Cheating Death

Climb the burning stairs. There is no death. There is
one thing sweeter. Life is a state of mind,
an oozing sore to suffer through.

Take the dragon drug. Consume
it whole. Divide the real from the complex.
Mark your first impression. Float

through the window. Brains
wash out with age; dive like doves. Contemplate

hate. Canvas and rubber
make good shoes. Is leather better?
Are fish and chicken meats?

Place your heart in a glass and break
your last chance to surrender desire for truth.
This star is not a fluke.

The abyss fathers light.
Type is a thing that is seen.
The world is not watching.

I am the snake like coiled rope
breathing down your neck.
Death is the life of leisure and pleasure.

1980 Varanasi


No things but in mind, no mind
but in things. Meniscus
curves according to the fluid.

Glass and liquid
weights are abstract symbols of mass
perishing like crystal.

There is no heaven. There is no hell.
There is no space between the cell
and time. Light

is faster than sound. Their
speeds are the same speed
as the body.

The beauty of the body
calls for worship. God is the transistor.
Vacuum tubes are old hat.

This organ bag is a vessel of pain
supervising the intake and evacuation
of materials. From the dung

heap of your sex escape aromas
of an ancient Spanish trawler
smuggling perfumes to the border.

People will not leave archaic ways.

1980 Varanasi


No words but in breath, no breath
but in thought. Sound is formed
vibrating air in currents.

Plastic tape and ink
are concrete means recording shapes
that bite and die like insects.

There is no sin. There is no good.
There is no deed between mere food
and man. Art

is larger than life. There
sizes are the same
size as an angel.

The fragrance of an angel
makes for wonder. Wind is the conductor.
Tornadoes are small screws.

This bellows is a forge of death
secreting the sublime and normal aspects
of existence. In the deep

lung of your head infesting fragments
of the new state vaguely teeming
make mistakes some think logic.

Life is not so easy in these parts.
These parts will never be the same.

1980 Varanasi


No man but in god.  No god
but in man.  Soul is heard
caressing feathered hats. 

Coal or cold blue
steel, base substance
is the same.  Blood is deeper than space.

There is no noun.  There is no verb.
There is no word forms clearly 
thought from void.  Dust

is other stuff.
Volumes of the junk 
mass soggy clumps. 

Soft rocks people
frontiers bread and water scorn.
Sox fit different feet.  

The entrance to the mind is not the brain
but objects set before thick hide
senseless to find pain.  Passion

fans the ghost of prayer sung hopeful
shadows in the next life fear 
sad fakes of the face.

The further west you go
the further east you get.

1980 Varanasi