under the construction

I know my heart still stands, beautiful, somewhere beneath all the scaffolding.

Bits of stucco have fallen away.
Dust from the demolition
of a previous pillar, a toppled era,
whisps about the edges of echoes
haunting the once hallowed halls.
Vines shot up the walls with
silent claws in the wake of bombs.
Scaling them like lizards,
lounging in the heat of evaporating urine
that trickled down the leg of a shell-shocked survivor
trembling in the rubble.

Somehow against the will of time
this sanctuary still stands
once erected to protect senators and priests
as they fingered raw gold coins, women,
feared marbled gods,
guzzled and garbled rare wine,
rich meats and figs. grapes.

There were years of monks and calligraphy,
mice scuttling around hymns raised, leatherbound souls,
nesting in scrolls, the fallen folds.

Then scaffolding resurrected its chiarascuro’d Christ,
the mottled peach flesh of wellfed infants,
architectural linen.
Here the softest pink clouds ever painted
drift across the ancient vaulted expanse
while ships assailed new shores and
the human race effaced itself
in mired visions of Eden.
New concepts of colour being sculpted
out of brush strokes and cheek bone structures.

Tomorrow a thousand feet will tread through,
37 gum wrappers will be dropped,
three will escape the janitorial effort.
Indiscriminate index fingers will capture simulacra
in digital titillation. Feigned smiles and mock gang signs
looming in the foreground. Minds wandering forward
into menus, linguine al funghi, espresso.



But now the great chamber lies empty, listless.
A creak escapes the rusty joints of a ladder long unhinged.
The sound ricochets down the ancient hall
disturbing a tremor of memory from the inertia of stone
The still air awakens for a moment –
electrons gasp.

Someone who has spent hours burried
in basement stacks at the University library,
or perhaps just plagued by intuition,
climbs the ladder.

The arms outstretched,
weilding brush and palate,
stage this new battle
against our inevitable
destruction.

Hydro Philharmonic

somos
lagrimas en agua
salt crystals
suspended
measuring
la vida viscous
in isomorphic
harmonies momentary
constellations
but a second symphonic
of orchestral
brilliance!
bow, timpani and trumpet
rising in shrill passion!
for a syllable,
(that syllable!)
before its second –
decrescendo into
syballence.
balance, baseline, basis
for what life –
is up.
brill
iance.
swimming in
contradictions, hear’s
to dischord!
and the accidental
harmonic of
ameobic respiration.

rhythm rhyme
and rhibosomes
rocking out
neutrons and
new tones
dancing with
equilibrium on the
edoplasmic reticulum.
somwhere
between grace
and chaos electrons
makin it or breakin
it in one collision
creating elementary
steps in the equation
bonding one
beat to the next.
bum-boom-
pumping rushing blood
through our
veins in a maze
until every
last capillary is up in
arms celebrating Desire’s
tears cried, pooled
self reflection until
every cell bathes
in this divine

red salt water.

voice

something help me hear me
from above from below from within
I’m listening I’m leaning
in towards your voice
yet it is but a whisper still
despite years of trial and growth
and journeys through a world
but dreamed but tasted but
danced for a moment
in a rhythm from memory afar
still lost in my bones
persisting below flesh everchanging.

why do we build walls
caging ourselves in?
resisting our own selves
only to limit again our capability
to encompass the rest
the vastness
that silent episode of freedom
that ricochets through ages
past, storming our souls
but approaching so gently
we can miss it just like that
a huge storm and we might
never know how she
blows and howls and ever
presses us closer to
our capacity.
the voractiy we need
to fly to cry to try to die
and soar winged into
new selves in new worlds
never known.

so scream and dance and sing
in every tongue you’ve ever tried
and even those you pretend
because I’m listening.
Even in the rain
glistening tears celebration
I am listening.

free'dem flowers

Frida in my Garden
Two lips petaled, pursed
wilting leaves yet thriving
alive wild piercing
eyes sininster soft sultry
heart staring back
midst winding stems in a sunless corner
next to the painting of the black
man in a black hat in a chair
smiling. You look on as if
into another realm
I think I’ve dreamed of it once
the flowers were large and violent

the catepillars were chainsmoking and arrogant
and all the newscasters flashed their
brash white grins, ferociously
feigning chewed humor
spittling sports specs and war
while voraciously gnashing
and guzzling words
about murders
that happened yesterday,
next door.

unicycle

icicles______trycicles__________________moosecycles_________nicecycles
bicycles_____dyecicles_________________ micecycles_________spoonsycles
tricycles____chaicycles__________________goosecycles ________spicecycles
___________________________________guycicles___________dunecycles
eyecicles____ Icycles________buycicles_____youcicles___________dicecycles
crycicles____spycicles_______thycicles______mycicles___________twocycles
shycicles____thaicycles______tiecycles______poocycles_________twicecycles
___________________________________piecycles________throughcycles
sighcycles____hicycles__________________whocycles_________thricecycles
thighcycles___ryecicles__________________whycicles___________foocycles
frycicles_____lyecicles__________________newcicles___________fighcycles

prycicles liecycles viecycles , nighcycles byecicles diecycles .

undivided attention

I'm a hippi,

but love New York,

Vegetarian,

but might eat pork.

I'm serious,

but always joking,

Have dredded hair,

but don't like toking.

I hug the trees,

but don't recycle,

Take the bus,

but don't bicycle.

An anarchist,

but don't break laws,

Afraid of sharks,

but not of Jaws.

Always brush,

but never floss,

Can't stand fungus,

don't mind moss.

Love N. Chomsky,

but failed the course,

Believe in marriage,

don't mind divorce.

Am in a hurry,

but never rush,

sometimes poo,

don't want to flush!

My thighs too fat,

my butt's too thin,

Love to compete,

don't have to win.

Follow fashion,

but am a slob,

Always laughing,

but sometimes sob.

Speak in slang

with proper diction,

Read Sarte, Seuss,

and science fiction,

And so I am from such encryption

Reveling in contradiction.

BUT,

Most people tell me I'm a jerk,
and being me just doesn't work.

So,

I say to them, "just let me be!
I'm rather fond of being me."

Milligan's Fake

They say a free spirit he was
but I know him to be a slave.
Cause they don't know what writing does
how much he gave and gave
to the twin masters of rhythm and rhyme
to whom he was tethered till the end of time.
and now that I'm older
and perfectly sober
how I behave is a crime.

The world will say I've gone insane
but I am not so sure.
A Milliganous tumor's in my brain
for which there is no cure.
They've tried to learn me better,
they've tried to school me well.
But their effort's in vain
for I cannot refrain
from what we all once were.

varsity hues

super smart, but kind of spacey,
shops boutiques, thrift stores and Macy's,
50's cocktail dresses lacy
silver bod-suit - kind of racey!
now I hear she's into pasties?
anything looks good on Casies!!