they say that my
body heals itself
during the night

cells rebuild
and muscles are
sewn again with stronger
bonds than bones
or sinews.

in my dreams the brain
energizes lost
caverns deep within

where i create faces i’ve never seen
and places that don’t exist
me, a god, building
trees and mountains and the
darkest places

ah the whole of this world
finds solace when
the mighty mighty
sun is hidden

millions and millions of miles away

separated from
my God
from this tree
from the
infinite

inward, a demon
dines on the
dirty relics
of childhood

i was raised in
Suburbia but weened
in the mountains.

isolation became my friend
and the loneliness of March
winds a sure confidant.

what is it that strikes me?

the art of the vein in the leaf

the whispers of slave Ghosts
among purple blooms of
mountain laurel

the silent dying of
of everything in the forest
always and every where

with every breath, a last of sorts

he saunters by
on dazzling haunches

the lazy fawners wait for
him to pass

with his wide smiles
and white teeth

the pungent smells of
sandalwood and patchouli
are his bellowing harbingers

and

into the shadows he slips

and is soon forgotten.

and they come to
me through the
most fabulous
peace pipe

bought from a man, a
junk dealer, this and that man,
the boiled peanuts man,
the seven-toed man

for a bill. now it’s
wooden body and brass
fittings fill my mind
with cotton daydreams

of bare feet and red skinned backs
moving silently through
the forest, in sun and moon
invisible to the white man.

until those vapor trails…

(he really only has seven toes)

i ain’t
fuckin’

up

she’ll see through you
she’ll she past you

to those greener
pastures

past them oceans

oceans in her eyes

past them boys
with fumbling fingers

to the man

enough of this boyish shit
there’s a spell with my
name on it
& i mean to
succumb
to it

My poetry is a damned
demagogue.

It’ll pull you, unwilling
into my sordid
lust for breasts and the
insatiable hunger for absolution.

And should I spend the
whole day musing
on the silky forgotten strands
of a glowing spider’s
web you would do well
not to read a single word.

In your silly, busy bustle
you may

find yourself in
intoxicating and wholly
unexpected rapture
at the queer beauty
of this solemn Earth and your

infinitesimal mark here.

it would look just
like a vinyl record

covered in black
shiny grooves

etched into time and
matter, every emotion
every action, every thought
every love and every hate

of just one person

chronicled and wrapped
in a paper sleeve

stored away on a shelf

for the next life.

i avoid
the very subject
of breathing

and regret everything
i’ve ever done and
still, regret nothing

what is regret? it is doubt
in the fantasy that there’s
no automatic consequence
to my sin

what is sin? it is the absence
of God, and where is that?
where can you go to escape
that shadow? Mars most likely.

we are there now,
popping snapshots
of ancient riverbeds and
mountains and valleys
in an asphyxiated atmosphere

perhaps Everyone makes mistakes.