The Sea Inside (and with Borgés Elohim I swallow Language)

I hear your voice in the cold damp morning
sitting on the Village Green reciting
your troubadour psalms
I hear your voice in the engine of a Mustang
driving ninety miles an hour down
an unknown highway
I hear your voice in my book of Rothko paintings
disguising your poems
with the desolation of Black on Grey
beneath meditation suicide
I hear your voice hungry
I hear your voice stoned
I hear your voice drunk
I hear your voice hungover in a nightmare
I hear your voice dreaming through the verses
of a cabaret epic disengaged
in the peril of bohemian rhapsody
I hear your voice on the road
starving in the madness of your generation
a boned bottlenecked bum sacrificing images
of no mind into the current of the Crow River
I hear your voice in the gutters
of the East Village romancing art galleries
I hear your voice in the son
of a haiku angel unbroken vows of childhood
I hear your voice in work that you hate
I hear your voice in work that you love
I hear your voice in the chiaroscuro dimension of yourself
I hear your voice telling me that the voice is the greatest instrument
I hear your voice in the theater
staging a Greek tragedy
in your bum classicist hypnotist poet voice
I hear your voice in a screaming mandala
I hear your voice fall with the rain
beating on my bedroom windows
like jazz fusion drums hypnotized by thunder
I hear your voice yell fuck
I hear your voice scream cunt
I hear your voice diseased by men
who can’t fuck
I hear your voice cured by women who can fuck
I hear your voice making love
I hear your voice fighting naked ballads
of bullshit that are polluted
with the sound of hungry mad owls
in the black burning night
I hear your voice burning
down by the river bank
standing next to the naked holy men
reliving the curse of their Dharma bludgeoned in the salt road
I see you unmasked on the corner
of Rock City Road searching…
…for your father bumming in the fog
I see your face hungover at dawn
strung out on coke
I see your face a mad Zen ex-amnesia shock patient
I see your eyes tightened
by convulsive driven prose
writing on the edge of madness
in cheap urban hotels burning
your songs with supernatural lighters
and wild dreams of images
stacked in the nightmare requiems
that flicker in your Indian heaven dawn
I hear your voice a wounded romantic
cursing your drunkenness
your stoned sex
your fucked-up past
your bullshit stories
I see your electroshocked hair
dampened by night sweats
I see you disappearing into a crowd
of subway ramblers
sneaking past homeless hoodlums
where weak free spirits disconnect
from their cemetery hips haunting record stores
I hear your voice drifting
through the ancient graves of Rome
where phantom revolts shock the volcanic stones
into the stone faces of shook carnage
I hear your voice unmask the dead
faces of slaves where old mythologies
burn in the crossroad heavenly delta
I hear your voice working
with old bluesmen
drunk blues dying in the land
of magnolia hallucinations
I hear your voice burn
I hear your voice revolt
I hear your voice sick tired pissed-off
begging for mercy
I see your bloody hands charged
hurt nailing down steps to Po’ Monkeys Lounge
singing sin kicking it with the kin folk
firing pipes smoking grass
waking up with a southern migraine
blasting out of your head
where a choir of black faces
deep shit in the blood of the land
sing tough…
…tough it out man
I hear your madhouse voice
demanding another drink steamed in amber fire
I hear you grumpy
I hear you bored
I see you duck for cover when the war is on
I see you pass out as the streams
of unadulterated city lights rattle
your windows to the thump
of gypsy guitar strumming
battling Harlem trumpets
that imitate African Conga drums
pounding on the walls in the dark room of your mind
I hear your voice shattering whisky sonnets
that scatter across your bedroom floor
beside your third world feet
that have been tortured by the grit of the city
I hear your voice screaming for me
on the St. Peters shoreline drunk on meditation
watch crazy-eyed Zen masters dig for koans
in the sand of old America
in the apocalyptic heavens
of rucksack revolutionaries       
shouting their broken poems
at old men with handcuffs
protesting
the bullets of new age hipsters
stealing flowers in the damp morning
I hear your voice cursed
I hear your voice challenge war
I hear your voice yell out everyone now down on their own shield!
I hear your voice bang on the Holy Spirit
in your stoned outlaw hands that steal Memphis
from your tenor melodies where exile starves God
I see your strong wretched shoulders
in the rain naked on top of Ohayo Mountain
where lovemaking cantos
sing through the howls of wolves
pawprinting their spirit on your palm
and I strip for you
I strip my senses
and you strip yours
I strip my art
and you strip yours
I strip
I strip
I strip
and you become the mountain
I hear your subterranean voice
sing an ecstatic primeval bastardized ode
locked in the basement
of your self-induced coma drunk
by your father’s voice dirged
in its Talmudic verses whispering:
Abraham, Abraham.
I hear you call out your son
rained in cold desperation
surrounded by mysterious blue Overlook Mt  
I hear your voice fight traffic
where drug addicts
thieves
gangsters
rob your eyes
I hear you searching ecstasy
tragedy
doom
I hear you paralyzed
I hear you shot
I hear your descendants scratch out
Mein Kampf bullshit sucking your veins dry
I see you begging for me to stay out past three a.m.
past the waking morning eyes of your father
who wanders the rainy thunderous avenues
searching for strange poet men
tracking their filth through territory smog
I hear your voice chant with teeth of Iron
a Navajo war dance
danced in sacrifice
to the dawn of your Kaddish descent
mauled by your nomadic feet
for nomadic eyes
And that’s all I heard
And for days that’s all I chanted with you
Nomadic eyes
Nomadic death
Nomadic eyes
Nomadic death
And I hear your voice sing my visions as I sing yours
I see you dance the long dance and I dance yours
I hear you sing the long song and I sing yours
I watch you live the long odyssey and I live yours
And I am more madhouse than you
But you’re my angel/ my drunk/ my hero/ my lover/
And I will be there with you chanting through the storm
All that freedom of birth
All that dying before death/chanting/
And there rises tragedy
sipping Darjeeling tea underneath
the footlight of the village green