The Cinema

in a hush eating mars bars and 

popcorn @ the Oriental theater

where celluloid dreams ooze off 

the screen as Queen Cleopatra shows 

bends, showing us her boobs with

dreams of a roller coaster ride, and—

expectations, the crowd wonders, 

what is behind the red curtain.

A Mirrored Face

face growing dull in mirror, wane

dwindling content, wafered mass

emerald and golden dust covering the

taj mahal as blue blue birdies fly by.

look in her face, lady jesus, and see:

mercy for the wicked, grassland, heart

shaped chocolate, a painted portrait of

madre in the streets of barcelona 1970.

the semiopague face of loretta young,

pulls you into it. watching it's fragile

countenance under water, drawing,

you can't swim, you let go anyways.

Whose to Blame

as a inner city baby cries, stevie wonder chants a message teletype into hot deepness, electric summer night, the bronx 73.

it was the day when martin luther king, gandhi, bobby kennedy,

lenny bruce and john lennon crossed the great divide.

ocean blue whales exhale last breath on beachfront, telekinetic suicide with brief dying symphonies of whale opera and tragedy.

me looking at whale, eye to eye, we both know the world was not guaranteed, unfair even, the padre, rabbi, mayor, and scientist don't know why.

at the planet asylum on 5th Street the doors are open as sunny, beatific and blithe loonies luxuriate in carnival fest. by george the cops don't know right from left, they are arresting trees and tables.

it is old news that the earth has been knocked out of its' orbit by seismic tumbles and cracks, we can still see the moon.

but, what has gone wrong, and whose to blame? we had it right once.

Cocaine Springs

out and out in the brush fields of our town, angles clown around, hug deeply fly and dance to eternal drum beats of extraterrestrial blowing of snow.

they hide out by the factory with faeries, hummingbirds, flamingos, and the pure holy men of coco mountain.

destination unkown for those place sitting and watching time flow.

the dancer waxes slowly to san pedro, heart music in hand, feeling others flesh, soft like white velvet, in a outgrowth of full moon beams.

the silent gray room is everything, visible everywhere, windows and blustering curtains, song of a ocean, dreams as dreams peer.

Saint Pablos

Oil of French Perfume, round and fat as the Mardis Gras, psychedelic beer, drunken wine high.

Dark skinned hash boy carrier burning bricks of flowers and buds, smell so good.

Blue Cubano Cigars licked by Marlene Dietrich, ruby red Lipstick stains, blood stained scratches on face.

Seven Iguanas were gutted, cleaned and boiled in whiskey with water, cut up and washed down with Mescal, Beer, Beans and Tortilla last night @ Al Loco Cafe.

The New York Museum of Modern Art will replicate the motorcycles of "Easy Rider" both Billy's and Captain America's, as well as a 1957 Red Cadillac, fake Sushi for display, Keith Richard's guitar and a Fijian shrunken head.

In the yellow and black Nuclear Energy Plant, the liquified fuel in beer - can swiming pools is clear green and looks like Mountain Dew Pop.

When they sent Sid to Rik's Mille State Home, there was purple phantasm steaming from cracks in frozen walls, and latter, (happily), he evaporates into Spirit.

Three red smoke rings turbo up, a neon staircase of air cork screws its way to next world Nirvana.

Behind a velvet curtain, Gina A. Grade shows a rounded and elliptically lipped, red-brown nipple lining a silky satin bra, her cocoa-colored neck wears a spoon and dagger seizing a jade-link chain clasp.

Lightly dusted oval flaming lips, `tu madre, vaporizing up, out and away from Saint Pablos.

the Fool

Fuller Brush and Skunk headed hipster cleaning floors with a broom and a mop, waxing vestabules shining like pools mirrored and magnified in Saint John Somewhere, America.

Like a killer on death row, he wasn't saved by Mercy or Divine Intervention @ El Diablo Cafe, rubber-kneed, wacko, bozo, dusted and flee covered lover of miasma of de joie red silk hose, skanky hose, and g-strings, like aged nose gay vaporizing at your feet and in front of your face.

When we wrote the script, while we were puffing that night, did Peg Leg plan to scuttle

the Titanic, set it ablaze in fantasy only to resurrect it in cut-ups, like Burroughs throwing

slices of typewritten yellow paper into the air to find a light at the end of a sentence, freely

grooving on another dark boy in Algiers, tempting spheric waves in Yaga and Rum Storms?

Smoke Rings yawning wider and wider, go round and round, rolling up to Elysian Fields. You told me you loved me and then you fucked that fucking Goat Boy with his thin and dirty dung waxed fluorescent hair .

Penciling a poem, that no one will read~ the Fool.

The Lizard King

He was the "Lizard King" who drove on Empty. He was Hercules speaking Greek, the Sun King to boot, he was Victor Mature and Lawrence Harvey.

Quick as a Rattlesnack, he could dance on his feet, roll over, he played Marimbas and Spoons, he was a flat back brand new crisp Dollar Bill, fit tight to the pocket in a Black Leather Wallet with a Silver Chain.

Hummingbirds, iguanas, avatars, monarchs, spirits, id, lizards, angels, ghost, circuses, psyches, dreams, covered in Electric Snow.

It was the time of the long hair freaky people, the ones that ate Mushrooms, Yucca bushes, Banyon trees and vines, they pulsated, exhaled, oozing orgone rays in High Jungle County.

Floret Amour

Peering on beach from Banyon Tree brow, watching Dolphins splashing Blue Sea.

Angels and Monarchs sound tow-colored trumpets for Green Ants on sand uneven.

Red Crown birds dip into blossom nectar, one on one with Prairie Flowers petal-flush.

Heaven's Breath frees Fireflies. Surealism spirit and flash-spots in blue nightfall cloud.

A moment's sojourn scrawled in the hue and tint of needles, leaflets and pines, replete.

A swell of arousal burst forth as dew droplets shower on floret, on fleshly blush amour.