The stomachs of giant fish
are dried to make the lanterns
and the children sing the corn
Waves are breaking
behind closed eyes
pinwheels from ether
dance to strings unsung
Tigers are wearing all our spacesuits
the oxygen is slowly burning
the roaring is unending
in the diamonds of the night
Drunken sailors are pissing
into the open mouths of baby birds
and all the clocks are broken
for the final time
A campfire of flame retardant pajamas
ignited by safety officers in cowboy hats
unused syringes litter the campground
and the throbbing will not stop
Break me, breaking you in
Glass and sugar
Take me, taking you in
Photos made of stone
The rhythms migrate with
the rarest birds
wings chaffed with open sores
Crabs patrol the hallways
of the broken space station
hoping for the mangled
claw repair kit
The first in line
is executed with the
sharpest knives
The surgeon is not there
The last one in
is the first one out
when the condom dispenser
bursts into flame
Cigarettes and gasoline
make the perfect match
The spiders have the laser unit
the webs are glowing ruby red
The compound eyes of all the flies
are flickering with wild spirals
The moths are filled with dread
Fake me, faking you
in a house of puss and glue
Pretend the clocks are working
Brother Sun
Sparrows pick the maggots
from the dying eyes of strangers
Love grows in dark chambers
filled with broken glass and snow
Ashes are falling on the pilgrims
and launch pad is on fire
flamingos are mixing the explosives
for the final jihad
Minuteman terrorists slaughter
babies on Bunker Hill
A ritual sacrifice of burning tea and honey
made for the mother of all flags
Take me; taking you
to the forest of the night
the hot wax melts
across the broken mirror
Remember me to the child
that lost his way
The guns and knives of broken dreams
are whispering curses
at your grave
The voices remind me
of the icons eyes
made of spaceships and
exotic beasts
made of prayers and dreams
Praise me; praising you
with all that is holy the spirit of the mourning
is breaking into light
the passion of the cross
is making the weeping sores
turn to gold
July 4th, 2002 SGL Oakland, CA