poem

by jazzcatalley

Posted to Action Poetry on 2001-08-29 00:36:00

A cone hat heap
history as amusments
curio, curer, curera
the baktun arcades
solar jungles
thirteen myth explodes
war jig, on the surf
early morning jazz
lamp of lone spells

we have been told
put on perpetual hold
run through the ringer
at the juncture of denominaters
saxophone buddhas on the old earth
blue notes are crashing down
empty dawn streets

old beat friends in the village
on your face of happy cheap whores
annihilation scarfs slapping the air
I live in a sax-o-poem
twisting its dream animal
turning into the bad sax

copper reflections bleed down the steps
zig-zag nightshades pull down dusk
against tomorrows shades, on my way
to see you, i pass words like old phantom
doors, before the scarce day begins

I dreaming in my beat head, open doorways
of gold dust part, clouds of hands pat me down
I like my fruit forbidden, I like a horn mad
house, little pale shacks in green mirrors

gray whispers of old movies in doorways
her screen idols were nightmare takeovers


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