Wafting Time’s millennial mega-annum among centipede meal, smell dinosaur souls bone rodent cadavers, as blind moles fiddle Mozart on the piccolo, earthworms humming pinochle on bellybutton bar stools, lullabies lulling cognitive cognizants crawling creatively inside the ground we walk up on. These are the rules. Three minutes is what you get. No props, costumes, cross-dressing monkey-helping hand jobs, unless professionally certified service animals, CIA trained in ballistics, manners, hand-to-hand combat, fighting for our very lives.

 Like a ’65 Lincoln, mauling ghetto mariachi music in a velvet stovepipe hat, Death bleeds immortally. Bad acting cannot kill Mr. President Poet Laureate, who once stood on the shores of a two-hour-long wind and slammed three minutes, 267 words of noble, Biblical, perishable soul into the cold, dedicated ground of consecrated pity, piling on pure devotion. Peacefully, eternally tuxedoed out at the Opera, Lincoln’s soul chromes golden rims like this side of the Goddamned sun.

 And like Einstein relatively speaking, even three-minute stars think pity burns bright when Death appears light years around the corner. Honestly, Abe’s presidential career lasted four short years, like Janis, Hendrix, the combs of Kurt Cobain, bold flowers flowing into green, wet Earth, conspiring the worms that eat the soul at the very center of the Universe.

 Eternal color, quickly dying, lives on Forever’s beautiful chlorophyll.

But infinite Buddha boob confuses Baptists in Kansas, as crazy canvases convalesce Christ’s crucifix in a urine jar sample, sailing seas of THC and teenage Heavy Metal, Ozzy and Mr. Crowley crooning hand in hand to Satan’s live and smoking jug-string-jazz band.

As somewhere in the Cosmos, little Stephen Hawking, yawning, stares straight down Sunday School teacher cleavage, squirming quantum dreams among throngs of snotty masses who sincerely believe babies come UPS, special delivery across the seas from Tennessee.

Like Hawking, Einstein knew the Universe’s quantum sexuality, as the boob of the sun becomes the womb of the day inside God’s imagination, more important than knowledge dissected on a forensic slab of theoretical bullshit.

So sowing instinctual instructions, take your clothes off at the shore. Appreciating wind inside soul, lift up, lift out; let sunlight pore epiphany into pituitary’s centering third eyes’ zone. Lock heart chest into center of Earth, gestation’s menstruation swollen like a purple portal calling immortal rebirth. As Ocean washes Sunset like a grape, slip into this slippery canal like a fish’s starlit wish, reborn in sand to wash Time with the Moon. Electrons dancing upon atoms, everything blooms from Womb.

 INVU, gorgeously gorging fireflies fluorescent in the night’s Internet, winking, thinking, six million Sputniks spurting orgiastic atrocities against many MILF’s from other planets. Rocking cock guitar, Prince, an artist formerly known, porns portal petals of Internet infinity, filtering universes of universal understanding as galaxies of sperm pilots swim in the palm of your hand.

 A virtual Milky Way is what we make. Tennis shoes laced in LSD, Timothy Leary tranced out in the 70s, foretelling the Internet’s eBayed, Wikileaking consciousness, thoughts like sunlight streaking galaxies light years away. In truth, Google’s Guru wears no loin cloth, dining out at China’s all you can eat King Crab Cafe.

 Human consciousness is high on Sci-Fi WiFi, but forget not, we’re only apes spouting poems, punching millions of numbers on millions of wristwatch calculators, thanks to opposable thumbs.

 See monkeys eat truth like Apples, grow minds’ eyes wise, or Google “split wet beaver” right between the thighs to come back with the Snatchel, page ranking one in the sun. We’re only animals blessed in this garden of choice. Make art, make love, make mud. God is our Kingdom, so here we are. Truth can be nude or lewd, whatever we make, living honey’s harmony of Love’s sweet prophecy, or high-fructose corn’s syrupy monstrosity, dying in diabetes and choking on snakes. What will you take?

 Bloody US tax invasion calls us home. IRS fucks shits. Let’s all move to Tennessee; live in a cave like David Allen Coe.

 Outlaw country, low brow Tao. Take the latest IRS tax lactated latex: one-third to the humans, a tenth to bureaucratic chest desks, while the rest floats coffer’s coffins down an oil-slicked, blood-drenched war, millions-thick with corpses as Colin Powell writhes Guernica behind a UN curtained, waterboarded conscience and the lies of the CIA.

 Look in the eye of the junky in the mirror: blood-crazed, thick, addicted to oil. Senators say it’s chocolate milk in the sea, as black gunk pours from an ocean hole: an OD’d fucked-up, ruptured artery…

 …bleeding human depreciation. Adjusted for inflation, we’re literally worth less than before. When Patriots signed the Constitution in 1787, brown skin humans cost $350, or $6,500 in today’s Monopoly. Come the 21^st Century, Fox’s Bush, Donald and Dick knowingly purchased $3,000 bounties for brown skin 12 year old’s, little to no circumstanced evidence. At the birth of this nation, people cost Subarus that could drive over Colorado mountains in style. Today, we’re not worth a Ford Escort beater that might make it to Wal-Mart without breaking down.

 Fucked up. Oil bleeds black, gunked up junk; hemp grows medicine, wild like weed, 20 fucking feet in the air. Grind it into bio fuel; pound hemp seed into food. Why not grow our world wise, as Ginsberg’s gritty Sunflower Halo meditating train yards of despair, golden, naked Buddha-blue pure air?

Hear Lunar giggles softly shiver over Ocra moans, as in an orchestra of loveliness, lovers listen and wonder, never sure whether ocean wind or audience, softly laughing, sighing, gasping hushed, awed silence of starlit nighttime’s wonderful ink.

And Miller is killing the Whale softly with ecstasy. She’s forgotten sea world’s chlorine and the shackles of USA Today. Escaped like a prison break and running on the lam, she’s free, bruised and battered in the arms of an erotic ex-patriotic, fucking verbs on the beach in the Tropics of Consciousness, sweetly salty and sticky with sin.

 Shamue pleasures pain’s metamorphosis, kissing Miller’s baldness over metaphors merely meaningless, as Bliss is what it is. A Fuck is a fuck down a salt lick tequila flesh wound, but a Lay feels flowers bubbling chlorophyll all over lonely souls.

Listen, as Moonlight laughs at a Whale wearing wisdom’s wonderful orgasm. Fins spawning wings, Sky transcends Sea, swimming revolutions of evolution, a beautiful Blackbird, a dazzling Jazz epiphany.

 Sizzling shoes, the blues skateboards blue skies as flowers bow low, smiling crazy orange orgasms in concrete cracks of the Civilized World. Laugh as poppies laugh at you. Listen as Redwoods hiccup choked back tears, drunk-assly ridiculous, the next time you imagine you’re too afraid to grow old. The whole world wanders as a Cheshire cat in hospital robes, a meandering mental ward smiling ass crack, disappearing in the bright blue yonder. Wonder how we’re present, eyes blinking wide inside the here right now, where sunlight’s source blinds Renaissance men like Ray Charles, as Gospel strips naked in flowing combs of long brown hair? We’re all mad to be here. Reality is inside sanity’s eye of the drooling Beholder.

 Somewhere between our third eye, squinting sunlight split open, wide as the sky, truth will make you blind. The weight of the world rides a Woody Guthrie boxcar, rambling dreams more mystical than an empty jug of wine, drained, wasted beside the hardest, naked, Killing Fascist Machine this land has ever known. Boy, Pretty Pink Floyd loved to rock and roll.

 By the 3^rd Lion roar, listen as Pink Floyd’s electrical stormed triangle moans Dorothy’s soul lonely, as Kansas homes fly into tornado holes, spiraling like Syd through that Great Gig in the Sky. Open Technicolor’s Oz on the bright side of the bedroom door.

Music is free color. Dylan’s money is in Kansas. The Blue Witch will count the coup of the Dead. Let Houses fall where the Wicked Witch lies; let the Clash crash on the thrift store couch of Love. Midgets will dance on graves; Scarecrows jig lunacy on Roger Water’s grass. Everything comes to pass, as Woody Guthrie’s soul hums sweet epiphanies between naps, looted, stolen, off centuries’ folk tunes already been spoken. Harmonicas are slut machines; truth is blind as beauty.

Hippie tie dies wear ties selling Big Macs at McDonalds in the biggest massmurdering marketing scheme to burn down Kermit the Frog’s easy being green pipe dreams. Digable Planets renting washers to own, Flavor Flav’s lapping cell phones like some back alley bone. From sellout to hiphop, any Afro in a Rave Tux will peddle Mountain Dew when Papa Smurf blows the 80s and moves in with his parents. Yet God bless the soul of Snuggles, that adorable fabric softener bear, when poetic, prophetic words of blues fly so mindsoaringlyfree the infomercial networks don’t give a flying fuck.

Fucking nuts, poetry’s free, slaughtered laughter of a marketing demographic, obscenely graphic like the shaft that plunged Madonna soon after giving birth to Our Lord. When poetry doesn’t sell, there’s no need to sell out, get a dick clipped, tuck a boob job, bob a Captain Kirk chrome dome with sandy locks of auburn. Crazy as Canadian wooden loons, we’ll never be robbed of pockets of poems, sauced full of secrets in this bare Mission air.

Poetry is a Wizard oozing Oz as Circus Freak Theater. “Stand back!” said the blind elephant beatnik whose Whitman Yawp’s scalped off Flying Monkey Hell’s Angels in badass Michael Jackson slapstick. “I’ll dribble my essence all over the rooftops of this world!”

Who’s afraid of commercials? When rich people watch Tiger Woods’ sex life like he’ll easily striptease, poetry strips down to a Bear with no hair, a Zebra wiped of stripes, a Tortoise rock free and heavy as a Lizard’s stoned stare.

And all the world watches soused on salsa dancing to an AM/FM mariachi band. Though we’re broke as martyrs, the Mission air heals pure. What’s it matter that St. Valentine died bloody red broken as Hallmark raped Love, drunk on chocolate Catholic wine in the middle of the winter? A love poem is God, golden as a calf slipped nude from the Garter, touched like an afterbirth Virgin newly being born.

Meanwhile somewhere in the Universe, Bibles build broad, chesty broads radiating that superior animation of classy Americana. Brandishing Eagle-like moose murder in a bloody red American leotard, our Country of the Republicans takes to the skies, trumpeting liberty like a Mack truck in mating season, so Jesus Christ get the fuck out of the way.

Yin and yawn. Coughed to the Left per Al Frankin’s political sports physical, the Right hand strokes Bible spine in the twisted bliss of gin’s kissed lisp, Cosmic Yang spinning like a wheelie’s rotating erection.

As if that’s not a spectacle, Regulation’s hard on cocaine-laced wine blessed by the Pope. Eyes wide shut, watch how marvelous marble banks become, scattered to the wind like a pool shark’s big break. Capitalism’s flown to Mars, while grouchy Marx smokes cigars in nursing home pajamas, wondering when Lawrence Welk milks the stage on Access TV.

 While all the wile in some back stockroom, AIG snorts Community Head Start’s kiddie dollar bills like Peruvian lines down the Senate’s butt crack. Disco Queens popping pills with Jim Beam, rich white guys wear the stolen golden means of Mr. T’s dreams for Dr. Martin Luther King. Everything sold out. From A-Team jeans to AT&T schemes, it’s all a big old Super Bowl commercial, a Dream deferred for New Coke and crack, so take a piss on these Messages and be right back.

 Yet up chucked, fucked up, the Dow jonesin’ Luck be a Buddha Pooh Bear wearing no underwear. It is what it is, no doubt about it. Hunger buzzes like belly bees, but the Tao of Pooh in abundance. For in the trees, the only need to buzz is to be a bee. The only need of bees is to make honey. And the only need of Bears is to eat honey like a mystical epiphany, a gray-clouded balloon untethered and free, pretending to be the weather.

 As Jazz jives like a hive growing music, rippling birds and bees and saxophone sex in the trees, Buddha-rhythms run down honey’s slippery, sticky sun, golden dreams in abundance. Mend a Way as simple ripples schizophrenia’s equal sign. The Moon’s equilibrium soothes my spine, equally day, equally night, as the Chemical Equation for God is Einstein’s recipe for Light.

 So as Pat Boon’s paranoid Mexicans will break in his bedroom window, demanding to sleep on the couch, Elvis is still dead, playing Old Maid Slap Jack with Michael Jackson in Paradise. Nature finds a way to nurture, even in the golden-throned game rooms of Heaven’s own nursing home. Everything is one when even Elvis greets the King of Pop with a deck of cards, a fried PB&J, a long-lost Rhinestone glove. Is God Love as Pop meets Rock in the aftershock of an everlasting Afterlife?

 So Solution’s a revolution. Sunshine is enormous. Grow shit in buckets, grow it under lights in the night when nothing’s in sight. Color chlorophyll with herbs, peppers, piled high tomatoes; let us all dribble lettuce all over the meadows of the ghetto. Grow in the walls, gutters, between window shutters. Sow, seed wind abundantly, independently aborigine; run cars off sun weaned from weed. Be free. Dance sunlight pools of midnight while flowers wile in wonder.

 Winter’s sun is summer’s downwind season’s sweet epiphany. When wonder wanders mystery, energy sees invisibility. Why worry about anything at all?

 Like wind’s whispering sorcerers, Van Gogh heard Music, his gift of an ear for romance, poetry, tears weeping rivers lovely flesh of the Damned.

So sang clang, language wrapped in a straight jacket tie drooling mental ward smiling Crazy Cat get out. The Liquid Lynx laughs on tops of treetops soaring hilarious spontaneous consciousness, disappearing in diamond’s inky, milky, silk of a Sky. Please, take off your mind’s clothes, and step inside…

We know Kimberly S. is a good Christian girl deep down in her heart, but she’s too hot to trot, probably smokes pot in the Quickie Mart parking lot. She needs a STRONG Christian man with STRONG Christian values to beat out the living daylights with the rod of Todd and his thick-as-a-Bible belt. 79 thousand dollars and you can make her holler, straight up legal like the Regal in the US of A. Just turned 14, she’ll smell like Maybelline for Teens as she’s washing your floor down on all fours, loving Britney just like Jesus, maybe even more. Money for holy matrimony will make a nice down payment on Daddy’s speedboat sacrament, maybe buy Mommy Imelda Marcos’ thousand pairs of shoes, half-off at Good Will.

So marry our daughter. Fresh, young, 13, she’s ready for her sacred rite of passage, that first kiss on the altar of love, tied up tight like virginity in the throngs of King Kong. Pubescent perdition is a family tradition, going all the way back to great, great grandma’s first menstrual cramps. Her mom married at 13, like her grandma and her grandma’s grandma, engaged before the legal age to get an abortion without Daddy’s permission in 1 out of 5 states. She may be too young to drink 3 percent beer, would rather date Richard Gere, but she’s legally yours for $56,000.

Lord, please, marry our daughter. She dresses in black, depression-drenched in Kerouac, like nighttime was a bottle of wine and the moon’s just some lousy beatnik. 15, droning poems like some aging gnome squatting on a mushroom barstool, she’s wondering when her old soul will begin again. She’s got the mind of a Bodhavista, the body of Hannah Montana dressed like Marilyn Manson, but for 42 thousand clams, she’ll damn well darn socks, polish floors, bloody indeed breed for the seed of the Lord.

See, bride price is a Biblical tradition, a Moses cure-all prescription for teenage sedition. When good ol’ boy Shechem raped Jacob’s daughter, it took some hefty hauling to get her to his kitchen to make him some bacon. We’re talking circumcision down to size, not just himself but the whole fucking countryside, every male down the line giving a little skin so this mother fucking rapist can get by. Circumcised by circumstance comes up in the Bible only once in a while, usually as some weird-ass pimp fee, a Ticket Bastard charge on a credit card, some slice of super congealed Ronald Reagan lard on your wheat melba toast. Like Holy Matrimonies don’t cost enough money, they’ll slice off a piece of dick to boot too.

Or how about King David schilling out 100 Philistinian foreskins like onion ring tokens of true radiant love? Hell, it’s in the Bible, people raping, foreskin forking, fucking sick ass shit, flaming on a stick, like hell’s bowels owns a website and all the bust-a-religiousnuts subscribe.

To kind of world do we want to subscribe? Selling our daughters for a cup of cold water, a diamond ring, the American dream, legal as a steeple and somehow justified by God? Girls locked and stocked like bunnies on the 4-H auction block, sold like slaves, like livestock, adding acres to the farm and a Jacuzzi with a view. Is Jesus the confessor of Chester the Molester; how can Sunday go so horribly wrong?

When will we realize we are the eyes of God? We are imagination mentioning infinity, our own tree falling in the woods, hearing our thoughts for the very first time. Infinite love is instantly intent when we choose to invent it, ascend into the bend to see who we really are. We are the sons of a Sun, the daughters of a Star, a rippling divinity of Creation’s creativity, an idea born from Universal dust. When we will we marry our destiny, choose true love and become happily ever after?

Everywhere are miracles, like marigolds shining bright in this Milky Way night, as open as a Universal Kiss. Kindness opens minds, as hydrogen doubles oxygen into water’s weddings’ wine.