We've all heard the sonorous brook
use water, stone, bank, and gravity
to tell some lovely stories.

But I'm angry and wise now,
so the other day, I actually
heard it tell the truth -

That god has no power.
But, god does walk with full mercy
deep into our dark cloud of suffering.

In a crowd of
common men and women
the most valuable are
the young and the lovely.

Research the consequences
of a coy look
by painting your body
and flicking your tongue.

I am very shy, but
bold are the curves
of my body, which
allure and ruin.

I pay a fair price
for what is bartered...
...the rest I steal using
tricks of seduction and devotion.

We cover our bodies
in secret signs, because
we don’t want to be righteous,
but we do want to be redeemed.

The worship of youth decays,
and leaves only questions about
what wild and wise things
are worth accomplishing before death.

I.
This is a simple prayer-
four stones thrown into the river.
It usually works.

II.
Is it really your desire
to burn through my body
to do your work of love?

III.
What will death be like?
I believe it will be sweet
like this moment.

IV.
I'm not much to be afraid of,
but just look at this beast of love
draped upon my shoulders.

V.
How well do I appreciate beauty?
I raise and destroy whole kingdoms
just by exploiting my own.

VI.
Isn't it ironic
that a hallucination
taught me to love.

VII.
We are one people.
One crushing love
is perfect for us all.

VIII.
Paint you face
so the dead
will love you.

IX.
Love smears the foundation
of our bodies, no matter if we
spill, spit, bleed, or love.

X.
Conception continues
even in the house
of one million lies.

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.

The angels just might be here.
They might incline and motion me
towards paradise - the gracious witness
of tranquility's conflagration.

But I swear, if at this moment
you walk by, with that longing
that shapes the curve of your hips,
and that thrilling stillness on your

tongue, ******* and lips,
I would pivot on a cheap dime
and wag after you, even if my arousal
is a disgust, while you labor
          to comfort your concerns.

And if the angels counsel -
"Ghost, ghost, ghost," I swear again
that I would dictate a new divinity
in which ghosts and the gods

worship through the senseless hunger,
adorned by the irresolvable hope
that my hips and your hips, my tongue
and your tongue, my eyes seeing

your eyes can actually come together
in the indecipherable union,
and be greater than all
that will ever be.

Folly - unless it is true.
The best reason I have
for remaining such a diseased
and frantic ghost.

A fluid like spit
touched my body
and put me in a good mood
for the rest of my life.

The edge of my tongue
is lined with many stupid thoughts,
but also the dumb courage
to lick the tip of your triangle
until you are happy.

I have been instructed -
Heal **** before trance.
Heal skinless during trance,
and after trance,
don't heal at all.

Again, my tongue is
a fat slug that doesn't
get much done, except
when it ***** and *****.

A voice says "no"
everywhere inside me.
Meanwhile, the rain
makes me wet.

I read of a mystic who, as a child,
fell backwards, his endearment
for creation needing to race
beyond the boundaries
of his body, when he had looked up
and witnessed the dark underbellies
of flying geese framed against the sickly
verdant clouds of a thunderhead.

I nearly fell over myself tonight
looking up and witnessing the black
veins of the Pin Oak framed against
the city's navy orange overcast.
But I stopped myself long before
a full tumble because I worried
what the neighbors might think.

The grace of creation is always there
to be witnessed, and courage
is the good sense to put the miracle
of belonging well before the loss.

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.

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?

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.

How many times have I wanted
to leave the world?
Actually, I know the number.
It’s a very holy number
though hard to enumerate.
It’s the last prime number,
indivisible. Just a number
declaring that dumb love is the body
before all numbers
tumble off into infinity.
That’s how many times
I have wanted to leave
the world, because I reject
the world’s destiny into
all infinity, and prefer
the ignorant everlasting
of love’s decay.

For the first time since Mid-March,
when I reached the end of my drive
at the start of an early night's walk,
I looked up and actually saw the moon
and the stars. That is to say, the lights in my eyes
intimately explained their cold journeys
across the sky's expanse, so the moon
and the stars are more complete now
because I see them, and my body
is more complete now because it
has been touched by the dedication
of creation's brightest fires.
I understand fear as the worship
of the suffering bound to come,
and I understand fearlessness
as the respectful nod of recognition
traversing the spaces between
luminous creatures all prepared
to perish so long as the love continues.

XV. The Devil: Blind impulse, irresistibly strong and unscrupulous person. Temptation, obsession, secret plan about to be executed. Endurance, aching discontent, materialism, fate.
XI. Lust: Courage, strength, energy, use of magical power, control of life force, great love affair. Resort to magic.
XVIII. The Moon: Illusion, deception, bewilderment, hysteria, madness, dreaminess, falsehood, voluntary change. This card is very sensitive to dignity.

It has been very dangerous for us
ever since lust met the moon.

A kind and wild voice
speaks from the hole in my hand.
"I was born to destroy  the destroyers
and I became your friend
out of love for the world...
I am crossing a great era
of darkness with you".

It is a haunting.
The self talks to the self
and then forgets the self,
wanders in a dark wood
releasing a low howl
because it can not remember
how to remember.

Three tears makes four,
and everybody dies.
My heart is dark
as it is flourishing
during these dark days.
I am not innocent
and neither are you.
Perhaps that is why we cherish our vices
because they will hasten our death.

XVI. The Tower: Quarrel, combat, danger, ruin. Destruction of plans. Ambition, courage, sudden death. Escape from prison and all that it implies

Horsemen linger unnoticed in the corners
of what might have been while the mind
is preoccupied by the redundant affairs
of making love.

Evil is a man's business, and right now
business is real good, even though
there is nothing to covet and nothing to buy.

This is our Kingdom. Let us establish holidays,
so that we may celebrate our dubious citizenship.

Despite the protests of the genuine,
as long as we keep lying
we shall gain access
to all the common ecstasies.

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.

I want to be a valued commodity
on the market of eternal youth,
but I have no currency except
as dried bones that groan
about salvation when rattled.

            Excellence will kiss
            with flame
            the soft skin
            of every
            beautiful child.

Still, I try to taste fire
because I want to run unhindered
across the plains of midnight visions-
and then there are no words,
but there is the moon.

Suffering is a thick liquid
that saturates our scalps,
and prayers happen while full of fear
as the arrows of evil
are aimed at us.

I try to be attractive, physically pleasing
to both the living and the dead.
My tongue wags and is rude,
but it heals while it offends.
Between death and conception,

God is fierce like the prophet's grin,
so trace the footsteps of prostitutes,
mendicants and wild beasts,
because a putrid odor is telling us
about a different path.

Now, let me take that naked taste
of truth that swells inside your belly.
Our lust will tip over
and flood the streets.
Then, we'll take a timeless walk
through our neighborhood of time.

A bundle of love
sits on my lap,
and when I hold it
close but easy,
freedom takes flight
like the birth of a star.

I spit out the last of my inhibitions
because none of creation’s elements
are mine to posses
except for the dream
of tranquility.

Love survives death
because love is
the perfect liar.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I can afford to worship death
because conception is always generous to me.
I pilgrimage to my own primitive landscape
seeking a boon- a long slurp
of the moon's warm breast milk.

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.

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

I’m confident you are bolted
to your deathless beauties.
I know mine are always
there - purple, nighttime,
desert, floating,
cloak, sickle,
luminous, wall,
minaret, wailing.

You see, our pleasure
serves the divinity,
and our fluids
have instincts
to drench every
permanent icon
in a flooding rain
of freedom adored.

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.

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.

I am disappointed.
I can visit the neighborhood
of eternity at any time,
but can never bring
its riches back.

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.

My baby boy looks
at circular things
as if trying to remember
something that god
was saying.

Let's clean our house
really good.
See if we can't find
where we've hidden
all the trinkets
that will explain
our confusion between
what is desire and
what is happiness.

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.

I'd like to penetrate the disorder
so that we'll be comforted,
but my hesitations are founded
in the knowing that doing so
will bring us together
in a sacrifice of nails,
and who the hell wants that.

The Song of Emmanuel
scents the room
and I am heart broken
as protection has been mine
since my first days,
but still, you and I live
through our days of body
and the abandonment
of those before us
and the abandonment
of those not come.
He did not come.
She did not come.
But we are here
with our beautiful arrivals
and our beautiful endurances
and we live through
the days of our body, and this
dark night, we say farewell.

You can get to the light
through the darkness,
but your chances
aren't very good.

So I think I'm going to
call off my campaign
against all the beautiful ones
who are not possessed by me.

I think it's a good idea
to base society on the family,
and base the family on lust.

Easily suffer, and be cool
in whatever fashion
fits your celebration of desire.

"Does suffering scare me? O Mother,
Let me suffer in this world. Do I require more?
Suffering runs ahead of me and runs after me.
I carry it on my head and set up a stand
in the bazaar to peddle it.
I'm a poison worm, I thrive on poison.
I carry it wherever I go.

Prasad says: Mother: lift off my load.
I need a little rest. It's amazing!
Others brag about their happiness.
I brag about my suffering.


by: Ramprasad Sen (c. 1718 - c. 1775)
Hindu Shakta Poet
from: Grace and Mercy in Her Wild Hard

I will write divinity's password,
but I might need a few wasted lifetimes
in which to do it.

My voice is so simple
and very true,
but it knows too easily
how to disappear.

I flee from you,
because you are always correct.
Your numbers always land
on accurate determination.
So I flee from you,
because the spirit flees from you.

I know the spirit flees from you,
because it tells me with the green caress
of the undergrowth on my taught
skin seeking comfort while I crouch
low, and it tells with a fearless bird chirp
landing jovial on my tongue.

You know the spirit flees you,
because you do not hear the spirit,
and you can't deny, the spirit
talks to everyone.

I know exactly what there is
to witness as the sun flashes
in the dance of a million brilliant
diamonds atop the tumble of the sea.
It is the Dead, and each flash a call -
"We were the rich, the poor,
the beautiful, the plain,
the experienced, the naive,
the timid and the brave.
We are the dead,
and you will join us here
in this exile of radiance
and liberty."

A great fear
that I hope I
never resolve,
will my sons
see the beauty
of the world
and will the world
see the beauty
of my sons.

All of the body's
****** motions
are quite ******
except that serene
forgetfulness rippling
across the face that's
vanishing into adoration.

Imagine if every breath
were as sweet
as the prayer smoke.

Walking through the wood
unvisited because it's dull
as the days of my aging,
I don't care the species
of that singing bird,
but, I am desperate
to understand
the language of its call.

Not too many words
because I'm not here for debate.
I intend to assassinate obscurity,
and I'm happy to do it
with a lick, a bullet, or a snarl.

Wag my tongue
and raise my arms high -
           Rejoice -
I'm running down the road
after the new sickle
          moon
without regard or hesitation.

I pray to disappear
in a light sparkling
just as white.

All days are bright, all days are warm and gentle.
There is no distance between myself and the most enviable
lapping of the surf along the shore, because you are here.
How does the miracle happen? Consider my heartbeat
without yours. Consider my thump, and your thump
now coming together under the skin, and here arrives
another thump, another drumming, a falling and rising
and falling and splashing. We have replicated the vocation
of the oceans, and our creation knows that he knows,
and what does he dare do with this knowledge -
he laughs. There is no greater proclamation of love
pulsing among any of the wild beasts of the deep.