Saturday, October 9, 2010


bifurcating hearth waves heal
your heavy weird head
your hot white heart
your horrid wan hole

the path
of the mason
is crooked yet orderly
two things cannot completely

your loin
is a symbol
we place two guards
on either side
of this wisdom

your whole weird story
is a house
and it is your way
you howl
but have a problem

sit in deep night pretending
not to seep

and their curious necks
you have wild human thoughts
you hold wet hurricanes
you hoist weary hands

and raise up opium pods
over a valley flaming with color
and fury
of wild and joyous bliss
and your breasts are out
and like dew
you sing the snakes of your palm
to the hard horn
of its plain

you hear waves
of hot young heads
like werehares descend

your whole weird head
is a hostage
to its whole weird head

you'll have to wait

A waiting room
is another name for Ziggurat,
have a smoke,
strike up a line
with your

hot weird daughters
built like brick houses.
or sons too, I guess.

You had 'whatever'
hidden, until

just about now
i think.