i keep my demons at bay,
sitting on the dock with Otis.
let him sing to them
while i attempt to stay dry,
one day at a time..
the shadows of my skeletons,
thick as if cast off of elephants
big boned..
Oh, Otis
these shadows are clay
to the hands that reach from your mouth

every night as the teeth fall from mine,
death card reversed
is my alarm clock
slithering off a bed of owl feathers,
one by one
i pull snake halos
from the urn
of the vatican’s ashes,
carefully tossing them
as the powder residue
that spins off of these saucers
collect into moths
that stumble
into the sky
and become the stars over Georgia.
Oh, Georgia…

the halos hit the ground
like the staff of moses,
becoming planets
the antlered elders kowtow to,
over the universe
and under the ocean.

Otis,
keep my dreams still
and the liquid sun
that pours from the spout of Ray Charles
will cradle your airplane
when it is time to crash.

the music was all that was left,
rippling through the hologram,
sawing the horns off the beast…
i surf the diamond tide
the still bay bursts into
tears of joy
from the child
inside the machine
dissolving
into a wheat field…
all shadows bleed fireworks.
born are the
illuminated skeletons.

Blood machines/artery freeway
carrying plasma screens
homebound to stare at reality
invisible webs from the talking heads…
neon red eyes when the camera dies…
Freedom-put that in the air… candy! candy!
we’re panda bears, hiding in fan leaves.
the flame from the funeral
spins all the ghosts through the smoke.
hold your nose,
this whole city is covered in coke.
under oak, i keep promise to nature
-who’s gonna butter my toast
when i run out of paper…?
that’s what i ask you.
blood machines rumble to coastlines,
the half moon reflecting my flaws.
stuff poetry into the jaw of my house..
the only statue-esque part of my flesh
is my marble mouth
here i go, spitting out marbles,
dribbling galaxies…
mind flies and disregards gravity.
Freedom. put that in the air…

He crawled into my house on all fours, a native
and left walking upright… a waiter
-hair in a ponytail
i pull all the knots from his veins
i go Alex Grey,
give him some beautiful braids…
Kevin.
looks crisp in a button down shirt
at first we were spilling blood
-more blood than church
-more blood than Romans
-more than our government
a one on one war over culture
stand under it.
thunder inside of my kitchen that day
lightning behind his eyes, sky full of rain

i cut out a square where the needle would go
where the egyptian beetle-the scarab, would grow.
open your flower to bees…
wipe off the warpaint and scrape the disease
the land o’ lakes indian gets off her knees
stands behind him, behind her- Poseidon, behind him-Orion
dazzling, madly

I, milton bradley,
full of snakes
whips off his cloth
summons Horus
as paper planes torn from a worn book of Thoth
become starships
and fill my apartment
which one do i start with?
the one thats the hardest to see
if i stand still, i’ll turn into cheese.
Kevin.
the alien… alien native
we stab each other in the mirror,
now we’re related.
blood brothers…
i take his girls butter
and ask for more bread when he brings me my wine
he’s a servant to Park. ave, a slave to the grind…

naked and wrapped in my shame
i pass the burning mouth of your mother
the moon pushes the shadow
out of everyones ankles
criss crossing
smoke signals, ash clouds…

i’m off the red road.
the swami… ignore it.

the wind spirits sweep up the ash
to a thousand burnt libraries,
collect in the corner
where ten foot tall men
will reemerge
with the wings of ravens and tropical birds
swirls of midnight, pepper dash
head smashes on dashboard

but… over this lunar landscape of birdshit
the people are gorgeous
but… otherwise, worthless.

here comes the civilized primitive,
camoflauged
in with the
black and white movie stars,
washing their hands of the ashes..

the pyramid builders are
washing their hands of the scratch off shavings
hands stink link pennies
wave HI! to your mom
let the tidal wave
of worthless currency
knock her over
and let it be known
what her worth is, currently.

i’m washing my hands
from the small talk
i am your voodoo doll
here is your chance
to make sure
that the birds that live
in your ribcage
know what to aim for.

feathers fall down from your honesty,
honesty, honesty
becomes the pins that will
open my eyes from the x’s…

i shall rise from the dead and eat breakfast.

(thanks, Paris…)

the revolution begins now
in your house,
on your couch,
in your mouth,
spit it out.

the evolution of man begins
swimming and paddling
determined
yet mindlessly adamant
to get through
the primordial soup,
survive famine and
harvest the quinoa and amaranth.

avalanche, avalanche, avalanche, avalanche
facelift, facelift, facelift, facelift.

polticians will suck dick for applause
they will start, stop, then, restart a war
…whatever keeps their hand in the jar.
lets cut that hand off with a sword
when he withdraws that arm,
he is no longer lord
he takes abnormal form
he takes cabs into time square for porn.

I am nothing under this vast sky…
a dust mite born from a sheath of dead skin.

hope it isn’t true what people say…
about the world as we know it, coming to a close.

people don’t go to hawai’i to join revolutions…
but one hundred yard oboes
under a thin sheet of sea

try to vibrate under our feet.

we break communication like bread at the dinner table
honey, shut the fuck up… please…

this isn’t a meal if it doesn’t have cheese.
I’m going to mainland to eat eat.
eateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateateat

delete button don’t work.
emitting my feelings to stranger on limitless networks
puts me at ease.

emotive.

go.

volcano blows!

a rainbow glows plutonium, platinum, palladium, silver… titanium oxidized arian blue
all the armor
inside
your emotions sprung up like a desert rose,
coated your code from the ebb and the flow
until all gold trophies are resin molds… heaven knows truth
is the reason why
people go blind in pursuit.

it’s forbidden.
it’s hidden.
whatever was written was burned
and so as the world turns

it twists
alexandria in its

torque.

what i have come to realize
is whenever you can’t explain/
can’t understand why,
love crushes
without even trying…
just smile and recognize
how lucky you are
to have had your veins fill up with stars.

the pope shifts his fish head, ruby eyes…
god’s rottweiler
stands over the pinecone and under the silver star
condemning and chastising
while tens of thousands of pedophiles
console families in their time of grief.

stars fell from the heavens below
replacing the petrified eyes of the hypnotized

sodom and gomorrah, alive and well
salt covers the floor of their laboratory.

don’t look back
don’t send me an angel

they cracked the sarcophagus of jesus
and gift-wrapped the mummy in
thin sheets of mechanized petroleum,

laid him at the clawed toes of molech
betty crocker and julia child
fall from under each wing, resurrected
chopping onions and slicing carrots
for the whole world to taste the flavor of worship.
again-salt.

god’s rottweiler licks the trails that stream
from my wrists
with the sandpaper tongue
of a pussycat.

i fall in love with a vision,
yearning to disrobe the image and slide down,
it sits on my face.

i wake from inbetween parchment of chaffed calligraphy.
ink from the quill of a drunk scribe
mats my flesh
eyelids, paste shut.

the greatest stories ever told just became real.
the cover is a cheese grater.

open your heart.
now close it-you’re letting a draft in.

Christo, the silk magi
exchanges mediums and wraps the vatican
in caution tape…

Michael Jackson moonwalks across the veranda,
snatching the fish head off of the head of the pope.
slick scales, tail flapping
smearing his red zipper straight jacket in oil.

he dangles the specimen over the rail
of the balcony
like a baby boy
he proudly wants to display
to the world.

it slips from his hug.
hits the concrete like a thousand pound slug
no blood,
just fruit bats, exploding…
blankets the whitest sky this side of orion.

i die for fantasy
as farmers and politicians
sacrifice their first born
to a horned owl.

guano, everywhere.

well, we can see the slope,
see the slide you will ride down…

what is your food, is it true, is it ok?
wearing my thoughts on my sleeve
pinning my face on a corpse that decays

and will turn into flowers…

flower seeds inside our flesh
and when we die, all of these flowers will rise…
what will you push in this lifetime?

pushing up poppies
pushing up mushrooms
pushing buttons…
pushing through fumes
pushing up tombstones
pushing ’round runes
pushing up buildings
pushing up smoke plumes
pushing up something
that couldn’t be seen
pushing up walls in between you and me
pushing up people
pushing up steam through the sewer
pushing through dreams for a more lucid future
loosen the noose
pushing mute points
push your computer right off of your desk
i’m a loser. i’m beck. when my mood is upset,
i’m the last days of elvis
and looking like death
i’m the first day of a new age
on a stage for a mic check
pushing a pen, wants respect!
our corporate government
pushes strong men to their death…
Joe Louis and Pat Tillman, represent!
pushing nag champa to cover the stench
pushing jane fonda towards vietnam vets
media push propaganda to get us upset
push the envelope, tell us whats next
whats up…
push the totem pole over, you’re fucked.