he sings

the poet born

he sings the alphabet

in the half-sleep of his level

swimming in the amazon of


somewhere between the andes

and the innocent beauty of samos


by the bone-man’s violation

his conscious being’s finger

on the pulse of an aged eros

yet – still greening below

the pomegranate groove

at the waterfall of rejuvenation –

he sings again

all sings

in an electronic world of

newly creation he visited on his

last lap’s remembrance of a

denuded muse

tearful marie magdalene.

he sings –

jean-jacques – to pink flow’s music

a conundrum of ears rushing in

like rats to the piper’s tune saving

the cities of a deadly peril/ pipers

john the piper/ piper jacques/

drummer pink/ mushroom trumpet

miles/ who’ll call at such an early hour

of lacquered blue skies

sticky gum of dirtied air’s sugar taste

titillating the taste buds for a tete-a-tete

with fate’s open window

closed with a black-brown curtain?

It’s a new world again –

If it’s bold or brave

we’ll see in fleeting time

of flash-electronic travels –

already en vogue with artists/ poets/

writers/ who devour words their

gilded muses bring them

manna from the body of a planet

whose body

not yet deadly wounded

where the amazon queen

not yet slain by new-age achill

whose tears not yet flowered

into narcissistic creatures

we have subscribed to

at one time

in the past

when life was to be discovered/

fresh/ an unlined piece of paper

the poet was born.

he sings. he sings.



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