Ed Go

good neighbors

i’m gonna build a wall between my fungus and my weeds
to keep out weeds from fungus and out fungus from my weeds
and maybe then an exoskull will exemplify my weeds
growing out between the fungal separating weeds

then maybe we can maybe grow a baby cephalopod
to be a better citizen—citizen cephalopod
in xanadu did kubla khan a stately cephalopod
decreed by hungry bottomfed steakfried cephalopod

and drinking corn in drinking form we wait for a bomb
wait and see if it makes three when added to a bomb
we wait and wait and wait again and wait until a bomb
bombs us in our bomb shelter sheltered from the bomb

but least of ill is last of auld divided by the spleen
keeping out the enemy poisoning the spleen
by injection or ingestion or transplanting of a spleen
(it takes no special training to tell a liver from the spleen)

so sing to mold and mildew but celebrate the weeds
drink to ancient rimes and fish but not a cephalopod
raise your glass to waiting but never to a bomb
and wait until the ferry drops us by the sycamore

desdemona’s fate (is all of ours)

as a poor and hopeless soul sat crying by the sycamore
(and andy warhol lying dying by the sycamore)
or else it is a rabbit trying to cut down a sycamore
as we try rowing in our boats made of sycamore

and choirs of angels sing in praise of oil and gingerbread
to feed the poor and rich alike with barrels of gingerbread
and men and women made of money and of gingerbread
let loose in flights of bullion bricks baked in gingerbread

meanwhile all the minions of a monster we’ve unleashed
just like the strays that overrun the cities they’re unleashed
and manta rays that fly above and move about unleashed
zap us in our rocking chairs until we’re all unleashed

from west to east and north to south and west to south and east
to north and south to east and east to west and north to east
to south and south to west and west back north and south to east
it may just take four revolutions to go from west to east

and so we rest upon our rocks beside the sycamore
and feast upon crusty loaf and moldy gingerbread
waiting for the tops and tips and tongues to be unleashed
folded firmly in our arms as we remain unfinished


a house slaves built is now complete but something’s still unfinished
no one knows just what is it that stands there yet unfinished
silhouette against the dusk of this structure that’s unfinished
crooked in the moonlit field behind our house unfinished

and yet the man says he can build a monument to ruin
he boasts about it night and day as if his life’s a ruin
and all his pasts and all his nows are just another ruin
waiting for a future that our fetishes will ruin

in the distance sirens wail and draw us to the wood
where totems once erected tall of yellow painted wood
came crumbling down in one last chance carving into wood
a monument to elegance when metal meets with wood

and in the dawning of the age of one last harpsichord
the song will play to take the boy who plays the harpsichord
each and every morning break when his harpsichord
is buried in the ground beside his mother’s harpsichord

go back into that dark night where it was left unfinished
beside the temple rent by rock and fire down to ruin
and fire set to paper homes and vehicles of wood
while angles shifted back by force are eaten by the ants

by the river hudson i laid down and jerked off

  when i was younger i’d step on ants just to step on ants
they crunched on concrete crunching as the sound of crunching ants   
broke beneath my boots the crunch and crackle of the ants
exoskulls crack transcendental releasing souls of ants

and bees past my face did float as a punch nearmissing mine 
twist my mane making fast to the loosehand side by mine
  i asked eileen if i could coax her with a finger only mine
my arm swept wide to engulf her gloom by way of her to mine

  wrapped under where we were when we were moving right
by the time we reached the left bank cash jolted to the right
  to which was when we wore our wounds no matter what was right
  and wounds are a serious thing to wear whether left or right

  forward into memory or forward into flame
nostalgia is a dangerous burn when looked at through a flame
and all our candles calling back by black and white through flame
a house of white built by black and once again in flame

an elephant made of steel swallowed by the ants
dripping oil from its bowels on workers in the mine
who gave their lives to live their lives as we by what now’s right
till the soil and corporation conflicting at the crossroads

11/7 – 11/9

we're almost to the bend of place where karma meets the crossroads
  almost in the turnaround at the back end of a crossroads
  where cavalier and currycooked happen in the crossroads
  mostly all surrounding oil in the pothole at the crossroads

  and if we turn back now and here everything's a given
  portable and possible or else it's just a given
  and none recall the name they took or the name we've all been given
  so we pick a name that means something else and all of it is given

  but after all and in the fall all our parts are taken
  from moon to glow or grass to grate all the greens are taken
  as blue and black and pink and red and also gray are taken
  so that leaves peach and cerulean and nothing else was taken

  from the time we once knew each other in the factory
  laughing at the meat and fat and all that's of the factory
  like the horse led to slaughter water chamber at the factory
  can't make him drink nor only thankful now there is no factory

  gaslight by the fireplace corona by the crossroads
  captain of my sole hung face all my hunk is given
  and stud by horse or stand by bull the humidity is taken
  we get the law that we deserve and it seems we've scraped the bottom

by our meat you shall know us, and our fat will grease your gears

at the surface lit by light but diffused at the bottom
  from here we only hear of it and dream it from the bottom
  occasionally someone sees the light down at the bottom
  but heat that vents up from the core protects us at the bottom

  we are the feeders in the dark we work for evolution
  toil in trouble double tapping time out evolution
  biting flesh or eating leaf or fucking—evolution
  statistically against us but that's just evolution

  and if it falls it falls for all what does it even matter
  kingdoms come and then they fall that's just a fact of matter
  another fact we all must face is a plainer matter
  evolution or revolution will change the state of matter

  so to the surface some will rise while most just go on drowning
  splashing is a funner fling but there's still joy in drowning
  in lake or pond river stream or bathtub where we're drowning
  diving is a deeper thing yet it all leads to drowning

  we're all drowning now except those dying at the bottom
  there's no escaping plots and plans of wealth or evolution
  the playyard or the graveground both sit center in the matter
  but tourniquet and trampoline both bleed blood borne of oil


last night i ate linguine with meat cooked in olive oil
transparent moments of peace and joy are always olive oil
but peace is priced beyond the barrel trading blood for oil
and joy is abstract in its glooming metaphor for oil

and humanity is just a family like a pattern of a shell
we lost a lot of love this time through cracking in the shell
and we lost a lot of blood in time constructed like a shell
there’s nothing left but to mourn those gone now from our shell

and round and round and round and round and round it goes eternal
and round it goes eternal and round and round eternal
there’s nothing left but floods of tears and blood and oil eternal
infernal is this villain coming but his come is not eternal

but if you carry pictures of him or of chairman mao
you ain’t gonna make it with anyone so it might as well be mao
or idi amin or pol pot or ceaușescu papa doc or mao
as now we fall right into this another chairman mao

then let’s not let us bury lettuce in vinegar and oil
let’s not pack too much meat into this fragile shell
let’s instead steer clear of here and hope it’s not eternal
that human devils have groped our gardens and cultivate the weeds