Your body is a fire
wrapped in flesh,
and the big lie
tells you -
"fear yourself."

I courted a prayer
to restrain from desire,
but creation crushed my will
in the millhouse of fertility.

The sea touched me
in a great moment of my dreams,
and called me to that bright necklace
it drapes along the shore.

Now, I can not deny
I suckled when I was young
making me a horned man today.
I have no choice, I do marry
and swim with golden children,
breaking waves with porpoises.

I bear my own child
who annihilates in me
all that hesitates
when I witness nature.

I covenant with a new prayer-

         Make me a creature
         of the golden sea,
         dumb of time,
         dumb of boundary.

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

Though the sun saves the will
to survive by being brighter
than both nostalgia and despair,
there is still no voice
for our lost bodies.

If we flip to the back of the book
because we hunger for a conclusion,
we will be surprised to find
that the word is not yet written.

We cover our bodies
in secret signs, because
we do not want to be righteous,
but we do want to be redeemed

And we led them there.
You can tell yourself otherwise,
but I know when my son talks
of drilling for an active shooter,
numb as waiting for a napkin passed,
that I have failed.

I know the annals of my promises to him.
I whispered them to him in the womb-
“I am very confused.”
“You might not want to be with me.”
“I will love you all I can.”
“I already love you all I can.”
“Sometimes I feel very
sorry for myself.”

I hope you can see this
for all that it really is-
the freakish spasms
of the white man finally dying.
If any part of you is
young, woman, or dark,
please, do not hesitate!

Please, save my son
from all the fears that the
powerful protect with guns.
I will be there with you,
but I have already failed
so I won’t be useful for much
asides as a shield
of rather flaccid flesh

proud of nothing much
asides from his life,
and my falling before
your march forward
into the dance of
more colorful light.

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.

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.

"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

Oh yes, I nearly forgot to mention.
I do enjoy many orgiastic revelries
in my solitude, well, at least during
those certain moments of me
beyond myself.

If you'd like to join in
please forward a note of interest.
Included should be instructions
on how to best help you
transform your pain into wisdom,
how best to get you
to mingle your pleasure
with anonymity,
what we should tell your loved ones
if you happen to wander away
angry, saintly, or full of prophecy,
and a detailed description
of your vision of the beast's fiery mane.
You remember- that time when the god inclined
and presented itself, god to human.

Come watch my master craft
in the mechanics of possession,
my spellbinding skills
in trapping beauties
that decay rapidly
at the moment of their glory.

I was normal
until the story of love
thoroughly confused me.

So now I have to chose
from a selection of hopes-
none of them attractive.

I can let the dogs dissect
my limbs, so my new body
can heal you all,

but then my weariness
will not be curable
even by eternal sleep.

If nothing else, I've learned this.

          The only words to fear
          are the deathless words.
          Keep them out of touch,

          but not out of sight
          as the gazelles glance and
          bounce round the lion.

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.

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.

To beautify myself
I invite my crucifixion.
I draw the arrows
from my beautiful body.
The blood stains my icon
a ***** red.
I am become the tender passion.
I am the patron of indiscretion,
in the name of violent love.
I and my God delight
in such unwise sacrifice.

Same as if a wave
tries to divorce itself
from the sea,

so you will never
make yourself happy,
even though our purpose

is to be happy,
just as the sea
will roll and break forever.

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.
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.

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

I understand why
there are militant guardians
patrolling the streets of sacrifice.

I know because I need to be pulverized, Boom!,
under the footsteps of their ferocious love,
because of all the insidious sins

I am trying to sneak into paradise
tucked under the folds
of my own good manners.

Stupid of me to think I have agency
when I open my mouth
seeing as my tongue is always
otherwise instructed.
A sonnet of ****** passion
or a sestina of natural splendor
would really aid me most,
but the obnoxious curtness and terror
of our true vision is all my tongue
will abide. I sing, briefly,
about death and love,
because love is here,
and death is coming.

So honestly, my true intention
is to live this life better than you.
        Petty, I know.

But just so tempting to declare
that I can come to my end,
somehow elevated with an esteem
that will grab the gods' attention.

Perhaps, they will applaud,
and grant me a life saving boon.
In my excellence, I will request
an honorarium for my sacred duty-

To leave this world with all of you
brimming in the knowledge
that it does not mater how well
you live your life.

Because you'll know that the love-
my love, your love, the forever love-
is more compliant than desire,
and more abundant than the wind.

Step outside, for you might leap
into eternity from there.
Gaze to the right
and be comforted and fearless.

Know that I am beyond,
and armed with my gratitude
for our imperfect loving, I have been able
to discipline doomsday.

          It looks away so sheepishly now,
          so aware of its inability to build
          an alter higher than the tears shed,
          the cries of joy,
                    on the day you were born.

How disturbing my mind is.
It heads to perversities in
the room to the right
while the conversations of heaven
go on in the room to the left.

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

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.

There is only one adventure,
and it takes place inside your body.

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

I asked my son, “why are you crying.”
“I am finally in love,” he said.
And I knew it hurt, that forever
awkward landing, just to rise,
      so as to breathlessly fall eternal.

No longer in love with me, for
that must pass, but with the body
of his future, novel and bright
as the reveille of himself.

I am not strong. I turned away
as my limbs quaked, poisoned by that
curious concoction all parents
must drink if we wish to free

the future from our briny net.
One part pride, one part fear,
finished with a spit of envy,
guzzled down with rueful surrender,
      no longer the center of the fire’s dance.

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.

I’ve become convinced
that love is here
to ensure that I’ll die.

I am anxious, which looks
a lot like the young sparrow's
feathers quivering taught
as it pecks a meal of seed
endlessly aware of theft
by beak or death by talon.

And I am so proud of it.
Both my tense tissues
and  frantic sparrow
vibrating in the sunlight
fearing our pains and endings,
ingesting our stubborn
dedication to life.

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.

I will leave this world confident,
even well before death,
if I am convinced you know
how much I love you,

just as I was convinced
by my Mother's bright smile
through the ravages of her cancer.

You touched me with that potent grace
convinced me of our destiny beyond
I felt my heart evaporate into a passion
I gave myself a tender kiss goodbye
I faded into moonlight and prayer
knowing if any recognizable part of me
          endured until morning
I would be some brilliant new creature
with no need for that hysterical pride
that loves to declare that I am

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

My mind is now warped
after too many attempts
to exploit the blessings
of eternity for personal gain.
My mind rejects that its
simple circuitry can not
contain the slightest shade
of truth and join the springs
from the ever flowing fountain.
My mind is, in fact,
the abacus of courteous deception
working to protect my heart
from such a transformative joy.

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.

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.

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."

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.

I'm learning
the senseless circles
along the pathway
to tranquility,
but I divert myself
and go knee deep
into the dripping hips
just because they are
much lest threatening.

I like to think everything is safe,
but then there is all this fire.

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.

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.

I hide behind a great stone
hoping that the adoration
that my beloveds wish
to shower upon me
will be forgotten and neglected.

It is terrifying the manner
in which such sincere love
will purify me into anonymity,
just the same way tranquility
always threatens to do.

Now I am truly suffering,
so I must be surrounded by love.

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.

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.

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.