Rain Forest: Shakedown

 DIVINATION:     I warned you a blast was raging downstream
                 by elocution to thrust-condensers ramming
                 P-Funk out the dual exhaust, the windpipe
                 and the rush
                 from those who ride shortwave
                 on the MacRiviera, repainting native earthworks
                 the colors of oxidized metallic fingers
                 the monkey-idol
                 left out in the rain too long,    ageless
                 the orange oak-leaves moulted brown
                 will continue maniacally twirling in the grass
                 until your sentience writhes before me,
                 kneeling at the worship
                 of a billion, umbral ricocheted stars

                 In my eyes, remorseless invoiced angels
                 struggle free, the risen dog
                 taxonomy yelping down my jawline
                 evolves prophylactic beasts of order
                 from the banks of the Auto-Chlor,    jetstream
                 spoken on radio backstreets
                 by lone-goth mobile choirs
                 in niches timed to signal lamps you
                 stretched on twine to the gas silos;
                 on the plain by the  toxic-shock station,
                 brackets conceal sparks
                 in the trail of lost fume identities;

 BLOW:           Character breaks are only ghost Antarctic sweats
                 jerking down your cheeks under a  punctured ozone;
                 remember when the Meat Puppets played
                 Don't cry for me, Patagonia,
                 the Amazon's wrists are screeching
                 through tapeheads at high-speed, masked
                 and flailing at the mouth
                 enshrouding peaks with a condensed vulvic moisture
                 and a ring of fine vapor;
                 an occasional shreik or moan won't drive
                 the public-broadcast tundra; Rather
                 pump strafed-baby interrupt into raw gum
                 domains, one nation under a spell
                 perished, full-shadow
                 on the restrained teak commode,

                 Your mouth is an empty lung bloated with mongrel air,
                 and my pagan crush will land you in dumpsters
                 at twilight,
                 rutting and tumbling under cover of packed incisors,
                 task-force weaponry
                 scratching out declensions on the Mission glass,
                 the Popol Vuh extinguished in the negatives
                 any photograqhic evidence for capital
                 exhumes black soot and stone
                         under canopy of the Mayan tumbler vault;

 PARAPET:        I'm going down in the annals of ecstasy
                 as a sub-altern career voyeur
                 seceding from the union of pain
                 with the done deal at the corner

                 conscience store:
                 "Rain Forest Flakes and xanex, please." -it's a wrap.

                 Your manacled breath sternly poses
                 beneath caution waivers
                 sundering rhythm viscosities    I'm tossed
                 in the mix
                 on barbs and filed teeth pillars
                 carrying protection
                 I've applied the brakes once too often,
                 and you might have to finish this.

 ORGAN:          Riff forward to the last-born cog, the Great Divide
                 between clefs powered by winter Southbound
                 mackerel skies,
                 the roe slough down, school me down to work;
                 Or, I'm on a Def Revel recording contract,
                 arraigned in hell, the corpse,
                 Dead Elvis, booked and charged
                 with a pocketful of truck-stop violence
                 thrown on the pyre of love,

                 I'm trashing every lineage in sight;

                 and it's one for the money, two
                 for another lost angel in the City at night;

                 This biblical scar
                 world as Pinochet puppet
                 on a broken string            looking for an altar,
                                                     for Jude,
                 a refuge from mockery,
                                 some tawny, blind majorette;

                 The door-crack baiting a branch, an offer
                 of sweetbreads and cod is proffered,
                 the river rolling in iodine and paint,
                 smudge-pot indigo tears, refrain
                 drawn through switches,
                 through the giant leaves of ferns
                 a girl peers open-mouthed and is marked red
                 for the camera or sighting scope;
                 A jet-trail chisels clouds pearl-grey
                 and the Inca slumber is unfollowable;

 CAVEAT EMPTOR:  The drifiting bread the river
                 burns away at the feed
                 is hampering your palmistry
                 woven in blankets of low squawk
                 the inertial reels plushed at my temples
                 cut clocks from the disk;
                 the sun is a pre-emptive cough.

John Noto is a San Francisco poet of technoculture and the cyber abyss. He writes for the literary magazines Caliban and Talisman. His first book, Psycho-Motor Breathscapes will be published in the Fall of 1995 by Vatic Hum Press in Louisville, KY, and San Francisco, CA.