AN AMERICAN DREAM

Amongst the babbling dream

of a border who holds

the only promise the

World is to know.

America weeps remembering

The puritan ecclesiastical orb.

And they sat on the Indians;

And the Jews came;

And the Catholics;

And the Unitarians.

We marched into the 60’s

with Timothy Leary;

With Hare Krishna;

With the Beatles

Recovering from Stalin’s promise

to undo us from within;

Realizing Kruschev’s confidence

as he withdraws his spies—

Wall street, and we

corrupt ourselves.

The dream, to rebuild

this tired continent,

and resurrect the tradition

of generation and regeneration;

The inspiration of assurance

and the confidence of maturity

is ample supply

for an American Dream.

THE HORIZON

The horizon;

Clouds point overhead.

The skyline glows,

but no sun.

Drums are heard

No—

Thunder, from a distance…

I can’t see to either side.

Columbus is holding on,

Hanging from a rock.

The city lights below

spin in an undefined pattern;

Whirling and reaching at his feet

Our modern day Prometheus;

Columbus—held by their chains of gravity;

The unveiling of America

and it’s puritanical masochism…

Landslide—boundaries broken;

Columbus falls with a bang.

The drums are here—no horizon.

Anguished screams ferment

and the wine of revelation punishes.

And the sun’s rays fluctuate like a strobe…

All the world’s a dance floor.

Texture and vision become as one.

Panorama—

Corduroy landscape;

The sight of mountains

Rubs against and irritates my eyes.

Or is it the air?

I feel it with my skin

And decline further conjecture…

Movement is mandatory

As the earth flexes her muscle

Of pain.

Cosmic orgasm—

Devastating debris—

She dreamed in texture on that quiet

Unlit night.

And fog permeated her cornea.

Or was it me?

A dream of a dreamer—

Shades of Poe—

No macabre, and no borders.

Enhancement of texture;

Definition—

It feels like a book and is too

Heavy.

Or is it me again?

I just don’t know.

HOST

The meditations stood,

as if all to themselves.

And as for the furies,

they fluttered their way

in leaping bounds all about

the church;

Consuming the alter in

a blaze of yellow flame.

The passions lurched and reached;

Unsuccessfully trying to

find a way through to

the mantle piece containing

The scared host.

This is the story of desire;

The sweat of the body;

The explosion of mind

placed against the perseverance

Of emotion—

The body is on the defense

while chaos offers itself

as an all pervasive threat.

The entreaties of mankind

skirmish;

And the hope of life and

living—

Hang;

As we wait for the consumption

of the flames—

Inspecting the injuries;

A furious attempt at

placating the Host.

WHO WOULD TAKE IT AWAY

(For Sandi and Bill)

Standing, we now run forward towards

the reunion of present with past.

Ginsberg sang of jazz and street dope—

Beatnik idiot in a shallowed facial impression.

Lines of runners marathoned the time ship

and rubbed through the voyeuristic streets

of ‘Rock and Roll’.

Our hallucinogen or opiate for a new ethos;

Thoughts of Marx and French poetry;

Visionary cries and outraging morality.

Since our birth in the fifties,

we now leave pubescent wonder and glory;

Running into the memory of eighty something.

Reality splashed in our face;

Leaving us searching for the old feeling of aired roots.

Jazz again rides on the forefront of our

times-a-changing into things becoming;

As we grow older, have babies;

Renew creative lust, philosophize and exalt in

The authenticity that life gives to those who know;

And unite against those…

Who would take it away!

To receive and transform my association

with the moment of awakening;

The ringing of transition in my head;

Life—is the victim; the nourishing victual.

In the realm of all things

and all lines of possibilities;

The passion, the collected consciousness

of all men;

The dreams of a generation resurrected—

It was and is the period of epicycle.

The woman’s resolution;

Life starts anew in her blood.

Sweat over man

Return t the left

Find the right

And claim a new era

Behold life that stands firm

in the burning dawn of creation.

Lilith, Lilith, the realm of your presence

Throbs with joy.

In the darkness shines the light of your glory.

The reign of destiny

The grand connection

The heart of the cycle

The complete and ushered transition

in to the black hole/bastion of infinity.

The universal—

The dream in my head.

And so tomorrow stands

in the vision of my dreams;

as we now can walk

into the embryonic passageway;

The cunt of the universal;

and the dream dreams on,

and the dawn arises.

Moccasin man, my friend,

I have heard your cries.

The agony of truth

once again mounts the freeway;

Hitching to the heart of LA;

Out of the desert and home.

If only tonight

I could dream of you again;

As I stand here;

Drained of my will

and my glory.

To realize the conception

is only the foundation.

Tonight I pray

for the merging of forces.

We should recognize the enemy

as our equal.

Let the dream find

the turn-key for daylight.

PHOTO NOVA

The camera zooms down and in

with blazing speed,

for a close-up.

Then, with an intended upswing,

it swarms over the top

of the building;

Or at least,

that’s what it intended.

Instead, the camera—the eye

is jammed onto the corner ledge;

Jutting out—

Hovering about, the camera bleeds.

Wires and broken glass

pour out from the overexposed eye.

The people

on the streets below

are showered;

The glass reflecting

and refracting

the light…

Stigmatized by the wires;

As lasers shooting

at the pavement; below.

The sun

had been baking the pavement

all afternoon.

And now,

new forces

Stir the tar.

And the street takes on

a new stench—a new disguise,

The night crawlers come out from under rock,

and the holy day begins.

I came on the scene

last night—

as if dreaming.

Then I remembered the feeling,

it made my skin cold;

Yet there was no tactile

sensation…

A numbness overcame my limbs.

Blotches of pulsating colours

filled the air.

The tar oozed over the sidewalk—

As my feet fell

through the road…

underground.

Rat dementia;

The subway sun survives!

I reached up for the tar;

My hands to give it shape;

Becoming useless;

Blinded by the glorious light.

Then the rain,

and I can see the shapes

The tar shapes ran in the rain.

There was a presence;

It throbbed.

My heart

pumped a thousand dreams

through my body.

I grabbed a blade,

Cut a vein

and bled.

I painted the subway

and gave it colour.

I was nauseous.

My guts spilled into the water;

Coagulating about the oily surface

I fell again and again,

until I could no longer get up.

The camera descended

and grabbed my cock.

I filled the aperture.

and it was warm,

and it was smooth.

We glowed together;

Basking in a yellow light

that permeated the darkness

of the subway sky.

The night became light

with the offering

of holiday—

AND THE CAMERA SUSTAINS

ONE THOUGHT

One thought passes through and

encompasses the open view of my mind;

Like a lever

opening the hidden passageway;

Illuminated . . . too bright for light.

Crystal clear vision;

A camera lens out of focus.

In my nagual gaze,

a harvesting of energy

so intense,

it transforms the physical.

Articulations on tangents

stream through my consciousness;

And I feel them all.

I see them all.

With the merger of all fields,

all participate in the grand conceptualization

of the gods who sat on Olympus

and mapped the destiny, desire

and foundation of all mankind.

The cocked head of our civilization,

ready to explode and come into

a new myth;

Renewal of death and quest

and the lust of desire;

We obtain realization

from the rock of the mountain,

and we feel.

One thought passes through and

encompasses the grand view of my

open mind;

a hole dug through the walls of my skin.

I absorb my vision

with reckless action.

suicidally structured,

me, warrior;

I swallow the illumination.

The bomb explodes.

The deepest recesses of my

innards splash on the canvass;

This planet civilization

onto canvass.

To touch,

to exalt,

and shout with a fury

and a celebration deep in the

heart of ritual

and tradition.

Blood has sealed an era shut

and war has made warriors,

blood brothers.

FOR KHYM AND FUTURES, VISITS AND VISTAS
(OLD BULL LEE-I TOO WISH TO MAKE ALCHEMY AND WRITE BIBLES)

I

You and Me;

Our consciousness arouses

the melodies of enchantment,

the seeds and science of . . .

and rhythms of emotion;

Offers chants to be taught

only to the levels

which, as we bear bodies . . .

to the expanses in radiance . . .

radiating—

radiation—

and the clouds thunder

and the rain goddess

pours over oceans;

Caught in a war

scorched and burning in the hot lava;

Boiling on the surface below.

We are cooled in variations.

Changing; entuned to our own conceptions;

Falling, clinging to broken vines . . .

or which ever way is up!

IN

Our New Age and

You and I together;

Twisting: ceremoniously entanged

with demonic reaction.

We apply force in

the fullfillment of will;

in the equation succeeding wonderment,

exitement and fullfillment.

The integrations of art,

religion, sex and music

mingle as one;

Enfusing themselves into our lifestyles.

Incorporated, as if dreams

to each other;

Giving us movement in life,

within and without time.

We are the young regeneration

and we remember, with the

resolve to rectify old mistakes

and weld new solutions.

The new alchemy;

Doctor in a bottle,

The Rosetta stone;

Heralds—

sounded by the cerebral delegates;

envisioned within and without panic.

The mind cluttersand is cleaned.

The webs conquerand are conquered;

Forgetting which is which

and remembered, sometimes/anytime.

Inspired by the struggle it's

the repetition in revolution

that we forget.

The organism,

breathing through sighs and recovery;

The symptom without system;

The disease with semi-fatal cure;

The method, the madness;

And insanity of clarity.

Visions, hot and lucid roll of the tongue;

Fevered by the wells of delirium,

rattles even the chains;

Embroidering the darkest of imagery and

the most malevolent of intent;

Each seeming as madness

to the other . . .

each gripping our thoughts;

twisting our spine and

creating yoga for balance . . .

The sooner you are in the thought,

the more assuredly you are one

and I be fulfilled . . .

I be

YOU

Oh mirror! mirror!

You have seen all my years;

been my constant companion

All my changes being

embraced by your memory;

All my wanderings

and hair styles.

All my acne was spit

onto your glossy surface.

All my tears made you

Clean.

All the joy in my face

is reflected on your screen.

Pictures! pictures!

Tracks of time—

You are the recordings;

The documentations of my mirror.

You alone catch me still

in a moment

I otherwise couldn't see.

You alone catch the secret journey,

between moments of time

and cognition.

Oh rapious cunt!

You alone bear the burden

of my passion.

For you alone is desire.

All else is metaphysique.

Within you is mysticism.

Oh joy! joy!

At the quest confronted

and conquered.

The eternal glow

is a flickering candlestick

by the window, near the wind;

At home both with burning pain

and a soft waming glow—

Fire and brimstone

hailing within so generous

an hearth.

Trust in deeds and

actions yet to come

are bound in times past;

As history

renders the true meaning

of the word archaic;

As traditional devotion

to the primordial flames.

Words! words!

Words are used, to be

dried up and rekindled

in the heart of the poet;

Once pierced and now

the blood dries on this,

a godforsaken

or god given . . .page.

The angels visit me

with messages of truce

and balance.

My weak eyes

can't separate the demons

you, the audience, must decide

Am I a poet? prophet? Teacher?

Or am I to be stoned

as a madman?

Stones! Stones are the measure

of my freedom.

The stones cast up;

Racing from the heart

of isotopal reaction.

These are the stones of transformation

The skins of ants,

though humans we

pretend to be,

are burnt off

to release ecstatic rapture;

As Beethoven lamented because he heard

too much, too soon—

But that didn't stop him!

Like the fool stepping off a cliff;

The face of the tarot card,

we can be in merriment and drunken plunder.

To line up the snakes for display,

the playgirl tools with the fang;

This forbidden cactus,

as men give tit and ass

on the screen

to cover their ignorance.

The realization that woman

wields the power

as she holds my cock in her hand;

Like the ring—

"one ring to bind them all"

Oh the bells!

The glorious bells!

Ring!

Like the induction coil

of a melodic heart beat

across a complacent soundscape;

Filling it with mindless action.

Making pawns—

Making ants—

Koyaniscotsi,

and movement is seen

as it really is.

And the Hopi's preach

eternal cobwebs in the skies.

Saturnal rings

to glow like fire;

Ethiopian freedom with industrial

Collapse;

The world falls when

the dream ends.

Wake up gently

so as not to disturb the dream.

Remember the dream

and become it's actor;

It's benefactor;

it's co-conspirator.

Eat mindless motions of colour

and spit sound like flame

to burn the ancient dragons.

Oh poem! poem!

Oh dream! dream!

Why do you end it here?!