If memory serves, most of these poems - this one included - came to me in “rough draft” through dreams. I did clean them up but don’t take much credit for them, seeing as how they were in a sense “channeled” from the dream world.
drop into the plains of the thornbush
an open hour from now
with emerald wings
an open hour from now
with emerald wings
Ice-eyed star stare
the glancing glaciers
in frigid constellation
the glancing glaciers
in frigid constellation
The mad dance of the sickle swinger,
stalking stems in pantomime.
Sickles sketching grass dance,
in blade-blasted sun speckles.
knives flash, grass crash.
And the dancer
bows to the fires of suffering.
stalking stems in pantomime.
Sickles sketching grass dance,
in blade-blasted sun speckles.
knives flash, grass crash.
And the dancer
bows to the fires of suffering.
Morning
drinking star-filled water in the gutter
chasing each other's whiskers
kitties in the wind
drinking star-filled water in the gutter
chasing each other's whiskers
kitties in the wind
The Pledge of Allegiance
I pledge allegiance to the Bomb,
of the Nuclear Warlords of Earth.
And to the Terror for which it stands.
One annihilation,
under the mushroom cloud,
fissionable,
with death and destruction for all.
I pledge allegiance to the Bomb,
of the Nuclear Warlords of Earth.
And to the Terror for which it stands.
One annihilation,
under the mushroom cloud,
fissionable,
with death and destruction for all.
Precipice
I've seen the rage.
I've seen the rage.
Oh! The rage on the faces,of your young, America.
One last drawn-out moment
to exalt in, to gloat over,
the sheer, living terror of what you have created.
Can you hear the scream of the wind
through the wires of your lives, America?
One last drawn-out moment
to exalt in, to gloat over,
the sheer, living terror of what you have created.
Can you hear the scream of the wind
through the wires of your lives, America?
An Exotic Death
These people imagine they are protected in some way.
They believe they believe in safety,
And miss the joy of racing toward an exotic death.
They imagine they are protected.
But of their personal wars and clan feuds,
These and other invisible artifacts,
are like an exotic death,
where the trinket factory sleeps deep in the lost language.
This be the way with those who stand at the border,
by the dry sea.
Someone walked on it once, so they say.
Oh, but back then there was water.
