Yesterday I found an angel in a pinstripe suit
who lent me his car, I traveled down the dust-specked
road with moths in the headlamps to Cape Canavral
where the rockets launched at daybreak. I met
a woman statue there who cried tears that fell in
a chalice filled with langour, and I asked her
where she bought her melancholy armor.

The rockets launched off and created a streak of
pinstripes across the archaic sky. My lady of statues
pointed at the horizon's blade pressed there like the
promise of love. Engines blared mercurial blazes
and my heart took off, wrapped in carrier pigeon's
leather.

In the motel, there rang silver bells
and the television shaped into a triangle
where our angles met like joints in a statue's armor.

The moon beams fortune upon the bold at daybreak,
where the flesh ends in armor. The rain moves
like blessings across the earth and angels in pinstripes
break down any dark armor.

the glow pt 2, the microphones

i took my shirt off in the yard
no one saw that the skin on my shoulders was golden
now it's not
my shirt's back on
i forgot my songs
the glow is gone
my gliding body stopped

i could not get through september without a battle
i faced death
i went in with my arms swinging
but i heard my own breath
i had to face that i'm still living

i'm still flesh
i hold on to life with feelings

i'm not dead
there's no end
my face is red
my blood flows harshly

my heart beats loudly

my chest still draws breath
i hold it
i'm boiling
ooh oh oh
there's no end

The weekend frills are filled with lore
of kings shattered by the sun, who penned
the notations of horizons rain with the
artifice of one forlorn and rustling fellow
with an hourglass within his hand.

The keeper of protection's things chant
the ancient essences of courtship's velvet
hum, I walked the broken road of vanity's
understanding that experience brings,
I touched the cobblestones with care
and sheltered beautiful rings that bound
my hatred with idle wings and wrestled
magics with a dried up old and bitter thing.

I searched horizons wide and far for proof
that only the beauty of poverty brings,
I walked in step with women drunk with the
fumes that perfume sings, I ran through
golden fires with a robe of angel wings that
drank of heaven's fountain scent and scuttled
sour things.

The way I feel when you call my name
makes me go crazy to sane!

One day
I went walking
Whistling mildly
For the somnolence of the moment
Indicated a certain merriment,
Indicated a reason to live.

I worked my knuckles to the wooden bone
Like you, like all of us
Trying to find an answer beyond the fog of love.

There is no other way. If you don’t know this
By now, you might as well be dead, a Mexican Sherpa
Living in a box-car and singing railway tunes
Is more soulful than the corpses of the idiot middle class.

I wandered through the halls of an turbulent sleep
and felt the fight of winged black upon the paint of my mask,
when I kissed it it turned into perfume and set itself within
the dungeons of my heart's lack. I spotted the edge of a weapon
where it had dissapeared with marble blood flowing across a cobblestone
path, I spotted the empty words within its beak bleating questions
that no one had learned to ask. But within my velvet coat,
"It is all the same to me whether I fight or refuse to attack."

One day my armor grew a deep and blood red crack
below my chin and jawline where I chewed the ends of spaghetti
strands and where I worshiped cadaverous verbatims
that the barbaric Christians told me were black. But
the words saved my life like a silken parachute billowing
with the edges of a wild wind that flew back
in replete perfection of a dome made more beautiful
than Classical Renaissance artist's masterful tact.

And it was a woman who saved my life from scalpel's fact.
It was a woman who drove me across the wasteland with ribbons
fluttering as arm bands to beauty's army
enraptured with the rare gift of a desert rose
amid craggy mountainous peaks, amid a dust of stars
filling ravines with the sweet taste of nova particles
in the stream at my feet.

And with the edges of soup toureens we scouped our breath back
from the delinquance of hunger's artificial math.
We enjoyed the ones we loved
beneath tiny mountains and mountainous leafs.

With windows drawn across the shore of our beach
we ate strawberries soaked in cognac and brushed
with sugar's speech. We closed the doors forever
when the police sirens screamed. The fascist
lore fell off the cliffs of the sea into perdition
when the answers to their tests turned red and
didn't change back. I saw your features curve
in Renaissance colors that day on our beach.
I saw your curves sway with the waves as I
listened to the melody of your speech. That
was the day I decided that I wanted to meet
your sweet age across the glories of the shore.

Once Sweet Artaud

I saw clearly,
knew of poor once sweet Artaud
and heard the history of earth
in his lettered pages.
Nobody else
could have told me
so clearly what I already knew.

His sweet canticles
gone unwritten
due to the fear of Septimus.

His frail beauty lost on
his theater audiences that
reduced him to dying over
and over again on stage.

With subtle letters he explained
and explained and explained.
The surrealists thought he raved,
though they merely put Frued in art
while shitting out their subconscious.
Artaud, clever friend, traveled to Mexico
with the sequins of his intellect,
ditching opium as he wandered through
the hall-less wonder of ancient desert,
his mind enraptured with tender details
of a mythic people.

The doctors created his madness,
for doctors do not understand art.

Like why he carried a silver-tipped cane
and struck sparks off the cobblestones
with glib flits of his wrist.

In his torrid merriment, he told the truth
about Van Gogh.

And that is all you need to know about
once sweet Artaud.