April 20th, Green-bottomed Hesse

One. 
The Hesse opens in the
spring semester stress,
fertilizing the ashy riverbanks--
the river the ones who
call it the path also call it
Green-bottomed Hesse, the Hesse
opens and the water gushes
down from the tall and
blistery mountains,
mountains locally called
Humility, everwinter
glacial mounds in the darks of
the February, the gray
and lionwind March,
the April of blue and true--
May with a bang!
Her is him, Him, her, it,
you, me us them love fire
my bedroom, gushing lips heart-
beats trees! you me underneath
this gorgeous scenery. then the sun,
the Sun! the sun, but our own truemade
precipitous drizzle brings roots,
internal growth, being loving
doing not doing stuck in
ruts, mistletoe from
a one-manned show
a beard on my face, a
line to tow--

"I wish that I was born
a thousand years ago..."

Two.
The chakras in our souls
flow from south to north, like
the Nile, like grassroots
organized by seeds,
seeds sowed by school but
really internet,
not real, the Nile
or the Ganges
or the Hesse 'tis fertile too,
reeds among the dunes, fire
let it melt away the guilt
of Pontius Pilate who

punished Jesus, otherwise
known as

Ha-Notsri is you.
Procurator Woland
Shadow-proves-that-
which-casts-it in the
desert temptation is
only religious doctrine,
believes bankrupt Soviet
satellites.

Three.
I was born a thousand years ago.
The Hesse named because of

Siddhartha. The river Hesse calls
infinite, at the mouth and the source,
gaze at the peanut-butter inside the rotation

of the earth around you.
Time was is could've been never heard of.

Three.
The rain plats down tonight,
the drumming on the gutters
and sills, all Mimzy too were those barogroves,
wind isolate in Macbethian
darkness-- merely players,
the world a stage, for a moment--

You and me make thunderstorms
crisp itchy lightning
summer in the shade of bedsheets, it
struck a tree in my backyard
one time, and is not telling
telling? Do I can I speak
to the Landlord?

Four.
Spilled milk is best when you
eat your foot too, my future indeed
is my own, but the all-moving all-
encompassing glacier might prove
otherwise.

Birdman in a dream
gets hit by drunk-driver, in reality
almost gets hit by drunk-driver, but doesn't
because Birdman long ago voyaged
the Hesse, and time doesn't exist
on the Green-bottomed Hesse,
and he doesn't get hit but has always
been hit but what if I told you
I am the Birdman, now can we spar?

Hey Landlord, now can we spar?

DOES ALL THE SPILLED MILK IN YERSHALAIM
illuminate my incompetence

Yeshua was tortured and left for dead
Van Gogh cuts off his ear
Bukowski drinks a lot

DOES ALL THE SPILLED MILK IN YERSHALAIM
illuminate

The Lizard King drowns in his puke
so does Poe so does Faulkner

What are you if not tortured
I am the spilled milk in the

destroyed temple within my
Yershalaim I am a coward.

Ebb and flow too and fro
black and white republican

or democrat are we not
slurping up the milk

Ebb and flow too and fro
don’t let it get to you, hun

Ebb and flow too and fro
the pendulum sings of sweet-'n-low

How is that for illuminating?

Monkfish

Monkfish, monkfish,
writhing upstream,
humming a single note
and living the dream.

Monkfish, monkfish,
catching the worm,
writhing upstream and
challenging the norm.

Monkfish, monkfish,
writhing upstream
emitting light that's at
once all and one single beam.

Monkfish, monkfish,
you are the dream.
Carry us to Zion, the
destination upstream.

Abandon Property, Dance Bravely!

Sleep only comes to the crocodile

when the villagers acknowledge that

it was he who banished their daughters

to the dark forests of convenience.

Sleep only comes to the crocodile

if the villagers remember
that he is the pursuit of
property, not happiness.

And when the crocodile sleeps,

the villagers will dance with the lions,

the lions that love, the lions that live,

the lions with hearts golden brave with

eyes staring into the deep dark deep

and grinning. The forests of convenience
will burn and the daughters of the village
rescued, and utopia will be theirs once more.

But there will be villagers who like crocs
better than lions, and they will whisper
"beware of dancing with the lions, they might
eat you," to which you say--"'hearts are bigger than teeth."

Tear Apart Apartheid!

Apathetic dialectic frozen
Anatomic microscopic pulled

From the very gray water
You drink, so Apartheid!

Uh-part-hide! Hide, part, uh,
You drink apathetic dialectic

FROZEN. You drink very
Gray Apartheid anatomically

Correct microscopes. Hide part
uh tear it down!

True happiness is when

life imitates art,

and art embodies life.

They were wrong when

They told us that we were

The masters of our own

Destiny. Not when the rent

Is due, not when your fridge

Is empty and your car is

Repossessed, not when you’re

Going a month without pay

Because the state is cutting the

Budget, again. They were wrong

When they said that we are the

Captains of own individual vessels.

It’s the economy, stupid.