Angels of Our Misgivings
1
Down fell I, face to earth
Down fell I, face to earth And with great rejoicing among the people a deadly griping it was that took me with cruel torment that tore off my wings and burnt them in the town square. A great fire roared up to light the heavens and by that light I saw for the first time the faces of my enemies. My enemies have gathered together and they boast of their strength to overcome me, to bring me lower then the hearts of human that must muck about on earth. They would have in the heart of the city my corpse to lie like dung on the ground for the passer-by to wonder just what was my crime. While the battles were afoot news came that the speed of my demise was at hand but I could not let it be so. I mustered my strength with the wisdom of my muscles behind me and called for a treaty of alliance at large. Fain would my confederates and friends enroll in my aid still I took the upper hand by speed of being a man of constraining power who love for the battler is legendary for I have fought in the company of uncircumcised children who cheered for my conquest. The angels that rebel against me care not to doubt that I have been successful against the suicidal act that they wish to use to beat me down, they are powerless to defeat my spirit, my will to live as one in the dark skin of a man. I fight them to know my father’s sins, by it am I a guilty man but his sins has strengthen my resolve to win for man a place in the heart of the natural God of stone and bark, wind and fire, water and air, such are my cares. Do not take pity on me nor call me brave as one who battles the angels. I will bring my enemies low; bring them to nothing, bring them to know me as I go victorious over the bodies of my foes. The angels have God on their side but I need no such deity as I have nature as my aid, she will defeat their flesh and I shall school their spirits with defeat.
2
Angels are painting Poems
Angels are painting poems On the inside of my skull They are amazing in their artistic creation With their eternal joys charmingly Pricking the crevasses of my brain. Retired in the darkness of my head They are, thank to me, well read. They shake the tree trunk of my spine And rhyme waspish words. In their half reveal is a soul That knows to keep me wrap against the cold That would enfold. Sufficient, generally bold And struck with a peculiar smile They answer to no name, not even their own Which nobody knows. Their master is my soul throbbing Like a wounded half uttered sound That possesses the talent of the old. They will rend until the end. All subside the infrequent word Painted in gold laced with a warm red Unraveling the web slumbering in pleasure. What is the meaning of these poems, So full of labor toward a satisfied needs That inspires with strength in the crowded hour Of a dream filled night that fight to keep its hold On the unconscious mind struggling toward consciousness. Down in my accusing heart there is much to do For the grief that I felt when I was in a younger skin With smaller bones and the telling beat 3
Of a heart that foretold according to The plenty crowned thrills worth the Childhood knowing that each day it grows. When I sleep the angels wake and go about Their business full of color, They are my Constance friends, within And I love them most, love them all Toward the knowing of a God I breath in day by day. The vapor of their breath is an intoxicated thing That drunk the mind and make me dream of wordy things That rhyme in a time fit for dancing and I let loose Toward the motion of their wings, I let loose and sing. I sing till the heaven ring in the sounding of my voice And the angels beside themselves join in the praising Till all are drunk in the making and began to write in an ancient language that even the angels have forgotten to understand. We become one, angels and man, then we are called poet in the land.
4
Angel’s Tongues
The word was on an angle’s tongue It loved it long and well More words was round its neck strung As if a secret spell.
5
I Question the Spirit of the Angels
Spirits, invisible to mortal eyes Do you mark our action? Are you immortal spies? Can you reward with glory By the power of the divine? I’m spitting out spirits to woo With rhymes. Spirits, spontaneously sponged From forms found falling full of The founded fluxing fluid of the golden Children caustic with the angel’s breath tinted And toxic, touched Spirits, in full form spying is all that you needed to do you to do me Are you caught in the yoke of the flesh? Can you defend the angels of our misgivings? By the holy power pulled and pounced upon by angels who piled their pale praises by what comes between the me and the I and the spirit that inherent my flesh, by that power am I nothing made but by that spirit that sometime mind the make of my muscles. Spirits, angel spurned, angel spooked, angels taught the language of the tongue.
6
Angel Of My Desiring I wake to find you raining in your face Our bedroom have known many storms The maple outside kisses the window Your thorns puncture the pillow Why do you cry when the spirit of drought Is in the wisdom land? Black bellies swell, the rivers are dried And ravens do not feed he who will be the next king. You ware your love as a child in your belly Your body is lean as a man in need of his water In need of bread I shall gather some sticks to fashion your wings With oil from my skin will I smooth your prays My sins remember will I hang in your hair Go, show yourself in the wisdom land Strike rain from the God‘s cheeks The hidden prophets lay in wait beneath The sand they wake in the sounding of your feet Your lean body is leasing to the eye But I have drunken my fill And time will come to drink again Go, show yourself in the wisdom land Where pain holds its counsel I shall bake you two cakes of mud and grass To eat and give back to the land
7
Between the cradle and the grave Between the cradle and the grave You loose yourself on the gentle curve Of poverty and the mother of crime. When your life is a criminal act Waiting to forgive the fondness of your heart That comes winged with death to give Then will you be saved by the cruel hunger With its glorious worth sleeping the happy sleep Of trumpets of angels soft of flesh and pensive grace pent up against their wings. Angels with their hasty power flung away above The ethereal sky where strong flesh and blood With its innocent wisdom Must wait the new death that sheds itself of flesh and The bitterness that has spoiled the flesh baptized In the river of forgiveness that nearly drawn you. When the angels stood on your chest to make sure That you got the message, When the grave is the last thing that you have to pay For you your life lived in the shadow that hides the wickedness you did in a time of grave needs and youth Then and only then will the angels free you from the flesh that brands you as an animal.
8
Angels are no longer confident
Angels are no longer confident That there is a God. With their excessive goodness They wait the coming of man Into the heaven that keep its honor Tight by the public purse string And they lip the breath pass adoration. The angels of idle brains of men, Of one mother of summer and sun, The angels playing soldiers of the good war Fought for the souls of men, The angels of the old domain Request that the breast of young Cupid Wound itself in a show of faith. They are whispering peace Forth and foregone by saints Of friendship under the sun. I have seen the angels wake Dead and shameless. I have seen the domain of their beauty for the cross. Seen them prolong their hymns of praise That widened the sky with rage Against the hypocritical nature of man. Seen them embrace the ardent perfume of spring With its sweet suspiration of force That takes us away. They are the breeders of all good That unfurled the frolic that one plays Its worth with the adorning And gentle encounter of darkness. I have seen their breath blossom In the April breeze and break The falling tongue’s consent. I have seen them be soft and gentle, As lazy rivers rich in their amazing Brightness, purity and truth to their rushing.
9
The angels show their breeding spoiled by the Affirmation of a doubt with its beauty of revery. I have seen their love broken by the holy spear. I have heard them say ‘Let the trial of our bloody War waged above the pale face of the moon Be of worth to man.� I have seen their brave health bedazzled With a delicate yellow stolen from the sun That dwells in the paradise dejected by the Gods Born on a green island unaware that it is time to birth A new God when the old can no longer save us.
10
Angels blow your trumpet loud.
Cupid, dear Cupid Sling forth your bow, shoot your arrow To every man that loves a man. Sling the poet’s heart that can Summon the enduring love of words. Strong guard thy pointed spear Shoot from your lovely hand That we may account for our love of man. What is writ in a boy’s age Will not fit in a man’s skin. Within the frame that invades Render current what time efface. Angels blow your trumpet loud. An eye for an eye just in place. And what are angels? They have no skin or wings. They do not fly like birds But glad and can be inhaled. From the start they do believe In an eye for an eye And the promise of hornor. They can be bruised by the breath. O Cupid, dear Cupid Shelter the angels under your wings. They can be dangerous when they sing When they swell swept by age.
11
Ode to the Sadness of my Eyes
My eyes do not know How old they are My heart still keep time Like the old Seth Thomas Or a dripping faucet My eyes precede my mind When it is looking for a rhyme Sad eyes such as mine Can see an angel out of the corner Where tears collect My eyes are as fine as scramble umbrellas That once was lonely Because the rain Ran away with the wind These sad eyes of mine can not keep their history They are always only about the now What I see not what I have seen Even in sleep they have been known to weep What the mind keep as it midnight secrets My sad eyes can be dug out with a copper spoon And roll down the cobble stone streets Pass curb side trees and little shops Just turning on the light Pass store front churches Where the jealous pray to a God never seen by day My sad eyes has seen Gods picking pizza crust From the dumpster My sad eyes care that there are eyes In which to compare that the thing I see is really there My sad eyes has been known to be nocturnal But never solitary they see in pairs over lapping This with that to make the thing whole My sad eyes are forever going where I goes My eyes are never cold, they do not know just how old.
12
Come to poetry to day dream
I’m living my life As close to the bones As I can get I take my dares With a kind of grace That will not break But bend I twist myself Mentally My body is fit to defend I get high at night And in daylight too To understand What makes things real I have seen the light And beheld an angel Of a man, I am Poet to my pen Bold by the ink that I smear here Tell me your fancies And I will put them to poems Tell me of the man that you love And I will woo him for you with poetry Out side the thunder calls The promise of a small rain to fall For there are holes in the clouds Where the blue of all blues is seen Come to poetry to day dream.
13
The great seat
The great seat Is where the great one Fettered by restrain That takes possession Of the shade where The dead shut out By darkness coming forth by day. My two legs was walking About the earth in search of The walking forth by break of day The passing through the perfect eye And deliver the Gods That shall not dwell in the Existence that exist there When it is found to be false. Count me among the Gods Living after the death of the moon Goddess The moon’s death among multitudes Of shining ones. The soul of one mighty by it valor Vainly I have seen the netherworld Beneath the skin I have dispelled the night To his beloved that has stabbed Open the heaven of every make of men
14
And the prince and the pauper Returns to himself nightly. I have passed through The belly of the horiron. I gave homage to thee that Overthrew the war That rage in the Beauty of the streets. Homage that peace Will be gratified When the beautiful one Has overthrown heaven In homage to a peace That sit among the coming forth By day, by peace in a boat Made of clay by the hearts Of overthrown enemies That rest their praises In the established Queen of the Gods She embrace me with a Double season And my heart is at peace with my hands My tongue has tasted the sweat of the Gods The angels have seen me coming And ran to wing the host of heaven. Homage is given to the acacia tree With its sledge of friends And the maker of moments The mighty head of eternity Is found in the source Of the maker of the Gods The season has been gracious And truly spoken about As the knowledge of a Motivated second.
15
My brown body baby
My brown body baby Is half divine as the angles That climbs the stairways to heaven My brown body baby Is half as gracious As the angels that look after the Christ My brown body baby Is half in love with the Love of he and I love it My brown body baby Is as brave as Cortez He ware it as his hair My brown body baby Is as brown as the brownness Of Simón Bolivar and José de san Martin My brown body baby Is as brown as el cimarrόn Hiding out in the wooded hills My brown body baby Works the sugar Plantation of Cuban My brown body baby Remember Domingo Dragged through the streets Drawn and quartered And his parts tossed into the Rio de la Plata My brown body baby Remember who was called A bozales, who was a morisco or lobo
16
My brown body baby Suffer the zafa, he tells me That the tiempo muete When the fields rest and the angels Could not feed the slaves with milk and fruits
17
The Lord is a disposer of a leaf falling
The Lord is a disposer of a leaf falling Into the crack of knowing his name. The falling leaves is the song he sings He has punished me with a dark beauty Of forty-two names He is the punisher of children Computing the disposition of their sins. I have brought to thee The iniquity of mankind. I have brought you their wickedness Done in the place where peace was slain. There was a time when I wore sin in my hands And did despise the God of man Causing misery and affliction to the Abominable God that caused me harm. I am the servant of causing pain. I carried off the offerings meant For the God when they did commit Fornication against me For I did steal an apple from the orchard Behind the temple to increase my weight In the balance of the pasture diminished By the cutting of water in the preserve Where the Gods piss out their blood, red As tramped offering of pomegranates for their body. I have violated the manifestations Of pure time but I was one with The purity of making the wind holy. All the days that passes in the ninth season of coming forth Can not make me mortal that I may Do evil to the land that feeds me. I am an angle; I have the confident of the Gods But I have betrayed them For my love of man.
18
To create an angle
To create an angle Press your back against a tree Let your soul enter the tree And the soul Of the tree Enter into your body Then an angle he’ll be.
19
They say that angels
They say that angels Are angelic O, O contraire An angle can be deceitful They have not the flesh to care Angles grant wishes If you treat them right Angles brings misfortune When the time is right Each of us has a personal angle We can not know their names They can grant us crumbles And sometimes poems When we treat them right.
20
Once upon a time in Denver
Once upon a time I was walking Home from a long night’s work Worked up to mid night 30 I passed under the branch of An stately oak tree When with out warming Something started pissing down on me I dodged here dodged there But to no avail When the thing was done And I had change to open my eyes I could see there On the handsome branch Was an angle Why did you piss on me! I commanded to know Ah, take it as a blessing Was its reply.
21
The primordial water The primordial water Of everything lives within me The frail swamp And the landscape of broken cities. I am the inheritance of her Who grows victorious by the breath of God. I am the purity of the voice thunderstruck I am the desperate dawn reborn By the contours of thirsted communication Of birds that welcome the dawn as fragile as sex. I am the irrepressible armor used to shield us From the boredom as green as the breath. I grow immortal as the history of the sun. I conjure the winds of icebergs damp As clothes on the line of 1953. I am the vexed violent apple first eaten By the beauty of the forbidden artesian Of the garden where the red instant deprived Of the dialect of the Gods was spoken by the lullaby Of angels caught in the prehistory of everything mortal I am that I am the disaster of thrown up Bewilderment extinguish soiled vegetation Of the Infant tomorrow. Water is my weapon Dead hours are my sons. I go like a woman carrying a gun to her bathing. I go preposterous, unbreathable, untelling Of my complacenencies. I am as gentle as the lethal virgin That assassinates the dead without mercy. I am hunting between life and death where is found The execution of all things. I am a pocket full of dreams And when I dreamt the violence Of the world came into being. I am the son of the mouth piece of the Gods. Against my breast night takes its rest. Against my sleep the angels weep 22
Against my thoughts the unbaptized Build their empires full of nine hundred years That can fit into the mouth piece of a telephone. I am the housekeeper of barren fields Where waits the descending swelling cardinal points Embracing the deliriums weeds that has Not known slavery. I am your coalescing expectations that conspires To dance in the overdressed streets. I have been love-struck by mute indifference. I have been bloody by the Milky Way when Life first came to the skull of a God who refused To speak Its name in the city of big shoulders. I am older then old, older then the copious laughter Of being born. I am the son of everywhere. I am the departure of coming forth to nowhere. I bathe in the sluggish water of a lazy eye. I spy on the rotting God of the pulsing sky. I am the be all of the sun’s collapse. I have raped the threshold of all your sins And yet I can still sing my song to the unknown ears. Hear me for I will not come against until The nameless garden is rebuilt.
23
Angles
Angles Bewildered entanglement Meticulous art of lying down The penis from it erect height I am immersed among The skin of the rainbow Where at its end is a pot flesh Of black men’s foreskin full of pink penises.
24
The angles came pacing the floor
The angles came pacing the floor Like Pintos of speed toward The race that overlapped the finish line I stool on the platform of my vanishing point Full of stillness beneath their brilliant Experiment of a God with blond hair And narrow features sharp as the bough Of a fallen tree that none heard fall In the obedient forest where dark-haired dogs Supervised the feathery bloom Of the seasonal moon flashing its stolen light White as being alone in a play garden where grows Earnest horns that disappear when you look at them. I am awake like a real dream stalled in the head Of my freedom bed where the pillows has Mastered the art of shattered hour caught In an orgy of pretend violence that I recognized For what it is, a pale fantasy hard as The fenced in sky of heaven. The angles have been reduced to greed Swollen with green and a fellowship of pain To the governed heaven of the birth-hour of their birth. I love them with a blind faith And I fit into their sockets obsessed As the rain is to its intense falling. I love them all with an edge as sharp as An understanding of onion skin and the muscles Stable and polished by heat of sweaty ghosts Who haunts the oil lamps of a lost hour. I am beating back the 56 years of my life with Consciousness of my innocence lean and round With warm multiplicity in the city where My hard bones were broken. I love them all as it they was hot stones That sharpens the bones of my nakedness. With them I am never alone, with the pebble of their songs That guard my soul disclosed and uncomposed As an outline that blooms in the weight of their waves Hunting at the second coming that lose 25
Itself in their bellies.
I am surprised that the composition I am surprised that the composition Of my radiance visit to dream land Has reached its height of mechanism Frigging the gospel of composition That invokes brightness by the structureless Of the energy of my clarity. The yakety-yak of my mind’s resistance To mother the intermingled problem distinguished By the diversity of undifferentiated squeezed By shocking the abstract of my circumstance Is always enjoying the old dirty truth of brightness. I am untainted by the chocked resistance to be normal Normality is too much of a mechanism used to Muddle the separation of my identity that I place On a pedestal for the world to see that I am a man Of accommodating compliant. I am the stripped weed growing from the cliff, the blunt cliff rigid With rigamortis, the fit rocks of roots of weeds growing The repository of all things forever advancing The wildest configuration of lilac’s breath. I am a wild man who takes a chunk of my baffling Poetic that has no recognition of the history of poetry And I play no sloshing attention to the economy of words I am long winded in my sleep, I am grace Participating in the aspect of poetry I dream everything with the everywhere of words. My attention is inevitable toward the trench of a poem as spell To woo you, too move you, too set down the spirit you hold. Uneven angels woo me by their wings The ragged edge of their wings The everything of their holy wings, the unattended baffling oncoming And reassuring wing that they keep hidden from man. I have drowned my tongue by the lean flesh of angels Hidden the effortless gravity of walking With the angels who are splendidly afraid To make love to man; afraid of falling To the marvelous earth where they must tend the dirt Unafraid of the poems that grows as a consequence Of the angels’ tears that are as plastic as mastication Of the womb where depression is born by the abundant Mulberry leaves overlapping the shadow of the Northwest winds from the breath of angels who hide 26
Their nakedness under the hair of their wings, under the Shadows of their substance which is The scattering substance of the evidence of their scripture. My dreams straddle the ravine broken by the sun’s heat Broken by the brunt poem gone wrong with shock That God is of no rational mind, no stable mind in the mind of man No coherent continuous discrete with its sex Held in my dream head where everything is Fictional under the eyes, the abstraction of my Dreams are written by the playwright we all are The long loop of my dreams pour the Deep water of liberty, the long brown reach of my dreams Relax its escape, they flow downward pass the Curve of tucked under water as blood under the sky The blue blooded water that dart nimbly Between the angels that dream man’s life alive.
27
The giver of food
The giver of food Is the annihilator of darkness And killer of light the black hole Guardian concerning Your soul the angels have eaten As sure as death is the guardian Of your fleshy entrails Those angels are hungry As sure as churches are Chambers of the holy order of torture Houses of devourers. It is the poet who can protect you Offer you light lived by the knives As their pens. Poets be pure by nature’s judgment They know the ape of their flesh They knows the burial place That purified the soul’s habitation. They triumphant by their shining mouths Their words are a moveable feast mindfull Of the strength of being poet in bone That shall bend weak in the keens. The poet has found himself Spread-eagle before the scattered crows They have cut their hair in the super market temples Poets, no more mortal then your meat Poet, who wed the man of flames For a taste of the holy phallus Poets are the doorkeeper, watchers Of the sacral chore song to conquer The hallelujah and give Amen his praise. Poets open the way to the gates of heaven Where we want for naught among all the wanting Needed in life.
28
I want to suck the cocks of angels.2 I want to suck the cocks of angels Of course I want their seeds Planted in me they grow To poem about what the angels knows And in the world what the hell Does all this shit means. The angels are my main boys Mindful that I am only human Still they treat me rough With their wild abandonment Of the way that the world works. Angels have ghostly flesh Hard to hold on to A flesh of whiff around The tameness of my own. There is something to be said About rough sex that tie you up In the feathers of the angels who Wait to lick the drops of sweat That drain from your skin. Men easily let the angels in when The time is right for sex Yes the whole damn thing under The sun is the way of men. Mindfully mindful of what it takes to teach The angels a tongue of wisdom taught Tight places moist and warm thought about By the sweat of the body
29
The giver of food The giver of food Is the annihilator of darkness And killer of light the black hole Guardian concerning Your soul the angels have eaten As sure as death is the guardian Of your fleshy entrails Those angels are hungry As sure as churches are Chambers of the holy order of torture Houses of devourers. It is the poet who can protect you Offer you light lived by the knives As their pens. Poets be pure by nature’s judgment They know the ape of their flesh They knows the burial place That purified the soul’s habitation. They triumphant by their shining mouths Their words are a moveable feast mindfull Of the strength of being poet in bone That shall bend weak in the knees. The poet has found himself Spread-eagle before the scattered crows They have cut their hair in the super market temples Poets, no more mortal then your meat Poet, who wed the man of flames For a taste of the holy phallus Poets are the doorkeeper, watchers Of the sacral chore song to conquer The hallelujah and give Amen his praise. Poets open the way to the gates of heaven Where we want for naught among all the wanting Needed in life.
30
I. The cultivated love of Angels will develop strong Muscles in a man’s throat
II. Some angels are simpatico And plebian with their shenanigans.
III. Angels want you to get to heaven So listen to the cymbals and maracas Hear their voices as clear as tambourines See the formation of their pointing fingers Practice the movements of their holy dance Accompany them in the chant Angels are like little apples on the tree They drum their wings in sequence And game the circle of the dance Angels are double hearted One heart for God, one for man Count the familiarity of their holy dance Pot and spoon their movement with your motion.
31
Angels are everywhere
Angels are everywhere They have no personality Till human give them the comfort They can not give to you. Watch closely how they grove And use their tools to move The God that lives in you.
32
Defiance order from angel city
Defiance order from angel city In the suburb section of heaven Angel’s lips to nose in wind. He came composing clouds salad In an earthen bowl I offered drink from my suicide Tea pot of pure gold. The substance wasn’t so deadly That eyes from a time standing still Can not look away to smile.
33
My first angel
My first angel came down Unexpectedly and we were lovers In the worst way. Saw each others every day Never spoke or made a prayer for our own salvation.. I strummed him, poemed him, named his Homed him, a green toothbrush gave, Reading glasses for his new human face and Aged him with grace. I was young enough to keep his pace And his strange weight upon the tip of my aches. Who was I to care from whence he came? When he left I stopped dreaming in color. So shock I forgot to memory in ink his passing. I planted a red oak in a white bucket Last seen growing strong in Denver.
34
You are the answer to my last prayer
You are the answer to my pray That I have kept caught in the cupped palm Of my hands. With the wind at your back a sparrow That live on Wichita St. is singing good-by To the lost winds that once, just once, caressed you With its hands of encrusted bitter blood. It goes whispering in the however and none-the-less Hollow of your ears. It is only your memories that I am stealing because In a dream I told you which way to go and Reluctancely you went and found the intersecting Path where the origin of consciousness and the Hallucination of birds meets. You are the alpha male in my apartment where you Used your strength against an unknown voice Preaching the holy ghost of the now forgotten fight Of angels that raged on the tip of a pin, But I can see that you are weightlessly wrong With your cover of lion’s skin stretched over your Needs and wants that you keep in the pocket Of your heart. Without you I have nothing to do with your saints And sinners who are your friends. With your hand on my arm I can feel the artificial tan of your serpent swarming skin Dreaming like a rusted razor blaze across my throat. My mother never told me about men like you Only because she never knew in the tiny room of Her only knowing that the likes of you in a shadowed Room can be told about. When the sun goes down you are a hard one to figure out. The self that you keep for nights outing can not tell time Because saints put an angel in every one of your dreams. The night comes on like a Leonard Cohen song Whishing you well in the Chelsea Hotel where You write your name on my dick As if it’s something that you own. 35
This is my last song coming strong in a flash of pure Destruction. I have learned to weep for the end in a sentimental key. You have got to love the way that I sing like Bob Dylan’s Bucket of rain, never mind that it’s not the same. My bones are the story of me not you. Over the sea the gulls are on their own In finding dry land in which to roost and Raise their young you tell me. The sum of your longing is spent on the angels that Will look after man when they can; if they find the Time away from their eternal merriment in the Stronghold of heaven where gay love is not welcomed. You are the last sin that I have committed against an All knowing God that stands behind you. One by one you have discovered the last wisdom that The sleeping head keep to itself when time has Done all its telling; when the last telling is all told. You can hear the freight train from where I stay In its blow there is the quietness held down in the Pine tree’s dispatch where there is a whisper about The milk spilled on the surface of the ocean. I can not tell you even one truth that will keep you From falling into a funk of disuse. I leave you on your own where time is told by the Gesture of your terrifying heart that have forgotten How to weep for yourself when your body is in need. You were my last lover; the last to discover that I Will fight with the angels with words that comes on a Discarded breath and falls heavy with meaning like Shards of glass that sparkle like a surgical needle Sewing the voluminous wounds of sexual Misbehavior. You are the last dream of the weight of night that Sneaks away into the darkness of my head when the sun’s light Full of innocence spreads its vapor over the Streetlight’s hum. You are an island unto yourself surrounded by islands Unto their selves that connect in a spoken hello Passed between strangers. Only the poets can help you for you have forgotten how To look toward their wisdom now collecting dust in Books that are clothed in the skin of words telling You where the angels and muses have retrieved to Gather their breath and sharpen their tongues on The right hand of God where the noxious evidence
36
Of power struggle to keep man in his place among The living creature of earth keeping their arguments About the feritity of dirt close at hand.
37