Into the summer pageantry,
I go forth
unfailed by noon,
unhanded by time.
My spirit’s lonely shell
in diabetes lay,
is fretting upon the Earth.
I can’t seem to get lost here
and forget the Infinite
for whom my life’s pay.
Golden bridals of dawn
have lit the morn,
and I suspect Earth shakes.
I suspect I’m wrong.
Too horrible creature for words
I belch poems of fire.

I don’t know where my destiny lay.
It’s deeper than me.
I don’t know where I’m goin’,
and I’m in a car upon the roads of time.
I just sit there and wait,
going forward,
lifting up my voice to fate.
I can’t catch my dreams.
I don’t know where they’re taking me.
I’m in an uncertain moment,
labeled a monster of the wood
by someone who gets away with it.
My home I fled from.
She’d put a gun to my head,
nobody to help me but this old guitar
on the lifebeats of time.

Will I wake up
and understand the morrow?
I don’t know what business there,
and I can be crucified today.
Oh foolish Sun,
is so much wasted on thee?
What am I doin’ it for?
Why do I plot my life
towards the Spirit’s call?
It is within me and I do it that is all,
and I’m frying in a frying pan,
having melted my home for her,
where she had all power.
Where did God help?

I suddenly escaped,
and great large forces prepared that,
and people did help.
Fine, fine, I’ll go.
I’ll transcend time
and climb out of time
to see my Face once more.
I wear him still,
where I find him today
a necessity,
the greater being that I am,
so close it’s a million miles away,
a chariot on my moon.
Stronger now
I gather evidence.

You don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.
I just want to lay me down to sleep
and be oblivion
to all that encompasses me.
I’m watchin’ the freeways turn
to some other destination
I can’t read.
I can’t even see.
I was born to put the incarnate in verse.
I cannot count the cost I’m done.
I am the uttered word
taken apart by kingpins
and pushed into the dirt.
You see the history of this?
Jezebel come forth.
I am writing on the Sun.

Are you sure you’re led halfway?
What rallies against your speech now?
What blinded impulse urge did you do?
You are innocent of her charges.
Where do we get this out of here?
There is nowhere where we haven’t drawn our horses.
We are an envelope on our soul
opening it.
When I walked my soul
I was in daylight.
Love is the threatened of my feelin’ knowledge,
the smushed of the prepared in my shield.
I feel my stomach in it,
all this mess.
I spit it out my room.
I’m not a devil.
I’m not even a bad man.
I’m certainly not raping my dog
or about to blow up and kill the neighborhood
or kidnap Nithish from India.
Why would the cops take her seriously
and come to my door and harass me?

I don’t understand this murder
or the threat of jail for weeks afterwards,
or that they might take my dog.
This is ungodly.
I didn’t commit a crime.
I didn’t even do anything wrong.
Where do this lead us?
On the wrong road.
We are not Bridal Falls, Minnesota.
We’re Hell’s bells
in this situation room Florida.
Why would I suffer here?
What’s the door?
Poetry I let out.
I called Trump out of office.
I talked about infant orgasm I received,
not condoning it
nor encouraging it,
and I didn’t let Christianity get away with it,
putting people in Hell
for all eternity,
even most voters in the world,
because they didn’t vote for Christ,
and what about ICE?
I’ve poetry’d against them,
their murderous ways,
their racist endeavor.

Okay you found me.
I’m a poet you need shut up.
I’m a poet you need out of town.
Did you do that?
You let it happen.
No one came to my aid,
except who I’d reached through friendship,
and they are great on that,
but we’d shared life together,
and we’ve been in the presence of each other’s eyes
soft and warm.
They came in and helped,
put me on the road again
and a place to go to,
and they’re ground guiding me in.
I discovered reef,
what the fishes know.
It provides for me.

Okay now where is your soft and warm,
your care and concern?
Where do you hold freedom
as a value you prize?
Is anybody listenin’?
You know what happened to me?
Can you understand this in America?
Poetry got me in trouble
with the law.
Nothing illegal I wrote.
Someone took my poetry to the police
and alarmed them with the accusations I’ve mentioned,
no evidence provided,
no evidence needed.
This woman had power.
She wanted me removed
and did it.

What do you say to that?
Do that for lunch,
crap all over somebody,
show them to be a monster,
try to remove them from society,
because they’d written poetry that offended you.
The patriotism of this lady would turn your head,
her salute the flag,
but isn’t this typical of Americans
nationalistic to the core?
They will take your freedom away from you if they don’t agree with it.
They will burn the Constitution,
if you’re protected by it,
and they don’t want you to be.

I’m still tryin’ at your door.
Who does a poet talk to anyway?
Who does he appeal to,
the lawyer who wants ten thousand dollars
just to investigate this case,
the civil liberties union,
who won’t even answer your email,
the legal aid society,
who won’t give you a dime,
if the matter here is crime?
You’re a warped society.
No protections for someone such as me,
who has no special name among you,
who is not rich and doesn’t need one,
who’s not a member of a minority.
I did not carry a gun to a protest.
I did not hit a policeman with my car,
even a little bit.
I wrote poetry and got in trouble for it,
and you only give those murdered people credit
to get protection from law enforcement,
from cops carrying guns
who unfailingly use them to murder citizens.
What about a living poet?
What about the rule of law
that should in theory protect him?

Do you know what’s happened here?
You think it’s dictators.
It’s your worst nightmare
made real.
It’s your apathy and compliance
to the mass enslavement of people
to the cruelty of the machine.
Another man taken down,
so what?
Do you hear me people?
So removable,
the awakening of the crowd.
Storm Heaven
with the right to be not a Christian.
I think you like this speaker.
He’s American.
You told me something.
Put on the vote
get power out of office
that’s goin’ down these lanes,
where even art and poetry is in danger,
or even freedom of expression
they take from you now.

Am I a flywheel?
I am the culling house today
of let’s make this real simple.
We’re lookin’ for a depository
where instances of fascism can be recorded
and set up criteria for the legitimacy of that reporting,
a national hotline,
an email you can tell,
a national depository.
You’re online,
and we can review these cases ourselves,
see them grow.
You know, we’d get somewhere.
We’d see it happenin’.
We’d know it’s there.

On Old Galveston Road,
or just down the lane,
I rose up into Wonder’s sphere.
My seat of consciousness
came out the top of my head
several meters into a whole other plane of existence,
the larger I that I am
beyond this sphere of lives.
It’s conscious and it’s free.
Several seconds I sat there.
Then went back down to myself driving the truck.
So, I know it’s up there
above everyone,
a being so unimaginable,
it is the divine self of you above,
the divine self of everybody,
individually sphered,
is the innumerable self above.
It is one being one in all.
Yeah, I ride that
the poetry I write.

I have breached the spheres,
and I know this is all bullshit,
this whole damn ride we have down here,
but it’s not an illusion.
Nor it’s a lark.
We change it one combustion at a time,
until the Glorious comes down here to work
more often than it does now,
the Being that surrounds the universe with its gaze.
Of course I’ll be persecuted.
Of course Jezebel will hunt me.
Of course these things happen.
I’m on it.
I’m right here describing it to you,
fillin’ the details in
with know whodunit.

Left lane ends one mile.
This breach in the reality of the universe,
the reality I’ve described to you
that is the sole heart of this one,
will be addressed and repaired
not long from now.
Can you get that?
I will not be persecuted much longer
by these people.
I have some poetry to write.
First thing I need protection.
No, I’m talkin’ in a space that can't do that?
Careful,
you might lose your own freedoms
in your notebook.

Tryin’ to humanize the experience.
I’m tryin’ to show it to yah.
It started when I lost my job for poetry months ago.
Before that in India
I got kicked out for writing poetry,
separated from my family.
I think you think it’s okay there,
but has America lost democracy too?
What are we tryin’ here?
The way of the world.
Do you know what engines are about,
the directions of population control,
the implements in place for that?
No, I’m not talking gruesome
they kill you there
in mass droves.
The everyday means of livin’
are being turned into a cattle bin.
It exceeds any report about it.
Look at your phone.
Look at all the control devices.
Look at the rules and regulations
to even open a bank account,
to rent an apartment,
to put vehicles in the street,
to go to the doctor.
How hard is it to get a job,
and what do all the questions ask you?
Are you friends with the machine?

Everyday liberties are being taken from us,
and it is as though they never were.
This is insane,
the normal people operating in society
rule checks the automaton,
is a pipe in a machine
that pipes to no thing
that eases its desolation,
is a calling card
to the Man to check the citizen's every move.
We are becoming unmanageable
as isolated freedoms.
We’re too expensive
to just let loose.
We must be bound and carded.
We must toe the line.
We must do all this
and merely say it’s fine.
Dissidence is becoming
too dangerous to harbor.
You report dissidence to the police.
That’s what happened to me.
That’s what’s goin’ on now.

We’ll see yah tomorrow mornin’ chicken noodles into a fight.
Are you gonna fare me?
I’m not gonna shut up.
Leave us alone.
Take down my playbill,
you can see they’re experienced today.
Everything’s written around that.
I was there in a Haight-Ashbury’s shoes
yoga year.
And to think that you’d
become on the ground of being,
often on the road,
a vehicle for God’s registry to put his voice,
a lone weaver
of the hour of God,
and what do you do for a livin’?
What cycle do you wanna take?
The song of poetry,
my voice lifted high to the sky,
my words reverberating on earth matter.

Is this a dream?
It is thy wild wood.
It is thy heart’s desire to thee.
It’s where we go from here.
It’s the stadium we pass now.
It’s yours for the beholdin’ kin.
I can do that.
I can land on your word
the vehicle of my speech.
I can land yours in mind
and plant mine on your feet,
so the heart shall know
love crude as a peacock
has glistened his moons today,
has arrived with liquid voice
to show you the Sun’s risin’ ways.

I am a purple heart,
and I dance on you now
the purple pageantry of love
putting hate in its place
out of bridal dawn.
Fine, I’ll grip your heart today.
Will you dance on me now
love’s pageantry today,
love’s high noon?
I’m the alien
to all your notions of time,
to what you view as the larger picture,
to any answer that you’ve come up with
to our state,
because I’ve seen what I know,
experienced it firsthand,
and no amount of convincing me otherwise will prove it
to me that I didn’t.
This is my livin’ faith.
This is what I hold in my hand.
This is the knowledge that parts the stars.

Fine, I’ll be your bended wood,
the poet you won’t give that title to,
the one who stands here and sings
like I’m in a vacuum.
I know I know who I am.
Gonna pull over somewhere
and realize I am you.
This is the knowledge that welds together the stars.
It’s all I really ask from you,
the empathy of that name,
the identity that helps.
We’re in the zone now
I reach all the way to the public.
We will see if you care.
We will see if you know
the difference between love and hate.

That’s what you guys for,
to engender freedom
and our care for one another.
Corona’s the last time I saw you
just shoveled aside for.
Herd you away from
the freedom we need to breathe
almost everything in society now.
Somethin’ is not right
in our day to day ritual.
I have the field glasses to see that.
I have the equipment.
Wrong kind of recipe
you put under freedom.
I gotta tell you somethin'.
You’re makin’ some big mistake
puttin’ poetry in the corner.

Now you can play off of my
poems that I give you.
I’m givin’ you poetry,
and you’ve completely forgotten
we manage by it freedom
and help to wipe out hate
and to be a true language model.
What is this world?
I’m late.
We’re supposed to manage this world
a better friend to everyone.
Why on earth would you not agree?
Why on earth would you fail here?
That’s for poetry to answer,
and I have.
That’s the start of you
wiping it out our rise to the occasion
you take a poet and shoot ‘im
or take his freedom.

Run up to see what you’re sayin’—
the freedom loving individual.
You’ve done it before.
Remember your Walt Whitman?
I fly my seat upon the roads of time.
He axed;
he falls
more gravity than I can bear.
I just look you back here,
all that’s gathered back there and start doberman.
Readers pipe in.
I mean you gotta go down
something like this
don’t look at it all—
Mrs. Mean Date
in the earlier walking.
Another purple heart.
The first two,
they will blasphemy.

Somebody spittin’ you and you go right down there:
just as I am
I cross thresholds.
I try to be myself all the time.
I don’t exaggerate my being.
I want you to see me as me,
and we identify with each other from there,
from that bake,
a humanity seeing,
a humanity start.
We’ve got to stop this revolution
that puts us all as automatons at the hands of society,
that takes our lives away,
and they become the machine,
that puts us at odds with each other
so we change our core being,
and you are not my brother,
my neighbor;
you’re a stranger we can do away with
when society says that.
We want to stop the revolution of ourselves
turning into a mass of product.
Can you realize that far?
Please, come with me.