THE LAUGHING BONE‎ > ‎WORD‎ > ‎PROSE‎ > ‎Skeletons in the Waste Land‎ > ‎

Part V - And We Were Staring Into the Sun [What the Tunder Said]

Oh my Lord, kiss me with your waters, embrace me with your rain, fill me with your ocean, let fall upon me all the falls and lakes and streams, and let me bathe with lumenescent droplets of fire in your ponds and creeks and most holy of holy high alpine pools. Take me to where the heart quenches its thirst, take me to the place of children's happy tears, take me to the wander and the wish, to the hoped for a begotten, take me within and then within again, take me to the liquid quivering core of sound and music, teach me the mystery of the drop of water falling, the sound of water dropping into water. Resurrect me, Oh Lord, Oh One, lift me from the tired skin and brittle bones of this old frame, lift me up and let me be, truly be, and let me be and ing, ing and ing, be and be. Ah my blood boils with the thought of You, I am on fire, with the years and with burning desire. My brain melts once again into my spine and quivers me, quivers me with that sacred touch, shamanic, primal, esoteric, mystic, tremendous, ineffable.

The ancient forest, the fire of the soul burning, the red and yellow light leaping through the forest, the flickering faces of our fear, the scruff and rough of the wild beasts that come to watch us with cold eyes. We are howling, dancing with ecstasy, with the taste of God, of Him that lives so eternally deep in the woods, and Him that licks with lightning and delivers unto us the fire, the sacred flame of the will. Ah but what is death? cackling in the corrugated tin shack in the center of the salt flat desert, laughing maniacally, reading the old newspapers and rags that can be bought for a penny anywhere. I have traveled long to reach this place, Natchiketa they call me. Death calls me in and gives me a drink. What is the meaning? What does the thunder say? Death smiles and shakes his bony hands all around him in the air, spittle oozes from his convulsive lips. Go on. Further.

The bent back reverie of winter's callings, tales told to the black men sitting shaking in the alleyways, rattling the old tin cans, looking for respect, and with them the ghost of every middle class white bread boyscout earning his last silver pin for glorious tenacity and perspicacity, limpid pools for eyes, stuttering with the old man, holding the hand of leather and whip stretched release, speaking like an old wooden wheel, the new fortune teller, the voice of the american freedom, rolling along, in dat gar tun, yay uh, dairs summin lef in day, I dun see tit yassah, troof, I tell yah. Really? Squeaking clean believability, dull intention growing like a little hard on underneath his navy blue trousers, pressed flat as the inherited morality this morning by Betty Lou, the servant. And years later the old man, the old boy, he smiles and remembers how cold it was there in the garden, how the old man, the only real authentic one became so quiet, looking at all the boxes filled with bottles and brown water. Tase dat. The old smile, drunk with hope, faith just ready and tender as, as the unpeeled onion, nothing at the core, but hoping, it rained and rained that winter and you almost died, caught the clap and almost died hiding it. But there in the garden you prayed, knelt down on your now oily knees and prayed, looking into the very face of evil, you prayed, drooling, convulsive, having lost all referent, having lost all innocence, how old? how young? Does it matter?

The fallen, the broken, the bleeding one, there amongst the rocks, lying naked, entirely, under a star, the water shimmering, passing by and passing by, all the ghosts and lost souls, desperate as the cherry sliding off the top of the sunday, there in school, the leer and giggle, the joy and secret places, the fold, the tight fold that you found to be so gleaming and creamy, you know, you've known all your life, traveling the dusty road, searching for the perfect knob, the gleaming one, there drifting over the road, hooded and slow, and you know that you are going to meet it all, yourself and death and that it will be agony, as it was, you assume, up there on the mast, the cross, the loss, the dross being burned out, some fair day, some fair day, you'll think of me, she says, she says, and the last conversation you ever had hangs in your memory like a fog, her face, hovering, swirling in the stillness, agony, no choice though, thought ruptured diamond sand mentality and slide into the distant dolphin cry of splendor awakening in me.

Can you tell the difference? This is important. At some point, you must be able to tell the difference between the one and the other. Now, here at the End, says Death, I am telling you, I'm showing you. Yesterday, the girl wandered herself into a left long gone childhood of yesterday, trying more and more to make the sense of the sense, laughter and the golden rod, longing and throbbing, there hung, there, out there by the lake, on the rocks, amidst the shouting and the crying, falls, falling, fallen, had fallen ....

The mistake and the sad pillow, the cat's cry of release, winding out the pure night like a root up pulled, still hearing the motions of nervous galaxial wondering, wondering if, perhaps, there in the midst of chromatic change, soft guilded, unnoticed, warm beneath the sheets, the winding ones, still stained with blood, but where did that come from? There was never supposed to be blood. Just goes to show you that you never know when or how or where, but that it will happen, dark and deadly, of course, petit mort, rigorous challenge and secret minister's smiles, graceful, filled with cynical broken language, the monkee's howling, screaming, all covered with scorpions, under soft keys, extensions of the hand, extensions of the thought, rippling out from the source like a mountain stream, filled with silver and dancing, of course, if ever a course, and swirling amidst the swaying light beams of the song slowed down, multiple manifestations of psychic colorbladed melting slowly, just heated up really, still trying to talk to myself in my own head, that was the point of all this wasn't it? Oh prison, oh palace, and oh my cries, my screams, and my sighs of pleasure infinite and beyond my mind, burning my mind, the Great Wind blowing though, the black cloak swirling, covering me, keeping me from danger, oh my ghost, oh my ego, fare the well, I shall leap across the abyss and be so very far from you, insanity in April Nights and August Days. So much sense. So much sense.

The scars, the shouting, and the reverberation, the cruel pain of growing, growing period, the stark terror of dark worship, the known souls willingly submitting to its own demise, captured in the caricature, this is what I have been trying to draw all along, no not the cartoon, but the reality that this reality is all just a cartoon to, tha dump, listen to the big beat, coming forever at you, always living now on this notion of persistance but really should I why die cry sigh night bright light, my first word, but probably not my last, Truth outshines them all, sweet airbrushed neo propelyene chrome dripping whore, dancing ever so seductively from behind the window, doing that lip dance and sucking every last penny from my cum emcrusted pockets, disgusting, yeah? It's funny what you'll do in the name of her though, scared to really pronounce her name, but She, the one with the sweet and thick glossy pink lips puckered up there, kissing, a long strand of the juice glistens in connection, another kiss, deeper, and she pulls away this time with several strands, honey rich, but pure and white as starlight, she takes the deeper stroke and deeper, the laquered nail caresses the whole existential nature of this mother, just doing all of this to show how much control she has over me, how much she possesses me, stocks going down, but when did I sell? Anyway, stroking, always from behind the glass, but visible on video monitors in tungsten high relief, the dance: me and her, connected at least in some sad, sad way, that I fear no one will understand, these notions being as they were buried so deep, in paper and in bones, what will they be like, those historians of the future, will you even need to probe this deep, or will you have guessed the great and wonderful ... well, I shouldn't say her name again, she'll want me to preform, uh, perform. Standing at attention in the shadows, waiting her beck and her call, suffering, still suffering, going through it all, the down turning, the untying of the moral, mortal, knot, slowly, ever so slowly, so as not to do any major damage, neural frames of reference being drenched in Ach and Lysergic misnomers, no better, Asthmador, actually only the choline ring's lude, right o, anyway, dig, the woman is full, that when she's best, full and forever young, taking it all in, worshipping the dragon, drinking the dragon's blood, herself a fountain for it, gushing out, overflowing, overwhelming, thick globs of celluloid white, star streams, matter antimatter, in every ejaculation supreme.

From over the mountains of our mental landscapes we have     heard the thunder for o so many years, if only T.S. could have known, could have seen, oh yeah, he did. But know

My own soul. I am alive, just    barely, alive only to leave this, this strange testimony, accused, sentenced, eternity in the prison of the flesh. Oh let me die, 0 Lord, let me die, rather than suffer that. Give me some sort of release from all such suffering, especially that of the flesh, the fires are already burning the last few layers of dignity that I have left on the top slipcovers of my last portfolios title page, tap tap tap dancing away, frittering away like my fabled talent, nope, and trailing into the Chaos, Chalost, of the Cosmos, Cosmost, like a slowly unwinding curl of some furl of some girl uncurling, slowly, tenderly, around the soft finger of innocent grace, twisting all the heavens into a tight little ringlet, not to mind either really, really, eally, eeeahhhhleeee?

Yuuuuuueessssssssuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh cries the powerful motor jawed beast still left standing on the outskirts of Oblivion after having watching the Last Great Mushroom Suck, and looking around all he sees are pages, burnt and torn, all with these words, yes these words:

He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience.

Well .... I'm waiting. I'm waiting and I for one am beginning to run out of time, can't wait around forever, or can I? Can U? Me? asks the stupified Scooby-Doo to Shaggy's intense questioning. Yes, Scooby, what exactly is it that you were waiting for? And here we observe the all too wonderful phenomenon of one man waiting, looking up at the sky, and waiting. Soon he is joined by another and another and so on until we have the whole dang blast it society just there waiting and looking up into the sky, all these years, writing stories about it, wondering .... While out there on the outskirts of forever, the old metal jawed one is closing his steel trapped trap, finally, but the creaking shall be interpreety ed, say all the wise one's, so let's listen:

... the gasp left by the true gasp
the scream of the cricket
the endless stretch of the imagination
the swirl of the rainbow the gasoline upon the water
the nail through the rose
the engine oiled with blood
the fingers blue and trembling
the lock of blonde hair upon
the reinforced steel of the concrete
the laser red lick on the wing of
the butterfly flying in slow circles

the last tear dripping
      thick and sweet
      from the old man's eye
       his last gasp ended expanding.

CRRRREEEeeeekkkk!!! Goes the iron jawed one and stop, goes the crowd. But the man's not even half finished yet. Enough of suicide notes, they say. CRRRREEEeeeekkkk!!! Under the flickering sterile flicker of the flickers, change channel, change the channel, change a channel, shange the shannel, shrange duh shrannel, strraange ttduhh strraannellllaa, strella ange ella du du ella du t t t ella strr a stra a ng ng ng ella shhh de range du shrapnel, arrange the lapel, on the firing range the pen pals each found each other in what has become a rather tragic mishap unfortunately misappropriately incorrectly correcting the rock filled mouth of the iron jawed jazzed out motor mouth, doing prob lee bout problee a gazillion jolts of spasm, jerks the dark purple flesh under the hypo, smiles the doctor, knows the doctor, smiling now no teeth, burned out, too much juice, five no whoa what do you know? fifteen years ago it was. Face turns suddenly, desperate, like a face being pressed up against a glass: HOW THE FUCK DID I GET IN HERE WITH ALL THESE ... THESE MEAT PUPPETS AND SLIMY GASHES ... THESE HOLES, SUCKING AND FUCKING AND EXCRETING AND SECRETING THEIR FUCKING SPIRITS AWAY? Calmer voice now, looking around, sees startled faces: How did I get here? Fifteen years ago I agreed to a little something, name of the truth and all, but I ever really bargained for this ... this, here he whispers, as if to off stage sidewalk in the core of the hardcore drag, this shit hole. Where did I go wrong? How did I forget the glass of water? The glass of water? Oh yeah, some guy asked me for a glass of water, slipped me a hit in a mouthful of spit, if you want ta know what I dink, cause, ya see, I aint come down since den, been trippin, star gazin here now some fifteeen years. So da glass of woiter? Wha happin? Well, ya see, now fumbling, starting to sweat, ya see I went out lookin all round, ya know? En I dinnit fine nuting. And it's like the man said, you know, there isn't any water here, only rock. So can I go now? What do you mean I? You mean I? Me too? I'm stuck here with this fool, this tripping idiot? What? Like right. Like totally. Like bummer, dude, I like completely whacked out on all that jizz you was crossin me wit back dauh in dat pass time. Like sall gone like totally to the breeze, cool like?, so roll on down the road. What? Oh yeah, like I say, aint no roll, only rock rolling down the sandy road to Sandy Lake memories ....

The copperhead and the long bamboo hook, trash barrels filled with snakes, scorpions, spiders, and all the other objects of desire, and the scorpion stings the spider, the snake eats the scorpion, a little kid knocks the can over, we all scream and run down to the sacred river, now not wanting to forget, no Lethe, no Leman, no now the smoky colored liquid flow of the Trinity, or the Ganges, its sandy floor dancing with the ashes of our innocent souls, wandering in the endless night of the True Dream, not, remember to forget, but to forgive, all entirely forgiven and all the pain washed away, riding the alligator gar across the waters, like music, riding with the fog, the swirl and the Breath of the Eternal, to the fabled other side where lies the sacred mountain, red and spiraled, beyond the gate, there so young and knocking, knocking and waiting for it to be opened, pounding upon the rock, fearing not, beating upon my breast three times, all my companions yelling at me from the canoe, E cantero' di quel secondo regno, ra ra ra, la la la, chi v1 ha guidata? Old Man Johnson, crazy legged cannibal in the old abandoned house, moss covered, wasp nested, broken dusted windows, entered into on a board creaking dare, the others still in the canoe, stepping through, seeing those strange broken balloons, slithering towards me like grey white maggots, odor of ozone, ammonia, and the musky wet gash, fabled to me still, told in whispers around the last night campfires, up there, she will hear, the others will tell her, and she will grant me the favor, the kiss, the wetness, and the feel, still entering, now avoiding syringes, rusted blood bent broken gradation, and now the dark bottles, the clear ones too, and the soft white cocoons, broken and scattered, filled with pulsing light blue crystals, making my head swim, and my spine tingles, finally before the door, knocking, thinking that probably no one is there, knocking, three times, the full body of her breasts beneath the wet white shirt, the dark circles of the nipples, soon for me, she will know, this is fame, turning now, smiling, no one answered, then the heavy footsteps from the other side, Old Man Johnson, footsteps heavy and quick, running from the other side to get me, quick fear, stumbling, falling, the icy kiss of the needle injecting, rusty, something burning me, the rattle of the door, up and stumbling, tripping, collapsing into the canoe, go go go, and my tribe pounding the dark waters of the Trinity under the silver moon night light, questions, questions, looking, the needle, there, I see it now, again, and I begin again to tremble....

Sandy Lake chlorine fantasies and five meter drops through the surface of all hope and lost parental devotion, cast away into the thick wilderness north of the City, the long erectile bus ride filled with the forbidden words and the summer images of the working class driving behind us, enduring the gestures just learned, the sly look from the little girl, not so little, teasing, tongue out, pure pure pure as the evening ruby light, glimmering there for you, speaking softly, furtively, of that moment in the emerald light of the forest on the grey mare, Stormy, and the taste of the strange leaves that you held beneath your tongue, yeah, I remember that, last year, and then the old stories, already old hands, but with laughter, knowing nothing like nostalgia, the spiritual songs of old America, new to you and her and all the rest, taught by the coolest counselors, never to be met again because they die each year, personas gone to seed, they having lost it also, yet lingering in your memory as tangible forms of all archetypes, O Father, O Mother, O Brother, O Sister, O Wise Old Man, O Nature Woman,indian names, old tribes, identities faded into these new sacred sounds, Cherokee, Apache, Commanche, Karankawa, Shawnee, Iroquoi, and Navaho, braves and tribes and blood bathed unions, passages and dark initiation in the quiet of the woods, not even knowing, not even knowing as her t-shirt lifts off to reveal the woman, exhalations and sweet sweaty exclamations of forever loving with the tender touch of innocence feeling the ancient evolutionary current    swell between both of your legs yet still sound tight with the threads of the other world's morality, barely perceived reasonings never really making sense, yet still you gave her your Spirit Stick, which she went away behind a tree to rub with all her scent and gave back to you, and you told everybody and they soiled all of that with their crude envy and swagger, tossing it all into the gutter and pissing on it all, laughter amidst the golden walls stretching through the dark woods to her camp and the place of meeting, fleeting shadows flowing, the Old Ones and the tribal beat, pounding in your head, running through the trees, waiting, waiting, was this where you really learned how to wait, telling stories    yourself, listening to the myths of the woods, of the clusters of Monarch butterflies covering the trunks of the    trees? Waiting, watching the slow night movements of the Copperhead and Water Moccasin, rolling with the too young    anguish, praying for the bite, the sting, rolling around in the bottom of the canoe, under the worried faces of the tribe, hearing your name, Shaman, Witch Doctor, Legend, speaking with all you many tongues, Holy Rollers, snakes and snakes of light streaming out of the stars
distant destiny, twirling mystic phrases into your memory yet to be, shaking, shaking, and calling out into the deep woods for deliverance from Old Man Johnson, Crazy Leg Johnson, Keeper of the Door, knowing that you will keep knocking again and again, all of your life, wanting to see those shelves filled with Mason jars filled with human hearts and faces, soft green worlds, whirls of galaxies and planets, captured comets and quasars blinking, with Helen's eyes and Alexander's brain, with Homer's web like soul, and Shakespeare's tongue, with Dante's vision ....

Being dragged over the rocks, away from the water, away from the memories, thick tongued and dry, like the old man's dictum, being too dry, the soul wanders like a flame with no rivers to cross or step in even once, burning left for the bald birds of lost love, set up chattering in the black leafless tree, gnarled, twisted, torn from wind and rain and root found blackened source, poisonous crossing, standing still after having traveled for so long, left to burn, to have the spirit evaporated from the moist red matter, left to die amidst the blinding Platonic rays of True Energy, Ideal, thought unto itself, there dying, ready to sacrifice the inner eyes to the foul beaks of the waiting vultures, knowing that she would never come, knowing that I had knockim-T three times, knowing all of this, no longer even sweating, wishing wishing wishing to just be able to go back and relive those days out by Sandy Lake, along the Trinity River.

Do you know the deliverance of desiccation? Do you know the sound of sterile thunder? Do you know the feel of the dust rushing through your heart, pounding, pump, pump, with short thumps of brown cloud rings, puffs disseminating in the not even musty chambers of the nautilus heart, traveling free, the squid once again, freed from the cage of ribs, flower blooming spectacle in stop motion photography, joined frame by frame, forming the ring of rock, of burning stone, the men-al-tol, the head looking through into that other world of the red rock and spiraled way, whereof the many winged boat is forbidden to sail of its own accord, where one is made old and like the sybil grasshopper, waiting to be preserved in one of those famous mason jars, occult rosy crossed warning herein delivered, disgusted with the membership now, y1all is onlee a buncha geeks, having forgotten even how to spit upon yourselves, 0 dark travelers lodge empty but wailing in PA system feedback, amateurs! The rub and scrape of the scrapulous hand, horned and weathered with the sands falling from between and out of the V shaped legs of pin-up time, O woman, O heartless mountain mouth, sucking in all the juice with monstrous quivering grey labia, not even wet but flapping as the moth's dead wings on the window pane forgotten. If only, if only you might spit out the accumulated wad you've been holding, years of old men's decadent loads collected rotting with the nauseous old sponge fish market and vinegar sweet smell. Spit out the infection of time, let go and collapse into Eternity or just be time again, devoid of sin filled misery, memory, mentation, prostration, postures non assuming but too too ready, as is always with the human cheese filled position, neither sitting nor standing, crouching in the dark theatres of quiet perspiration, desperate, and not even that, you there snarling, puffed out red necked face, huffing your way into the Apocalypse, crack bound homo sexual and mogenous politicians of the Dark One's dancing veil, there stubbing out your fat green globulous cigar upon the soft hydroencephalic skull of America's hope, lying suffering from the true thirst there in the mudcracked houses on the other side of the tracks, crawling up your proverbial arm like fire ants, billions, until you are only left hiding and holding your flaccid self in the conversational hum of the porno theatre of the adult bookstore that is the hub of the Last American Spiritual Movement, priest of shadows and dry humps, no more juice, no O's, no cum, no go, goop or gum, only the dry lurch of you nervous evolutionary treason, back there in the lowest circle, laughing with the most mental of pain, frozen up to your eyes in the Lake of Ice. We must move on. We have. But memory .... Yes, it haunts one until the water is found. But there is no water. No water, no hope, no salvation for the deathless dried out husks of humanity that we have become. Ditto. Ditto. Ditto. Dat.

If there were water, yes if, and if there were world enough and time, time enough and love, love enough and hope, hope enough and will, will enough and God, O Truth, O Peace, O Harmony, O Great Void, O Clear Light, O Abyss, O Kiss of the Hooded one, the skull and the beach and the bright honey on fire flowing, the sacred bees buzzing, the ooze, the run and the river, the eternals listening with the seed of smiles upon their ancient faces, high up in the Himalayas watching and waiting for me, watching for me to make the move, waiting for me to become pure and sacred in the everyday act of atonement, in the wet jerk and shiver of the dark place, of the Land of Pleasure, dreams forbidden, walking upon the hot rocks, the black hearts of twentieth century humanity, 0 Woe man with the heart of stone, with the sharpened teeth, the razor nails, where do you exist upon the Zone, you with the flowering lips and velvet tongue, you with the words of Kingdoms measureless to man, where the sacred rivers run and sprite amidst the caper and the glee and the sault of the little lambs, you lost and forgotten, you dinosaur, you extinct, you lying oiled and bronzed, shimmering with the physical perfection of desire upon the rocks, but there is no rock, only the water evoking, and then the water and you and the drool of saliva from your lips, the idiot drool, perfect spindle, stream of light, and the spring, the flow, the secret ee shun from between your taut thighs, from under the strip of fabric, the modern veil, and there in your rock, the pool, the stream confounded and the whirl, the gathering and the overspill, the dam, the reef, and the sandy shore, the road now sunken, and always the sound of water, your dripping cunt, your oozing life, victory's of ten thousand orgasms squirming    from within, set to sterile birth upon    the
Impenetrable egg of your rock hard spirit, Peter, Pierre, and the coming, in both con O tations of the vegetable man, having choices, but you lingering in Margaret's vulvular prison of sold soul love, only a step along the way, way gone, way long gone, and the sound of your water breaking with surprise on the eve of your destruction. You whore,
America, you bitch, you cunt, you dream of    mine, you my lover, you my mother, you traitor, you beguiler, you witch flying across the frozen amber traces of our Nordic ancestry, trancing out and polluting the Zone, the tan Zone, the Great Chain of Being, the warped City on the Hill, the quasar Beacon, you out    there flashing my mind on and
off, waving the sound of the cicada and the razor dry grass singing the song of the Mariner, lost tossed amongst the Albatross's rotting body, there breathing from the sacred fire, Magus, goatman, and pig, big as Jupiter's poetic blimp forms, floating, you America, you lost, you dream gone dry and mindlessly humping your way into Oblivion, back entrance to the Zone, foretelling of the too bright light, all the heavens melting, dripping dropping, Chicken Little stopping and plopping his tender pink neck upon the chopping block of our hungering plane for scapegoat sanctitude, saintly ... uhm ... oh... uhm ... bright, clear, pure, Light, uhm, shining!

But there is no daughter dripping with this man's last lust filled scream of blackest fright of the sole survivor left on the Is Land of the In These, green death spreading and the SIDA, the acid lined breakdown come right off Foggy Mountain, from the heart of the Shenandoah, misty mystic Mother, Cumberland, Cumberland, Cumberland gapping, gaping with the slack jawed recognition all too common to the race, Pioneers? Listen to Walt and the song of the grass leaving the dust covered bookshelves with no traces, never missed, being so anthologized to death and lesser fame.

There must be the Land of Dreams still out there or perhaps in here with the lion, leopard, and wolf, with the three headed dog guarding its brittle bone. You, now, retire, give up the charade of your scholarly pursuit, jumpsuit, and let the hand tremble upon the rip cord, the minor chord resonating through all the pink tissue of your thirsty soul.

The mountain's shadow:
Raven's wing,

The mass of men:
Failing bodies,
Burning, lost.

The red ribbon,
Whipping in. the wind,

The hooded figure at the door, knocking against the pure grain distillation of our once visionary gleam, still gleaming, but not meaning all that the teeming circles once thought, gloating in their burning armour of dreams, reflecting distant, oh so distant water, tidal risings of imagination's thunder beams, falling, failing, against the dry dust exterior of the dried sack of bones, the marrowed core of the waterless shore, once was, Percival hanging on the wooden pole of idealization, of the bleeding diamond hope, searching searching searching for what is only in one's part nourishing the cruel blade, the lurk and jerk of the virginal shivering assumption ... lost.

Into Southern Lands, far from man and beast, man, and least of all the time when, always when, walking along the dusty pathless path, threading through the vines and trees like a ghost, until victory for the teeming social insects, victory for the One who resists, victory as a fading dream, and now sailing across the mountainous ocean waves, through the tempest's rage and ruin, through the magic veil, the One lies crucified upon the raft of his belief, bound tied and twisted, bound to batter his bloody flesh against the entire Uni worst or die crying, trying only to get away, a way, get it? And reciting the mystic mantric keys, unlocking the silken doors that might slice a man into smiling ribbons, sailing on and on, into the polar regions where desire can burn itself out against the glacial blue gleam. See? Still gleaming, Argosy and the forever unburied corpse. My God! My burning glacial God! The star I am giving birth to shall melt all the ice and unsheath Atlantis, backwards masked dancers streaming across the rich pool of tearsf quivering with the reflection of the first and the second and another who we shall not name but all know, dark, dark, figure, walking with a smile.

The dread poet and the guide, the One and the woman, the figure high and placed inside the constellations of a song, troubador's tambors pounding inside the slick three color pages of the newest magazine full of ads and one single word, article, descended bone stirring to holographic life under the Surgeon General's latest injection of multi-national corporate dis interest and integration stationed out on the crescent moons phosphorescent horn. And there along the white road of ashes we, you and 1, this thing mixed and malformed between us, holding the cut strings of the guitar and two ears, you and I, are alone. But then, yes, up ahead, and then beside me, gliding over the world is another one, hooded, dark, and smiling, opening a window into the Void. And so we return to these retried phrases and flavorless ruminations cause the cause is now supreme and fixed full of temporal agony.

I become so confused these days, these lonely alone days along the stark mountain's edges and ledges of the one true purpose, fighting the scream, the black decadence of the flesh, stepping in time to the thump thump thump of the wet hand and the oceanic gash: blissful toys of childhood days and her, the hooded one, now behind me, also sacrificed in the pure flame, the captured essence, burning in my brain like a comet orbiting a mote of dust, the pure flame roped out of the Clear Light, found while hanging upside down in the upside down world, trying to get back to the essentials, geometrical spells and calculated calculused calloused integrations upon the crumbling verge of the limit towards infinity, going within and within again and again, holding my breath, tripping into tripping, never stopping, surpassing the thought barrier, the naught barrier, the noun barr ier, sound, mock one and two, and Mach three, until even the limit became ridiculous in its mad conceit, and I was left like a poised tree of lightning, wandering about the wilderness, screaming for the three daughters to rescue me, mad with madness, mad with the English language spilling over my lips like a waterfall of sacred vomit, Oh Lear, you image, you saint, you Holy Fool! You fluid mirrored mouth that walks beside me, O My Soul! O My Lost Soul!


For fifty-six generations of life I have lived in this corrugated tin shack here in the starkest desert of the Spirit. And I have lived in Paris, heart of the Heart, thirsting for water, standing upon the bridge, dying of thirst, screaming poems out to all the boats drifting so casually down the Seine, doing the Ole Bone Dance over and over, giving and getting, bent over and broken and sticking in and penetrating until I just cut the fucker off, so to speak. Holding the hot metal plate against the wet hole, burning away all the desire, four hundred and fifty one degrees and seven thousand eight hundred degrees and a billion degrees hotter than the sun, the son, and the Hooded One, not really mattering now, holding the New Clear Light, that once too bright one, within my mouth, refusing to
speak, refusing to smile, refusing to laugh, to now dare to even change my expression.


Chaos in Europe, chaos in the States, chaos, chaos, like a seed that will grow anywhere, filling the air with a black cloud, thundering with the sterile noise, ripping the firmament apart, shredding the heavens, leaving only this red rocked mountain, ringed with flame but not burning. This white road of ashes turning round and round the path to the White Rose of the Clear Light, not New, but timeless, ever was is and will ever be. Cosmic bloom sending the fragrance of divinty into the densest woods, into the most impentrable stone, into the outermost reaches of space and time and beyond that even. So you can only be. old of a Holy Rose, dancer supreme, why want more in y eephole imagination?

The wail and whisper of you mother's deathbed birthbed lamentations, coming out of the sky upon you as feathery ash, as swarms of locusts and winged scorpions, as amalgamated dragons, as silver gleaming airplanes black as night, flat black sky type Y crossed beam flashes, whistle crashes, misal miss el sah, wrenched shards of metal cluster bomb notions, all the postmodern malaise, ex tolling plo rode ding and ding and blowing your king mind whip snaked cross bred blood stewed heart torn love and sanctity and holy roller pin beat black and blue sunglassed t-shirted undershirted golden rusted rule and rulers erected to selected posts of club brutish short member ember glowing hyper violent violet flower crushed blood blood blood and bones and white white teethed mentalities braced through adolescence never terminated except in masturbatorial sartorial daydreams of creamy white thighs dripping with whipped cream whipping upon the rotted bird picked carcass of the first people, shit just The People, cracking off the rotted nosed crustacean pickings of your frozen and splintering mindset pounded under your perfected manicured pink fingernails that spent the last night of every month tickling the Sphinxy sphincter of the sad and
lost and lonely next door neighbor that you met watering your too green lawn while the entire world is thirsting and yet you still betray and lie and steal and cheat and beg and borrow and fuck and suck and shit on and step on and pinch and pull and piss and punch and kick your high dollar body all the way up the corporate ladder of sucksex and
prostrate erity, hanging on the blood and gristly vertebrae of the too bad so sad less fortunate than your holier than
thou ingratitude spilling over your shit filled toilet full of soft stooled propensities and tendencies to slobber over
your cum encrusted shit lips and green shit brown nosed pustule covered dripping nosy nosed American, DO YOU HEAR ME? American Mentality. This is what it was all about. Death dealing idiots. American Screamers swarming over the endless plains, stumbling in the cracked earth, but not not not not not not not and never never never ever ever ever even setting gangrenous foot upon this ash white road leading to the city over the mountains. You were not the third. And you are not the reader. I'll cut no guitar strings for you.

Thought disengages and reemerges as the one solid burst bleam upon the ever darkening horizon, now assuming the role of the junkman, the janitor, shining stars for aging platinum beauties to slide slowly down on their way to the
vomitorium for having to suck up last years split crusted invectives hurled without reason, set sail, set sail, sea
man always make for lonely lovers, crippled crosses floating aimless in the Southern Seas, lanterns hanging lonely,
shimmering Walt Disney evocations of that particular Gotterdamer, er, er, ung, sungit, durnit, go now you got a
big yellow stream a gleaming, ride on it cowboy, start her out slow and then you just got to hang on:

HA-HA Hoo Whee! Got damn! Ho ho!

AHA Fuck me! Jezuss Chriss! Yo yo!

AH ... yeah that's it, that's it! Sing it!

Cracks and reforms and bursts and opens and remakes itself in the dream of the dream of the dream and wake up before the very heart of the thunder shatters your too little vision of the Ultimate Ultimate on the hill, on the pill,
she said she said, as you came in and went again to the hazy soft lumbar curve of Babylon's whore infested towers
falling, curving down to earth with all the velocity of a spent prick dripping the excesses of yesterday's last joy
ride of youth, truth, spoof of the entire genre on ya in the darkest blood soaked alleyways of the concrete cities of no
cadence of anti cadence of decay and dance and the river breaking like an old woman's brittle bones... like an old
woman’s brittle bones ... she gazing up at you with those tears, help me, help me, and you bent down to 1ift the leg
which falls and duplicates hydra-like into the -snarling face of Beethoven's ninth symphony vision of death, shattering, shattering all your bones over Jerusalem, where the witches burned in the come down paranoia of early Amer- no, I can't even say the word any more as it burns in my mouth like snake venom oozing out of the Edenic apple worming through the endless night of the Spenglerian sick rose blooming like the bomb over Athens ... Athens ... burning like the end of a cigarette under the moonlit glow of the Acropolis ... all of you sleepless in the heat ... lying there not looking at each other until one of you decides to strip off your clothes and masturbate without shame as the young Australian girl giggled out purple fishes and and sang the ode of Willie McBride and you go all the way back the Black Sail where? Where is this sort of hope now? Alexandria still reeks of Caesar's lusty fuck and burn. Vienna stinks of Freud's all knowing bulldog. London is crotch deep in the post-modern insanity of the royals having put the maid out to pasture one too many times ... STOP STOP STOP: Purify, says the soft voice of the dark angel from her a muse ing presocratic boat in the middle of the central cunt tree of Amer- NO! still can't even utter it. What do I do? The Rilkean angel touches me from the safety of dreams saying: PURIFY ... ah ah ah .... Look now: Unreal ... unreal... unreal you are as the black orchid blooming in the deserted desert of my soul.

The time and the space are suddenly new now as I have
stumbled onto the bones of purity and rediscovered the seed
filled skull of god sprouting wings of fire and swirling to
rest in my lover's eyes, o purity, o purity, filling my
mouth like a candied diamond from the still and always
sacred lotus of the heart that pounds out the back beat to
the homuncular bongo player playing the ode of dejection
backwards, reversing and rehearsing her singing hair as it
curls into a three fold labyrinthal knot above her head
below the crown of fire, O She ... She ... She that might make
even the haggard rider blush in the midst of his archetypal
armchair ruminations as She ... She plays the whisper music
amidst all the graves on fire with the dancing bones of all
my fancies running off like Hi and Ho and Silver, triggering
furious dream of eternal recurrence recurring in syndicated
sitcom splendor, streaming out of violet light as I open my
taciturn mouth in a smile for her and let all those bats
with baby faces fly in and sing sonar lullabyes to the
spinning and desperate dolphins spinning on the true
spindles of her spirit in the deep blue blue blue sea
blowing out their expressive blow holes (Help Me) that
circle around like the surprise of the newborn lips that do
not cry as they swim out of her subliminal folds of eternal
wisdom like ink running off the page, opening and laughing
as she holds me like a child and happily spreads out my life
across the beautiful expanse of her stomach. O there is
nothing crawling out now into the bubbling popping dripping
flesh of my once too lofty spiritual intentions. You see,
there is only her. She is tolling in the corridors of my
memory and leading me into battle with the Tee and the Ess
and the Ell and the Iot, dragon man doing the late life jig
and rig at the favor and favor five and dime yo yo blowhole
factory. She: write it in smoke, write it in smoke, on the
water, in the waves, sail it off to me waiting to swim the
whole way to see your mountain at my feet, dreaming like the
sea, as cows moo at you and jump over the monkey bright
howling moon of all Universe of Her. Yes, yes, out there in
the sea, she is tolling in the arms of Heraclitus (Help me:
it's so easy to reduce it all to the slip and lick and pink
blooming petals of her pearly mystery.) But she has
exhausted my well, well exhausted my well, and by the waters
of the Ganges I once burned for her in blue bone hues, her
with her cistern full of ashes drifting away on the raft I
once fashioned for my very soul .... What am I saying? She is
my very soul. O Goethe! You knew.

But still, I end up shaking upon the opened graves of the
Lawd Gawd Awlmighty, cracking that Godskull against my
bobbin noggin doing it all in glorious coon ass poetry,
wandering back like a tragic broken backed salmon to the decayed
hole in the wall.

What is memory? What is the architecture of genetics and the
genetics of architecture? Where does the moment manifest
dissolve into the moment only imagined? Yes, there at the
Perilous Chapel, upon the Rilkean threshold of ninth duino
lovers poised ... lightly. O God it is desolate now in the
summer month, awaiting the august days of splendor in the
singing grass, moist and heavy, dancing over the tumbled
graves in skeletal frenzy, shaking our skins above our
clacking heads that freeze upon the virginal riding the
white wave of muslim bomb shelter eroticism, the fat boy
jerking over the serenity of the plum garden enlightenment
enlightenment, in the light I meant, stay in the light that
I once meant, washing my bowls, I once meant so much as I
stood in the light coming from latent form lying there upon
the mattress, sleeping in a deep blue position of birth, of
death, of all that is holy and pure and now sublime and
beautiful about this new and brave world. Yes. Yes, I have
been mired upon the island of spirits, dark spirits trapped
in ageless trees that sang me to sleep under the tent of the
night and the river and the pure memory, the archetypal form
come to life and warmly sliding over me in some sort of
osmotic trance. This is what is real and redeeming for the
spiritual virus that flies by us in night and promises
intensity of we are willing to come upon the dank and
earthen sheets of the swamp growing beyond oblivion. Do you
see how she rescued me with her East Texas drawl: tawlkin
bowt her dawg, that ole dawg there barking up a storm in her
mind and between her legs and, most goddamn portant, ther
tween the anomolous mark of twain there singing like a
little girl in the cupola of the cathedral, high and mighty,
and I'm juss lissenin to that ole dawg bark from way off,
honey, dontchoo worry your lil hed nun. But that was it,
that was the difference to the empty chapel, you know, after
having passed by all those swinging feet and dripping bones,
and passed all the graves of the insane and the saints,
there I stood frozen before the ruined altar, I could hear
her asking me in the voice of the wind, like a skinny puppy
injecting the intensity of schizo fragmented self
perpetuating poetry inside the lower aspects of my ole paleo
cortical dreamscape scream scrape with the soft coo coo coo
of her little Catullian sparrow like there asking me: was
wrong, honey, was you dreamin? Dreaming that dreaming dream
of dreaming? Was You? Huh? Tell you what, you juss lay your
lil troubled head here on mah chess an juss lissun to the
song o mah hart .... Ummm Hummm, that was it there as I stood
in the emptiness of emptiness with all of my imagination
magically maginating the magus or the magi with their
hallucinogenic entheogens rocking under the coral cavern sea
changed mystery of the one child still left and missed, by
God's sweet grace, of her face, and far far out there in the
stars that shine like her lingering whispers, there in the
wind, upon the human race, running like her tears down in
the distant seas of love and loss and romantic desolation
isolation, there she is lying out in the sun, she says,
dreaming the dream of the dream again, as we have all been
dong for so long so long so long as we have been looking
crooking booking out the window on the two by four of our
once youthful stories of that all too sweet oblivion, but I
held I held it I held it I tell ya, I didn't want to reach
Oblivion living with her nails gracing my back, the angel,
the terrible and sublime Sabine, sobbin women, sobbin sobbin
women, there refortifying the western culture at it dang
nabbit peak of the Apollonian sun dance, staring and daring
he very wary gods of all kingdom come to defy the language
of the eye, and god, I lay there with her there in the fort
of great worth, there on the mattress, watching her lips
tremble in the ecstasy of that other world, watching her
tattoos burn with phantom light, and I saw the envelope open
and the face of the Abyss kissed me outwards and the entire
world was turned negative and waiting in kinetic potential
to be developed in her flickering eyes of blood, eyes of
blood, I tell you. And she was the song of the song and she
was singing the rain, singing the rain, as the dry bones
danced joyfully around us like happy cats and dumb
architecturally named dawgs, and as the door swung swang
sang open, I saw through the drama of it all, and I held the
shaking glass in my hands and ignored the lamentations of
the women, that woman, and I saw into her, the her of her,
the you of you, saw through the very branched that I had
once built my metaphysical treehouse upon, there where I
first saw her sawing me with those garden hose eyes of the
stars tunneling through the nine other dimensions raying out
of the heart of the atom, hear oh she ma, Ummm why why why
why vee, not yet, there is not enough water her yet for the
naming of this new star that had blossomed into nova nova in
the empty chapel of my once gone and dying memory motoring
down the parkway on the fumes of the last American Bison.

Sure, sure, sure dem bones aint gon hurt not no won dat ahs
eber new, bud ah tell yoo wha babee, dem dry bonz iz all a
bloomin n leakin out dah sweet hunee of life fo yoo n yoo
lone nows, cuz yoo has mose sir tan lee gibbin me dis grate
tin dat iz yo troof, umm daddee, lawd gawd awlmighty.

Little did I know that with the rain comes pain, the
pain of loss, of infinite loss, of the death of muses
amusing themselves under the sub urban splendor of
the ... yes, yes, American Dream. All it took was a phone
call, direct from heaven, from the seven and the eleven and
the even steven saintly playing the rap rapture rupture on
the material trombone of the mystical phone waves coming,
and she said she said, na na na na ana ana ana ana cephalic
night horses running in front of all my dreams of that one
dream there on the rooftop going co co rico cu cu rucu and
slip saw I saw the flash of cash mash in her eyelash,
yessah, ah shore did, um hmm, and I heard that yesterday was
the sad lament of the jaguar peeling out of the fourteen car
garage in the northern aspect of the town we call our
consciousness', ring ring ring at nine in the dismal morning
waiting for the twelve o'clock good news to be synoptically
presented to me be the dolphinic delphic apolionian oracle,
please please please me, I scream as the tears fall like
stars from the firmament of the firmly stationed space
station of her gaze, my go, my god my go, my god, I have
only been deluding myself all the time that I have been
looking for the brooking shook foil coil spoil toiling under
the western hemispherical spurt of the blorted out Milky Way
bar, so drunk on the Miller's Tale, tripping daisily out the
window of pure cold filtered reason, my child, my child,
bending those sweet notes around your finger, you don't even
realize what you do to me, with your voice, with your
choice, with that impossible Platonic horse that you ride
into the sunken Ganga, filled with the ash of all my
reincarnated selves and holy bones being dug out of the grey
stinking ashes by wise all too wise dogs ... if only it was
they who had come come come with the rain.

Do you know of waiting with the Eternals there
high up in the mountains? Waiting for you, yes you, the only
reader, to come through? Do you hear their voices thundering
inside your mind? Left? Right? Just right down the middle,
up the narrow gorge into the sacred miasmic space of all
wombly women who sing that skeletal song of silence across
the thousand miles of phone wires humming in the desert
spinning the tapestry of Oblivion and unweaving it each day,
now there was a woman! Rack rack runk karunk karunk jambo
jambo loom loom lomma pala pala umbago umbago span dooey
dooey hunk hunk all mighty. There along the mystical Mayan
route of sacrifice, I have felt your heart beating in my
palm, in my soft forboded palm of destiny. And I now
sacrifice you to the thunder:

DA: What have I Nothing except the pink portion of my
neural complexity singularly intensifying across the trans
nucleal gap of surcease, like Lenore, Like the Raven,
nevermore nevermore, laughing in the pain of the sweet
ecstasy of the rain, of the sweet ec sta see of the pain
wrapped around all that I have given and given and given
until I know fantasize about my all too tainted souls
hanging shreaded up there at that Robert Johnsonian
crossroads, being whipped by her grace, her face, her space
between her long tan legs of rolling buffalo reasoning only
to break her heart, if only to break her heart, her heart,
her rain filled oceanic heart of the heart of my heart
shaking with such blood filled dreams of vampiric fear, my
friend, my good good friends named after the archangel and
the mother, with wings beating and horns blowing like the
air conditioner dreaming I am gone, as I cut and cut and cut
the flesh of insanity away from the bone of joy.

O God, Why did she have to give herself to the rain?