Saturday, October 24, 2009


know now that to come is the final door, the one we must all pass through no matter how happy or sad. you curving through dooms of love and struggle, are no more nor less an ancient thing than odysseus or gilgamesh. look now to your hands, the hydrogen and carbon with which they are wrought the same hydrogen and carbon burst from the celestial fire a million and million and million years ago, look down now at the veins in your hands with good blood running in them, the same iron burned in the hearts of suns ancient and majestic beyond your horizon. our bodies are ancient, our heritage something grander than this age or any other, and our inheritance in the great dark at the end, the same as all inheritances of all buddhas, alexanders, neros, hitlers, ghandis, elephants and suns. so how will you pay homage to this, great palace of oceans and evergreens? do we put on our crazy lab coats and agree to count beans for fat merchants, do we fashion strange lusts and chase them calling them paradise?

i am ancient. i am roots, i am the son of supernovas. i am a billion years old, and you dare to trouble me with fears of cancer. to the defense of an old flame i warned a man away from her, and he told people i later learned he would stab me in the heart 14 times. who knows? aside from being a decidedly undesirable way to leave this earth, better to leave the modern world to bean counters and walk upright with an ancient soul who lives with a full heart in the wild rain in which no dreams of perfumed soldiers of money plague my dreams of perfect stars.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

the drifter's manifesto

and now let me tell you as i walk disheveled in the rain, singing to the trees carelessly and drinking and smoking my way through the galaxy. light is my step my wet chin held up high, i like the streetlights that keep me company. i have wandered there to here and will wander there again, but i take dancing steps on a blue planet and roots long and brown grow out of my skin straining for the ground, and i curl a hand into the sky blooming asters by the hundreds from my fingers, the stars bright and tiny blue spilling out of my eyes and down my cheeks, sparrows stumble and fly from my mouth out of each fluttering note, and the moon kisses me with a pale white mouth. from far away the stars call me again, i will come back to you, i sing, and the ghosts of foxes and deer dance around me a musky, ancient dance and out my heart comes a red horse burning, and a thousand children are born and their lives taken across my collarbones, and with my few dimes i spin and toss them into rain clouds high above, dark and gleaming, and drink a bottle of wine inside which a captured galaxy steeps and swirls and gets sodden drunk like a tequila worm and all of the lifeforms that live therein drunk driving their spaceships too near far suns, and i slip and fall and my hand goes splat against the pavement, and a thousand acorns burst like blood therefrom and roll into the road, run over by empty cars but so many that they cut into the asphalt and burst into sudden oaks all splaying their branches to the destruction of dark windowed buildings and everything i brush up against becomes auroral songs like free whales singing, and every exhalation of my dread cigarette gives birth to a virgin earth that drifts into the sky to find its star in heaven.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

subway gods

we should all be grateful, apparently, having been rescued from ten thousand years of tyranny of the earth to be protected behind a shiny new world. healthier, taller, smarter, freer, safer, fatter (or so they say, ask some who once lived in the forests far from tyrants) the lash replaced with the paycheck and nonetheless still lots of booze and sex left over from the old feral world of our ancestors, those wild totem carrying peasants in heat, up before dawn. the life in a fist of a mean old king,

subways are funny things, look at them all, all these ex-peasants in fancy clothes and perfumes, all these lifeless faces locking in such animal spirits, grateful for a dead office in the sky than in a mine in the inferno of the earth. grateful but still harshly sewn-together, all packed in here like herds of drugged mice, grateful to dream one day into the next in a labyrinth of drywall and cheap furniture, plastic flowers and one hell of an economy, they say. who hears the songs of third world families in the sunburned skins of farmers and survival, high grass and lone rivers here? all these possible earth mothers digging into purses for mascara instead of into the earth for seeds, is it really better? all these tall craftsmen staring into the blackness of the subway tunnel like arid mannequins, free from the tyranny of princes to fall into a tyranny of nothing, with all this free time what has been built in their souls that is beautiful, that breathes? what now, you sunless spirits of the land?