Stage II

stage two deletion. if theres anything left thats liked, better copy it soon because its going

Breaking the Lotus from time

Hate, and i am hated
love, and am loved

Indifferent,
life floats - lotus
petals unfolding
yet away, four million
cubic souls per hour

Playa Morning

It thickens
in spindle threads of a new dry dawn,
all stop and expanded cool

forcing divide and pull from burn

your closed orbit, and to contract
an elemental born from substrate's passion.

And at impulse
of termination and settled debt
upon a phase of chase and tempest events

and from bind, pull, and equality
cry a harbor re-lighting of the sun.

written when my grandmother died, the most amazing person i have ever known.

a scarlet bird screams from a wireline tether
against itself, its cobalt sky

to an open swimming about,
clouds essence - all of drowsy and innocent
through clefts where sunlight breaks to stream
its rising bubble, draping loose sheets
of gauze that hang and trail a sphere
forced of drift along seagrass breeze
to escape over obsidian peaks

cast of smoke, an inky black fog
that weighs on sight and drained of color
where ravens crowd and circle,
a collective form - vague, and slowly...
about its mass where cackles grit

swept from a womb, a gaping yaw
its open mouth in silent moan
while bone white lips frame the dark void.

and we are fools grown of common legs,
torsos growing upward and splitting apart
while facing in nakedness -
of each, of ourselves

leaning his head against the wall
as if to resign his tire, to prop the weight of things
and thinking this labor is foundations last support

to her collection of withered and shrunken cats
failing to gaunt tendons strained of gravity's trap
and with their eyes, their open searching
for morsels of trembling hands
trail forks from empty plates

and comes the naked aspens of winters stark
to cry foul at columns own peel
while fire laughs at its own ashes
blown from embers, safe in the hearth.

resign now to smiling faces,
each pushing from sleepy headstones

Dharmic Religion in this modern world.

Of an ethereal presense, endless searching of the incarnation for the Dalai Lama, constant despair, alone in dissonance. "There is no body to inhabit" the dalai lama whispers, "no child is interested."

This latest vessel attempt had her mind turned to mush with psycho-inhibitive drugs and electric-shock therapy after the six year old mistaking told everyone her imaginary friend was real, admitted she was now the Dali Lama.

Now sitting, a lone chair in a room frantically swimming with mentally impaired children screaming and thowing things about. This girl child, vacant vessel bounded by painted cinderblock walls of castles and rainbows, of unicorns and teddybears. The mob is driven to a hightened frenzy while therapists observe from closed circuit cameras. She is a brainless calm, an island in the eye of a hurricane.

On the wall mounted television screened in a protective wire cage, watching Donald Duck go after Bugs Bunny with a butchers knife, Porky Pig has a gun.

Knock knock knock went the door, Mr. Policeman had some papers. Time to showcase her psychotic issues before social services where Mr. Judgeyourhonor asked "did your parents ever touch you.. inappropriately?"

"These humans are really fucked up" the Dalai Lama finally admitted in defeat. "I need to find something soon, maybe an animal this time?"

Who would have ever guessed the sacred words and scriptures of the Dalai Lama would be a matter of record in the American judicial system, along with Ted Kazinski and Martha Stewart.

Native America

Of our heat on ice - those atop haunched shoulders, strived to cliffs bounded by North bergs of time, raw scraping of glacial drift. The fight against history, the fight of the new.

Of this pattern - outward of trunks to branches to leaves, of veins across the leaf. Inward spilled runoff down granite mountains to collect streams to rivers, of oceans and seas collected on breath of mists to cloud.

Mineral stoned, some incision of landscape to shifting sands and volcanic ash. Black pumice of things to come from oil soaked and coal. Oxidized red, our iron age to smelt a belch of sulphur.

And yet remains days of this pattern, countless pulses in thrust of veins for each sunset, each morning commute. Spreading outward, always. gridlocked trails of light all aligned and well, East-West, North-South lattice. Colored patchwork of function in intersections of tracing sparks.

It was over a second ago, that other spin, that other cycle around that sun. You remember, when bergs grew and dropped boulders, when giants fled across plains. And that next climb, again, of the gnats. It was tomorrow, or... yes, this morning.

When natives wore restless, resigned to monuments of others glory yet forbidden from the hunt. Cultivate and culture, endless of this pattern with bloodlines of Kings and Queens. That was yesterday.. no, last week. Another blink, seconds sweep and over, fogotton as this story will always go.

Lego's: America's personality

And as glamour is, where you are not

packed null, gold wrappings and streamer bows all of empty gift boxing. Announce the mainstream crest of tomorrow, the groundswell spotlight of broadcast life, good looks and prestige where cosmetics is most profound.

In the blue haze of the television. Never turn it off, never, to the forests of suburban beige and rise the children

to Volvo commutes, to the Cadillac Escalade promise of naming things after household cleaning products. Stainless steel appliances and celebrity highs of this twenty first century.

Look, its the new Ford F-150 super duty, the costume wear truck for the salvagers, the new drifters of forgone who shot dead in their tongue to solve problems of demographics

now hiding of Las Vegas vacations, the within grasp culture park, the beauty incarnate of the thing that bought history all preserved in the arid desert.





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