Shorn Of Thorns

My home is a heart
not unlike the Aztecs spilled
underneath these same exact stars
relatively speaking
between now and then

My temples are DNA, torment and failure

The vanished scent of Europeans in the

My crystal is the sky receiving its journey
over and over
and racing through time, ignorant time
completely unchanged
uncharged by silicon molecules

unformed again
everything continues

The cacti come and bring a story

The gods stumble to make humans
to make the humans human

Their fingers are shorn of thorns upon
our sacred purple night
by genetic material memory

We eat the fucking flesh fruit
We gnawl inside our lips
The rooftops are made from burned desert

The days are wasted so very far away

Logical Creaming

I need to know that you’re logical

That you could stop me from bleeding
to death
if we were up in the mountains
and I ripped my leg off

I also need to know that you’re crazy

That you would masturbate me in the
middle of the night
while I was sleeping

In the matrix of these two traits
is the summation of the perfect woman

(for me at least)

Fields Of Fog

As I sat looking out over the dreary fields of fog

I remembered the pores of skin on your legs

they laid out with the occasional reddish brown freckle

There was something incredibly normal about this skin

Was it just that I was used to it?

Was it of common genetics, duplicated over and over?

Or maybe was it rare and specific, did it hail from a
certain village in Ireland or Sweden somewhere or
maybe it was even France, moving amongst the
barley fields?

The timid moments of self-doubt I have felt on those legs
and then lay with them as conquering heroines

In a way it was like looking at your legs was like
looking across a field in ancient Europe
an amalgamation somewhere
a gathering for mine eyes to look upon them

To remember them in low light in bedrooms

as the fields of fog advance on wayward hearts

out in Briscoe County, Texas and the field larks sing

I Remember Something

Sometimes I remember something then
I remember the sun.

I remember people doing dumb things
like rushing to toy stores filled with products
from China
on Christmas Eve evening in Southern California
they believed this is what love is.

I don’t believe this is love, I don’t believe
these kind of people anymore.

They’re floating along out there, somewhere
in outer space

somewhere as spirits
because let’s be honest
that is how they were born to be

the walking dead, the slaves, the constructors of
slaves, the worshipers of kings.

Age Of Woman

Sometimes I want to make love to you

Some kind of awful awful making love

Making love with the leaves falling in
northern Scottish churchyards

Making love while the rain is lashing a
boat in port, Clew Bay, County Mayo, Ireland

The florescent lights don’t love us
The magazines filled with lingerie models

I believe your white skin is the skinning
of my soul, the peeling of my bark

if you will

the peeling out of a purple hot rod in the empty
navy streets at night

Upon the farmer’s old stone wall, seven
centuries old
I’d like to make you cum

your ocean pebble eyes threshing stars from
the August night

the moon being her Celtic queen self of

Only God and the creatures up above know
this is now the age of woman


The Earth Of Your Love Does Not Love Redemption

to have come close to your life
on a crag by the sea

dreaming by your hips
your scent of cream

believed in you at midday
on bad days
in imperfect ways

a corridor of wood
in an old building
that is the feeling gone now
of cold coming in
through the windows

to have come close to your soul
with the leaves underfoot
in a forest
a breeze

“she will not travel naught
into solar incineration.
she will not sing the song of spring.
she will not lift her heart.
you must carry it to your grave
and remember
all the seas of the mediterranean
when walking in the ozarks,
the blues and yellows,
the browns of her hair,
the earth of your love.

she does not love redemption.”

Catholic Unto Protestant

When you go away at night
goes away through the oak trees
to the west

It. It. It.

It trails along the Atlantic Ocean

in the stars of Milky Way, the dreams of
our ancestors

They trail and trail a scattered dust

So many different worlds here

But really there is only one

One. One. One.

Where we have met and where
the heart dwells

That is what’s important here

The unification of something unknown
petulant mortals
to the nationed ones, the loyalists
those with small and narrow learnings

We are carrying the same revolutionary
of the sun, we are the message in a body

We are courage and love and wonderment

Such scattered genetic beings, vulnerable
and imperfect

we too, are eternally mathematically mortal

Like Irish Is The Dream Of Life

I make myself hungry for you.
I go to sleep in hunger
(like bread from the stone ovens
in that village by the sea).

They sprinkle salt in the morning under
red cedar beams upon the daily bread.

I hunger so you can dream.
And you wake at night when the oak tree rustles.

Have I hungered so we can dream?

Do you ride beneath the crystal sun
past barley fields and peatland turf?

Did an ancient giant tell our story and lay it at
the base of mortals?

What land becomes our home?
The unification of wayward bodies?

What land makes the succulent touch of lips
the anthem of its highest army?

So what land is in the sky?
What lay within our bones?
Do a people from the sky live within our bones?

What do these codes compose with particle,
energy, emptiness and time?

What show is on the telly when you walk
through the door?
And how old are these days that unfold
over and over?

Hope That Is Navy

When the sun sets I
become sad
Nestle the blue of your eyes to my
Build the beams of houses from your
these are the touches that
give me remembrance of death
or rather
the veiled cycles of life and
I realize the ocean in your eyes
how they are
little pebbles
from the stars and then those
kind of oceans
from the heavens
The northern skies
The navy blue hopes

The hope that is navy

We Remember Love

She died an alcoholic.
Her love was in my heart
one thousand five hundred sixty-four miles away.
This love had made me more mortal
than all the orgasms and funerals in my hours.
This love had been with me in glances down
on muddy floors, dust on countertops,
and when noticing the drops of rain
caught in half-destroyed window screens.
This love had grown from nothingness.
So something similar to the Universe
lived inside my body, something similar
to art, the revolutions amongst particles.
Outside of particles was everything else.
So this love was for her and everything else.
The electricity in her ion channels
no longer rendered from the ethanol.
But the electricity does not die.
There is transference.
Does it go into the air, sail across sweet
tissues or meld into the walls, radio signals or water
crystals suspended in the snow?
But there was something in my heart, each time
she died I lived, I lived oft and oft again apart
born into the stasis between the living and the
dead that many of us evolve to ignore
nor have it in the genetic capabilities we carry.
That old continuum, the holistic continuity.
Many of us grow old and age and many of us grow
old and never age because

we remember love, the broken and the bountiful,
the cyclical, ancient and ever-constant.

We journey to the sun.