I'm not waiting for the coming

I'm not waiting for the time

I'm not waiting for the woman

I'm not waiting for the hour

I'm not waiting for the moment

I'm not waiting for the resolution

I'm not waiting for the revolution

I'm not waiting for the sacred cause.

Wheels of lacquer

rods of unspeaking ascension

and blossoms of bright stars invaded

lips that vent intoxicating vapors

walls of veiled cement

the milk of silent shadows

night for day and day for night

the fond shapes switching sides

in bronze rooms rearranged

the torch of a strange tongue

right angle to a lower rain

pitchfork caught in the strainer of the ages

that doesn't work quite right

the hitch that is God's fear

superb descending smear

of the angel's rear

and games of weightless resolve

for no one to solve.

Jellyfish brains in a radiant tank

shapes of land forming on the surface of the sun

front row seats in a shell filled with mercury

trails of torn cloth

snaking past metallic avenues

oil on the gears of time machines

is oil from the hair of angels

locks that click backwards

in the churning night

fame swallowed by the shaken light.

Variables turn like salt and butter

on the tongue, with a smirk I enter

my contemplative phase,

trailing all the embers

of the days I burned,

alone by the riverside, crushed

ferns around my muddy feet

like an alphabet of mangled

bird skeletons.

The serpent joined me on the cross

my golden limbs were weary

tables shone from a far off court

the appetizers served were twinkling on tiny forks

and trays were overturned by liquid seed

I'm a riff collector

a sack of skulls travelling on flying carpets

inside the velvet chains of night

bleeding down drawbridge lane

tumbling along the descending cables

you are just a fleet of outlines

prim shadows cast by a fading light

while the raid of doves

plucks at knobs of bright

ungathered lust

Electric shock in painted aftermath

lips brim with sap

scarlet rivulets and sculpted gardens.

Oil polished wood and

her walking on cement, a slab

next to the racks of raging cloth

shanks flashing and a mythic dog

singing next to the meat monger

as the neon grows slowly stronger.

Caught in the swirling

painted brambles

thorn tongues and climbing spirals

combed pebbles of edible bone

shores of wet clay

carved into writhing bodies

mouths pouring golden dust

blades fogged by faint

evaporating worlds

Lust and anger, twin rulers

of my life, who I love

for inspiration.  Idols mapped

by flashing grids on either

side of the darkened kingdom's

gate crushed closed by

the panicking hordes.

Crystal keys ascending tarnished

on conveyor belts of gold

as the air gets old.

Where is my friendly dragon?

Jack the Rabbit sits on a fence

watching the grass get nervous.