Poetry

Prayer to Ra
From the vantage point of a sunflower, The little eye mounts a gold sunset Vision of flesh, Enchanted.
We look for a memory from the muck, A gong blast scream, To shake off the petals of the sun. We trap the angel of the dump to civilize with And easily crucify.
Oh, for no dead grime upon the skin of the eyelid To roll painfully in the creases Of looking.
Or smoked men Piling up against The artificial lung of the mind. To forget the lizard movement of death, That the olden wire arms Sparkling with thorny dew, Embrace.
From your vantage point of gold Oh Ra, Stay the passage of the rusty blink, The undressing veil of butchered body nakedness. Eclipse the elemental pose Of ending heads.
Keep us from the absolute radio broadcast, Old eye, Little eye, Empty eye of the sun.

in the real world

in the real world
where people are,
i ride in a bubble.
you can't see it.

simple and perfect
it's full of me
and i ride by
very posh.

in the real world
where children worry about the sky
i ride over them, quietly...
they can't see me.

in the real world
where people are
someone is always busy or bruised
or busy bruising,

but they can't see me.
i fly by
unbruised now
and no longer worry...
about the sky.

i am the sky.
i am not in the real world
where people are.

molecules avoid me
like the plague
but, darkness and wandering vines
still remember me.

i worry most about my pets,
they, can see me.
they cry like babies.
they rummage through the dirty clothes i left
and sniff around my chair
and lick dirt
from the kitchen floor.

they lay in bed with my body
and wait for me to return,
to open a can
or let them out....

but in the real world,
outside,
where people are.
i am spinning away
over the sky.

Going to the Circus with Jesus

sidewalk,
hot summer wet,
smoky sky
birthing a storm,
people trot by like lost ponies,
"the circus is that way!"
i scream.

but they don't go that way,
and neither do i.

crystal lakes
form.
fish like buicks
bust the wave open.
dark underbelly
storm holes
suck the lakes under,
under ground and me.
"the circus is that way,"
i whisper to the waters.

they don't go that way.
and neither do i.

Jesus rides by.
his bicycle is blue,
today.
he splashes me
and rides on,
no blessing this time.
"the circus is that way,"
i pray.

he turns and goes that way,
and finally,
i do too.