God likes motion that's why
he made the planets spin

classical narratives
written in stone


Never scoff at mythology
it's all we're made of

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)