stoked lightening, does where your fur stroked unmeeting skin
a ribbon grow heating wetly (at fingers tightly coiling sin)?
does where from stocky steam ****** ***** effuse drunk blood,
a stagger of giggling ****** giddily unstoppably bud?
perhaps, or, does (i know) your unknowing skirt a mutter
a rill of sweetness (acrid) as like honey and butter?

A query, i think, your parting question answers.
At cherry pressing; at crimson lancer.

When a sight of dying babies
Becomes peace, a haven of tranquility,
When you only listen to the priest
No longer for the truth, but for lies

When a mother’s duty becomes to ****
No longer to give life,
When children no longer grow old
But the old grow to children

When life is not seen as learning
Rather His punishment for the unrighteous,
When graves are harvested as birth
And being born becomes the new death

When killers are praised as heroes
For sending men to rest, to peace,
When those who save lives
Become the greatest fugitives and enemies

When your unconscious becomes reality
And reality becomes that which is hidden;
Then you’ve arrived at the land of the gods
For the opposite of this Earth exists.

For every one thing is
In respects to its Antithesis.

Jesus answered them, Is it not written in your law, I said, Ye are gods? John 10:34*

Stretch out a hand
and catch a bead of blood
from the beheaded head of St. Valentine.

Smear the sacrosanct crimson
on both lip and command
“let there be love” upon every sunset.

Treat every new face as a blank canvas
and stroke a kiss with a brush of your lips.

Leave the mark of love
upon as many hearts
and soon the world will see

and follow the light. This power is in us
for we are gods without a paradise.

Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
Dry bones of Moses painted on my button down shirt screaming,
“to be or not to be” is not an English word.
In the daze of the thoughts of Neurology, I saw a man kick a bucket full of Starbucks giftcards down the avenue street. He screamed in pain as he watched the bucket tumble and roll down the street, blessing every Bohemian with a slight cold.

Naked pictures of God on my nightstand,
I dreamt about a land before man where the Oxygen that sprang from the pores of flowers
sang a sweet death. Where dishwashers are saints, for afterall, man will not be if not for food.
Where books are written not to be read, but for the sake of Orange trees that will grow in the future.
I once wore a poker face to a funeral and laughed at the man in the casket because the souls he had underneath him were two left feet.

*We all once had naked pictures of God on our nightstands but lost it after Einstein  
Lost the fried chicken war of 1812 to Isaac Newton.

The dead ask nothing

Nothing offers no answer.
Life makes demands.
She reminds me of someone.
I once was deeply in love.
The glass is empty,
yet she keeps sipping the straw.

The surgeon’s serrated saw,
severed crown of his skull,
to allow brain swelling.
The detachment is frozen,
in purgatory, in Paris, California,
in as much as I can gather.

I keep making
the same mistakes, over and
over. Eternity is preposterous.
She has same prominent forehead, same
brown silken hair, same slender fingers
as my ex, same buttoned-up betrayal.

“Man-up! You ******* *******,”
she said, he said, their
ceaseless quarreling
makes me hide.
Stomach knots, breathing hurts.
The allure of her stink.

My sister insists
it will be okay.
The glass is half.
Mom can’t remember.
Everything fits neatly.
She burrows in the booth.

This one needs money,
that one needs parts,
liver, lung, cerebrum, heart.
Her hands cup the glass.
She gazes beyond.
Everything is a lie

In pigeon light
this damp day
settles itself
into lamp-room grey.
 
The trees intone
farewell farewell:
An autumnal valedictory
to reluctant leaves.
 
Yet a few remain
bold coloured
 
Porphry Pink
Fox Red
Fowler
Sudbury Yellow
 
hanging by a thread
they turn in the stillest air.
 
Then fall
Then fall

for Barton Smock

     I
to see the flooding lake I crawl
through the thicket

I imagined
being the devil’s
garden
as a child

a lake
I first called
       *blue prison
but now
             love

after swimming
lessons grandmother
funded

     II
squatting arsonists occupy
the town’s church

during weeknights
I am one of four who knows

When it burns
I'll steal the stoup

     III
I dream rarely and only in naps

waking,

I try restraining
fantasies of
faceless women

     IV
rainstorms brake
the lake’s edges,
muddy the bankside flowers,
leave the canal sullied
forever

looking on, I
recall
*generosity