THE ARCHITECT OF CHANGE
We are questions playing at night
Night is our playground
Ground is our game
The game: What are we playing
I
Potentimeter Concrete Blocks
The wisdom of a parfait Feted 49,000 feet above i see level
Measure your potential -
now your face -
can be destroyed
By the way wisdom -
brought about face -
to create it
Creatures of habit
Habitual in our seeds of doubt
Our needs of compensation for a hard life
if I give so much for so little
can I at least feel the mark I make
That fistule into fantasy, emanating from practicality
The simian invector disappears against a backdrop of his own choosing
Careful to conceal us from
Vows against the cerebellum insurrection
Thereby vilifying the dreads of prosecution...
...PWAAAAANNN!?!!!
The sheriff of liberation rides
A pirate radio station, flags billowing
In the not-wind
Against which we sail our heroes of heresy
The journey of Course lies in desolation not escalation
Banded by the strope which spheres
Our globe our meager globe
Our tawdry lillipute...Destrosity, which we present
To you...who are now beside me
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To pfenning a pfrase or rather
A mountain low and true, we are united in our need
To escalate religion to magic
The answer of course, lies with escalation
The kingdom of the sheriff
Is only won by the fair 3-eyed maiden: Mare Faiden
Who's hair-wig is supplicant to feeding us her hair-juice
Concussion her, so the locks may wrap about
Our suckled voice-voyages
Her head is pitted as a, as a...a...a...a...a...
Vortex shtupped our throat!!!!
per every ringing in our nodes of fashion
in the steps of Espana
in the breast of Roma
in the feet of Madra
in the milk of Sals·
Cracked open as a rail
Is left to dry in the European sun
Left in the battered boil of 4-color glory, thin are the legs of liberation
Worn too high knicked of Bic-flanneled cuts
The panties of men flowing with every morning shave
We are beastules...
Bumbled on a corset worn too long, a 7-era flight
From the manners of supplication to maturation, as a grape
Left too tight in the paralytic sun
As a department store of ghosts, proclaiming once and future moderns
In the service of PRO-gress
In the architecture of change, the blueprints rust
as the artists take over. In the neon twilight, a new generation
ages quickly, before you can say elder, before your eyes,
a generation of twilight bluers, quill-glow on the resonance of
reverberation, on the warmth of concrete hillsides, in the fields
of rocket sculpture, stillborn in their movement of hope.
That we as a people, need to believe
In a force outside ourselves to explain ourselves...it is magic
That is religion
Someone's lord holds a hoop for us to float through
No strings attached to this book
Stigmatic suspension / World of manipulation
Mirror Vexor / Shamen Conqueror
Hands me the finish / so I know how it ends
Walks out on stage
Dead of space
Wearing crowns of
Nothing up our sleeves...PRESTO
Iodes occult the air
Between us
Is us
As head as was we is
Walking on water-sky-feet
Ingrown children in a lifelong world
These are the days of possibility, the days of watering the fields of rust
These are the days of darkness, blessed darkness, stolen from prophets
who see too much
These are the days of mirror games chased, encased upon a real mirror
What lies before the captured image, a prison imprisoned by prisms
2-dollar protecterant, day coat in tow, offers me a dollar
Leaving himself with 1
I take yet attached to his knee
I take yet attached to his shoulders his joints
as I put in my wallet
his scream comes with me
as I spill by my pen on this page
Voice of maus and glass
Voice of magnets and polarity
Voice of sacramench ¸nd darkness
Voice of sculpture and soil
Vozi-voz ava fera-lasnis
I wink at the forest wait for reply
my eyesight, steady against the breeze
Wettered tundra wash, temple-watered desolation days of sand
And locklorn heather, are far far behind, be way
Of here...behind the block - is that street marked Surprise
Be far of here, SEE...IT IS ZIP
Juice of Jumble-Ya-Ya song
The only jump Daddy Longlegs has
These are the days of Berlin, thorned by ruptured bouquets of black
Reddened saccharine ships and stars, hard drinking stars
Frausome plents and planet frauleins, who frequent youth clubs
Constellations grafitti shell-shocked adolescence
Berlin is my day of possibility
Berlin is what I wake to
My twi-night ghost of a drunken ship
I don't need to drown to suffocate on her braids...it's just the nobility in me
That saves me, pulls me through these streets of shattered chivalry
American civility, crystals form a flight path shattering civility...on a sunshine day
Sipping ale in Potsdam,
the Germance w¸rds ere verry loonnng for rhythm
I am dimpled with possibility
As a boy crosses cobbles - into his shadow is his shadow
Into this shadow into this writers' shadow his shadow into me
Will always be this sunshine day
Into the ghost is ghost
Into the ground is ground
Into diving jack the dive
Into swan the swan
Into lover - frenzy
We are born of need and satisfied
We are fed to bleed and die
We are in between and somehow, near me, what falls but these letters
These slips of darkness that so much want to fall from my teeth
To bite to mangle the world I've created
In this day which is a lifetime, you create your own daytime
Technicolor has a dream...doesn't include Berlin
Who lives in Black & White
Darkness is a dream to the days of possibility
We are water, thirsting up soil, hungry Black & White grain
Pollinating the center of seperation, the place of all meeting points
Before the ending is handed, before the buck is off'd
Before the hunger dissipates in one fell swoop, one crumbled
expanse wanderlust
We are the night, open-mouthed and waiting, to have our throats stuffed
With the stings of leather-clad scorpions, wrecked on stardust
II
Pixie dust pirahnas
Diaramas of cathedral cities, medieaval burnouts
Hobo-otic starships, unraveling before my eyes
A string of stars inside this pocket, glued
On crumbling walls of midnight
Questing crosses, signed stigmatician celebrating incubation
Brain of ale and soda pop mercy
Blue sky postcard, soapy tryst against the afternoon
Photographs of indignation, severed barbed wire
Throning curls
Niagra moons
Against its face, its shadow lies against the scorn
Profile of another bargain
Profile of the mother
Profile of Acacia, herbal pigfoot santeria
Orange doom against the passing profile of surrender, against
The shadow of another day
Against the sculpture's rusted swooning, same, against the ground of it
Of a distant journey, neon blue the twi-night takeaway
By the faraway, from way, far of here...
Department store of liberation, shale her sister-grey of coal-chock
Shavered lace against the sky, these windows are looked out on
Now an entrance, where all ghosts of liberation wait
A cave, a belfry bellringing
City of entrances, village of passage, one to one, 2
Of everything
2 Oceans sailing for gold
For replicated fools, mining canyons of boogaloo balseros
Refracting light against the profile of another
City of days, of glass canyons shattered
Against flying fat fairytales longeared blind songing
Against bats' loyal entry into night
Climbing reflections of children
Dazed by belonging
Powered by pixie-dust explosions of light-
Treasures, buried in the orange of neon twilight
To tell you
Of possibility and rust...I've seen this, maybe not
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I do these acts of chivalry thinking nobility is my engine
I've been here...just like you, neighbor
What I've seen is in my time, is all
I have eyes like you, pen like you
So why is this heart so new
As it sees envisioning differents upon visits
Of declaration and splendor
It telegrams them to you, dear neighbor...who are now beside me
Re-visioning your see, as this
Goes on
