Her Fiery Light Reborn in Mud
Suicidal men are drawn to rosy ruin
prepared to die in marriage
for the picking of a cosmic flower, farming
the moment in the name of science,
spewing her mystical math in one blast
of religion and craft to receive
the instant retinal flash burn,
Venus, comet, or dragon's wrath.
The creature is nothing; time and space
and all that depend on it are nothing. FRC
Robbing the garden, stealing her rose,
they all must come to vernal heavenly death,
to breathe one lasting final breath
of scent where blissful God still lives.
Silence follows the billows and folds,
and the strange red virtues of her sap,
the milk of a stone, igneous, outlasting,
gossamer threading earth to heavens,
evening updraft like no other.
And yes, her oh-God-love
remembered like no other
captured on the burned-in retina
collected in her love-shot video,
body lotions, fog and thunder,
every motion of her slick design
a waste of heavy heaves and time
when resurrection blunders in.
Gardenias fresh, yellowed or brown
are handed out in dim light as one
preparing for the process of a gig
coordinating gear in music limbo
pinning thirty years to one lapel.
Arouse that drunk replacement
with a symphony of the sick,
the saxophone, hell's brassy tears.
Road dreams, hospital white,
like somebody's half-baked legacy
gather forces in the travelogue sunset,
make you roll over dodging flashes,
visionary backlit planetary wishes
for the industry of naming names
and the spells to remember them all
behind storm doors at the backs of rainbows.
Petals blossom outward
from the one who tries to control,
the one in charge of total self
proceeds to image non-events,
a sloppy search command
to stretch as far as Atlantis' tide,
a floozy heart still lipstick scrawled,
a Muppet colored temple dream,
a hatbox full of Egyptian sand,
erotic passions for that notch of sun up
where the hairy bolt of light
can mount the world's muddy crotch.
Homeless men draw windows on their chest
or whisper Delphic, sweet philosophies,
connecting dots in Kilroy heaven.
Swallow the drinkable gold, not one
boundary in sight, the inner life should roar
above the chaos of opinion
and the science of the sane.
The rest of us will merely cringe at you
who live outdoors and loiter in the rain.