I am unprepared
when my child asks,
"why have you cursed me
to this life?"
I muster only a shy grin
and ramble some about
dancing and destiny.

The yellow sickle moon
is hay in the barn, the way
that youth is exuberant
and death is wise.
The dogwood is a tree
full of butterflies -
so life strikes,
then death strikes.
In the calendar of life, fall
just a handful of holidays
perfect for the making of love.

My favorite posture is man eating and drinking woman,
but why debate the repertoire of love's manifestations.
Wise, unwise, pure, impure,
love builds up from itself and saves the world,
no mater how selfish nor how sacrificial.

I created you to comfort me,
which work out well.
Until, you asserted yourself
and let me suffer

What is timelessness
        when there is time?
What is formlessness
        when there is form?
Being here, loving your body,
        I can not foresee
                eternities more serene.

I have no need of a perfect life.
But, I do need a love that lasts
        beyond all the burning fire,
        and all the rotting flesh.

I destroy creation and create it anew
        at every moment.
If a stench lingers, it is only to remind us
        that each creation gives way to more love.

I need the music, I need a way.
I understand so little that I am crushed
        by time's passing.
Your basic elements, your distances, your beginnings
        and ends all so cruel to me.
I need the music for a time to be.
I need the lodge for a place to be.
I need the people, your loving so electric
        between us.
That music, trying to crack open
        my dumb heart.

                            All things long to know you,
                            my love of dark light.

I am not sure
who can answer
but I still ask,
why is ecstasy
so embarrassing?

I come to a wall inside of myself
on this side of which
I have nothing to say.

Still, let's make love
so the rain will fall,
or at least let's start a fire
because you can not
be born alone.

I hear wounded music
accompanying a limping dance,
so I hunt the moon
when it’s low on the horizon
because that’s where it is vulnerable
but still so succulent and auspicious.

Come and know me.
I am going to a far off place-
two moons, twenty whales
with suffering celestial eyes,
seven black-headed snakes,
three dark women, and one house.

It will be difficult
for us all
when I return,
because then the salvation
will appear as the suffering.

The ****** Devotee
tries to answer himself.
His mind is confronted
by all of its absolutes
of which the sunrise
and the sunset have no use.
He sits on a stone and mutters,

First, the gods win.
Then, the demons win.

and,

I am alone when I walk
at night, because the unborn
won't come from their hiding place
behind the new moon.

and,

Even more than the living
or the dead,
the unborn burden me
with countless good intentions.

You see, all his thoughts are fragments
because they accelerate themselves
through history to arrive
at the total ruin before the end.

If I dream about love
just a little bit longer
and a little bit better,
then creation will buckle
under all my conceptions and
I'll offend the guardians of fertility.

Again, these thoughts are so great
they are not even human, but that's
the result of dialogue with the unborn
when you try to resolve the unanswerable.

To succeed, be sure
to slaughter the innocent.
A fever is a fractured
wisdom which hallucinates
landscapes that long
to host your victories.
To the East is clarity.
To the West is attainment.
Even in this dangerous world,
momentary trust is the wisest thing.

Aggression holds my attention
like watching our slow roll
forward into doom.

Evil is a man's business,
and right now,
business is real good.
Even history cannot harbor
the infidels
who make civilization sublime.

Our suffering is a thick liquid
that saturates our scalps,
but wait long enough,
and we will see something beautiful,
like compassion between two bodies,
or death unmasked as eternity.

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.