The passing of the last patriarch deserves a Williams one act

The  secrets there seep like Texas Gold and sprawl across the collective Western landscape 

Mimicking the scars of wandering saints lost in my memory 

A rogue poppy for remembrance in a shade of sinister scarlet

(not the outlaw orange picked from a ditch for archy’s transmutation) 

blossoms under a bloody eclipse; a primal scream echoing through decades of disappointments

The birds return in colors too rare for Cardinal Haarlem

Echoes of pirate poems spiced with saffron chattering phrases of the forefathers and bringing closure to New World catastrophe 

Please don’t forget to give my love to your sons and ancestors in Valhalla 

One day I will join you, but not just yet



There’s a poet on acid in the garden battling demigods, Ferlinghetti unfurled at her feet 

In the distance glows the guiding light of a television as a christed candyman stands on a table littered with remnants of a relapse and shouts, 

Look at all this fucking bliss!

A man with a handlebar mustache asks if we met in the past and suddenly 

I’m Coco Chanel’s assistant searching for signs of a Dutch Resistance Hero in the midst of a midnight raid

Trading secrets to swamis for deliverance of a forgotten word

The tiny Mao in her mother’s military hat smiles across the table as a fascist gets punched in the face by the facsimile of a friend who took my load off while Nero fiddles on a stairway to nowhere 

The prodigal daughter caught in a loop of psychedelic 

return to sender:address unknown 

Hermetically poetic in a free fall through the cosmos and giving the middle finger 

As I dance with Dr. Thompson’s ghost

Casa Poetica

For Hans

The patron saint of Lost Poets laughs

Smoke surreal in the sacred sun

Unmasking kindred madness 

Recognizable from a subversive plane of my existence 

(The soldiers are there for me, too)

Mystic grandfather of the underground prophets 

I lay bouquets of phrases at your feet in gratitude and veneration 

As we weave destinies and laugh into the void 


i see stories in the stars while making mixtapes for my man

With perfect technicolor poise

Finger-to-temple (TAP, TAP)

My Neo-Loki turned to say,

I live in my own world; I drew a map on the back of a beer coaster but lost it in a dive in Talin, so it is easy to lose my way

At dawn, the only stirring sounds are of the air: planes depart, crows caw for breakfast, the last leaves rustle in the breeze 

i unintentionally blow a smoke ring and think of Generation Zero 

Tulips sleep in the snowy ground and continue to grow after they’ve been picked always arching towards the sun 

This is enough to end the rampage 

Death becomes Life

And i return to collect the serpent’s venom 


i am lovingly fascinated with this storm as we try to tear Babylon down with battlefield remedies

The night belongs to poets, madmen, and my revolutionary pornstar Jesus who is crucifying himself on electronic versions of yesterday’s news

It’s been so long since i’ve been home that i’ve forgotten Mother’s laugh but

there lies a truck stop philosopher who once pointed to the psychedelic stars saying you can never go home again and

i can’t recall his laugh, either

The red dress i wore that day turned black becoming a Midwestern Classic loaded with

pomp & circumstance, stars & stripes, death & taxes

i’m on my eighty-seventh transformation cutting atonal chords and severing velvet ribbon ties

The gods return with different names; ancestral Valkyries reminding me of a warrior’s birth and a bargain struck for a drop of mead

Soldiers of Debauchery, we rebel on

As icons fall from grace in another nocha oscura