the horse is made out of pixels, it pulsates
through a field of bees
kicking up dust from the moths the night before
…hoofprints on the moon.

she is a whole country on its back
swirling with the strength of
a million lovers.
5 hundred thousandthousandthousandthousandthousandthousandthousand
unions
lemon lavender twirled tongue
punctures numbers
-the ones that won’t show their faces!

so let me erase this from my digitized exis—————–

synchronized minds- hard to find.
running my nail on the width of a dime.
put your lips against mine.
let go.
your travels explode on an infinite centerfold
and i do or die lie awake like a body in detox
swaying in treetops…
i stare at the sun, get past the flames
past the white light and look into the heat spots
sun spots/little black dots. knots in my neck/rock pockets.
AND MY PIXELS EXPLODE!
over new york, jersey city, LA, san francisco…
kaua’i…the belt of orion…
then reappear inside the roar of a lion
i was dyyyyyyyyyyyyyying on the inside.

scorned. dead. reborn.
sworn to myself
i was, am, and will be in love
with the idea of love
my heart explodes!! -pixels.
the idea of love suddenly turns ugly, sickels
and cuts gashes into the flesh that i’m clasped in
the bakers are wolves for molasses.
a song has been born
and a song, it has died.

the past is a sandblasted grain
it’s like quinoa rain
…it’s like something i just can’t explain…

tame my ego, my esteem
me. she sets me free when
she decides to leave we
upside down me
in a backwards world
playing marbles with pearls in the sea.

pet the pony goodbye.
gallop away on the part of me that needs to die.
ride your horse through the sky, pegasus breath…

under the last palm tree on the moon,
throwing up…
more like throwing out.
watching fake colors swirl out of my mouth.
so gone. i am gone. gone. gone. gone.
dead to the world that once knew me.
blue cheese penicillin moon beams
rumi.
the poetry of rumi
hopefully soon we meet again in the stars
in the great light
in the fight of my life right now
no words i write down
aren’t knives to the throat of a clown…
cloaked, crowned
in the land where no king resides just i
alone, lonely
for the first time blind.
by design
i crawl in every crater i find
on the dark side
tar tide. asphalt cream pie.
give it here! let me try…

it looks how it smells how it tastes in my eyes.
death the next 3,000 miles.

no words left.
(all things are made out of words)
no breath.
…natives describe what they see,
make your translation
then give it to me
…trying…
i’ll pry at the sky to get free
shaman and monster. shamonster.

dalai lama and mao are the same
-in which they both feel pain
but display it in different ways…

i am a dinosaur
getting in the way of an asteroid,
cacacacacacame from the earth!
representing the earth!!
there.
what the fuck do you want from me?
i am toxic.

…all’s it takes is a whisper
in the form of some roar
and this avalanche becomes yours.

all’s it takes is one flash of your face
and i smile
which cracks to a laugh
and i laugh
until i cry
uncontrollably.

on a rocket
i forgot my camera
…lost it.
regardless, just picture
your own little journey
just picture it.
do something different.

we’re off
we are floating
we’re lost
-or that’s how it seems…

i just remembered a part of my dream…
-that was weird.

on a rocket…
a strapped racketeer
in iraq
is the toxic avenger
remember, we’re energy
drunk and obnoxious
until tennessee
asks nashville a sentence
and then spits your frame into memphis
to go see the king,
the studded stud…

on a rocket
a dead pilot lies in the cockpit
a hop skip and jump
and a light year
inside of a leap
so the pilot died
or he’s asleep

not a rocket
-a missile
a war on more sheep
who are trying to round
up the cows.

those ambulances, howling in the wind
like a pack of coyotes
or the blood thirst scream of a vampire
might as well be vampire squid in the sky
darting through the air, over the sirens
giant eyes dripping pigments that paisley out
flip, splatter and leave smeared spiders
inching along a web of fireworks
nothing can stop us tonight…
too many distractions for us to get noticed.

wires fed through trees
speaker leaves
speakers balance
on branches
it takes a sloth ten years to build one a birds nest
i can fit all my pens
in my left fist
drain all the blood from them
the right hand cups the ink, sand
through my fingers
hammerhead nails in dolphin blowholes
UFO tuna cans crash in the ocean
landsharks swimming through windows
wide grin from your daughter,
the whole world is waiting…
taking in the stories.

bare beauty is what the “what” is.
manna.
it is how she fit in my hands
and my arms stretch twenty feet long
but my brother has his own life to live
and he can’t carry my hands forever
anyway…
right above our sky lies the ocean
shafts of light break through
a current of asteroid
to become dust
and then us.

once man has learned to create life, game over
here comes the black.
soft wave. soft hair falls to the ground
as we stand
calcium stick figures
shadows blasted onto the wall
only one native left
pulling out wads of wheat paste
matting mirrors
to the blank eyes of hand puppets.

human bovine babies
crying for glue
little bovine babies mooo.
go to the hospital, stick in some tubes…
cows in the emergency room!

poke and prod, maced by a cotton swab
milk flowing down park avenue
fences in herald square-
when’s a recession a depression?

whenever the windows get smashed
and fire gets thrown. . .a good guess,

men will be tried in this lifetime.

lets get it down now
lets get it out
I am no cow on this subway.

…the white house won’t see a depression.

the white house has blood, it has milk on it’s hands
we watch the world sink in pink quicksand.

stay tuned for our demo, full length album and videos, within weeks and by next week- jpmoonchild.com will have featured songs and sound information… lots of love, even to those who physically beat me and cops whose badge is of ignorance. blast off.

open mic and set performers… this week- I will be reading, along with the poetry of Roland Ramos and the musical debut of moon animals with last minute guests…. if you need inspiration with the pen, check me out because I live for writing and have fun with it. the stockinette. 581 jersey ave. jersey city nj…

miserable.
pull the heavy metal from my blood and sell arms to israel.