The birds are communicating their wisdom to the trees, who are breathing their wisdom to the breeze, which is trying mightily to survive in tact. The artillery shell explodes in fragments as if Bert Bacharach were on the attack, selling falitas at a taco stand on 10th, the whole while importing surplus Xanax from Mexico at a dollar a pop. Stop.


The ceaseless communications from the disembodied entities begins again. If they manifest themselves too much, odd occurrences, like gentle gusts of wind, appear like popped popcorn kernels. The nugget of truth in all this is the transcendental realm of the never dead, who feed this consciousness via electricity or fiber optic high intensity microwave coaxial data transfer, flying through our skies at the speed of light.


Poet Ken aboard the U.S.S. Lexington in Corpus Christi Texas 1995


    The smell is long gone

    But the images remain of driving smoke encrusted freeways

    As acrid atmosphere attacked the asphalt

    Asphyxiated all of us

    Obscured the exits off the 101

    Where I had lived for three years.

    The first night I challenged the streets

    Because an ex-lover hadn’t seen the carnage yet

    And I wanted her to feel these orgasms of revolution.

    So we drove down silent curfewed streets

    Where a National Guardsman with a rifle at the ready

    Stepped in front of my car-stopped it in the middle of Melrose

    We begged him not to shoot

    So they followed us all the way home.

    The next day I drove the boulevards with anarchic energy

    Watched the hopeless strutting empowered

    For a few hapless moments

    No authority to constrain their marching celebratory looting

    Overrunning grocery stores, appliance shops,

    The Western Avenue vendors of necessaries.

    And my law school friend said,

    “The riots could be your big break”

    So I took a photographer with me to shoot the scene and me in it.

    For three days I repeatedly visited where others feared to go

    Knowing my soul was with the rebellion.

    And I could venture unharmed

    Back into the riot zone

    Again and again and again

    The dispossessed had already declared their secrets to me

    And so I knew I was safe and I knew the answer:

    When you have nothing the only question is beyond reason.

    When the dust settled and the former order restored,

    Not yet a new world but the old one destroyed forever

    Replaced by a sense of apathy long cultivated

    An uncaring long sought

    A reality that no one or nothing really mattered

    Or could change the massive infrastructure of intransigence

    Of a city, a country, a planet where laws are jokes

    And lawlessness was the operative gown of graduation.




    Captain Nelson tried to be a hero

    On a yacht his brother did own

    Very clearly a case for Vodka and Soda

    Two pints both with Gatorade

    On the deck of a schooner.

    While little dirt Sandbars sit in the harbor

    Invisible yet there all the same

    For in Miami Beach it’s “is the weather clear tonight

    Are there warnings out there for Little Dirt Sandbars

    Or should we make our way out of Nelson’s home to the bay?”


    Brown Dirt Sandbar, still dark and growing

    City slick Captain

    Fantastic the night cruise

    The danger the harbor is holding


    For there’s newly young lovers betrothed on the foredeck

    Fawning old relatives watching from the back deck

    And the 2011 Xmas lights are blinking.


    (Chrous)For cheap depth finders can’t seem to measure our range

    UH OH! The boat shudders-something here seems strange

    You’ve had a life that’s way too cush

    Now jump in the drink, get down and PUSH!

    Captain Nelson and the Brown Dirt Sandbar

    From the end of the bay to his yacht.


    And all this talk of Jesus being our Captain

    Couldn’t fool us

    For we were waiting hours on end

    For Harbor Patrol to save us

    A thousand dollars later

    That was quite a tug he gave us

    The Captain and the Sandbar

    And the engagement ring

    Sonny, Sonny, Sonny, You are no Ali

    (Repeat Chorus)


  • In Memory of Byron Scott

    I reach across the miles to you

    The last time we speak

    Your Mother’s will-your daily pills

    I sense you need a break.

    You ship an envelope to me

    The last handwriting I see

    I call and call-no answer there

    Until the news fills my ear

    All instruments agree-silence

    Your brilliance-loss-no sense.


    I reach across the years to you

    The last time we jam

    Our joint songs-our spirits’ strong

    You make me better than I am.

    I play the ancient tapes we made

    What’s left of what we shared.

    I cry and cry-no answer there

    Your life force fills my ear

    All instruments agree-silence

    Your brilliance-loss-no sense


    I reach across the worlds to you

    The next time we meet

    Your body gone—truly alone

    Death is an evil cheat

    Your friends left on this Earth

    The place of all our births

    Vow to find an answer there

    Our love for you fills our ears

    But all instruments agree-silence

    Is now what’s left us here.


    Ken Jones-Thanksgiving Day 2007


  • Eulogy for Rick Smith

    Twinkling, twinkling eyes--wise, bearded self

          Brother in revolution schemes,

          I wish I’d been there to help.

          Your loss is some bad dream;

          I remember when we spoke.

          Feels like yesterday

          we shared a beer and a smoke.

          And all we had to say

          about battling against the power--

          spreading the message over radio tower.

          Through music, actions louder than words,

          so many you touched, so many who heard.

          So many saddened you’ve been taken away,

          so many miss you so much today.

          Thank you, Rick, just for being

          our friend and truly seeing

          the truth behind society’s lie.

          Why is it always the good ones who die?

    Ken Jones – 11/12/07

  • Thoughts

    Thoughts move in waves

    Like worlds within worlds

    Mimicking atomic structure.

    But what possible model

    Other than nature’s basis

    Could tangle these intangibles

    Into lattices of letters—

    Pale reflection of electric

    Impulses become theories

    Which the hominids postulate

    To explain the canyon between

    Ultimate security or satiety

    And what really be reality.

    As for me, these thoughts are enough

    To make me rebel—Place ideals

    On the pole and cast

    Into water where fishers of men loll

    Drunk on the dock

    With no thoughts but words

    Which aren’t the world

    Or even close


  • The Nature and Logic of Capitalism

    They leave it to me

    To fend for myself.

    The products of my hunts

    Are mine if my mind

    Wrestles the social elements,

    Conquers the “horror”

    Of history’s order,

    The only possible

    Consequences of senseless

    Origin and disorder.

    Then when life

    Got complex

    It had to feed—

    The selfish cell’s

    Subsistence level

    Left it in constant

    Need to fend for itself.



    From fields where food

    Hung in hunks over carcasses,

    Women without clothing wailed

    Beneath totems resembling

    The deity of bounteous harvest—

    A cylindrical, archetypal

    Stamen these women

    Carved with sharpened

    Femur fragments taken

    From the dirt they squirmed and squirted on


  • To Nel-Man

    Poet and messiah walk as one

    In the crucifixion of intoxication

    Each inundated in understanding

    What dies for comprehension.

    To explain the inexplicable

    Is palpably a ridicule

    Yet to rage an aged miracle

    Deifies a molecule.


  • Inheritance

    Devise an artifice.

    An artifact that

    A million million years hence

    Will be a hominid inheritance

    To our evolutionary descendents

    In dominance over this sphere. And

    Here think and there tinker and

    Mention the nuclear inoculation

    They must have had

    To use this artifice.


  • What a Can Can Be

    Endlessly I play

    Catch as catch can.

    The sky is gray.

    I kick the can.

    I run away

    From the way

    I see it and say

    “It is there

    It is all there

    It is all there is.”

    Effortlessly I smile

    I want all

    There is to have.

    I see the way

    It all makes me always

    Want to play.


  • Weight

    The hominids hurry—happy

    Winter has killed their sustenance

    But they have outsmarted it—

    Stored raw meat

    In an arctic approximation

    For personal preservation

    Of protein—it works too well,

    Their bloated bellies

    Stuffed to bursting

    With yellow fat cells

    Threaten their hearts—

    An ironic ending

    To their outwitting

    The witless nature of nature.

    Of course, comfort is the number one

    Killer with the highest abuse potential.

    So they earn and buy and sell and hell

    Is having enough but not enough

    To smother in comfort—and I

    Can’t shake this sad weight

    Of shaking legs and knowledge

    Like a pack mule’s worst burden—

    And though they recklessly drive

    In the only possible ride

    I do understand suicides.


  • A Clue

    If standing can be right

    It must be crooked

    Since Doan’s pills relieve minor back ache

    Pain our spine is under

    A lot of pressure—maybe not as much

    As the ocean—but a lot

    For that spot

    I’ve spewed genius

    Clue into what this could possible be about

    Clue—Mr. Mustard in the study

    What was he studying but murder

    Of jungle plant toxins

    Become French’s, Heinz, or Goulden’s Brown

    On slices of salami, sausage-

    Meat cleaved from live bone once firm

    With marrow, muscular

    Not like the French

    The cushy crepes of Caucasoid carnivores

    Far removed from the tense pulse of nature

    They even had art in their caves.


  • Accept the Gift

    Return the gift ungrateful

    Miracles are natural

    The Miracle of Life is ageless

    Nature’s random sageness

    Decreed he purpose: feed

    Reap others’ energy with greed

    Nothing unreal exists

    Herein lies the peace of God.


  • The Centuries’ Geniuses

    Shocked cartographers from sixteenth century

    See satellite shots of Earth

    As magic. The trick being

    If they could see it—their century

    Lacked radar or T.V. even.

    Twelve pox-marked poets pontificate

    On dullness or try to ingratiate

    Themselves to kings who hold the strings

    To their words’ freedom—some

    Geniuses these centuries

    Produced—refused to buck

    God or economic

    Dependence vs. the independence

    Their colonies achieved.

    Learn this national lesson:

    Worship history and grieve.


  • Random Channels

    Cougar cub caught

    In a wire snare


    Priest gesturing

    Hectoring about the struggle

    For existence and resistance

    To the struggle for meaning


    Peasants condemned to base

    Levels of subsistence; their existence’s

    Struggle precludes higher

    Meaning—their reward

    Says the priest

    Lies at the end of time


    Coil repair for oxygen

    Brain deprivation

  • In the Ocean of Ideas

    Linguistic tricks

    Play in a poll of sounds.

    I exhort them to cavort,

    Live on dead trees

    My hand commands

    Their very presence

    In the ocean of ideas—

    Scrambled babble

    Or soaring meaning,

    I know not what they do.

    They flow like H2O

    Rivers of rushing vowels

    Carving caverns through consonants.

    My mind orders the letters

    But only half-consciously.

    Its true spring hides in mind

    Centers centered in the

    Floppy disk of experiences

    Assimilated surreptitiously

    Until called to aural display

    On my mental terminal

    In language—Not Pascal’s

    Precise mathematics—but poetry’s

    Passionate rambles—the rumble

    Of answers bursting desperate

    Beneath the unanswerable.


  • The Literature of Exhaustion

    The air was cold.

    Steak chunks splatter rented furniture.

    I like a look of Agony.


    Why am I writing? I’ve nothing to say.


    Cold was the air.

    The wood is stained with blow.

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.


    Was the air cold?

    A cornucopia of colors crowns the cushions.

    Mighty Casey has struck out.


    I’m exhausted with literature—this is ridiculous.


    It means something to me.


    The cold air was—that’s all that matters.


  • The Conversion of Wallace Stevens

    On your deathbed, you lied

    The facts you knew

    You tried to hide

    Your idea of order

    Died—it died and try

    As you might your wish

    Was your life, denied.

    Ramon Fernandez, tell me why

    Idols and icons and dreams

    Can guarantee eternity

    When you must see that  be

    Be finale of seem and be.

    To be is all all is.

    I know you knew but you

    Were you—I am me and

    It will never be said

    That on my deathbed, I lied.

  • No Wonder

    No wonder these blundering beasts

    So full of pompous blunderbuss

    Still wallow in squalor.

    The faces of Nature

    Make great change impossible.

    Self-centered drive

    Is only logical

    Why try to deny

    Your instincts for survival

    Ignore the contortions

    Of hypocritical moralists.

    Their acts are acrobatic

    Performances of perseverance

    In the face of waste

    And massive purposelessness.

    They still buy the lie

    Of man’s pre-eminence

    To change the strange

    Ways of the world

    From deranged

    The peaceful unity.

    They order the disorder

    To cease and desist

    But randomness and death

    Caused Man to exist

    With his silly wishes

    For a land of animal equals

    In his technological jungle

    Where computer chips resemble

    Grubs and slugs—and it’s no wonder.


  • Pecking Order

    The dominant rooster feeds first

    A line of sycophants behind

    Eat their own shit

    To stave off hunger’s ominous signs.

    These dirty birds social schemes

    Mean as much or more than Man’s.

    The rooster rhythmically taps

    His beak back and forth

    On an usuper’s feathers

    Physical proof that desirable morsels

    Are the domain of the dominant.



    Empiricists in loud debate

    Greet mystics with unbridled hate

    But both spout mouthings about Fate

    As if matter really mattered

    And the Great and the State related

    To anything but nothing.


  • Events Beyond Recall

    Call me Theophilus.

    Scanning the skies

    Of electromagnetic excrement

    The dung ant can’t ferment.

    He finds the fires that fuel

    His furious, furtive building

    In his home

    Humble, but his own.


    I sing a song of ego praise

    Of cabbages and kings

    And heads of lettuce. Let us state

    That busts of great men freeze forever

    Unreal granite chronicles

    Of events beyond recall.

    These icons of ignorance

    Revel in the cavernous power

    Of mountainous appearance

    Tall and ever present

    “I am Ozymandius—King of Kings!”


    Call me Theophilus.

    Church towers dot the cityscape

    Scraping the sky like a sty

    Blocks the eye from escaping

    Its insular home.

    Men and ants share

    The spectacle of physical existence

    Each step a desperate dance.


    Dance this vicious twist

    It’s the only one you know.



    Run! The forest awaits you

    Awakes you to a breakfast

    Of asceticism.

    The holy foliage

    Blankets the barren terrain.

    Spitting dirt,

    I abstain.



    We all believe our stigmata are unique.

    On the Cyberspace Scriptorium

    Monks preserve monkey knowledge.

    The reality of prayer

    Transmorgified into a terminal

    Access to the Nexus

    At once trapped in a spot

    Yet everywhere and nowhere.


    During the Grand Silence

    I hear a clicking of keys

    Unlocking hidden universes

    Diverse as we please.

    On their knees, Divinities

    Digitize the Divine

    A sign of recurring excrescences

    Dense as existence.


    Your bloody sweat fools no one

    Into knowing nothing is something.

    Prophetic communications abate

    When Dog Orgies dissipate.

    For two to three days, wounds in your forehead

    Are signs of unused force.

    They do not invade. Listen

    To what they say before it's too late.


    Even in your hour of darkest midnight need

    On the other side of the Earth

    Two lovers discover each other

    Someone earns a fortune

    Or finds a Spirit beyond the Material.

    Pieces of our species breathe their last.

    A town stagnates in it past.

    A loner wanders toward the future.

    Prophets seek in this realm

    A unity at the helm

    But impatient saviors' wounds are weeping

    Flesh is seeping

    Sleeping off the agonies.


    Wiped blank as a skanky prankster

    I stir these Spirits to a roiling cauldron.

    Boiling insincere Here and Now to a prize fur

    Around the shoulders of an impudent sun.


    Tortured by the scorching naysayers

    Affixed to an appendix of This Is It

    Kicking Mules, One-Eyed Fools braying

    Spirit nearing balance in each shit.


    Heightened expectorate invigorates

    Satiated caberets whose chorus bellows

    Truths of youth and parables so obdurate

    Here lies the norm of tomorrow.


    Our Spirit walks a labyrinth in life

    Sacred spaces our longing yearns to access

    When burdened by this world's diurnal strife.

    Stalwart within, through winding paths we press

    Toward that inner silence where dwells our source.

    We cup our hands to catch the Godhead stream

    The spirit taste returns us to the course

    Where Light defies us to rise toward its beam.

    Aloft at that spot, knowledge of the Cosmos

    Crosses us as wisely we surrender

    To the core of Oneness whose essence grows

    When you and it rest at peace together.

    Often when you think you are truly lost

    Your spirit walks this path and pays its cost.


    This ancient native stopped in the street to stare

    He pushed his possessions in a shopping cart

    He nobly tilted his nose toward the light

    He refused to move in response to primate signals

    He stood his ground as ancient truth abounded

    He glared at us as if we were descendents of conquerors

    He knew one of us didn't know his heritage

    He blasted the labyrinth of solitude enveloping us

    He walked on purposefully, message delivered.


    To heal the Earth we first must heal ourselves

    Of impurities we surely imbibed

    At the shot bar of More Progress and Wealth.


    We clean the bottles off the dusty shelves

    And make way for the New Age we've described.

    To heal the Earth we first must heal ourselves


    And then never again dirty our wells:

    Those storehouses needed for all the tribes

    At the shot bar of More Progress and Wealth.


    Unavoidable poisons, with shrewd stealth

    Have stolen in with suicidal bribes,

    To heal the Earth we first must heal ourselves,


    And learn the subtle cycle for her health.

    She's not the whore our self-hate did proscribe

    At the shot bar of More Progress and Wealth.


    No. She is our source, our fountain whose vibe

    Gives us the life on which we now inscribe:

    To heal the Earth we first must heal ourselves

    At the shot bar of More Progress and Wealth.


    The stargazer fell into a deep pool.

    His housekeeper had to laugh.

    "Oh, so you joke at your master's expense,"

    He bellowed, "feed on his wheat, forget whose chaff

    You separate, on whose staff

    Your life depends, the simple ends and means

    Of your days; while I ask of the sky: Why?"

    "I can't say I''m truly sorry, sir,"

    In a weary warble, the maid replied.

    "It's're such a strange creature

    Your weird words are not in my world.

    Among the babble in malls or the voices in offices

    No one ever cries, "Why? Why not nothing?!?'

    The people in my husband's company......"

    "Are mere vendors of necessaries!" the astral asker

    Barked back rather harshly, then thought better:

    "I don't mean less worthy or somehow inferior.

    Yet when I wonder at the dome of the interior

    At what's beyond, or even why we know what's here,

    The shock rocks me back, my balance disturbed,

    So, of course, I often fall backwards."

    "But you know the pool will catch you" she objected

    And he was struck dumb by her wisdom.


    Nature crushes then she teaches

    Preaches then absolves:

    A purse snatched on an L.A. street

    By crack crazed canyon kids

    A woman worn by weary years

    Fights despite her fears.

    A wild-eyed child on Sid

    Wields a blade at her face

    "You'll be pushin' up daisies

    Those drugs are makin' you crazy."

    "Hey, shut the fuck up, Lady!"

    One of the White Fences dances

    To the jambox raps

    A silhouette of a marionette

    The strings hold his souls's sap,

    To the Lady's lip he slips

    The steel, then slashes at chaos,

    Havoc, the wrecked a

    and wasted life where he's trapped

    And sees in the lines of her eyes

    And feels the steel striking harder

    The blood of the Martyrs

    Firing his skin

    And she didn't listen

    To her husband's lesson:

    Nature oppresses then sets us free.


    These gaps in my wisdom, your warm words seal.

    The universe: your orange; which your Light peels.

    Bathing in the juice, its life sluice reduces

    My doubt to the Light of what you reveal.


    Vowing to destroy all addictive insanity

    I, tasked with tacking, miss Grace disartrously.

    Talking to the gulls whose full throat pulls

    Me down to my knees, supplicatingly.


    I am a mendicant who can't mend what I am

    Please heed to this heaved sliver received

    From you all-around empty everythingness

    Need has fled me; I am blessed


    I made a house of houselessness

    A career out of coming

    And going as my wishes

    Guided my spirit's slumming.


    I made a spouse of spouselessness

    A bride out of hiding

    Fresh, faithless kisses

    My pleasure ever abiding.


    Then one morn I awoke

    Alone in some home

    Unknown to myself. I spoke,

    But my voice's job was to roam


    So an answerlessness

    Returned its hollow echo

    Scared, feeling now less blessed

    I knew what I didn't know.


    Today's journey has ended here

    Where all aspects meet in your eyes

    All manners collapse in the cries

    Of the wild wildebeaste shivering

    In desolate Kenyan plains. Or in

    Channel 57's Nature documentary:

    Human Social Interaction. Tonight's

    Episode: Men who rape then shoot their load

    On the cut tongues of their female victims.

    As the dumb monkey fingers his rectum

    You manipulate the remote. Sony snow

    Swirls in blizzard black and white--you hold

    Tight to the control, then stroke your pole

    As the Playboy Channel bobs up the latest

    Mammal with luscious mammaries who

    Appears then disappears momentarily--

    Momentously, portentiously, the PTL club

    Pops up next, the preacher with gold chains

    Around his neck beckons you to contribute.

    But he ain't that cute, so you can't shoot

    You're condemned instead to a too full head

    And a stiff attention you call relaxation.


    Transformer wires circle like a spyrochite

    Eroded purpose's worst leftovers

    Lie cold and old in the Frigidaire.

    Random Electron Spins determine

    Lifetimes of whys and lost charges

    Free radicals search for a covalent bond

    Take stock in their lost par value.

    The parvenu removes his molar

    Sacrifices the silver filling at a solar altar

    Mayan blood overflows on the ziggurat's stone

    Into cups of human femur bone.

    Three naked goddesses embrace their hate

    Wipe their bloody wet lips into kisses

    Touching the last fresh eyelash, their mates

    Know their hidden souls are where bliss is.


    Corporate towers surround the sound

    Of a lone gunshot in objection.

    No foundation of percipient knowledge

    Sustained in the underfunded silence

    Reversible error? See for yourself.


    Among the youngish ruins, a woman's dreams

    Learned that determined to lie beyond their control

    Are face masks, eye holes, totem bracelets

    Other adornments for a reviving tribal sense

    Alive to their whys, the bounty heaven-sent.

    Spirits come in gentle breezes

    Feloniously asporting the philosopher's stone.


    Discolored wood shards strewn by my wake-up spot

    Match the brown pretzel junk of my junkie crash bed.

    Drunk on fine wine, morning birds converse

    In sharp chirps, long melodious lines. Then One

    Clearly influenced by his surrounding

    Sings like a car alarm on an urban assault vehicle

    Loosing the uproar of pure sotto voce spirit.

    The birds all live in trees like Kobe,Japan apartment dwellers

    Talking back and forth, busy in the bustle

    Yet eventually dusted by shuffling

    Among Earth's Earthquake ruins for a motherly New One.


    This ancient native stopped in the street to stare

    He pushed his possessions in a shopping cart

    He nobly tilted his nose toward the light

    He refused to move in response to primate signals

    He stood his ground as ancient truth abounded

    He glared at us as if we were descendents of conquerors

    He knew one of us didn't know his heritage

    He blasted the labyrinth of solitude enveloping us

    He walked on purposefully, message delivered.


    The 3 legged beast from Saturn's fifth moon

    Disturbed my concentration one spring day

    Ringing my cellular all afternoon

    No pleading kept his attention away.


    "Hark, Earth Creature, be truthful if you can

    Great Squads of my fellows await your words.

    Is there hope for that form you call 'human'?

    We have chosen you to make their case heard."


    "Though grown in the Spirit, still I'm confused

    I wish One would shine down, we need it soon.

    Though too weak in the flesh, such must be used

    By 3 legged beasts from Saturn's fifth moon."


    "Why, this One is the Reason!" They thundered.

    Then apologized for how they had blundered.


    I was to give an entertainment for the benefit of a friend

    In order to advertise the show, he asked me to go to lunch

    At a luncheon club in a nearby town.


    The thing that bothered me most was mathematical chance expectancy.

    After the lunch, he gave a sales talk about my abilities

    Glowing, as sales talks always are.


    After the speech, one man said to me., "If you are anywhere

    Nearly as good a magician as said, come with me

    To get the jackpot in a quarter machine over in a corner of the lobby.


    This machine was an automatic gambling device

    In which a quarter was put, a handle pulled, wheels spun around.

    When they stopped, the Machine gave out varying numbers of quarters.


    Or, on the other hand, one might (and probably would) lose one's own coin.

    I tried, without effect, to explain this wasn't my brand of magic.

    He insisted. Finally, to quiet him, I decided to lose a quarter and play the Machine


    But, astonsihingly, I did just what he had asked me to do--win the jackpot.

    All the seats for the show were sold on the theory,

    I am quite certain, that I was a true magician.


    After that experience, I began to question

    The likelihood of any given event being mathematically predictable

    Of course, I realize the mortality tables of the insurance companies


    Do not say which man is going to die in any given year

    They merely say how many men out of so many will die in a given year.

    Furthermore, the insurance statisticians, by study, know their presuppositions fit the situation.


    Male murderers stifle Mother Earth's oracles

    Slaughtering priestesses and pious prophets.


    The prophetess' glossalalia flows freely

    Men force it into hexameters.


    The prophetess chews laurel leaves

    As she comes all over me

    Then she drinks bulls' blood

    Ready for the oracular ritual

    Repeatedly, repeatedly.

    In the beeswax temple, she slips fern seed

    Into her sacral vessel

    The supplicants' honey-cakes overflow.


    The priestess feed on sacred flesh

    A ram prepared in sacrifice.

    The songbirds on the golden roof

    Dive like divining dice.

    A copper coin upon the eyes

    A secret well by an old oak tree.

    Can you see the future, Sister?

    Will you share this Earth with me?


    You've got my guts open for inspection

    Now upon further reflection

    Remember to forget Memory

    To pray to the Moon for Good Fortune

    And bathe in the path of the deities.


    I am the Knight of Cups.

    You are a maiden jailed by swords.

    We are together everywhere.

    Among the disembodied spirits of the sands

    Across the barnacle shackles of true coupling

    Along the bleeding edge of roiling oceans

    Aware of duel consciousness in the embryonic sheath

    We toll the days as changes

    We embrace to answer.

  • for Doug Wills


    As we walked about initial offerings

    Corporate holdings and the Republicans

    A meteor soared into our atmosphere.