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Real-Time Poet: It Was Three Years Ago Today That I Took a ...

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Solar Bath

She awoke
shapely but shaken
And I watched her bathe
In blinding electricity
Beneath the solarized sky
Tiamat met Zeus
Were unable to reach
The porch to punish her
And over the cornfields
Of Republicanated Iowa
Thunder a’ trumpeted,
And Tesla’s lightning
Failed to defeat her,
And solar light bounced
Off the feet of her
Bouncing upwards
Off the earth, to fire
Up the weaponized,
Quite culinary clouds
On the ninth
anti-anniversary
Of September Eleventh
She awoke shapely but shaken
As the neighborhood watchers
Faded away like gargoyles,
Draconian unbeings,
As the Ta’ Iowan
dawn made
The winds sing
A new day, and all
The old fucked up
Old ghosts all
But ran away
I watched her bathe
In electricity last night
As we watched the watchers
And then all of the watchers
Started signing in Morse Code
And before dawn we chased
Each other around
Wondering which one
Was pretending to be
The scariest and smartest
of them witches on
the mirror ball wall
And internationalist
Viagran huntsmen fumbling
For newsy spells to foul
The electrician’s switches
As the shapely but shaken
Wake up call doomed up
A first breath of hurricane fires
Churning up in the earns of the earth
And I imagined how the tectonics
Of how the globe might burst
Sending more seawater, yes,
Up from down below,
Way way way down below
More even than
the moon can send
if Zeus ever came back
to toss that old rock
down again
And before dawn she bathed
In a lake of fire
Sent down from the sky
And we all chased down
The shapely but shaken
Without causing a ruckus
Or a Venusian star
to start screaming
About her long lost
Gothic Civil rights

El Cathedral

Light leaking through the trees
in a voice of sun music
as a Jesuit-taught cowboy
poking gruff holes through
the forest, a well-worn
horse-made trail ...

In the morning's blaze
Sunshine Peak smiles
through touristas
in hangover cobwebs
after a night's
culture shock therapy ...

She is kind, but wise and cautious
as the deer but fearing nothing
except for the coming bulldozers
and coyotes of commerce
preying on the young, the weak ...

(Ah, the weak,
now there's some
cheap meat ...)

And it wouldn't be here
in the future, which is today,
and yesterday is just
this poet's old ghosts ...
roamin' ...

The next day and for years
after that, Set would go on nibbling
on greens, for no one,
said Horus, the hawk,
could crunch on greens
better than Set ...

Among he are those times
is monies folks, old blokes,
who pushed women around
for centuries, like cattle,
due to God's half-written call

And they were good
intentioned men,
just like me ...
who went home,
all unsatisfied,
to beat on their wives,
to then sleep for another day
with their brokers, pork belly
stokers, livin' among chain
smokers, all bragging about
how they had this girl and that girl,
when, in fact, they had not ...

She is kind, and wise
and no longer
free to be
alone ...

~ Persperide,
Colorado
(originally written
in the summer of 1996,
now updated for you,
the consumer)

The Rivalry

The sun came up cold, wolf-nosed,
with its business being your business,
and I knowing neither north nor south
and the divided elusive spheroid lands,
a football chopped into the Tao of two,
half cheese, half butter, all corn-fed,
rolling a gutter wash flood of drunk
monkeys into an Iowan university town ...

Saint Hayden Fry,
a cash-in-carrion
mixture of cow tippin',
tow truck drivin',
methane dispensin',
hawkwind huntin'
demythologian,
dark sunglass wearin',
Jim Jonesian hero cult
leader of the local FBI ...

Scoured and scorched
pump and dumpin' fear
into the rectangular fronted
armies of black-and-blue
burned bloody armies,
yellow hawkwind beaked,
technocratic beepee
station technocratic
fire and ice breakers
of split-levelled skyboxers
pointin' binoculars top-down
onto the grassy flats of evils
won and lost beneath
the split-level sky

A remote viewing post-toasty
hosting a contagion of baddass
battalions of flankers and big-necked
booboos, uneven into elevens,
spinning once snapped
into sun-punished twenty twos,
balancing their rises and falsies
just like the American Civil War ...

Except now the uniforms
are more graphically beautified
and the forward pass unpunted,
as opposed to the run and gas
is rewound into the awkward
remains of unconsecrated,
polyunsaturated ground ...

And there's always, outside the box
the African-American man,
remade as black boy,
who was once a believer,
shaking a broekn banana in town
since now he's unable to reach
anymore money-grubbing,
property owner theiving thieves
on the apartment rental emergency phone
in order to earn his martyred manger
for his hollowed out poverty mole mound ...

You, season ticket holder,
may have never known him
as more than a mere jersied number
but he came to school
with airy Jordan skills
glitters of jittering futurtastic
static plastic stars
in his decieved eyes

And I remember a hooded
bulldogger, drill sargeant,
screaming, "Are you a pussy?
Are you a pussy? You are just
a plain pussy, aren't you?"
I remember dirt seat and scarecrow
scared, gasping from behind my facemask ...
I remember being emasculated
for the terrifying linebacker's task
of using my helmeted Hopi head,
full of old Gaelic soul, wordy woes,
to fill a gawdamn imagined hole
so he could go home and howl
to his half-deaf bored overweight wifey
that being a wannabe Vince Lombardi,
now there, bitter cherry berry,
now, that's the life ...

Animal mind controlled
on fields of stolen gold
prairie son bloodied
all skylighted to maintain
Romanesque economies
of momentary plunder
between waves and waves
of beer and truck commercials,
church churned into jars of cash
and coins jingling into thunder ...

Yeah, Hayden Fry ...
Here's my greatest wish
to broadcast on my hopeless
limping satellite dish:
I hope that when they carry
you in that grand parade to your
tummy tucked tomb
that they bury you alive
with Iowa license plates
tattoed to your ethanol eyes ...

Thunderbolt

The Reformed
Presbyterian Church
was hit by a thunderbolt
and Morning Sun, Iowa
was rendered back to the year
Nineteen Fifty One

And brother Jesus
sat on his Cardinal corner
with the ghosts of three gauzy
British colonial columns
behind him, more than twice
the height of the man
commanding them,
who lives four or five
times more often in life
than in death,
but who's counting?

Meanwhile, the local fire captain,
Tom "Torch" Lawyer
sits as the Grand Poopba
in the unmarked Oddfellows Hall ...
He, a Big Brother, of the weather map
and he sings, "O Hey, Gaia, what did I do?"

"O yeah, there was that, and that and that ...
I'm so sorry angry sun, sorry for this,
sorry for that ... O Kracken King Igor,
heavy weather hanging from across the plains
to the mountains once made pleasant
from Denver, Colorado
to Bloomington, Indiana:
Where John Cougar Mellencamp
is still wearing his hard hat ...

"Please, O Kracken,
spare me your change
and please spare
me some of my favorite
old mason bricks,
and spare me
from my brats

"Leave me one
Rosetta stone
and at least three
favored stocks
for six hundred
and sixty six
Fortune 500 companies
and please sponsor
my one last storm rider
so he can broadcast,
like Paul Revere in silver
my long last broadcast
on the Weather Channel
on Ruppert Murdoch's
Blue Ray Disc-shaped
magic Thunderbird carpet,
so that music can still be
piped in like rock'n'roll
in a cowboy hat
at the local Wal Mart

"And spare me your golden
spike in natural gas,
your January jolt
in coffee prices,
and spare me your sanguine
advice on what to expect
and spare me your photo radar
lanes used by Fed Ex,
and spare me your
weaponized Pineapple Express
as it tingles a trio
of water spouts
across the forty eighth paralell

"But please remind me later
to use a higher quality
white ashy paint
so I can smile upward
with a stun gun kept
quite safe behind my back
as I move beneath overhanging
chemtrail inspired clouds
to keep my doormats dry
when you try to reclaim
your honestly inward saints

"And tell that bastard
Mr. Ringo, he's running
out of time, and though
he bought a Wal Mart sold
Chinese-made plastic compass
that we have him lined up
in our electronic eye sights
and he'll never get across
King Henry the Eight's
magical river line

"Because, you see,
Medicare doesn't cover
everything,
especially his supposedly
secure bright and sunny
horizons, or bullets
or my elitist religious conceits
because he can't use his cell phone
or even mark a fully mastered retreat
with the sunspots buzzing up auroras
against his great hope for liberties
because they will always cost him more
than his lonely Roosevelt socialist dime

"Say a big hello
to that second toughest
man in America,
that next-to-last Templar
because I can see, feel and read
the second coming of Joan of Arc
sleeping in her shrine ...
'Coswe all know there's nothing
more exhausting than inaction
and his sacred pen as shotgun
won't bring his dead doggies back

"So hey! Angry Solari,
let's just say it was all
a good old boy's
misunderstanding
and even if the annointed We
run the risk of getting heart arrested,
or if sanctified gloomy We
speed through our Freemason made
towns, rocket launched
at the speed
of thirteen million
miles per hour,
and even if Johnny Ringo
can teach himself
to silence the two stormy
coasts in the centered
silences of his mind,
we can cut off his touch
to Taiowa her in Iowa
in order to remain in Tombstone
to review the cannons loaded,
in the late afternoon aspenglow,
as they are pointed
at Cochise's last stronghold
so that we, alone, can enjoy
the bonny bones of Norteneo
from our weaponized
plastic transister radio,
nor can he enjoy sweet
Maggie Marlowe, sleeping
in nicotine terrified migraines
without a tweet in our jail-baited
basements humming up thunder
from our cold dark basements
down below, so we can
keep up our plans to sell off
glassified dead scorpions
to the last of the plutocratic
touristas at the high noon
military movie show."

Lost Hero Blues

Laying down his bones
in the dispossed back alley,
the bone man shivers in the streetlight
Ambushing archers, waiting in the wood,
keep a keen eye far into the distance for the enemies of love
She picks up his bones breathes flesh from her stone,
but then walks away, stinging his flesh with a slap to awake him
Leaving his bones, again ...
Le Heusero died again, and he lingers here, beneath this tree,
as the corridor waits to hear the song of the beautiful man
whose legend is told from hill to hill,
mountain to mountain & sea to misty sea.

Information Disease

After seeing the morning light
through three motel room windows
the dog came out, delivered by a member
of the Select Committee to Keep Me
From Doing Anything But Writing Poetry
and in that morning blight, the red and yellow light
yellow as the angry sun, degenerated all of mankind
into a dumbed down cromagmun gun, that, lacking
any more access to information, imagined itself into a slick
And just as fast, although less permanent,
in the corner of my eye, the profound Eris of the deep
caught up with conversation with an heiress of the Grand Old Party
and the earth's unpleasant grip on the dominion of sin quaked, rattled, rolled
and water vapor seeped up, toward the earth's surface, from underground and flowers
bloomed louder and we all got younger and the wind softened and daylight sent love sighs
into the breeze

Beneath the Surface

Meanwhile, at the Gothic Art show,
where the library of Alexandria
has failed to burn down,
due to better security
and more available stone,
the question gets asked,
but there is always a chance
for a follow-up question
and the mysteries are further
along, which is to say, more science,
less so magic ... but why roil of crosses?

Why is it written down at all?
Why was it written, or read, upside down?
Why should a Book be painted in two-thirds,
Magdalene in richer surroundings,
revealed with a pot of Lily
in the foreground to foretell
the coming and going of Joan of Arc?

Why would God need to read down,
creating the need to leave the Book
pointed up in order to ascertain
that which the Creator already knows?

In the Book of Kells
the Gaelic kept
the coming and going,
waiting to leave and weave
out in a swirl of possibilities,
in a dervish tree-mind of Nature ...

O, how such details are wasted
on Jesus believers in a hurry
to get home to watch the Dallas Cowboys
down from above ... They, who have found
such easy answers on the surface, maybe a halo,
a hoot, in the institutions of the arts,
who drives their hairy chariots
across the bones of the Blood
of Jesus, always the little boy,
always the Man, the Saint!

O sure, O sure,
the Iris isn't Eris
for sorrows or such fools,
for neither minnows or Bulls,
for the peacocks or for Pride,
or for Paradise
or for the AOL
of the mind ...

For Fibonacci?
For factories in Flanders?
Do we blame the Dutch ... really?
The Dutch? And speaking of towns,
tongues and virgins, unchurched,
but, all the same able to act
quite natural, but hidden for sight
in those visceral bones of sacred light,
the arcana of the Black Madonna
in from views but taller than them all
in the geometric sacred Twin Towers
of Solomon ... for Hieronymous Bosch,
who liked the challenge of harbors
in disorders and hidden orders
to synthesize the Dhambala,
the Sirius, the Dog Star ...
in order to ask O why, o why
or why ...

Fer Bermuda, Aye!

For those about
to wake up
for their next
tropical depression:
I blow a kiss
and an antidote
loaded with Vitamin D

For my brothers
and sisters,
weak, picked on,
flipped on their backs
like doomed sea turtles
for the past twenty years:
I push a little blue button
issuing a satellite beep
causing instant pain relief

For a phony Noah's Ark
full of pixilated African animals
diving deep into twin lakes,
moving slow or fast,
enjoined at their hips:
I call up a might cloud,
concealing a thunderbird

For illegal immigrants
(as well as half-human aliens)
hiding like Apaches
in the motel rooms
of America: I send
a silent warning,
a three-hour head start,
initiating a two-year
launch sequence before
the power all goes off

For dangerous rip currents
building something together
in cascades of waves,
the top one silent, deadly:
a unified nomenclature,
be you rogue waves,
sneeker waves,
baddass high tides,
a roiling, boiling
but quite sexed up
good egg project
shaping smoother shores
so we can all learn
just a little bit more
under mostly cloudy skies

For all of the supposedly poisonous
under toads, intelligent horny toadies,
a tinted glass manufactured
by mere mortal men,
to hide behind
and therefore
to evolve anew
and grow

For all of the rest
of you angel hatchlings
in your fleshy husks:
for each, a single ticket
to ride, to sink and then fly,
riding high up in wood coffins,
rising up to the sea's surface,
like the meek in the Hopi bible
swimming with the shore

Thy Father's Needs

(Forgive, But Don't Forget)

In the secret agent shades

along the dirty boulevard

the disquited boys try

to hunt down new divas

with energies circling,

tryin' not to rust

As the shadows get longer

no longer rough

is no longer enough

and the divine fems

keep in their corners

reportin' on their formers

Thy father's needs

Thy father's needs

Thy father's needs

cause the earth

to bleed

Who is left or right

of the center

keep untying hearts

and poisoned darts

together feelin'

funny about the weather

And the Overlord plays

his fiddle to bards split

right down the middle

letting the dust of fast

polarities just plain settle

Thy father's needs

Thy father's needs

Thy father's needs

just suck the rust

off the gristy griddle

There's a guy here

waitin' for the gals

to complete their

conversations

dreamin' of their

own truths to private

Cherokee nations,

Cherokee people

as wedding bells ring

and a divided nation

fails to swing or sing

on either wing

Thy father's needs

Thy father's needs

Thy father's needs

boilin' up corn seeds

to cut all those Joans

of Arc but deep

Don't you feel

O so incomplete

due to thy Father's needs

Thy father's needs

Thy Father's needs

dryin' corn seeds

O so incomplete

to his dirty deeds

his dirty deeds

crossed up

cotton seeds

Ozo incomplete

Ozo incomplete

Ozo incomplete

to thy father's needs

thy father's needs

cut down those weeds

let it all just bleed

for Thy father's needs

Thy Father's needs

Thy father's needs

the whole damn earth

plain gone to seed

~ Douglas McDaniel,

The Bards of Mythville,

While on military tour

in St. Charles, Illinois

Black Hawk Up

Eleven a.m
and the unarmed
dying of the dark
can't catch up
to pre-dawn me

Upon the Midwestern plains,
the planes boss, the planes ...
Their thunderbird songs sing
to thee ... tho many of those bros
have never flown
much further West
than the Miss Yi Yapee

Dark clouds move
across the red sky
from the Southwest
airlines, all guidelined
by pill pushing plumbers,
electrostatic electricians,
by zombie-eyed truckers
dumbing down magical,
no longer mysterious
or even once mythic roads

Full moon all day headlining
to disappointing misfortunes
of Dionysus, who died that night
well before the clouds move slow
and covered wagons move fast
to confuse the fine old sun's
meandering eyes, red satellite
rounded ...

Since we are at war now
against cosmic nations
in corporate disguise
and a single black hawk
emplores the baddass
updrafts to remain,
to be still
and wise ...

The Valley of the Single
Black Escaped Pig Fiasco

The engorged valley
was wide as the Grand Canyon,
but wider the Abdominal Void,
and shale-white stone,
a single one, most noticeable,
pointed toward the West,
toward a happy life, happier endings,
than the imaged hat-brimmed
man left in the dusty dust,
the aquarium rescue dream,
of turquise particles, dust,
and a ghost, perhaps, or a lover's
old friend, who left a single marble
from her head, to point the way

With great fear, fear alone, tore back
down the mountain ... which shook loose
again after a mere ten minutes
at the insatiable blue counters
of your local Walmart crack pipe dealer ...

After dinner, her hair turned blue
and she got the shingles from shaking
too many demons out of the newborn
skulls of other ... and she wept in the morn' ...
and the sound of a single-family home,
another of many more undone for the day
burned a new red hole in me ... and I could
barely smoke, or speak, or feel, or touch
my own nose from looking so hard to see ...

But somewhere out there in middle America
a single black pig is running free in the streets
while a shadow's brilliant pink red Father Sun
has also come undone from the blazing glories
of incomprehensible amounts of feminine hunters
charging in the last great light brigands
inspired by trampled patriarichal old souls ...

The Eleventh
of Twelve Elves
of Mars ...

Gorgeous sun,
mother of sun
uneasy to appease,
easier to please
but bitter in death
untaking the taste test
after dinner thinker
but not much
of a drinker

This insane chain
around you was sympathy
Overpowered by your pedal
mad but no longer snoring
dreaming of diamonds, Goddess!

She law languid but stolid,
a cool, brilliant underwater
apparatus, but hell ...
no damn Illuminatress ...

... at least not quite yet,
she barely got wet

Bathed by a winged white
Macaw, disorder and the law,
unloved in luscious whispers
beneath the yellow gown
of a new moon, a taste both fast
and sweet, in glory, in flesh
and in heat ...

A production of Mythville MetaMedia

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