I fit the profile of the person secret police look for,
I challenge the proof we're God's descendants.
Here are my tendencies toward abrupt interrogation—
I do not speak of life as it could have been,
I believe most men die of remedy, not illness.
Uninvited guest, who does nothing to block off areas
Others wish not to acknowledge,
I fit the profile of multitude lost visions—motherloads,
Motherboards—everybody's already dead.
Pushed into my body, the profile of my warehouse fills
With trumpets & deltas & burning babies & wallets.
Changing the profile of planets—this the device
Of my intimate skeleton.

                                                        4 February 2000

                                                        after Shelley

The viewless & invisible Consequence
Unveils every new-born deed, and thoughts
More ghastly than those deeds,
& hope that is the sick despair of good,
& calm that is not what life was.
In my own heart I saw the hearts of others
Armed to bear thrones & courts,
The price prefixed by selfishness,
Devotion to tenderness afar from sorrow,
Eyes that see their own delight,
Friends, as few have ever been,
Errorless guards of a nation's rage,
Bliss across vast discordant spans.
The world should listen as I am listening now.

                                                        15 February 2000


In the important circle of grilled cheese sandwiches,
The anatomy of loneliness can't even afford to make
Good on last life's meat debts let alone the price of
Global firestorms, the price of defeating candidates,
The price of defeating the enslavers of the world,
The price of turned down appeals from death row.
You're sleeping on piles of old coats in candylands
Of the famous fuckfaces of history—the whole thing
Exploding in its enormous complexity—everyone
Hanging on to the pulse earth judgment—shoeless
& flying with thirteen eagles in this We Are Who
There Is shower of headfirst moaning skewered to
The universe that cares not what happens to you &
Eternity that disposes its evil in vestments of larks.

                                                        7 March 2000

                                                        after Ezra Pound

Ghost train of Revolutionary Mind—
Injustice to none, no life, no matter how small.
We the people, beaten from light to flesh,
Are given to punishment cruel & unusual
Though by love sealed.
Awareness continues without publicity
Homeless & Haunted, though Thou art not fled
Nor mere dreaming amid corridors & ambassadors.
The seed splits the cliff edge.
Sweetness enters the heart.
All symbols only symbols of revolution
Already in progress, perfecting from within, faster
Than a thousand years of savages against maniacs.
My calendar of Peace is abundant,
Unceasing, improvised as rays of the sun.
I have no need to be known, only to shape my scars
To the grief above the crumbling casinos
Where anguished panhandlers in the gypsy hours go
On unspeakable freeways that lead to no country,
Serene as the paradise of your own true nature.

                                                        1 January 2000