the Plains of the Other

 who are these blank-faced
    dolls marching in an out of officetels
    and boutiques
    in their catalogue clothing
    and purchased hair?
    how many times can i
    eat a hamburger before
    i wish to die

    we build a series of cages
    and tell ourselves
    this is all we are
    and nothing else
    
    where am i
    in this mess
    can i call myself
    my self?

    Lift me out of this morass in a tin spaceship,
    to a dark sky where the dark ones live.
    Place me in the eye of Jupiter
    where my flesh is stripped by the wind
    
    I am a blood storm now
    sailing where i wish
    tell me, oh dark ones
    of the great Plains of the Other
    where I can rain on the endless hills
    and suck the xeno-cattle into my eye
    to be turned also to blood
    none of them wear clothes or talk about the weather
    no
    they range and devour and fuck and die
    they are stupid and mad with brain disease
    they see the red world pass by their eyes
    no home to keep, no appointments
    unscheduled days of stripping the hills
    of all they create
    in a world that renews and destroys
    that fertilizes itself with their
    desperate entrails
    while I feed the flowers from my blood storm
    drinking every last drop
    they grow teeth and desires
    they eat the cattle who eat them back
    both are enraged, engorged, filled to bursting
    with hate and love for the other
    the colors of these feelings
    fill the air, and i dispel them with my own
    even as they leak into me

    even as they crystallize into forests
    that cannot be cut down
    that will colonize with their creepers
    the bones of the cattle I leave behind
    forming morbid hives towering above the hills
    home to hornets of bad intent
    with fire in their bellies and sex in their hearts
    they dream naught of peace and comfort but only struggle
    they are choked by the vines and storms of blood
    but they asphyxiate vibrating, bearing erections for the ages
    voluminous, cavernous, harboring mysteries
    deep within their swollen labyrinths
    where Theseus weeps
    at the unsurpassing beauty
    of the Minotaur

A burst of spring

 A burst of spring
    recalls the endless time lost
    between moments of years that leave no imprint
    on the mind's eye
    drifting beyond the veil of consciousness
    without so much as a whisper
    to my elder self

    who sits drying out in his chair
    probably clutching at the arm rests
    with arthritic fingers
    longing for the days
    when he could grip instead of clutch
    longing for the phantasmic colors
    remembering they existed
    but unable to recall
    a hue or shade to his mind
    which looks like
    the deserts dreamt
    in younger days
    like portents of the empty hours to come
    as the sand buries all things
    so too would time erase even the sand from his dreams

    Visually, in terms of color composition, I prefer the jungle.
    Thematically, spiritually, I prefer the desert.
    It calls to me, like the hearth of home in the depths of winter.
    If only it would rain, it would be perfect.
    Rain on the dessicated earth.
    The soil so packed that every droplet can be heard
    on impact

    I could drink every last ounce
    the sky could produce
    and still be desolate
    impenetrable