Side winding spinstress angel mechanics
dance within your being
in fact are your being
every move you make ends in orders
given to a billion molecular magicians
who shuffle and shift like blazing wildfire
to interpret and fulfill the task given them.
“your life is ours” they say,
pledging allegiance out of an inner adherence to the code
with which they were written.
These, little luminescent love dots are your personal sons and daughters
of whom you give birth to every day.
every day, every second, of every sleeping and so called waking hour
they play and huddle, play and huddle
retreating to skycaves rejuvenating shadows
only to emerge again in the heart searing heat of solar fire.
your exchanges are written neatly in a luminescent script
within the walls of your own inner temple and the magic blips
are bricks with which you construct or destruct
according to the latest mandates declared by you
yes, you the dictator.
There is no choice in THIS matter,
you elected yourself to this position thousands of planetary sun moon cycles ago
and so it is, your word is the bonding agent,
a billowing mass of ejaculating sensations
thrown onto a concave purple plastic discus, spun around
then pushed down a steep smooth snowy hill.
You hold every office in your nation
you are the treasurer, director of defense, internal affairs advisor, president, vice president, HR, PA, CO, CEO. Your job is never done
the MAHA OVERLORD of a trillion shining rainbow monkeys tattooed with ones and zeros,
the book of your nation is written
the divine secretarial skills of your living operating system records
all negotiations between other nations, hostile or otherwise
giving aid or selfishly secluding.
your nation is governed by the laws
you choose to create
are governed by the law
that creates all nations.
The rhythmic pulsations of a dreaming planet awaken within me.
My role has become similar to that of a solid gold dancer.
I move, in a way my inner senses demand,
a way, which inspires the observers,
I don’t even know what it looks like,
but the responses I get from the audience
and fellow dancers, makes it clear,
I must keep dancing in just this way.
Her arms are wrapped around a million dreams
who’s inhabitants snap and attack
always attentive to the shift of her likes.
A pre-apocalyptic protocol to inspire a million more
longing for the intrinsic relationship this one has been caressing since birth.
The boy touches the feather in his hat,
he pulls the hat off to closer examine it’s immaculate beauty,
a pigeon feather?
a pigeon feather, the grays mingling to perfectly with the whites
immaculate as the red armed man
with a swarming body of eyes
who walks, guided by the flying umbrella queen
through green undulating tides of change.
The spacious grace she’s conceived and constructed
arduously adorned and carefully caressed into a fun house of creative furry.
She’s gathering about her an army
who’s bodies shape shift into the exacted forms she needs
This war will not be televised
at least, not in the normal sense of the word,
The only screen that’s important to this battle is that which projects
the subjects onto the objective field of the minds eye
where YOU are the messenger, capturer, pertinent articles of revelation revealer.
Your heart explodes at the notion,
bulldozers push mountains of flat screens into a forgotten and useless pile
miles and miles line the barren fields
marking on her body
the exodus avenues
which lead to renewal
This is the Pagoda Altar i’ve been working on. It exists in the back yard of a friends house in North Chico.
oh my, oh my, oh ma
so precious little time
and tender vittles falling
from feasting round tables still sitting,
your heart is tender
mainly wheels turning
and inability to taste
leaves scalding marks
on already sensitive skin.
tempted to turn and run
the case is never truly solved
by a judge with no heart.
so around the concrete campfire
you dance with bass drums
as loud and deeply growling as ever
and your love of dinosaurs
and a powerful tenderness you can’t touch.
I standing slowly
always through lenses
of immaculate conception
learning to taste
longing to ignite
she inviting all to dance
THE COUNTRY GIRL
how many dots
in a row must be drawn
in order for you to realize
the screen is capturing
the beautiful gift that is you
like a spinster pterodactyl
standing outside the abandoned
wall-street-mart bidding floor
you hoist yourself laughingly into
the sky cave remembrance machine
like two black cats kissing
the “I want to trade REAL names
within you function” gradually opens
like a budding rose,
a scent who’s timeless fragrance enters the human heart
to reveal the light that lay beneath.
the dismembered plastic arm of your cobra commander action figure
becomes a toothpick for your pet dragon
as antennae of pure gold sprout from your
well cared for head.
3 words are written on the inside
of your left eyelid
LET ME IN
and on the right lid
LET ME OUT.
She’s as country as a country girl could be,
even when she’s not holding her guitar
as real as the first time you took LSD.
like lightning flashes on the desert floor
that create crystalline flowers that transmit
and receive the messages of your mothers heart.
as well as professor keen-beam
who’s card is drawn to create the pods
of I’s for transmission.
The truth is simple
and profoundly potent
if you are claiming your bags in denver
go to carrousels 1, 5, and 8.