Cosmic

Cosmic


Hands gripping
          Grasping
            Painting
            Steeling iron pens
Dragging poetry by
Its iron heel
Through words and
Wonder and down another
Long road to another long
Journey. Finding paths and
Crossroads in places stranger’n fiction.
Clapping my hand on her back
                                    Her thigh
                                    And slightly
                                    North of
                                    The equator.


Shining eyes in Russia
And Washington and some
Damn district in North America or
                          South Africa but
Everywhere you go her love’s

The same

                Unending

                                  Bliss

                                              Which

Disregards rules and
Fights tooth and nail
With any buzzard
Which circles its
Dead or dying prey from
Miles above in safe heights.





Part II


And she’s a life
Floating happily in
The Sea of Joy or maybe
The comfort of
A Child’s bathtub.
                              I rub her hands.


Life on the inside
Of mourning is like
A steel toed booth with
An iron heel and a
Brace going up your leg.


Mad
Sad
Bodies pushed together in
Some primordial
          Primeval
          Medieval mystery.
One where fires flare
And passion is the order
Of the day.


Continuous convergent roads
Will lead where its led (unless
The sun doesn’t rise, in which
Case the birds fly home instead).
The wind is my navigator and
Love – my pilot,
Never checking signals from the ground.


Straight from the Cosmos







Part III


Twin brains missing
Doors. My life was
Written by Aldus Huxley
Ten billion years before
Conception.
                   
                            Her feet rested on my lap.


Crazy eyed watercolors
Paint my eyes that perfect
Shade of freckle
              Speckle my sky
                            My world
                            My mother screams
From the basement to get on
With my life, to get a job
And grow a beard.


I understand, Mother. I don’t have
Have a choice in the matter.


My beautiful girl and I plan
Our lives ahead and promise
One another that nothing is
Written in stone. Our
Fantasies run wild and
We know that we could
Leave in a moment, but we don’t.
                                                        ‘cause we are in love.


Me and my beautiful girl plan to run to Mexico.









Part IV


Dropping my watch in
Michigan for the fear
Of the fucking buzzard
Who always circles overhead
With my face and
              Hand caught
              In his
              Spotlight.


We’ll borrow Casey Jones
Or make love to Davy Jones
Until we’re in another foreign
Country, a planned report blasts
Over the local radio,
The Public Address
The Electronic Ink.

                                  I kissed her forehead.

Wandering along the beach,
Trading signals with fellow
Heads and music junkies
With an acoustic guitar slung around
                          The back of the
                          Hippie at the fire.


Sing us songs of Aftermath
While playing pinball in
The arcade next to
St. Peter’s Basilica.


And all is fine.







Part V


The writing is on the wall.
Written by handicapped
                  Drug addicted
                  Shoeless prophets.


And my prophet is a freak.


                                  I kissed her fingertips.


The revolution was won by
                                Dissenting
                                Rebels (with no regard for laws)
                                Who have become national heroes in high esteem.


You blind pigs in need of a
Quick fuck or a toothbrush.


I’ve learned that poetry gets you
Nowhere and my guitar can’t build
A nation, but when you give
Your love and your life
And your smiles that make
Eyes bright you can see
The future.
      Future.
      Future.


The world is diseased but you are beautiful.




April 26th, 2007