Koagulation of Love in a Minor Key of Redemption

Koagulation of Love in a Minor Key of Redemption:
Will the K Fok of Corn Flakes be Announced:
A turd of Ku once to the 3rd and diminished in a minor 7 relative
to the instigation of love itself:
Or merely
dig
dug
to the transcendent Ku.

1. A Pagan’s Te Deum

The scene of the crime always littered with clues.

Some may even considered the brain scatting high wire flagellation of love in guise of a poem to be the paragon of permutations – a mind twisting – instigation of jAz po ology.

The jAz poem by the jAz Mu ologist Neorotica Namaya was displayed at the Gallery, the oohs and ahhhs of his verbal and textual prestidigitation was unprecedented, no creases, no folds or wrinkles, it was a smooth canvas sail of images tightly stretched by the nor easter of his ever fulminating fulminations. Gaseous some might say! Flatulent! Though Namaya, ever a transcendentalist, engaged in the trance and the dance of Ku, kwa, ki kooo bop and the other 56 and a half colors of the phonic lexicon of the keys of Love.

Clanging, changling, chingling, and the gate keepers in the guise of a tranny with a predeliction for leather opened the room.

I thought she was an angel, said the poet. Then she ravished me, lubed me with every ounce of lasciviousness, but not an iota of concern for my virile beauty, instead she squeezed ever errant Mu, Ku, Kwa, Ki, and vagrant diode of phonic assonance from my soul. I was flopping fish milked for my eggs – Or in this case for my pearls of Mu, Ku, Kwa, and Ki.

She had a little stove in the corner, changed into a cliché of a French maid, pumps, aprons and all – whipped up a soufflé of vowels and purring permutations of luscious lilac fragranced reveries.

I was bound by straps. Naked, on a bed of broken dreams, if I turned too far to the right or left, one shard dug into my side, a thorn, as he was pierced with the Roman’s spear, eyes to heaven, realizing the terror – no god, no past, no redemption,
and though glass can be recycled – our humanness demands ash to bone, earth, mingled in the refuse, broken, but in that moment… Belzubah dressed as the whore tossed the soufflé with the caress of a mother to a new born child.

The moment we are born we are torn from the womb of the dreaming ocean.

We are killing the dreaming ocean – Gaia mother – dreaming – love—and lying naked.

She knelt down and fed me a spoonful of water. Vegetable brain soup, indeed.

The concordance of love in the concupiscent intersection of time. E M I T alluring T I ME turned backwards is a beam to E M I IT to EMOTE - E Tome. Strange that an E
Tome is a tone poem.

Drunk with ku in an insidious state of nu, entre nu, a perfectly intimate state. On the stage alone with my words, that seem to have separated into their own reverie

The terror of love is a far more compelling argument


2. More Arguments with God

god and I were making passionate hip stirring, soul vibrating eXtatic love as the pink blue light rose across the Eastern sky. we were shacked up and nestled between two palm trees on the north shore of Kauai. The hammock was rocking and swaying in the morning wind.
Though she looked from all appearance as an island girl, beneath the foaming waves of concupiscence and love divine, in our wordless Ontological rocking, seeking the union of
Shiva and Shakti,
“Shimmy shake and co co bop, my love.

But she was wordless in the conventional sense; nevertheless, all my arguments with god, the audacity to question, was subsumed as the morning rose across the ocean.
We laid back in the hammock nestled into each others arms and watched the storms and clouds and burgeoning sun argue with each other

I need to kick in the gates of heaven. Instead found consonance in our love making by the ocean

Consonance.


3. Art and the invincibility of Love:

Art that soothes and comforts.
Oral Sex in a hammock, a Maraguerita in one hand, the languid dreams of July are rolling by in a cloud, a yellowing sumac leaf seems to stay aloft forever.
The slow climaxing of two virgins in heat rock the hammock. We roll down the grassy slope to the pond. In the high grass we made love with savage hopefulness, 69 as the transcendent value, if that is not the quintessential prime number, then we are not a culture engaged in revelation.
Fuk sake! The poet maybe finally on to something. Is that clock broken again? Twice a day – right again – more than Bush in 8 years savage bungling.
A culture not engaged in revelation, eXtasy and the journey to the dog god Sirrus disguised as God.
A culture that is not engaged in eXtacy is one that is engaged in its own annihilation.
In a solitary orgasm, clitoris erect, moist with expectation, salvation
Two lovers, long legs splayed akimbo to the sun, rolling and tussling while the sun and shadow played amongst the maple trees.

We keep waiting for God, hoping that she will step off of the cross town bus.


4. Brothers and sisters:

Crazy! Fuk no!

YOU ARE THE OUTLIERS. YOU ARE DREAMERS. YOU ARE THE EXTATIC POETS. YOU ARE HYPERACTICVE> UNABLE TO FIT INTO THE NORMATIVE WORLD>

They will give me disability for hearing voices.
But they won’t give me a monthly stipend as poet.
They will pay me to keep the voices medicated.

I will gladly take your money, pretend that my divine attunement, my attention to the language of angels and demons is a disability. It is not, I simply need to pay attention when I cross the road. Look right and left. And that is ALL perfectly wonderful. To wind up as a grease spot on the grill of a dodge truck is as ordinary as Gaudi was divine in his vision. He should have been more attentive.

God spoke. He listened. The carriage was conversing with the road.

5. eXtacy: The Journey Again

I am an eXtatic person living in a non eX Tatic world. A world, rightly or wrongly, more concerned about static cling and the statistical necessity of war.

X marks the spot, right there in the space of your deepest longing.

The Stasi were the East German secret police. Heavily starched briefs gives the needed support to the state power structure, but the STATE of POETICS killed by its own narcissism, addiction to prosody, verse, nicities--- well starched BVDs and poems in America have a growing commonality: Well creased and ironed. Augusto Pinochet poured into his uniform every day

I don’t flog the conformist, though they should be, I’m too busy -- enchanted and eXtatic. My pain is my separation from the dreaming ocean of reverie

Academic verse, is eXtacy in reverse, screaming fearful, obese, flatulent and waddling towards oblivion.

Quack said the clack with obsequious genuflection. Car insurance and personal assurance, has a greater ascendant value than the language of eXtacy and revelation

Imagine living without fear?

Imagine attuned to the whispering of the divine?
A stalk of green dreaming the earth, piercing the earth, thirsty for the sun and the imperative for air?

Watching a line of cars caught in a traffic jam for several miles on Monday morning, each person tuned in to a radio, cd, cellphone, planning the day, SUV with two hundred horse power ready to roar in the opposite direction of eXtatic revelation. So many beautiful men and women, children too, collared into the uniformity of social control and making that Do Re Mi.
Rake in the dough. Buy more shit. Deeper in debt. Rake in more dough. Watch ` the yeasty condition rise in the dough pan. More fat, more dough.

Fat people do not make revolutions. Michael Moore aside. Fat people can’t waddle eXtatically and storm the gates of heaven

I will always storm the gates of heavens

Keep the pernicious vices to a mild roar. The vices that bring you true eXstacy
liberal doses

Okay, so what if you’re not attuned to a cosmic frequency?

Take one minute to watch a flower growing in the garden?
Rip off your shirt and stand under a downpour.
Allow a piece of dark Belgian chocolate to melt on your tongue?
Walk naked through the garden of your imagination.
Howl with glee at the new dawning moon.
Or turn off every noise, beeping buzzing intrusion, and listen to the quietude.

Astonish your soul!

Jiggle. Wiggle. Piggle and Po
Tuuuu. Pooooo. Zozzzzz. Zeeezzz and Xhen.
In the Kingdom of Xanadu where King of Ku
ku blai khan was the hippest koolest cat
who was kogitating on K ching!

The euphonious rifting of
KC and the Sunshine band.

More love and hope, more redemption than window pane, blotter acid,
or Sunshine itself.
Oswald the Magic Hatter willing to kick open the doors of Paradise – well, at least
to allow a ray of light through the bathroom window.


6. War Against eXtacy

A tribe called Love

In the West the creeping pernicious insanity is the war against the exTatic celebration. Not just the giddy, shaking your booty, and dancing naked in your mad love for the divine; but the
e XortatioN
eXALTATION

to live your life with a profound intentionality.

Unblocked by fear of the X tatic what would you create in your life?
What would be the extraordinary instigation of madness that would suffuse and inspire the soul

p.s.
my soul is opening a window

Asses: Global Warming: Save The Rain Forest: Toilet Paper

No other poet taking on such issues
as the maligned toilet paper tissues.

A shitty subject for poetic affairs
and urgent personal hygienic care.

The world is filled with many asses:
Fat, small, skinny… a lot of asses.

that demand soft white fluffy paper
and too, mountains of baby diapers.

Rivers polluted and forests cleared
to keep our asses squeaky cleaned

Bedouins used water and sand.
Ouch, is what I say to that plan

Toshiba has a high tech scrubber,
tushy clean rubba- a- dub dubber.

Or soap, water and rag is a way
to keep it tidy each & every day

Save the planet! Raise your voice!
Bend on over & make a choice!

Save the rain forest! Save your ass!
If truly organic, wipe it with grass.

Recycled toilet paper if you will
To give your bung- hole a thrill

Or follow the four fold tush rule
to be truly environmentally cool

Wipe, fold, wipe, fold & again.
Wipe fold, wipe, fold & again.

At last put your ass on the line
An indelicate issue not so refined

Save our water, planet, and trees.
Save your ass too if you please.

Obama and the Fear of the Small Penis?

Lyndon Johnson didn’t want to

be seen as man with a small penis,

Vietnam was his lasting genius.

GW Bush padded his crotch and

strutted on top of an aircraft carrier

as if he were a top bulldog terrier.

Obama seemed to be a man of reason.

Two wars still going balls-to- the- wall.

Will he pull out before his fatal fall?

Tommy's Gun Ablazing

Tommy’s Video Game

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a stalking for the

enemy deep inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a hunting for the

enemy on TV inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a killing for the

demon screaming inside us all.

Chorus

Tommy’s guns ablazing’

Tommy’s guns afiring’

Tommy’s fun beginning

Tommy’s fun beginning

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead.

Verse

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a stalking for the

enemy deep inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a hunting for the

enemy buried inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a killing for the

demon screaming inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a raging for the

tattered fears inside us all.

VERSE

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into the school

where the children cowered

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into the church

where the people prayed.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into the post office

where the clerks worked.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into their rooms

where they all quickly died.

Chorus

Tommy guns ablazing’

Tommy guns afiring’

Tommy’s fun beginning

Tommy’s fun beginning

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead.

Verse

Tommy never saw blue

lights flashing in the rain

never saw the gun at his head

I saw it all on TV a hundred

times every day, everyone was

happy when the bad were dead

I killed a thousand each day

on a video before noon and

today, only a dozen now dead.

I killed for you to let you know

I understood, the more who are

dead the better chance to win.

Chorus

Tommy’s guns ablazing’

Tommy’s guns afiring’

Tommy’s fun beginning

Tommy’s fun beginning

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead.

One Hope: Our Humanity

If

If there is one person

hungry,

it denies our humanity.

one child forsaken

one man ready to kill

a woman living in fear

a family terrorized by war

one person ill without care

a person in prison without trial

if an infant abandoned…

it denies our humanity.

We are
One love
One soul.

Palestine Burning: Rape of Sanity

Sanity sodomized again this week.
Children
Muslim, Jew and Christian
killed in their sleep.

1. Inferno

Palestine is burning.
Gaza in flames. Children
and families buried alive as Israeli
warplanes bomb their homes.

A child’s lifeless arm rises
from the rubble.

F-16’s emblazoned with Stars of
David offers a holokaustos from
morning till night. Bullets,
petrol, and rockets
for the slaughter of Palestine
paid for by US taxpayers.

King David pimps for General
Sherman as he rides through the
Holy Land shouting,
“Burn! Burn! Burn!”


2. Lamentations

My eyes will flow without ceasing, without respite,

The tongue of the nurslings cleaves
To the roof of its mouth for thirst
The children beg for food
But no one gives to them.


Eye for an eye, the law of the
Talon, and the building of
the Third temple is underway.
The mortar is crushed bones,
moistened with fresh blood,
anointed with children’s tears.

Is there redemption in the Levant?
Is there a garden of peace in Jerusalem?

3. Fall of the Temple
She weeps bitterly in the night,
Tears on her cheeks
Among all her lovers
She has none to comfort her.

IF my deeds could truly turn back the clock,
wrest the hands away from the deadly grip that
clutches the throat of cousin to cousin, brother to
brother, and turn back to the moment before
Adam bit the apple and Eve conceived
a child, then my quivering pacifist finger would
drop like a Roman Emperor to start the fire--

Burn the Koran!
Burn the Bible!
Burn the ‘Gita!
Burn those lies
that aspire to holiness.
Burn every image of a prophet.

If we truly desire to love God,
let our genuine spiritual desire
be devoid of God, Allah, Jah,
Jehovah, Yahweh, Jesus,
Krishna, Mohammed, Satan and
the whole lot of those imposters.

Burn the Koran!
Burn the Bible!
Burn the ‘Gita!
Burn those lies
that aspire to holiness.
Burn every image of a prophet


3. Sacrifice

If there is a need for destruction, for Isaac
to be bound or Ali to be killed again,
then let those lambs be offered freely! Their
pulsing hearts ripped from their chest
and offered to the sun. Let the gnarled olive trees
and sinewy scented cedar roots be the fuel
to burn their corpses completely.

If there are shards of bones let vultures
take them skyward, near to the heavens,
like Daedalus drawn to the sun, let the
vultures devour and digest each
molecule of vitriolic bile and hatred.

If religion is the root of insanity
that is killing our world--
then I say:

Tear down the Holy City of Jerusalem!
Destroy the dome of St. Peter!
Bulldoze Mecca!
Crush the Kaaba to dust!
Level the Temple Mount’s walls!


Burn the Koran!
Burn the Bible!
Burn the ‘Gita!
Burn those lies
that aspire to holiness.
Burn every image of a prophet

4. Salvation

But
will the destruction of the word
return us once again to Spirit

to the instant when god first took clay,
moistened it with a kiss, blessed it with
a breath, and set it free?

In place of a cross, let it be a common pebble;
where once a mosque let it be a glade and a river;
let the Chuppas once more be the sky itself,
and a prayer - let it be spoken as -- Love.

Day at the Gun Clib

content="Microsoft Word 11">

I had been struggling with the noise of the adjacent gun club for some time, large semi-automatic rifles blasting periodically, disrupting my sleep and work. To be clear I had opposed the 2nd amendment to citizen’s bearing arms and foolishly believed that people killed not guns. The argument was somewhat tangle: What kills – People or guns?

Do guns kill or do people kill? It was difficult to remember the correct bumper sticker of ideology, so I decided instead of railing again guns and gun violence, I needed to seize the day, and come to a genuine understanding.

Saturday, in late May, everyone at the gun club was out for their Memorial day shoot, gun members from Connecticut, Massachusetts, and one from Virginia came to celebrate all the skeet shooting, target practice, and good natured noisy fun that a rifle range is open to. I was a little hesitant as I’m a die hard leftist libertarian and realized I needed to challenge some of my assumptions about guns. The guys and the gals at the club couldn’t have been more friendlier, though they did look askance at my “Send Bush to Iraq” bumper sticker, they knew that I was trying to reach out and connect with my southern New England neighbors who love to come up to Vermont to shoot. Liberals only can dream about having so much fun. I leaped on to a monstrous ATV with my 12 gauge shot gun strapped across my shoulders and on my hip was a 44 Magnum that would have made Dirty Harry proud and zoomed away to the practice range. I had finally found my tribe. Little kids were out there with 22’s and a skinny bleached blond girl in a black leather jacket was firing on her little uzzi like a proud aspiring assassin. These are serious folks, no wonder the liberals can’t win an election… they need more firepower. There is little that more orgiastically exciting than coming out for a day of shooting with the semi-automatics, the shot guns, and a hand pistol. As I saw the American flag in red, white, and blue on the hillside I had a lump in my throat, a tear, as I saw the blasting of rifles on that glorious afternoon and recalled the bombing of Fort Sumter where the flag held through that night. Holding the cool long steel barrel in my hands and feeling the portent of pulsating hot plasma of fire, I knew that I was on to something big.

My new found friend Big Jim and Bubba are two good old southern boys (Southern Vermont that is) who love to hunt, fish, and hunt. A few swigs from Big Jim’s Jim Beam and I’m feeling in the cozy warmth and familiarity of “my tribe.” Despite all the progress of humanity, bigger firepower, and bombs of all kinds there was something so reassuring about the basic connection with ones own tribe in the hunt. I was beginning to wish there were a few liberals romping across the field so I could feel the real thrill of the kill and asked Big Jim about it.

“I know what ya mean about getting something meaningful, like taking down a beautiful 12 point buck or dropping a big old black bear. Man, there are few things that compare to that.”

“How about sex?” I asked

Big Jim looked at me kind of strange, “What ya man, sex.” Then looked around to make sure no one had heard him.

“What’s better sex or killing a big trophy deer? Or is there that same rush of sex you get when you kill?”

Bubba said, “That’s a might strange way of looking at it. Why don’t you go over to the target range on yonder and think about it a bit.”

“Sure enough.” I’d give them a little bit of time to think about that one. I had my Magnum and was itching to try it. Suddenly I had an epiphany.

“Big Jim! Bubba! Come back I want to try an experiment!”

I walked over to Big Jim some ten feet away from me, raised my gun to his head and fired point blank, took a half step to the right and shot Bubba once between the eyes. Someone else came by raised a gun and I also fired back at them. It was the slow dream of carnage in the carnival of death. Then everyone ran into the woods. I was so angry, I had made the effort to connect with the club, got over my narrow prejudices about guns, finally made a breakthrough and then they all vanished. I realized that Big Jim was right, guns don’t kill, but people do. Thought I did feel a little badly for him, I knew that he, Bubba, and the few others wanted to make sure I was dissuaded of any of my liberal notions about gun use. I can now cogently argue that it makes perfect sense to keep guns legal.