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.



alpine breezes

chamber pots

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.