gods of september bleeding forward
over biblical bubblegums cinnamon time
trusted to wire the present to uncertainty
sizzling severed jesus stains clouds
and manholes city indisposed
of piss thick revolution
on a black mat there go meditators open faced
the guitar plays the typewriter plays the monkey
heaven pulled from weak lights to tornadoes
hauling prayer like mountains into the spectrum
castigate the new until the old becomes lost to use.
in the dark for satin wax and square dances
who hopes for atrocious sexy people in pink eyeshadow
horsehair sofas left
by the road the men put a tree down
spiked hard with a church of 1000 lights
and 25 cent saturday nights.
opposing school breaks
into oak blocks and bake shops
The oven is on and breathing deeply
baking strays and strangers
and the mooring mountains are want for a hot cup
of quiet which finds nouns and kitchen parties
passing verb soufflé, adjective casserole.
If I could spit paint... I would also spit things in nature. I would spit trees.
Plants. Carnivorous plants.
I would spit doors and houses for my friends to walk thru and live in. I might spit money.
Spitting spies to assign takeover missions for them. The act of spitting records and cassettes would thrill my friends. Coughing up electronic things makes me a genius and a god.
If I could spit paint my canvasses would be rank with postmodern insensibility.
I would produce whole works, the paint already dry, the brush strokes predetermined.
A work that truly came from within.
So much for buying up the world.
So glad that the disaster can be fathomed, then forgotten.
A magic bottle of red wine that never stops pouring and is delicious every time.
A magic coffee cup that stays full and hot with magnificent brew.
A magic water glass- cold, fresh and clear.
A magic notebook- the pages growing up under the pen.
A magic pen- all the ink ever needed for all the right words.
A magic mind.