Dancing Devil

In the midst of the dancing devil circus,
painted white and red,
she leaves us to stagger in the heat.
We can forgive each other
for the things we saw in dreams,
lonely fights with the monster,
we live underneath the belly.

Today I sweat off the negativity,
move to beaten paths of divinity,
live out the moment as if my feet
could sink straight down into the ground,
given the opportunity.

Take the red pill,
see the fall of sacred tempests
that make us swell together.
He cries out in the night,
we are losing our children.

Rebels out,
rise up and through glass rafters,
into the air,
between time and space.
Lift out of your holes,
your identity puzzles,
your dizzy spells.
We live in an age of a changing sun,
the moon our compass now. 

Heartbeat Earth

Living inside the heartbeat of the earth, I hunt for the requiem spaces of silence that hide me from those snarling dogs ever howling at the sultry sirens of the nighttime. Falling fellows, we land altogether abruptly in the sinkholes of the economy. We are stripped of our hypnotic collectables, our sacred encounters with the third eye of the sun.

Give the moon her last breath as she turns down the horizon and sleeps through the day, a curled smile flit across her face. Death slumps around on all fours and seems to drink black coffee and smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, his rusty voice fumbles over the lines of prophecy written with burning coals in the sand.

An artist in the shackles of the machine, I wonder if the apathy can change me into a walking number. Speak loud and strong before the house of card crumbles down on you too, the face of a myth staring back at you and laughing.

Yet thrust on we must, hold the lamplights higher and raise a glass to those we’ve lost through the war of articulation. Ignite the furnace within me once more. Lift up the voices of the collective electric body and soon our wet lips can drink in the creative again.

Monster Times

Living in the monster times,
we learned to creep with hostile vanity,
leaving the building block bones of industry
and lying to the suits on the thirty-first floor,
to aid our beauty sleep.

Yet in the darkness,
we slip in and out of bedrooms,
laterns awakened,
we voodoo our sins out the body,
into the river and cleanse away
what we’ve seen.

Lately I’ve nowhere to hide,
nightmares during the waking hours,
I stay haunted even in the unexpected
corners of the dollhouse.

Where in wonderland are we now?
In the deep sleepwalking cracks in the earth,
we sink down to see the fires of the Symbolic Order,
burning bright.

For those who wander

Seeking to wander,
a grimace of violence
dripped from our lips
and we spat out our
traffic disturbances
and those small razor-edged pieces that
remind us of the dark ages.

Set in stone,
the faces of the dead
writhe in agony
over the fresh graves
of the newborns.

Why stammer into darkness?
The voices murmur
and howl in the moonlight, urging us on.
We gave away our perfection
to bask in glorious mistakes.
Humanity shone through
the vapid tempests,
our painful histories.
The desert is alone.
Even so, we must ride together.

Dance out the Droid

Furnaces ignite the brain with ideas to change, morph, add somehow to the prophetic visions of the chaotic collective astral plane, a reality-eating glorious monster. Madness lighting our way through this lower hell plane we are forced to walk, this tunneled dark, this hole in the ground. 

Nevertheless, we push up through the dirt and the dungeons to the surface. Conditioned for quick conclusions, we miss that slow inner beat of the mind bursting forth to the sixth dimension, the firework generation lifts off to the seventh sun. 

Though these viruses may attack our nervous systems, we collide together and plead that the rain will seep through us, making us whole again and then standing in the sun for a moment to catch our breath. 

I stamp the earth in my resolution to shiver awake those sleeping beauties and winged seraphim snoring through the torture of the downtrodden, the suffering magicians of our day. Embody the drenching electric, dance the droid out of our senses, we feel again the air brush up against us. For a moment, gravity eludes us and we are free to roam the collective continent. 


Red flags burning,
I awoke to the sounds
of fireworks going off in the church
of Mary's angel.

In the evenings,
the river ran up to meet me
and I floated,
face first,
downstream during
the time of twilight's hunting season.

Heaven scoffs at the matchmaker,
teeth marks left on the stove by the monster,
I snuck in the backdoor  of hell
to return my costume,
from the burning masquerade held on saturday night.
The devil's horns are raised to the sky
as he counts backward from Scorpio.

Echos in the Mirror

Echoes in the Mirror

Echo me back to a hallowed place,
some sacred safe-house
on the rough road to Armageddon.
I followed the rabbit hole down to drown in
linear identity:
Put me in a box and frame it,
put me in a box and frame it,
or shame me til I cave in on myself
and box myself up,
pretending that this was my idea.
Was there a soft shape to snuggle close,
a sound of winter that holds our delicate fibers together?

I was flung to the floor
when the tempest waltzed
through the open window.
We all sacrifice a few specks of soul
to the faces that stand in the sun,
glittered and deafening,
we bow to our plastic dead doll idols,
cheers from the crowds resound on the red carpet
as we smile the smiles of the shadowed and damned.

Dance in the heart of the heathen,
we shackle our masks on to our faces in the fires of hell.
After lunch with the stock market profiteers,
we make a mess of the kitchen,
tables turned over,
coffee pot stands on its head
dripping down the cabinets,
staining the rug,
glasses broken on the floor
looking like diamonds:
witness our liberation from the sunken skull generation.

Together we pant through our abuses,
our broken bones and bruised faces.
Give me a method of deliverance,
a way to understand the tormented self,
without breathing too heavy,
giving away my place of hiding.
Then without warning,
the reflection in the mirror starts talking back.

For the time I dreamt aloud

The hysteric women, for-seeing the darkness through the ice storm that swept across the western plains in mid-January, cry out in warning and run into on-coming traffic. Voiceless faces tighten around the jaw line at the sight of the sunset collision with the earth. I sat and then paced, and thought and sat and paced again under the whirling of the ceiling fan who whispers that I’m no good for this task, this undertaking of the undertaker. Coffin size notwithstanding, I open up that sealed casket door and step through the light misting rain and find myself with a desire to soak into the earth, to melt inside of the underworld furnaces that are just being lit again for a season of treating the mystics.

Deny the dream of death, the ghost repeats herself in the mirror, standing naked with the bloodstained faced mannequins who, draped in filthy finery, whisper that chaos is riding the eastern wind back towards home. I became the nightingale, the pirated profit of the caged birds singing the blues through the bars of a system that creates only wincing dead, hallucinations of moaning bodies as they drift through days of sleepwalking.

The vampires awoke from centuries of slumber to return to their thrones of fated serpents’ heads which hold our puppet strings while they reload the cyborg systems. We came from dust and yet there seems to be a transformation into cogs and wheels, mainframes lifted up as the idols of an age which dies with its robot arms crossed on its chest.