She angel cried
into our broken future
the poet is a little surprized

how it still dances ghostlike
through haunted houses
of stillness memories

even though it is
many planets away

Spearhead of the past has

to be what breaks through now 

(back when we didnt know how 

to find information or make a 

phone call or look something up)

You asked your friend directions 

and somebody on the street blurted it 

out the danger was what made

NYC good

the dirty edge of not knowing and all the 

queers and their colors of vision and 

showing

the addicts in the park, they are all that remains

after the srip malls took over MY CITY

Ginsburg was free to fight the machine

in the undergound bars uptown 

(whitman could sing us a song of an 

idylic Brooklyn)

My ghosts don't even dream of there anymore

The only real poems
I ever wrote are in
the hearts of the people
that loved them

(yes I:
wrote some poems
rode my motorcycles
loved some women
met some goddesses

Sat stone faced with the
masters after transcedning
into the light inside

came back the the West
to thrash around on the shores
of 1st world control

tried to suceed in the animal
heirarchy of lust and greed
and fear

But I may have made someone smile
eased a care of a friend
allowed some few to love me)

And my brothers in arms
and days on the rode
trying to be heroes
and outrun ghosts

(Remember when we
had the lifetime highs
of the miracle times)

She wore her life like a
a transparent garment revealing
a golden goddess too fine
to see

When we squinted our eyes
in the sunlight we could see
rainbows through feathers

A call to your higher
self

(disdain for perfection)
you hunt a primal
machine

Fullfillment of all
desires

Riders of analog machines
choking on digital miasma

I'd like to breathe the unrestricted
fumes of the 70's again.

Stop by someone's house,
let the phone ring off the hook

(stumble through forests
reading books of poetry

skip class smoking
cigs lifted off our parents

When you were gone you
were gone
no electronic grid to
hide from)

Eagle or owl
He'll  beat your
hand everytime

Can.t make rules
for an outlaw

coffee blackness
absence of machines
we held as sacred

black dog sat covered
respendant in tarhished steel
waiting to howl for anyone
with the
key

crazy enough to ingite her fuel and
ride

Whatever moment ended the
age before our minds became
locked in incessant stimulation

Was it that time we sat on a sidewalk
in someone's neighborhood at midnight
smelling of coffee and dreams

There is no bottom left to kick out
no rebellion that has not been comercialized

VAGUE MEMORIES OF THUNDER

Her thirst
Broken Gods
Sacred River Pollution

Sputtering Chariots
Scent of midnight espresso
Smoking cubans on ancient
machines

The otherworldness
waking up with unknown
goddesses

Lady Slippers

I placed her ashes
gently in the sand,
amongst the pines
of the land
she held so dear

Right between
where two rare
orchids would bloom
in one week's time

When we burned out again
about halfway to never and the
babba told us to go back, back
back before
before we were born
before these bodies

before the stars
and find ourselves there
before the forests
and the darkness
before god

After a while
you start to notice
the time travel

Projection back and
forth an image of your
younger self

When stars were all
that sailors had
to guide them home

And a smile or a
prayer was all he had
to remember his woman

The gods held mercy
and vengeance

A moutain river flowing into
this broken city life

Nursing a wild wounded
animal back into wholeness

We free each other

STUMBLEBUM

Take all your distant
selves into
Your self
here

The only thing you can
ever run from is
you

Chased my tale around the world
a few times
met the masters

Recieved enlightenment
only to stumble like a
punchdrunk fighter

through the streets of
brooklyn and lesser
north american cities

searching for a pure
wilderness and a
true heart to reignite
something lost

forest of my childhood
bicycle freedom
without lust or hunger

(holy ghost needs)

struggle for monetary
stability

empty as a plastic bag
grappling with death and
honor

she is as pure as a childhood
friend/mother

My poetry's dying
in the real world

The bronze spears flung into
infinity curve back upon us
now

Our time cycle bending into the
eons

We must abandon ourselves
to free ourselves
(the boundless rise of
light)

Open to the endless
incarnations
the warrior of peace
carries a broken sword

His rifle is an instrument of
salvation fired into the sacred
web of life

He is just a soldier of God
begging for redemption

She road down moutains into
the Hot dessert

Only to dream of an Athenian
Owl, while we entered
nighttime visions of
us sleeping together,
while we slept side
by side

Must have skipped some
lifetimes and bloodlines
(the magic in her veins)

She knew nothing of
the enlightened she
carried

Terrible broken goddess
sometimes I want to tell your
sister that I never loved anyone
the way I loved you

(but it's just a roaring whisper
in my poems now,

wich are a raging river of
molten gold tearing through
my soul)

*[poet smiles softly to himself,
home at last]

*narrative to the narrative {author unknown}

One day like

Wings, all 

You're LIFE will 

come back to you!!!

You will find the sky 

is not the limit

and that there never
were any walls 

You will be whatever is 

being and see the rich river 

of gold flowing 

has been carrying you 

within the kingdom 

all along

Mr. Paradise told me
"You can't fuck up
Paradise"

So I crashed a
few times
and burned up
My life
(over and over
Again)

1.

When I left the future that time
(so long ago do you remember
beloved that love letter we wrote
to each other, scratched into a tree
on our sacred mountain)

Waiting a hundred years for lighting
to strike again until I finally road
out West.

With all them damn cowboys with
their guns and whiskey and all.
Outlaws every one of em.

2.
Everydody knew the motorcycles
would never kill me from the first time
I should have cracked my head open
and walked away

The tequila fueled wrecks
and brushes with god
laying with angels

Buildings burning
(returning home to America
and finding NYC dead and gone)

3.

She is only a ghost of a ghost
of a dream I once had.