Burning Men Watching

Clay, clay, clay ringing out of the cracks
the alkyd mist of the bowl
of dust, the 500 mile disc of dust,
clay sound sent off to the Granite Range,
grains shifting off flat black rock
and shouting edge after edge
of that taut stream of seamless horizons.

Clay, clay, clay singing out forms of scorn,
norms of ecstacy, and new pilots of renewal--
scouts at the edge of the mud,
thudding the spots, echoing into the old earth
like a meandering eye for the kinds of details,
the whining, opining, witty crashes,
the crooked dashes into the crust
that make everyone smile.

Just a hint of song slipping like a million years
through the thickness of the slip,
a slice of ok life through the clay day,
light going wet irridescent,
erotic, spermic moments in sharkskin--
human coatings over whatever
makes us sweat.

Yeah, it's an original, a
flow, an although,
a neaderthal disco,
something special in a
tinker toy monument to
prediction S, as in
saw it coming,
Psychics all,
the new horizon of tufts 'n' bluffs,

a next adventure
featuring cufflinks clasping
Conan with Intel,
drums with bums,
history and crystals,
whispering and the physical
like mystical, the twirling of the trunks
and the torches, the nude and the rude,
the drunks and the monks,
the mountains and the fountains,
the skating connivers,
the surviving conifers
the chattering carnivores
about what everyone lost, and lent to.

Again, again, the gang
takes off, shuffling chaos
and cares and calling it a next hand,
calling it a burning man,
burning men watching the burning man,
firey hands pressed into clay towers
hands sprouting from pillars
waving at the comings and glowings
of a new crowd.




What have these guys been up to?

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