The eyes see the perversions,
and the ears hear the sobs.
The nose smells the putrification
and the skin...

You are always dancing and humming
queer tunes my love.
Why do you not walk with us
and banish the suffering?
Why do you remain near but absent
whenever our bodies cling to this living?

In sleep, I dream a poem about death.
Waking, I forget the dream,
so perhaps there never was a dream
and perhaps there never was a poem,
and perhaps there never is a death.

When did I become
a brilliant devotee?
The crucible of my heart crackled
and destroyed self-consciousness,
so I performed in the square
and the people walked away disoriented,
mumbling to themselves about love.

As the universe collapses
there will be no room
left for loneliness.
In the meantime,
all I want
is enough adoration
so that I will never suffer,
or, at least I can be happy
as long as everyone suffers
just a little more than me.

You see, I learned too many secrets.
Then, I told too many lies.
I abandoned beauty
before it could abandon me.
So, I just went ahead and shot Venus
right out of the sky,
and that of course
wasn't helpful to anybody.

There is no masterpiece inside me
but there is a miracle beyond me
because I understand
horse's head is a rectangle
pig's head is a circle
cow's head is a square
goat's head is a triangle
and the triangle
is the taboo symbol.

The dying have the power
to bless or curse
but so do some lucky young men who know how
to reverently watch women undress
so unburden yourself
of timid nights and little lies.

Beauty lies to me all the time
but every lie is so sweet
each one persuades me
to have faith in the truth
just like that shy undressed promise
"I'll love you forever"
whispered across the pillow
vaulted up beyond doomsday.

The moon never suffers
as the savior suffers.
However, the moon is so swollen
with love, we can be convinced
of our survival.
Go ahead, sleep many hours
and have lucid dreams.
If you want to know who you are
indulge a whole season of character flaws
and wander aimlessly
mimicking prayer.

I heal.
I say it the same
to all- "No!"
My body dies
and leaves love alone.

No one knows what I am talking about
but everyone knows I am right.

I have difficulty finding
the center of creation
just as I can not find
the embryo of myself.

Still, all I need radiates like firelight
and the beautiful face seen
on the other side of night.

Without prosperity, I love the gods.
I achieve nothing, and am thus made man.
I recognize beauty, and am thus beautiful.
I know the ancient lies, and thus deceive
with today's shy truth.

I dissect my limbs,
the ones that finished
the frantic dance,
to the know the scandal
of bones reborn.
I feast on meats
from recalcitrant cows
and drink cheap wines
to have visions
of an untouched people.


There are worthwhile activities
asides from prayer and making love,
but heck if I know what they are,
and so I minister the radical word.