give the pastors Ex.

do not give me
age & its wisdom,
its armchair or cognac
& the aroma of the
intellectual cigars
& philosophical conversation —

i want explosions.

heat waves.

i want water balloons
& strobe lights.

give the pastors Ecstasy
& see what new gods they devise.

prophecy and dreams.

where are the prophets
who grab us by our throats
& spit the apocalypse
into our dreamy eyes?

& where are the dreamers
unhurried by debts
& book signings, with
songs of love & tangled limbs
to cause our ears
to tingle & shake?

& where are we?
on hammocks,
stoned & waiting
for prophecies & dreams.

daylight.

i want the wilderness to
wash over me
& leave me wet and gritty,
dyed with excess
& hope sweating through my pores.

i want the sun in my mouth,
burning holes through my lips
so that when we kiss,
you feel daylight on your tongue.

the sixth sense.

give me more senses
than tangerine chapstick
& orchid body wash
& fireworks on the Fourth of July
with a lukewarm light beer.

i want to smell the lust of lovers
& taste the world's vibrations.

i want to feel the cries of angels
& know the mystic Om.

i want the river of life to run through me
& spread my heartbeat
on every shore.