I wonder, "Hey, where can I get
one of those divine eyes?"
I may as well froth at the mouth
if I am going to love you,
because only a deluded person
can do the healing of this age.

Mix ash with seawater
and place it on your tongue.
Death will try to love you
as if it wants to live.
Offer your skullcap
filled with fluids
fragranced by humility.
You will have the solution for loneliness
but it will be so effective
no one will want to hear it.

Passion's root is in suffering.
Ecstasy's root is in exiting.
******'s root is in ripening,
and none of this is convenient
despite what the pornographer
advertises.

Most sins are silent,
We garnish them quietly.
Desire and the devil deal
so subtle in the mind.

Seduction after seduction,
upon every glossy image we say,
'I'm not satisfied,'
till finally we consent to our slavery
in the service of The Emperor.
No voice, no vote, no volition -
It becomes a dry comfortable place
as we wait upon the occasional
splash of imperial fluid.

He pinched my tongue
between his thumb and fore finger
and with a good yank
dislocated it from the base of my spine,
and slid it out my mouth.

He said, "if you're not going
to use this, then I will."
He draped my tongue
over his shoulders
and it took on new life,
hissing and slithering
like the viper of redemption.

Now, I look inside myself,
and all I see is a hillside
bleeding fire. The best
I can do is scribble down
a few words about that breathless voice.

The secret is not selective,
but it is destructive.
Familiarity with eternity
breeds annihilation,
so I hop around
from anonymity to anonymity
no longer cherishing
the days I claimed, "I am."

I want to leave my house quickly, travel quickly,
journey to the neighborhoods of my youth,  
and honor the bones of my parents.
I will weep,
and I will recall,
and go to the ocean.

I know I want to do this,
because I have permitted you
to convince me, that you
and I are important,
convince me that the
rituals and rules we've
conspired to serve for the
secure worshiping of our wealth
are important, that I should
fret, be weary, and despair.

The gods expend no effort.
They look sidelong at our efforts,
and catching their gaze,
I remember, I remember them,
I remember them.
And I am so comforted,
now willing to toss this body,
that we've marked with
sticky tags and pronouncements,
toss it towards the elements
that the gods value,
as they can do useful things with them,
such as reinventing creations
bloated with more love.
You remember - the elements - the fire, the winds,
the oceans.

The ocean, where I want to go,
when I leave this house, quickly,
with you neither invited nor uninvited.
You will know if it's a good idea
to follow, if your personality quakes,
but your soul is well comforted.
Go to the ocean, where and when
my being or not being will have
no concern to me,
as I love the gods,
and I love my parents,
and I love you,
all that maters.

Could you really desire
to burn through my body
to do your work of love?

How much burning bush
        could possibly be enough
                for all my prayer, all my longing?

Like a wild animal,
you heighten my senses as needed.
Smell is heightened for loving.
Sight is heightened for healing.

I do not love you with my mind,
I love you with my body.
Slight flicks of my fingers
along your naked lips
are the perfect sacraments
even if they are dumb sacraments.

A dangerous dance
jumps out of your hips.
A conflagration
jumps out of the dream,
and spreads like love
till all is ashes.

In the Citadel of Suffering,
our confusion masquerades as comfort,
and desert tribes without delusions,
for some strange reason, lead the way out.
We will escape the fortress
despite the beauty and fire,
but no one will praise our freedom,
because we now wear horse head masks.


On the other side of a fever,
you’ll find a vulnerable garden.
If you bring three things there-

      a fearless step forward,
      a knowing brush of the hand,
      and a wild but gentle smile,

then you can disperse the hard knots
of ignorance,
so that the children may know peace.