Like I said before, the poem is musically tied to breathing motions, and is meant to be read aloud with lots of leeway for improvisation. If the performer needs to stop to think/adress the crowd, they are encouraged to do so. The crowed should know they are part of a unique experience that cannot be duplicated. Both words, as well as tone and speech should be improvised intentionally based on reactions and such.
Here it is:
3
3
ACT I
The holy troubadour – upon raising his body from the grave – three days after – claimed he knew his time, our time, their time.
I asked for vision! Vision! Vision!
TIME PUDDLE
Our time is nebula birthing lampshades in the cathedrals of our veins: holy communion is alcohol producing secular melodies for our ass naked ears and genitals, the bread of the new saints of delinquent Poetry.
When haunted graffiti howls against last generation's shit steamed wind shaking 'neath sheets of stars shrouding our green mother who covers up so well for being so free.
We checked her out,
we undressed
our loves,
we cursed her shackles,
we bled her
freedom, and loved
her womanish figure.
When Christ will stumble across crowds of coming and going people, people, people shouting “I give up!” in the wake of being crucified on concrete and pixels.
When love is the ecstasy of God and we shall make it at all times.
When there will be enough blood to go around: touch all tongues, quell all thirst, iron all taste, revive our pubescent seraphim.
When we passed the point of poetic manifestos which became the point of no return for them, but the point of infinite new sonnets for us.
I don't want to follow anything at all, just my mother's influence and Picasso's “glass of absinthe”.
When we are the fuse of a cannon holding human fodder at the circus, ready to ignite a revolution and hear the crowd gasp,“My God, there goes a fawn in the meadow, there she goes!”
Our time has given up on the apocalypse where fallout dust deceived the wasteland lobotomy.
We shall burn our
brooms, rub skin, and
make
love
in
desolation ash.
When fishing will overcome the carcinogenic joke of cigarette fascism.
When seconds drive the sun in our eyes to open brighter causing vampires everywhere to scatter for platonic caves, and the earthquakes are coming.
The sinister postman
delivered the
messages,
but we
did not
read their howling whispers.
When the moon will asexually reproduce its light upon rooftops in the stars: the stage where its grotesque children drink with Shakespeare's ghost.
When alarm clocks are set for every moment of every day.
We are here
and we
must see everything in
our time.
Ours is a time of technological sunset, and I an absent Benjamin, and I saw the rising sun above the head of an absent Washington, and now the sun is seen setting in the satellite sky, yet rising in our imagination eyes.
Kerouac, Dylan, Rimbaud; a season on the road, a season for your eight legs, a season in hell will change infinitum in millimoments.
When our pens stopped crying and started the painful laugh of realizing that few may hear us but they will experience it.
When the pixels breeding in Times Square forget which millennium to lobotomize.
Stein,
your cubism clocks
will never make
our Americans.
Dalí,
Sus esferas de la mente
se funden libremente
con pájaros y ángeles.
We are melting in surrealist destino dreams.
Goya, the lights are out in our churches and it is forever midnight and forever a bloody slaughter
One by one the enemies are becoming vertical poems and tragic lampshades sweating over the eternal steam of 69 coffee shop espresso machines.
(The scene trembled toward limbo.)
(The son of man must come now or forever hold his peace.)
(The dove, the dove, the dove is repeating and reproducing.)
Time for labor pains, time for atomic fallout dust, time time to rewind and indecisions and revisions, but what time do we have to destroy word which is first word and transition of transistor sex in the mid-night mid-day constitution of a new world governed by whatever exists in the land of cockroach angels brought by new how long held the gun sat fire to forest which laps up the water in the oceans of salt wounded hurt time... A time... A time... A time times 100 times.... We have no more time breath.... We have no more time. No time to heal, No time to kill, No time to justify Ecclesiastes to the publishers of horror which we sometimes call our parents but are most likely whatever runs our mind.
It is time to flip over our flower pots and tell them to stop growing up, up, up and make love.
It's time to ruin the garbage truck parades.
It's time to rummage in youth.
It's time for an awakening.
It's time for the troubadour to rise again.
It's time for juke the jive hive dig ditches in our language.
Its time to personalize the television hypnotist as new lobotomy in electric shock wards are our living rooms with daft genitals waving insanity in cages disguised as freedom.
Smash the iron!
rum the forks!
porcelain the hammer!
crack the soul!
patch the hole!
tear the tears!
heal the hells!
dampen the yells!
ring em' bells!
level the mind!
flatten your dimes!
plow master's field!
The enemy is friction cog in the machine clock we create.
Savio, rust the gears!
Savio, wreck the motherboard!
Savio, rupture the oil line!
What steel, what shrapnel, what atomic light gives the shadow its eternity in Plato's cave?
Whose bomb will end our time? whose water will rust our spirit?
Where is all form born from? where is the negative nebula?
How sick! how long! how much can the vomit tramp continue on her titanic knees?
It is time to stand inside eternity.
