of love find only pain,

Until an unlikely Satan heralds the second flood

That buries ancient hate. The hunter dreams music

But carries attrition’s tool; he toys with existence

And makes himself the fool – his quarry a daimonic force

Who hears the strange howls of abject life pool

In the chaotic deluge. “Not yet!” he says, and

Crucifies the sense at hand that death won’t avoid –

Nailed like Christ, he lifts the man from the void:

“Time to die,” and the white-souled dove’s released,

As down bright locks the flood’s cascades increase

Staunching the folly of our debauched police,

Then breaking to a brighter sun.

The Man Who Split Himself in 2

“I have no language for this,” he said, and bled and bled inside his own head.

For truth, for love, for time eating themselves did he say – “It verily cannot remain this way.”

Lovers in a House of Mirrors, images don sagacious leers. He follows her in, but twain the chorus

Did he hear.




Starface – will of the wind bids him afar and Adieu. Happy lover, laughing friend! Now in places two, alike, upon the verge where we must ascend.

He felt a pocket sad full of laughs split holes and drop its seeds at last.

Orion sleeping on his side dangled celestial danger like a pop star’s balcony babe. The honeyed hunter of hellacious heights stands by, right where love spread new feathers singing why.

“I eat time, and love!” he yelled in the crowded marketplace, going chomp, chomp, chomp, chomp.

Then, at last, the human ceiling blew off, and the maelstrom tromped

Entire genealogies where the pruned limbs stabbed.

Now he walked the worlds above and below,

Split in two ways mapped, just so.

Untitled Oregon Piece

Jaunt to the bardic citadel –

I absorb all it tries to tell.

This pocket of western expansion well knows

The hives that map this luster outgrown.

For a séance with Eustacia would I go,

Or for a flower of karmic sun.

When moved the mountain

On map-blown whims radiating,

We trek a Sunday off-taken –

Toss good times off the bridge’s throne,

Hesperia, deduce!

How long this fleshy home of mind and bone?

Has this light finally learned

To fill its own well?

Here on the volcanic plain

Is love a found strain, just if –

Where crows the claiming spot which ate,

As seas of possession evaporate.

And cage the fiery eye of these October ides?

Where south of nowhere go our tripping days?

Up wanting’s path do we smile at last?

Canticled flights of fury

Will November our pasts.

And so now we run among the ruins

Now we flee to highlands shining in the dark;

And when the suns of our best sight set

We immortalize them in panegyrics stark.

Undying, where bard meets bard,

Disembodied in opposing ages’ yards,

Across frontiers of these hearts’ stages,

Does a new Romantic sky adorn this land of plenty…

A new image of the Great Ego emptied?

Monster of Light

Shed upon waste and greed and blight

Gluttonous stupidity and beauty unending, too –

The monstrous tyrant glows, reverse enemy,

Made for us in our image, and we in its,

And lo our own fire, unchanging!

Descending into these deserts

From California heights

Aplomb with promises

After ascending, amongst the devas

Of mountain hermitages, and

Royal forests crowned,

Confirms this living pyre,

So let us now raise our

Hearts to the sky,

And this

Monster of Light,

Our true home.





Panegyric: For the Belle of Amherst

Your dazzling brain
And the world entire –
All you needed as companion, save –

Your fire!

Churning out evidence of God,
Weaving, like a spell,
Each thought, through pen
Inked on each page well
As mortals shuffled past –
A one-woman conservatory
Of blooming faith
Needs naught of the drab
Society of cross and nail.

Kneel and supplicate,
Bow and pretend,
Though upstairs in silence were you left.
As Amherst whispers
About a godless myth –
Who scorns Human contact,
Unreasoning with.

“Edward’s eldest daughter, the spinster daren’t go out” –
And passersby may crane their heads to see her
In the windowpane above the door stone –
“Look, there’s the Belle of Amherst –

face like Winter, and locks tame as a mole!”

She suckles not but Ignorance, who will not suck –
In a charcoal dress, her prim and plain visage
Gently braces ‘gainst the coming life
Of desires lost, tragedies private,
Mourned to the moon.
Moored in the phantom tide,
Blithe womb barren as Mars,
Shedding the scarlet lining
To fall beneath a father’s eaves,
Baking solitude a daily bread,
Offering poesies to Zeus instead.


Threnody for Francesca Woodman

All I had was the moon to go out to

All I had was dead love to swoon –

Breasts of a tortured artist to adore,

Now dead; freeze-frame

Recondite lunacy

Our spoiled phantom-girl

Forgets her failure

Wearing bark & plaster,

She paints and captures

The dead things alive, turning –

All I have is the moon to go out to

Since I drink none of this culture anymore

Imaginary suicide –

Perfect Halloween story

Emily Dickinson with a camera

Makes ghost gestures

Then discontinues herself

Where the vain masochist’s always looking,

And frolics in the taboo tide

Until Orion dives down

To take her on a forbidden ride.

And now Reason’s funeral march my only bride –

This was her poetry:

Self-framed in crumbled castles

Piecing together her existence

In the vagrant shadows poised

Stripped, ephemeral estate

Our peasant sophisticate of The Village

Leaps up with angels and sparrows,

Messiah snapping miracles to open unknown eyes –

The soul fighting back, outsized,

Against the crush of cities,

Prison rooms paid into,

Song of the entombed heart –

Scattered beauty softly spoken of

In ex tempore tongues,

In scenes of besotted moons orbiting,

These fragile souls, too open,

Are fresh kills in heartless canyons.

Francesca, Francesca –

Beware the city’s wraiths!

They are, at last, more ambitious than you,

O long-departed ingenue.

Tales of an Erotic-Existential Alchemist Wandering the Deserts of the Heart


I forgot to buy pumpkins –

Two small ones to put on my balcony.

Oh well.

I am busy sizing up my oeuvre:

There are vipers and razor blades in it,

But also orchids and colossal vaginas,

And there are snaking tendrils choking

(As well as sapphire skies),

This tiger in me sleeping

In an ancient olive grove

Fears false feelings obeyed

Bulging within me, the iron stomach –

Saline blood tide,

Toxic lip sedate, normalized;

Nausea’s garden vines

O’ergrowing the forgotten town,

And pushing cars into the sea.

You will open your eyes,

Like eggs they will give birth to their white dreams,

As crazed snakes emerge

And slither through the Maze of Destiny,

Toward you.

Through the strange towers,

Through ultimate blackness,

Through their own epiphanies,

Floods, vacuums, cycles of existence –

Wild machines & invisible dreams,

Where peasants eat invisible meals

After the fecund earth fails

and the men of rot mortally


But even when the gestapo comes

To stop their foolish fantasies

Of imagined sustenance, nurturance,

They fork invisible mouthfuls

To the firing squad’s dismay,

And long after the genocides,

When art became your religion, too,

We walked those once hardened fields

Where the tanks rolled and hummed

Like hurdy-gurdys

And we celebrate with hot tears

The advent of a bluebird.


This cup was not rinsed with the hot jets –

Let its former residue flavor this round of satiety!

Let entropy dance its inevitable bolero.

We must let these former fires and traces

Feed us now,

In the shower of their darkness’ false vows.

You must wakeful with skull of hair

Growing wrathful, lustful, wrinkled, isolated

Darken darkness,

Blind to its grasp.

To filigree the newest specter of late joy

(which, yes, may also lie),

Putting the eye in die that’s a dotted l i….. ne.


Happy Halloween, mother.

You are the dancing ghost in whom

I cannot confide.

You are the privy skeleton hung on the old door

You are the witch upon the ancient broom,

As the north wind breathes upon your fallout hair.

You are yesterday smiling a pessimist’s smile;

Written upon the bourgeois tomb of dead possibilities,

The bouncing frame of Bunuel’s film is

Yet another ghost visitation

But which my eyes can discern.

I still recall you, relating

The hard facts of life

Wrapped up in your work and cold thoughts –

Small comfort, joyless,

You became tired of so many boys:

Boys in the trees

Boys in the hallways

Boys yelling, running, asking questions,

And finally relished your empty nest

After the irradiations and health-stripping drugs

To contain the rabid growths within your horror,

So –

Happy Halloween, mother.

A good day for you,

As your spirit found death is best.

Blood like sorrowful sap, at last –

At the window where debutantes amass

In new-breasted wonder,

In delicate phalanxes deceiving,

Marching to the alpine abyss,

Thereby the sylvan festival, miraculous,

Lorded by Cleopatra’s asps,

Blood like sorrowful sap, at last,

Broods in corners of forgotten beauty,

Pools, then stains the wall of indifference,




Laguna Soulfire Coronations

Here’s a handful of

Fire-echo starheart diadems –

For ghost-framed, leaping Leviathans!

Photonic Ophelia ossifying, sleeping,

Guards my watchwell sweetly –

But what kind of echo has this fire?

When my starheart bursts with such vertiginous


The self-framed soul sires this flame, leaping

From untenable windows

Into the unutterable boiler rooms of Time.

The gross yardstick of time, though,

Cannot touch it.

Neither manufactured catastrophes heed

The ripples racing outward from these lands

Like harbor swells.

Where beggar laughs

And tyrant drowns,

TV dies,

And music abounds.

The darkness of the sea

Spoils your whitewashed misery –

Too much in the devil’s pay,

Both sides in black, on the take

Inside the Age of Chaos, cracked.

Swimming in the dry tide of light,

Lost in ancient coves, lovers seeing with

Ocean eyes.

Wind will…surprise.

“I think we get better,” said the sweet

lover, motoring away from The City,

In her happy lover’s ear:

He’s as tall as the horizon –

The sea’s as cold as kicking junk,

With her arms like memories

In the wavy dunes, barren and soft.

We all love

And lose love

And cry for love –

Celebratory love!

Revelatory love!

As candor squeals in mayhem’s arms,

And the aging starlet laughs, unharmed,

Ripe aura flowering, dispensing,

Oraculating light languages,


In the veritable window of the sky

That guards the crawled-over earth,

ruined by blindness.

The catatonic miser rises, blank,

Her heart dead – to face the

Darkened day again

Just like the moon

And all the fish in their ponds

Or how strange tongues speaking

turn the radiant wheel.

Time, the great editor knows

The graceless snows

Of tired Purgatory

And the violet fire that grows

Like a child

In the waiting sun.

Madrigals, laurels –

First ones that claim my heart

Where the blond girls laugh

And the bays all shine

And blue-eyed angels remedy

The ailing earth

And feckless species howling;

Venetian funeral barge

Carries this memory’s lass away

Afar to Barbarian lands,

Or to Heavens superlatively fair.

Fountain of kundalini fire

implants strange desire –

Travels the Golden State,

Stakes a formidable spire

Where Laguna priestesses consecrate

Divine love in multitudinous ways;

Variegated as terns in these coves

Who sup the endless tide that roves,

Engorged by expedited love.

And behind the bloody snake wall,

On the tantric bed,

We aim our energy into the heart

Of the black-beast dread

And make magic reign,

Plucking the blood-eye out of the reptile,

To transmute the lingering poison cabal

Which strikes back with daggers ripping the sky.

Enemy gods, you have no quarter here!

Here by the magic sea there is no fear.

Where pelicans pierce the mellow tide, free

And the sun and sea tantalize us,

Hypnotize us, eternally!

Here, in the light will we forever abide

In the fruited promenade, spoked

With sacred-flame jubilee,

Smoked in Sun-Ra pedigree

Where the coronal visage smiles and disagrees

With the vicious pallor of false

Love & belief.










The Selfing Tide

To give an inky damn

Ecstatic, purloined, rammed

By heathen strives in castles high

In the course of the cured eye,

It stammers belief;

These lions are drinking from ponds of fire

On journeys from which we never tire –

Languors of grievous and hailed

Searches and surf,

Deified seasons claimed,

As the fogged map blows

Conflict back and forth like

Confused rains.

I now plunge into these

seas that waited, hiding the

secrets and codes

of the great war and divinities;

Where interloping images of our past

Filigree the chambers of this cast

Of strangers, familiars, and phantoms

Enlivening the partitions of this dream-dance,

Where soul-fire dawns askance

Of the expected tidings, tithes, and tides;

Where true love, estranged, still hides,

But knows her name, all the same.

The great work impromptu

Threatens a vast, imploding empire

And has them on the run –

The great work

In our anonymous dark

To unleash the solar blood codes,

And call in the New Light,

Release the dead, and increase our might

Brings their self-incriminating reaction,

Only speeding their further detection

And immanent downfall.

Alms for the most deceived kingdom,

Airs of the beleaguered fiefdom,

With diseased plebiscite

Uplifted – false applauded,

Dying like a bellicose king

Who shouts orders, beheadings, tortures,

Invasions, as the peasants only half-heed, questioning as

The royal death rattles hide,

Done in by the Selfing Tide.

Wine of Life and Death-House Dream

Every Mozart has his Salieri –

The veins harden, and the hairs turn grey;

An end to every bounding beast

(But not his soul to slay);

And even each soft, soul-singing day.

These memories recede, yet strengthen –

Each one a life of their own,

To flourish in the mind’s wide lands;

Where tongues waggle, taste the vine,

Then quiet into uncanny dreams offline

…like this dream: in the House of the Dead,

Who’s come to tenant the lunatic’s palace?

“Oh, here’s where he ate, what he read…his

Belongings piled up like skulls…like weeks

and months and years. Travel the big picture

book in the corner, with leaves of a northern valley

Adorning it; and stuffed haphazard into this

Unkempt hovel are other tenders of the recent

Dead; who come and go as if caught forever

In that dream where all dreamers and dreams are bred.”

What memories unknown – yet known – have

Receded into these dark seas so expressive,

Someday to be known, when the collective

mind is given up to abstrusest skies? But, like

A woman who wants to be tortured and raped,

Who claims the subterfuge of sado-masochist

Fetish, the happy mind in the dark dreaming hours

Invites death and horror, when dispatched to

Know all things, though Light is broadcast

From a different Tower.

One thought on “Auroras of Orpheus in full

  1. Please note the fact of Word Press’s, er, “creative” formatting. I don’t have the patience or sanity to go through and correct the formatting on each of these poems, so I will leave it up to your imagination to ascertain where stanza and line breaks might be. Thanks for reading!

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