I stuffed out the joint, and turned up the music. I slid off my shoe and gripped the worn rubber and exposed metal of the accelerator with my big toe. I felt the vibration of my ancient vehicle in my whole body as I sped up faster than usual. I was anxious to get there. The shaking of the 1980 Honda Accord aroused me. The shorts clinging to my thighs and balls and slowly stiffening cock were all that clothed me.

No more.

I slid the shorts off my left foot first. Gradually I shifted to driving with my left toe. I slipped off the tattered rags from my right foot. Now naked, I resumed driving with my right foot. My balls felt huge in my left hand as I gripped the wheel with my right. My aching cock arched and slapped above my belly button. Gently, I stroked the soft skin of my horn and every time I was about to ejaculate I stopped.

Repeating this performance, I drove fifty miles until, unable to restrain myself any longer, I gripped my prick tighter and stroked hard one last time until out shot a hot healthy stream of sperm – squirting up and hitting just beneath my chin, soaking my jugular, dripping from my hairy chest and oozing down to my thighs.

Is nothing sacred worth a damn?

Nashville was large and welcoming, cowboy city lights and average American denim. I let the semen dry on my skin as I pulled into the Denny’s parking lot stinking of the fecundate eruption; mushroom soup and honey, bleach and soil. I dressed sticky and met Kramer at a booth in the back and ordered black coffee.

Kramer Lyndon and I went to high school together. He came here to Vanderbilt University to study the letters of dead men. On a different path, I joined the carnival and traveled across Canada in a beat up Honda Accord. I couldn’t afford school, financially, emotionally, spiritually or academically. I couldn’t sit in another classroom for anything.

“Whatcha been doing man?” and other boring conversations ensued.

I was starved and ate the rest of his French fries. We talked and talked and my nerves were cramped from the coffee, free refills – no cream or sugar for me, and a shit in the bathroom.

He told me all about his intentions on being an artist, a rock god, a poet. He regaled me with stories of being on stage and soaking in the lights and the applause. He told me about a group of young men and women he had come to know who called themselves The Church. The Church was short for The First Interplanetary Church of the Immaculate Deception. The Church was a group of punk poets and social misfits who started their own religion.

It sounded fun.

I was no Christian, but I was an American – free exercise of religion is granted in the first amendment to the constitution – so the founding fathers must have thought pretty highly of this particular freedom. Imagine the persecution in the past from the crusades to the inquisitions, the holy wars, the Jewish-Roman wars, the Arab-Israeli wars, Jihad, The Taiping Rebellion and on and on and on.

The cement floor of Kramer’s dorm room was freezing. I laid out every article of clothing I owned from my duffel bag and made a nest. He was too homophobic to share his bed with me – and rightly so – who knows how amorous I would have been with his small frame in the middle of the night.

Upon noon coffee Kramer told me, “Today I’m going to take you to meet The Pope.”

Whatever.

God will eat your brain - part one. s

There was no time to lose; every moment was an electric eel in an ocean of snot – impossible to keep – shocking and exciting. I drove through the state of Tennessee in a mad pursuit of anything other than all I had ever known.

I sought the Holy Communion with the human species – the fragrant stink of the sexual opening – the tender tremble of the first kiss – the violent blow from the angry fist – the offensive epiphany – the source of the collected unconscious – the synaptic firing of the original neuron. I wanted to drink cheap wine with the marginal prophets scribbling their mad notes on the grand scheme, the species and the divine. I sought the spark of the big bang – the Buddha joke – the flower smoke – the great transparent hope – reason to believe that this is not all that there is.

Manic? You betcha!

Empire City

It’s easy to die in New York City

when the wind is gentle and the sky is pretty,

the sun is setting over the water and into

New Jersey

leaving the breeze off the Hudson River

cooler;

hardening the nipples

behind all that silk

and cotton,

causing the vestigial goosebumps to pop and

the hair to stand on end;

the shivers,

the quivers

and the getting closer.

What style, what grace, what voice and what taste!

The liquor slithers down the tunnel in search of

evaporation

and the body awaits its filter.

It’s easy to have your eyes blinded

by the flashing lights;

the big city lights,

the billboard lights;

wishing your name in lights;

the heights of the buildings and

the depths of the underground

that supports this city

and its foundation:

overwhelming your sense of scale.

It’s easy to die in New York City

with your eyes on your texting

and your ears full of headphone; a face

full of grill and the end of your

life when your skull slams against

the asphalt. All of your knowledge

in blood and gravel soup leaking

out and down into sewers.

You can assist the music or stay silent.

It’s easy to give your heart away in New York City

to the leggy dames expert at fashion games

that smell of flowers and animal sweat

sweetbreads, lilacs and chardonnay

who walk hurriedly between destinations aware

of the stares and the desperate sexual lust of

the sailors, laborers and tailors; the waiters, haters

and players hustling along the Avenue.

It’s easy to have your kidneys and liver smashed with

the incessant partying and all night shifts, silent winks

and get my drifts, toilet bowl privacy and more damage

to the soul. It’s easy to celebrate an early death with a

full life, to fix a deviated septum, to put your name on

a list for a transplant, to tip the doctor a hundred dollars

to prescribe you Percocet.

It’s easy to die in New York

with the pork fat on the plate

and the arteries hardening,

the vintage vino vilifying

your bloodstream and

congealing your senses

ah the Dionysian mythos!

the cupidus pathos!

lecherous and lustful

with a pocketful of

hard-on and follicle fire

fingernail sensitivity

anxious and ready to die…

It’s easy to lose yourself

when you are surrounded by so many people.

Where is everyone going?

Do I need an invitation?

Is it easy to get in?

How much am I worth in good looks

in this gluttonously cannibalistic ouroboros town?

It’s easy to fill your lungs with the

poisonous perfume of the traffic jams

and vehicles with reason;

to inhale the carbon monoxide exhaust

of the enormous garbage collecting dinosaurs;

to suck in the grease and tobacco release

from the sidewalk exhale.

“It’s easy to see without looking to far that not much is really sacred” sang Robert Zimmerman and that sinful man sure could sing the gospel. It’s easy to quote, to rip off, to cut and paste, to steal and plagiarize, to sample, to write off, to critique, to put a price on your worth, to go gold, to win the Pulitzer, to become enlightened.

It’s easy to die in New York City

where pity is one county over and

the homeless get stepped over in

colder weather like Hugo Alfredo

who saved a woman from the blade

that entered him. He collapsed in

Queens this past April.

Twenty Five people walked over him,

some stopped to stare. Not one person

reported the condition of the man.

The gawking rubberneckers

are all on surveillance tape.

It’s easy to make your mark

in the city

if you’re cute,

if you’re witty,

if you’re smart,

if you’re pretty,

if you can flash in the pan with everyone looking,

if you can withstand the flashes

and the constant demand,

if you love yourself as much as the rest of us will,

if you have a will fortified with ego and desire,

if you can handle the fire,

if you can handle the snow,

if you can take the eating and being spit out,

if you can maintain your clout,

if you can build a reputation of silk and iron.

It’s easy to feed your cherry libido

with the sweat from the loose girls

and loose boys and free toys and the

spoils of war,

behind velvet curtain drapes,

under tables, in the men’s room,

in the ladies room,

in full bloom with the eggs

and the seeds hot for the eruption…

It’s easy to get fat from the consumption

with the greasy meats and rich sauces,

the free booze and the lost causes,

the chocolate lava desserts and

peanutbutter pretzel icecream

It’s easy to die in New York

without a care in the world,

not a song in your head,

not a dollar to your name,

not a single imprint on the fabric of society;

while pigeons cluster around whisky/pizza vomit

get a little tipsy themselves, and flutter

happily to the less chilly now rooftops.

It’s easy to die in New York City

when the heat goes off,

the power goes out,

during a blackout

when the temperatures are over

one hundred Fahrenheit and the

elevator doesn’t work;

so Grandmother can’t get outside

before she cooks to death.

It’s easy to get it twisted.

It’s easy to flip the fuck out.

It’s easy to disrespect the first hundred

out of two hundred people you meet on

the sidewalk because who the fuck are they,

besides in my way? It’s easy to sway and

bounce and strut and pounce and behave

like an animal because after all

it’s like a jungle sometimes

– huh-huh-huh-HUnh

It’s easy to fly off the handle

when you never had a grip

easy to let the words slip

when you are exhausted from restraining

what you believe to be the truth

It’s easy to hijack a major jet airliner full of passengers

and steer it into the city’s tallest buildings

incinerating yourself and any evidence to the contrary.

It’s easy to fly those same jumbo jet airliners by remote control

from some undisclosed location and

convince certain military intelligence

that the evil they perform is patriotic and for the good

of the country.

It’s easy to go on a shopping spree less the terrorists win

to spend a third of your check on frivolous shit that you don’t need

like cashmere socks and hydroponic weed.

easy does it

nice and easy

you tell yourself

It’s easy to just relax and let them give it to you

easy to overlook the closeness

you have with other people when

you are so absorbed in your own parade

It’s easy to bang the walls

holding onto the bed with a suicide grip that

refuses to let go and

a face full of tears

screaming at the neighbors

to turn down the music because all you

need is a little silence in this city that never

sleeps and no one ever hears a peep out of you

in this city that doesn’t recognize your special place

in the universe

which is right where you are

How can you ever deny that?

It’s easy to die in New York

with a twinkle twinkle little star

going down on your sex

with a famous mouth

and infected sore.

It’s easy to see the score as soon as the first play is called

It’s easy to be balled by an anonymous source

urgent and noisy horny

for any way to make it

It’s easy to die in New York City

with a girlfriend coke-fiend and a

boyfriend junkie both sure to self- destruct

but somehow outdoing you with their thin and dark

photogenic moneypot

“What are you going to do now?”

the last thing you hear from either

one while they make it rich and

exclusive

It’s easy to see it happen too fast here

It’s easy to say goodbye in New York

to transient lovers flying back to Mexico

L.A.

the Gobi Desert

hopping off the island in pursuit of their

landscape dreams that involve wavy

colorful suns and silent starscapes

It’s easy to unlock the demons

from the secret box

with the special key

you got from your mother

when the angels are rap-tap-tapping

on your chamber door

begging for you to share

your gift and come play

with them

Weary watery waves of passionate bliss

just being alive

It’s easy to walk the razor’s edge

between mystical and hysterical

to dance parallel to the ground and

walk on air

when you’re in love with a sexual partner

in a beautiful universe and the pistons are

firing and the gears are grinding and the

kiss is often and the electric chemicals

are rushing from your core to your

pleasure principal and the goal has

been scored

the game has been won

and the crowd has gone wild

It’s easy to get lost in the crowd

to skirt the FBI or the NYPD

if you are a small time hood

snatching old ladies’ purses

weaving through pedestrians

with young brother ease and

flee the scene instincts

down the stairs in a jump

and over the turnstile with a jump

and jump on a train

It’s easy to get to know the trains in New York City

which trains connect which neighborhoods to which

easy to switch trains at the proper terminals and get from

any point A to any other point B in minutes

unless you’re going to Queens

It’s easy to have borough pride in New York City

‘if you’re BK let me here you say BK!’ screams the MC

and you bet the thundercats from Brooklyn scream the loudest

and the Manhattanites don’t go out anymore

because either all of their money goes to rent

or they have moved to Brooklyn and scream loud

when the MC says ‘let me here you say BK!’

It’s easy to be whatever you want to be

in your imaginary world

while the eviction notice gets tacked on your door

and the jobs stop coming

and who the hell wants to buy your art?

and why the hell aren’t you sleeping with the curators

and dealers and the movers and the shakers?

It’s easy to die in New York

with your art on the wall and

the landlord down the hall

screaming for the rent

threatening to take legal action

a pack of wolves in your mind

tearing at the cerebellum;

snarling,

darling;

a loving testament to the death that waits

knocking on the pearly gates with iron fists

wrapped in kid gloves

It’s easy to die in New York

the cork torn from the bottle with a pocket knife

bloody fingers cracked and swollen knuckles

large laborer’s hands meant for gripping

and moving

strong and durable

would rather break a finger than drop the ball

rather snake a toilet than be too good not to do it

rather lick the ass than never get in there at all

easy to fall prey to the luscious talons

of the swooping predator

Age

letting the life force rip you to shreds

to feed its angry offspring

Time

which will grow strong from you

and feed from your own offspring

a lovely vicious cycle

that keeps us up in the sky

believe it or not

utopia is rot.

It’s easy to die in New York

when you make yourself center of attention

and can’t deliver the bomb

when you paint the bullseye on your forehead

and dodge all of the bullets and arrows

when you whistle to sparrows

and capture them in nets

burn their eyes and

jail them in cages for song

when you focus your rages on war

and your outrageous on comedy

when it’s all about “me”

and a global narcissism

threatens to eliminate

the individual’s importance.

It’s easy to preach

It’s easy to see in the dark and around corners,

into the future and accurately

about your own behavior

in the past

It’s easy to put a good light on your dark shadows

to smudge away your previous imperfections

with cinema make up and movie magic

easy to fill in the blank if no one saw you do it

get away with murder

actually kill a person and walk away

It’s easy to forget that you belong

to the kingdom of wild animal

It’s easy to ferment in the big apple

to turn sour

cider

alcoholic

bitter

delicious and

intoxicating

infested with worms

but healthier than most

to drop from the tree unpicked

firm and bouncing on the springy leaves

to roll down the hill and despite all clichés

fall

far

from

the tree

It’s easy to die in New York with your hand on your heart

and a prayer for tomorrow – the red meat and cigarettes

finally getting to you – all of those hours spent

inactive – static in the pulse – furniture in the dance

It’s easy to get lost in the fog and lights

when the room is spinning and the music is rocking

sometimes letting the good times roll too easy

and bowl right over you.

It’s easy to get elected in the big apple

to run for mayor or congressperson and

serve the people

herd the sheep

reap the benefits of life in public office

with lobbyists and bankers

taking you to lunch and dinner

tickets to the show

and an inside line of the best trades

money

money

money it’s easy to make a million dollars in the city

to abuse the seat you serve

to shove a cigar into a vagina; a fuck for now

and a smoke for later

one giant hard-on for attention: politician

one slippery eel in a bucketful of snot

It’s easy to grind the pavement

with skateboard wheels

really carve out a wave

jetting down Amsterdam Avenue

without pads, without helmet

two sleeves of tattoos and a lip ring

hair slick from its own oils and

a wool knit cap in August

wallet on a chain into your pocket,

keys hooked on your belt loop and

jangling,

canvas sneakers – such an all star

It’s easy to be an all star

to be elected by your peers

as one of the best at what you do

easy to drive the lane

juke the center

split the guards

leap over the forwards and dunk the leather gourd

it’s easy to dodge the linebackers

outrun the defensive ends

knock the safeties on their ass

and

celebrate a touchdown in the endzone

It’s easy to hit a fastball four hundred feet

over the centerfield wall when you are down three runs

and the bases are loaded in the bottom of the ninth

with a full count and thirty thousand flashbulbs

glittering all around you famously

It’s easy to score a hit record in the city

with a four/four beat

jazzed up with some basic tremolos from the cellos

and some funky bass lines

some generic rhymes

repeated as a chorus

cliché! cliché!

Nothing to say

hallmark drivel

yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Unh~! Unh! Yeah!

saying your name

territorial pissing or

screaming at the top of your lungs

that you love me

It’s easy to hide your gender in New York City

to look pretty for the other participants in the crying game

to pluck and shave

nip and tuck

paint and spray, to

dress and whisper

easy to bat those wonderful lashes and lick

your glossy lips to find someone to light your cigarette

and share your mouth

It’s easy to have a disease put in your body

by a beauty with no signs

of the infection on their perfect sweet bodies

secretly

dangerously

blisteringly really

It’s easy to make mistakes that last lifetimes

to set off the alarms

to forget the sunscreen

to ignore the gypsy lady who smells the sulfur on your breath

and sees the fire in your eyes

It’s easy to get the lead role

to audition for the big part and

score a Tony nod for your performance

riveting

gripping

a rare find

a sensation!

The adjectives and accolades are as endless as your professional horizon

It’s easy to lose your mind in New York City

to just snap

the fragile grasp of reality lubricated once too often

the hold gone

the fall complete

the fracture irreparable

screaming and hollering

to the ghosts that haunt you

pulling out what remains of your hair

kicking the trash can into the street

tossing your briefcase up into the air

the contents raining down

damning your god and your cheating wife

unable to manage

one more minute of the mayhem

that is your existence

the circus in your mind

the wild animal hysteria of your weakness

preferring pajamas, pudding and television

to anymore responsibility

shutting down in front of the psychologists

a resilient case

one that never wants to get solved

easy to die under constant care in New York City.

It’s easy to humpty dumpty

to crack your skull

on the concrete

and let all of the yoke out

face blank with egg white

and no more able to communicate,

feel or

breathe

It’s easy to compare yourself to others

and find the fault in many.

It’s easy to judge the frightened proud.

It’s easy to scan a crowd and tell who’s who

by the strut in their get up

and the look on their face

acting

it’s easy to just be acting in New York City

millions of people after the same food and sex as you

in hurry up mode

It’s easy to cheat

to best your competitor unfairly

card tricks

parlor tricks

souped-up engines that go against regulations

performance enhancing drugs for you and your horse

easy to take a dive in the ring for the big pay out

the one ghost punch to ruin your reputation

and pay for your mansion

wedding and retirement

easy to steal Michelin awarded recipes

and open your own restaurant

It’s easy to understand anthropologically

the reasons for such tribal behavior

among fellow primates

mouth agape

mind blank

feeding the demon want…

God is urge…

It’s easy to sing a song of yourself and address

the common man with your wit and lyricism

your confidence and solipsism

never endearing him to the light inside of you

but opening a door and hoping he isn’t afraid to enter.

It’s easy to donate sperm to the seed factory and

reproduce randomly

spreading your germs

like an intelligent and willful animal

like a sneaky wasp in a horny hornet’s nest

It’s easy to soak up other people’s mess

to step in pee or poo

or over the unconscious clump

soaked and stained with pee and poo

stinky reality of human grossness

It’s easy to mix metaphors like pills with booze and

lose yourself to the singular pulse

to vibrate endlessly aiming towards goal and no

connection to the millions around you

It’s easy to die in the city while still young and clever

Especially when you want to live here forever.

It’s easy to die in New York City

when you want to live here forever.

Heavenly Host

Wants to spread your fire

drench every cell in oil for you

wash the tension from your muscles

and thoughts

wants to pour you over every cushion

and landscape

flood their vision with your abundance

and beauty

wants to hold you

in the safety of his magic

wants to crash their buildings

and monuments with wave

wants a bisexual slave

a hard amber grave

where he might

be displayed

observed

like some

prehistoric insect

trapped in time

and place

wants children to dance for

and kiss you

flowers

showers

spring growth

a brighter green

wants more strength in the seam

than the fabric itself

has a tendency to rip apart

to peel off

to scratch away

wants the glue to never dissolve

wants everything to assist

and accommodate you

currency to spend itself on you

duck fat

silk

and gold

wants vitamins and minerals

to nourish you

along with television

sex

and drugs

wants the mirror to wink back at you

smile blush

feel giddy around you

wants sensual feelings to pulse through you

your electric skin

to stand hairs on end

wants young lovers to astound you

surround you with wit and

clever narcissism

running away from home

and two dollar solipsism

wants a fine selection

of meats

to be hung

in your smokehouse

wants to delouse your body

with the hungry tongues

of mute lovers

who know only

your pleasure

Orange Buick

Not keeping strict records makes the mice fat. My grandfather used to keep small notebooks in his shirt pocket and at the return of every car trip would write down the mileage of the vehicle and brief description of various destinations – grocer, p.o. (for post office), gas, Michael – I would watch him intently and wondered if I was a destination or a passenger. Late at night I snuck into the basement and found an old box filled with these small notebooks. The box was labeled Orange Buick 1982 -1992. I flipped through the small spiral notebooks tattooed heavily with blue ink pressed deliberately into the page. I found other names and noted that that must mean passenger.

My mother’s father was a colonel in the U.S. Army and a stickler for values – an agent of morals, a Gideon in retirement – a warrior – for god, country and family – Ronald Reagan and The Republican Party – all that which has been taught as holy – unquestioning the very fabric of the foundation – a pupil, a soldier, a cog in the machine… An intelligent and loving man who did not stray from his moral path… boring, spending the last three decades watching sports on television… good little boy… adopted by his grandfather, a strict disciplinarian in a home without electricity or plumbing. Imagine that, growing up in a building without electricity or plumbing… I suppose most of the world lives in those very conditions today – but you got to go back pretty far to find that the norm in the United States. Outhouse full of shit, candles conserved in the winter and dark nights with the unconscious…

Arboretum Mojo

We made a potent tea out of the psilocybin mushrooms. Travis bought an ounce of the drug and boiled it in four cups of water. I had never seen this done before; neither had Floyd. I don’t think Travis had either, but he was young: nineteen. Sometimes it is best to bluff your way to knowledge.

Floyd drove a 1985 Jeep wrangler. I rode in the back. We drank the tea, swallowing large chunks of the stuff as we turned the thermos up to the air for our share of the potion.

The road cut into the mountain, winding around the girth and up the incline. The sun was warm yellow and summertime. The sky was blue azure and crystal pure. The wind was gentle and the clouds were huge. This was BIG SKY territory – Olympus to the bear gods, high altitude; land of the shining mountains – as states go: fourth in square footage but forty-fourth in population.

Diamond penumbra supernovas imploded and exploded like dragons breathing. Techno-color music invaded by dullness. Magical beings began laughing and vibrating in the greenery. Fairies whispered scintillate kisses from unknown heavens. “I’m taking off man!” I shouted from the back of the cab.

Travis turned around to look at me. His mouth and eyes opened wider and wider, until I thought he might lose his face to the full expression. I wasn’t sure how much more whites of his eyes he could expose – how much farther apart his lips could stretch. I half expected him to unhinge his jaw and swallow himself in reverse, devour himself into nothingness. He laughed.

I realized my position. I had my feet and arms stretched out in such a manor that I wasn’t sitting down or standing up, but leaning over as if I was flying. My feet were wedged against the rear bars of the jeep somehow and I held onto an overhead beam. My memory of this position is not very clear to me, but I remember feeling that I was driving the machine with my psychic force. (Sometimes there is more truth in the sentiment than the fact.) While driving the jeep with my mind I made us go off road. The jolt from tarmac to dirt kicked me from my position. I fell into a lucky back seat.

“We’re here.” Floyd said as he got out of the truck.

There was no road before the one we had just made. The jeep could physically go no further. This was our cue to begin our journey in the forest on foot.

Travis gave us each a small leather pouch, the entirety of which could easily be hidden in your fist. “Mojo bags: While we’re out here – if you find something special, collect it. I’m going to wear mine around my neck.”

“What the hell is a mojo bag?” Floyd wanted to know.

I didn’t. I got it. I headed for the thick growth of the Bridger Mountains. I spotted a dying pine that was crisp and fragile and white with brown, like a disease or a curse. The limbs curled in on itself. The circular edges rested on the ground or curled stiff towards the trunk.

“A wizard tree!” Travis said after me.

Everything was symmetrical. The tree flickered a sizzling blue mist. I went to the center of the tree and stared out. Everything seemed different. I felt like Jonah in the belly of a cosmic spirit awaiting god’s communication.

I looked down. There was a tiny orange mushroom that glowed neon tangerine. I picked it and placed it in my mojo bag.

I believed this to be a very serious task now. I was to make some sort of secret concoction to serve as protection and good magic for me and my travels, my adventures. I understood. Beside the mushrooms I saw a tiny turd; as if a shy squirrel came here to shit in his own little john. I put the rodent waste in my bag as well, for the nitrogen. I wanted my bag to be explosive. I felt that tree corpse still vibrating and humming with some strange new energy that tingled and titillated my fingerprints. I broke off a piece of the trunk’s bark and bit into it. Why? Because I was high as hell on drugs. Anyway I spit out the bitter skin into my hand and placed the saliva soaked chunk of bark into my secret bag of tricks.

I found shiny glittery rocks, mica flakes and pyrite, mixed with soil and the shell of a robin’s egg. I inserted dead insects and rubies into the bag, snake skin and a mouse skull I found in a pile of owl shit. I picked leaves from rare bushes, rare wild herbs that only the shaman of The Blackfeet and The Crow know about, with weird psychotropic healing properties.

I collected the brittle wings of a dragonfly, and for a while I was on a kick where I would blow all of the dandelion seeds from the shaft in one breath and expect my wish to come true, meanwhile running ahead and catching the blown seeds in my little mojo bag. The bag was becoming pretty hefty with my magical efforts.

The three of us walked and walked in no particular direction away from our origin and in no straight line. It was early afternoon, and we found time to lie in a field of tall grass and let the wind bend the stalks, have the silk tickle us. We laughed and we laughed…

I could see and I could hear the cosmic dynamo vibrate and hum. I rested in a field of golden wheat, on my back, which was the surface of the earth. I felt my body was THE body of Christ, THE body of earth, THE body of man, THE body of god, warm and pulsing blood and cells and genetic material, heaven, hell and dream. I opened up all of my sensors and realized the infinity.

I let the wind tickle my neurons, my leg hairs, my eyelashes, the cilia in my nostrils, the dry chapped skin of my lip. My hair became golden wheat and blew with the wind. It was a fascinating blend of me versus the universe becoming one with the universe in a perverse magic spell of time and place.

You have to be brave when you’re young; that’s what matters most. You have to give yourself over to the adventure or you will grow stale and have no fun stories to tell.

I got up first from the breezy tickle-flight and found my way over to the little stream that trickled nearby where Zen toads croaked in silence. I smoked a cigarette and marveled at the demons and novas that swirled and whirled around in my hazy exhale.

I flicked cigarette ashes into my mojo bag – a combination of reverence and disgust is always needed. I wanted as much cacca as jewel, as much shit as brilliance – as much nitrogen as oxide. I wanted to swirl together the strongest forces from every small quadrant on the marble. I wanted crystal and skull, excrement and egg shell, bark and saliva, blood and oil. I felt like I had a pretty good grasp on this whole mojo bag thing.

I leaned against a giant Ponderosa Pine and inhaled the tree’s sweet piney flavor. The aroma was almost too much to bear. My lungs full of the fragrance, I coughed and spit out perfume rich saliva. I closed my eyes again. Now used to the smell I felt the fantastic tree with two open palms; the course bark, dark orange and black, like cracked terra firma, leather skin.

A strange music emitted from that Blackjack Pine; a creaking, a squeaking music like wet vertebrae cracking, or the popping ancient arthritic ghost-knuckles of Ramses II. It sounded as if the trees were stretching with a song. I could hear the water being sucked up through the roots of the trees. Thirsty cells were popping inside the tree rhythmically; POPpopPoPpOPpoP went the enormous tree’s trunk. The sound was like elves drumming a wild routine on the imaginary bongos of beatnik ghosts. POPpopPoPpOPpoP continued the gigantic tree.

With my eyes closed I continued to listen to that enormous Western Yellow Pine’s internal cellular structure burst in tones and music. When I opened my eyes I looked at my hands and found that they were covered in insects travelling north from the floor of the earth to the sky of evergreen needles, two hundred feet in the air. My hands were of no concern to the bizarre caterpillars and ants and beetles and whatever other insects thirsty, all eager for the sap of that great tree, scurrying and climbing over the warm barriers.

I wondered if that was a hallucination, as I have tripped pretty hard on bugs before. Whatever the truth was, it was a neat sight. That very tall Rocky Mountain Pine sprouted from the ground like an enormous missile silo, surrounded by many more of its kind; seed dropper, natural bloomer, strong bodied survivor, and each of the trees were singing; POPpopPoPpOPpoPing their bursting cellular orgasm.

The insects were here for the sap, the sweet excretions given by the Bull Pine’s xylem and phloem cells, previously creaking and POPpopPoPpOPpoPing and ringing out to the insect population that it is time to feed their hungry little bellies with the sticky ooze.

Soon the birds came. They must have heard the music of the trees, knowing the hunger of the insects. They swarmed like clouds and descended upon the trees like the hungry winged beasts they were. The birds ate the caterpillars, the ants, the beetles and whatever that creepy stick looking thing is called.

It was an orgy of music and feeding. The trees were being cleansed of their artery build-up. The insects were getting sugar buzzes and filling the bellies of the wrens, meadowlarks and cardinals with their easy meal. Powerful raptors circled above the enormous pines, ready for the freshly fattened birds to flutter from the treetops and into their talons.

The earth gave to the sky in this fashion. It planted seeds in itself and grew very tall. The next step was to draw in water and grow even taller; next bait the insects with creaking xylem cells that issue forth the sap. Now trading its scales for feathers and evolving for flight, a bird is called to feast on the feasting insects, and finally the high flying raptors are attracted to the scene for the arboretum feasting.

Beneath the trees, hunters waited patiently with high powered rifles that pierced the bodies of these magnificent hunters and brought the sky back down to the ground.

KABOOM! KABOOM! Shotgun blasts scattered the birds and the mind.

I was lost in the woods, high as hell on psychedelic mushrooms with two of my friends and no idea the source of the gunshots.

KABOOM! KABOOM! The fairies and dragons became quiet and invisible again. It was time to focus and assimilate the scene with the dream. Where we being hunted? Was it possible that we were targets? KABOOM! KABOOM! We hunkered down and decided to smoke a cigarette and maybe calm down and maybe isolate the direction of those shots. KABOOM! KABOM!

“Look man I don’t know what is going on – but uh – I say we try to find a way out of here” I was ready to move – I wanted to challenge this challenge and find a way out of the confusing maze.

“OK,” Floyd was in.

Travis nodded his frightened rabbit head up and down.

KABOOM! KABOM! I looked around to see what was what. We were in a basin that as far as I could tell held no threat in its bowl. We were high up on one ridge of the mountain. “I suggest we hike close to that ridge and listen for the gunshot source, maybe they’re just hunters.” KABOOM!

“Oh they’re definitely hunters! I just hope they’re not drunk and ready to shoot anything big.” Travis was worried, “Hey does anyone know where we are – like where the truck is or anything?” His buck teeth bit his bottom lip and his eyes were big with worry and fear.

KABOOM! KABOM! I looked at Floyd and could tell by his blank expression and aimless looking around that we were supremely lost.

We ran with our backs bent over, like we had seen soldiers do in the movies or perhaps just instinctively, as if we had weapons and could possibly engage the enemy in combat. We ran until we were certain we were running away from the gunfire. We all squatted by a tree and decided upon another plan. I decided to lie on my stomach and crawl over the ridge to see what I could see.

KABOOM! KABOM! Travis and Floyd stared at me with blank expressions. I didn’t wait for a reply. I crawled on my stomach over the crest. I inched myself slowly and carefully over the edge. I found the source of the gunshots. Three hunters were laughing and carrying on about fifty yards away. They were shooting the sky – sometimes killing a bird, mostly not – but retrieving nothing – feeding the scavengers of the earth with a gift from the human wastefulness.

Crawling back over the ridge I motioned for my friends to join me. I ran. They followed. I made sure we were far enough away from the hunters and then cut over the ridge in a full sprint. KABOOM! KABOM!

We made it to the road, and then followed the asphalt turns to the jeep, which sat fifty feet up on the ridge, in the middle of the thicket. The vehicle needed no push. Soon we were speeding down the mountain, listening to Jane’s Addiction and cheering our good fortune into the cool summer breeze.

My Last Meal

I often envision slaughtering my next door neighbor

blood on my hands – no forgiveness

their final breath choked out and fizzling in my face

no more complaints

no more slamming against our shared wall

about the mid level music coming from the stereo

beside my ear

Guilty

I wouldn’t even ask for a trial

put me on death row

great novels have been written in prison

and historically I would be in good company

Now – what would my last meal be?

Heart of komodo dragon in a port reduction sauce?

They probably wouldn’t let me eat anything endangered.

I wouldn’t ask for no fried chicken though

I tell you what

Give me a Devon Crab and Maine Lobster salad

complete with truffle oil and a half tomato

stuffed with white Beluga caviar from Iran

A bottle of 1978 Montrachet

from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti

followed by

Wagyu beef seared for twenty seconds and served

with a broth of pure saffron, a side of smoked

Matsutake mushrooms and a salad of day old pea shoots

I would then ask for a Dansuke watermelon

And a Yubari melon – both from Japan

And then ten cups of Kopi Luwak

or civet coffee – coffee that has been eaten

digested and pooped by the civet

cleansing the bean of it’s acidic properties

for when they fill me full of juice

I want to be wired

I want to go out like I came in

screaming wild and covered in shit

release the bowels

release the ghost

turn out the lights

turn out the lights

back to the star shine

belly full of food and wine

indigestible

my last meal

fit for the worms

Self as All

Contention with a witnessed spirit

bent on destruction and salvation

thought to be better blessed

or maybe just perfect timing

dancer in the unconscious solvent

a cancer to the obvious

breaking apart in the atmosphere

loosing tonnage like a meteorite

I was fourteen when I lost my virginity

and acted like a complete asshole afterwards

like a proud lion

roaring at the setting sun and sticking my bird chest out

I came nervous and fast and paid her little mind.

There was nothing special about my first time.

I don’t even remember her name.

I was the son of a motherfucker

punkrock pixie dust in my coat pocket

and traveling money I stole from my grandmother

along with pharmaceutical weapon

and sense of self divine

later entire homes and barns would burn

there has always been something about me and fire

the best devil to blow

Mandarin embers in the windy attic

a quick singe to the black earth

firetruck, firetruck arson man

never had a clue

never had a plan

just danced myself from womb to tomb

with T-Rex bloom and doom and soon

found myself at the center of the universe

playing a skipping record

I need to be knocked into

I was in a rut

I couldn’t stop talking about myself.

I was experiencing life for god.

I am god.

I am.

Amen.

There is mysticism appreciative of the gift

a link to the divine and to the self.

There is a key to enlightenment

that opens no doors

and a secret word that can not be spoken

but being free of schizophrenia

I confess no direct line

no words from the all mighty

save every word our of my mouth and yours.

Experience God in your every action.

Tourism Remembered

Hot tea steam

dragon licks

kiss of hibiscus

hit of marijuana

tickling the keyboard with reminiscent fingers

dreaming of Morocco

tangerine fragrance and five A.M. calls to prayer

sex in Africa

rooftop breakfast

a scorching orange sun in the October morning,

almonds and yogart,

two Spaniards who traveled with my wife and I

smiling,

also in love

cramped roads, old Bill Burroughs’s haunt, Café Central

this was Paul Bowles territory

a place of homosexual ghosts clinging to art and inheritance

coffee smells, cigarette smoke around every turn

a clutter of children selling hash, silk and paprika

in crimson djellaba and bright green dashiki

capped with bleach white kufis

little Sufis with fez cap and hula-hoop mysticism

The shops all closed down during the call to prayer

it was the first day of Ramadan

a strange time to be in a Muslim land

crossing the Mediterranean from Tarifa Spain

by high speed ferry

twenty five minutes from port to port

with incredible sea sickness and no time for scurvy

We weren’t pirates or drug smugglers,

but tourists

glimpsing into the brief window of their existence

A man sewed clothes in a 4x5ft room

stuffed with fabrics,

a chair for him to sit and a table for his machine

a lone bulb hung from a cord above his head

illuminating him with yellow green gravy

a specter of nicotine skin

qur’anic concentration

clean thoughts

he turned

his face a holy skull of infinite bliss

wisdom of the despaired

and turned back to his prayer of work

We drank with fat bellied developers in expensive suits

on hotel rooftops, poolside as the evening cooled

everyone spoke English and the talk was of rape and pillage

in the distance a McDonald’s sign

tattooed the mosque rich mountainside

a horrible red and yellow

flames of the corporate plague

that will gobble up every last consumer

We did not rock the Kasbah

but the ocean pounded inky black

on the strange midnight rocks

salty and secretive

rusting the old cannons

that waited for no new targets

We tip toed around the wondrous city

in search of no answer

only the air – the sweetness and the sourness

of the reality

as fifty sweaty men smoked over coffee

and stared silent at our wives when we passed

the testosterone box of fluorescent apes

in wild beard and sandy nails

a cheap and wonderful hotel room

a fast and accurate taxi ride

“We love America! We hate the George Bush;

but we love America!”

the young men yelled happily at us

as they tried to help us put our simple overnight bags

in the back of a taxi

for a quarter tip or dollar tip

whatever I do not know.

I hurried into the taxi, trusting no one.

We sped off for the ferry

and caught an afternoon boat back to Europe

the sea was calm and blue, as was the sky

we sat in the back of the boat and watched

North Africa

vanish.