Today shadows are blooming
below the ignited gasoline
of a frightened sun.
The engine in my irises burns
exhausted by too many dreams.
It has been too long
since She swept beneath these valleys of touch
and cleansed me of man's pollution--isolation.
Ah, the sleeping masses
how they move beneath
their dreams of concrete and plastic
while men stand like Gods
before a civilization so blasphemous,
it stings to look at her beautiful skin.
Paranoia cuts like barbed wire
before a tree of blossoms and purple love.
How we have enclosed
the human mind in the thorned fist
of control
while shadows bloom
like ignited gasoline
before a frightened sun.
My eyes roll like wandering satellites
in the empty space of disconnection.
Deception froths in spattered ink.
My hopefulness sinks into despair.
My soul a flashlight glinting
in unsacred air.
The glare of titanic leviathans
rumbling mechanical unfriendly
through the streets.
Sometimes a hummingbird dips
into the vulva of a flower.
Sometimes violins scream
under a broken window.
Sometimes a human voice
touches the jagged edges
of your broken ear.
But until the Seers unwrap
the orange turbans from their eyes
the beauty of Eden
will be submerged in liquid fire.
Oh how we tire of heaven
when She is pierced
and drunk on heroine.
Oh how we weep like angels
when naked bodies
are pollinated with pheromones
and bled in the perfume aisle.
The African women
with rings around half-broken necks;
the child with cocaine in his blood;
the Pacific cities bleeding
with cars in their tsunamied veins.
When will the televisions
speak of sane things?
When will the pulse of blood
dance in our temples?
Sometimes a dove lands
inside the muse's mouth
and delicate creatures
sing articulate sounds.
Sometimes two saried woman
look you in the eye
and for a moment you know of God.
As if mysteries and histories
were whispering
to your soul!
How long will we drown ourselves
in paranoia and woe
before reality screams
like a hawk chased by two crows?
In my clenched and unclenched heart
there sings something
of the rustle of two wings.
Sometimes the wildness
of false messiahs sings.
Consider a man in jail,
his wife looking
through the thick glass
at his fat black face.
Their hands touch the pane
a kiss swallowed by the liquid glass.
Nature reminds him like a pigeon
falling in through the mouth of the rafters,
electric starlight
frothing in his jail cell.
Like him, this Prophet
is lonely to be without his wife,
perhaps the spill of organic ink
will remind him that at least
the machinery of night
still loves him with a divine infection.
Perhaps the egg yolk
of the morning light
will fill the moans
of his gentle mind with peace.
That not even two serpents
entwined could master his wisdom.
And a dove laughs
at the creases of his face.
