O Reaper,
dark jewel in the shimmering sea of night
sickly flower blooming in the garden
pale wanderer of the doom-bound desert,
weave for me a tapestry
and drape it over the blinking stars.

O Death,
sweet fragrance of the morning
rapping on the windowsill,
compose for me a symphony
to haunt my ears as I sleep.

O Ghost,
gentle and geriatric in the dim moonlight,
sweep off the collecting dust
and blow it into the four winds
to carry us off on the backs
of the eagles.

O Ghoul,
your silhouette as the sunlight dims,
carve for me a juniper tree
so that I may dance around it
and welcome thee.

O Plague,
humming in the breath of the insects
crawling on the furs of the beasts,
pour for me a strong drink
to quench the flames of my disease.

O Maiden,
creeping into cronehood as the clocks stop
drifting down the clear stream into the damp
floating with the smoke to be imprisoned
multi-faced and schizophrenic,
sing for me a rhapsody
a hymn for my church of undoing.

O Glacier,
still and monumental,
melt into the sea of shining
and polish for me a mirror
to see clearly a glimpse
of mortality.


O Thanatos,
born at the beginning of time
flowering into youthful beauty
falling corpse-like in the rocks,
kiss the clouds and the trees
and write for me some poetry
to ease me into the long sleep.

Sweet uncertainty;
Double-edged sword
Of love and hate;
The taste of
Tongues and poison.

There is blood
In the sunrise
And blood
In the ocean;
The waves recede,
Then come back again.

In our youth
We were bold
And the stars bowed
To our heat.

The shadows flicker
Across a dim room,
The pipes cough,
There are locusts
In the dry walls.

Our hearts are big
As God and pulse
In the vanity of summer.

Venom drips from
The trees
Of our ceiling
Canopy;
Catch it in your
Mouth.

Sweet Star
silver & shuddering
spinning in the
inky black

Sweet hawk-headed
lord robed & ready
chanting in the
endless night

Io Io
Pan Pan

Wreathed in flowers,
feet wreathed in fire,
eyes twinkle dark,
shining from the lyre

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

Sun burning red
and pregnant,
possibility, paradox

Io Pan Pan
Io Pan

Sun giving life,
father gives the Word,
He taketh away
just as He giveth
and He giveth
and maketh the grass
green

Io Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

He gives the fire,
He taketh it away

Io Pan
Pan Pan Io

From over the sea
the stars blinking
with rapidity

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

Lust in the rivers,
hate in the mountains,
the hills are sighing,
the Nymphs are naked

Io Pan

The moon, mother,
matronly marvel
give us the sight
true sight to see
with shining gaze
perfume flowers
in ***** ****** daze

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan
Pan

The marble thigh,
the glass eye,
bathed in blood
on bridal bed of
burning

Io Pan
Pan Pan
Io Pan Pan

Envy the golden python,
throw thyself
towards the golden dawn
bathed in the flowers
of perfumed fawn

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

Thrusting sword into ferns
of folding, the damp, the wicked
the opened eye
the one hand clapping

Pan
Pan Pan
Io

Reside in the grasp
of the vermillion snake
the vermin moving
in meadows
thorny meadows
lie silent in silver shadows

Io Io Pan

Flowers on the gypsy rod,
fleshy gate of God
bleeding and burning

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

"In a row???" I ask, incredulous.

"Nah, man."

"Were you at least #37?"

"Well, yeah. But still that gets to me," he says. He starts counting change, playing with pennies on the glass counter.

"If you didn't see it, it didn't happen," I reply. I pull out a $5.00 bill.

"That's childish!" He looks at me like I'm a babbling idiot.

"That's my life!" It was my life.

"I can't believe you sometimes," he says. Nobody can, bud.

"You better start. I'm smarter than I look." I'm bluffing now; I'm a ******* idiot.

"Yeah, yeah. Do you wanna buy anything or not?" he goes back to his pennies on the glass counter.

"Yeah--Marlboro Reds," I reply hesitantly. For a moment I thought about Camels.

"$5.00 even." It's always $5.00 even when you're with friends.

"Alright."

"Shorts or 100s?"

"****, man, shorts!" It's my turn to look at him like he's a total stranger.

"Just asking." He puts the bill in the register.

"Shorts say badass. 100s say suicide mission."

"I suppose you're right."

"It makes perfect sense!"

"Either way you're going to die."

"Yeah? So are you, buddy."

"*******."

I exit the convenience store, pack my Marlboro Reds, turn two up (one for luck, one for ****, to be smoked lastly out of the pack) and light one.

I was 15 years old
when I tried ******
for the first time.

I got it from an older girl
with a mane of obsidian
hair and a porcelain face
shaped like all
her teardrops.

She told me she'd let me
**** her
if I went to prom with her.

I didn't want to **** her;
she smelled like
the Boston Harbor.

I smoked the ******
that first time.

Gray smoke curled thickly
into the damp air of
a basement haunt--
in the Georgian heat
the rain had steamed away.

It tasted like the sands of Persia
or the ambrosia of Mount
Olympus.

It smelled awful;
burnt rubber after a highway
blowout.

I couldn't move;
I sat on my moth-eaten
sofa, dozing in and out
of life in a golden daze.

Everything was golden then
in that instant and I knew
the golden love of a mother's
glowing gaze for the first time.

Then I heaved and my stomach
purged itself.

Then I knew the black hate
of my own vicious glare
for the first time and awoke
an hour later.

Then I threw up my guts
again.

When I woke to the sounds of silence
once more I was confronted
with a golden warmth
and the feeling of the presence
of the Sacred Heart--

and I knew that I loved it.

This altar of teeth and ****,
crumbling into dust, into ashes
to be swept away in the sour wind
of the idiot daylight hours
in the jibber-jabber of the streets

Dead on the water
is not a paid vacation;
floating in black
stagnation, figures
treading water around
your center.

Dissolving in the
uncaring ripples of
a green and murky pond--
men lost their lives
for this place.

Buried treasure
glints in the bent
sunlight of the soundless
depths--

locked out in the winter
is not a blaze of glory.

I made love
a few days ago
to an unattractive girl
in a Doors t shirt

at 7:30 AM
as the sun came up
over the apartment
rooftops.

The morning birds
were singing a song
that was both beautiful
ad melancholic,

to herald the occasion.
My synapses fired off
and my adrenaline said
"yes" and my heart

shrunk away shyly.
When it was over I had
a cigarette that smelled
better than she did.

She tasted like
cigarettes and red wine
and I had no choice
but to let myself in

to the colossal void
of human intimacy.
The door opened and
beckoned me

with loving fingers
and opened palms.
Her lips caressed
the flesh of my neck

and gave me chills.
She held me in her hand.
She held me in her mouth.
Guilt

overwhelmed my
ugly spirit, my ugly
face. But these are doors
that must be breached

if one is to be a man;
more importantly,
a poet.

A girl
her skin the color of the pearls
was listening for
the angels, curled up
beneath a dogwood tree

I'd like a bottle
Of blood red wine
Some cigarettes
A decent book
And a lady to ring in
The darkness of a new day

My dog
loves to be walked.

When I pick up the
black leash he jumps
and his tail wags
with sunshine and
his mouth waters with
glee.

In the wintertime
he shivers in the yard
and in the summertime
he sweats and pants
like a caveman.

In the fall
he is content to
have his tiny claws
crush dead leaves
and in the springtime
he is content to
run in the fresh greenery.

He ******
because the world is his
territory.

This is the song of the handsome people
bleached white bones
dark red flesh
with wrinkles deep and old
as the desert.

Their arrows having disembarked
have faded into the
molten clay of the
mean-spirited earth.

Their heritage having been
habitually crushed with cause
for hatred has been
enveloped in peace and pride
and is cloaked in
dry hides.

Feathered in cold trails of tears
to match trails of aging
they have covered up their
misfortunes with song
and smoke.

Their rainbow carried by the wind
to some far-off pasture
rides on the backs of deer
and dead bison

to be consumed in smoke
and black flame.

Red roses lurching
over sky blue picket fence

and my snake of smoke
is curling to dissipate
in the breeze

trying to feel the majesty
of air.

There is a married feeling
dark soft and warm
snuggled against my back
between seas of blankets.

Soft breathing, warm skin
and i am scared to roll over
into the wisdom of your beauty

because I don't want to
disturb you.

Love melts the heart
and turns it into
chocolate butterflies
that dwell in the stomach.

Love fries the brain
and turns it into
a smooth stone
stuck in the throat.

Love inflames the testicles
and turns them into
furtive little mice
excited for escape.

Love makes you feel
deep like the oceans.

I can never love you
like Romeo loved Juliet;
it is against my religion
to ****.

I can never love you
like cats love one another;
the cold indifference
would slay me.

I can never love you
like I loved her;
the passion would set
us both aflame.

I can love you
like a lover loves a lover.

What pale glory dwells in
the clouds, in the sky?

A thousand angels,
a thousand gleaming
trumpets!

The golden notes assail me
and fill my head with
Heaven's glee until
it is heavy and droops.

I have become accustomed
to the way the barks of dogs
envelope me when I am walking
in my decrepit neighborhood
smoking a cigarette.

The sounds, all different, engulf
my senses. It is as though
they know with canine intensity
(they know deep in their teeth)
that the tar smoke smell
is out of place among the
damp trees and trodden flowers.

I have become accustomed
to the way Mrs. Parkinson
(old lady with Parkinson's)
turns her head away while watering
her smiling tulips when I
turn to look at her
looking at me with disapproval.

I have become accustomed
to the burn of the inhale
and flicking the embers on the asphalt
and stomping the finished
smoking stump when the
inches have turned to ashes.

My fingers are yellow and brittle
but I'll never give up the habit
because I like to feel
like a cowboy.

Socrates died in the ******* gutter,
his head smashed on the marble
pillars of the Parthenon,
blood soaked the streets of Athens--
          the **** of the city was dry,
          the **** of the city made wet
          with weeping.

The river ran red down the legs
of Athena, the rose of mysterious union
made her genius shudder & contort--
          ****** was the sunrise,
          ****** the terrible roofs of
          marbled Athens.

The jeweled night was loud and furtive,
the philosopher's blood made stains
on the nation, rusty were the gates of
the aqueducts, the asylums.

The rain outside
(thrice-born like God)
the soft pitter-patter
of watery feet
on the wooden roof
on the asphalt
washing away the paint
of a spent day
and watering the
womb of the Earth
this is the bitterest
season and one for
happiness

I tried to write
a novel
once.

It was about a town
called Foxtrot,
Kentucky
in the hot Georgia summer
and three people
that lived there.

There was a symbolic
dogwood tree (it stood
for innocence)
and it rotted away
when the femme fatale
was *****.

Her lover ***** her; he was
apparently a violent man.

Her other lover mourned
but was not sad anymore
once he had shot
the ******.

Then in recompense
the lady opened herself to him.

"1+0=3" she said.

And that was when he realized
that the universe is
***, a battle
of creative impulses.

Someday I'll go back
and try to write about Foxtrot,
Kentucky again.

This time, the man will be *****
and we will see what
the universe is like for him
then.

I think I like you
because you look at my
Ram's horns
with pale Scorpionic eyes.

I hate you, you know;
you bore me & all
you want is flesh.

If you want to be a poet,
just pretend to be depressed.

Drink alcohol, cut yourself, &
pop pills.

Listen to angry music &
wear black every day.

If you dare to smile we will
cut you from the canon!

To be a poet is to be a disciple,
a saddened & sickened disciple.

If you aren't angsty & angry
you cannot be a poet.

Poetry is about sadness
& hate & anger.

Poetry is a way for teenagers
to hate their parents
& get away with it.

Alas, I cannot be a poet;
I believe in Heaven, you see,
or something like it
& enjoy life
immensely.

O! sweet Angel;
cherub; seraph; beautiful nymph,
cradle the night in
delicate French hands,
bend it to match your invisible
words, your intangible sentences.

You have the most beautiful face
in Europe, did you know that?

The eyes, vacant and holy;
the mouth, tender and rose-shaped;
the nose, delicate like veneer;

the twilight black and white
plays off the intelligence
in your face
and howls out mad words,
brilliant words, works
of art.

We are a breed
trapped in your silken
and desolate stare,

forever to study you and
scrutinize you, your fiendish ways,
your rambunctious poetries--

your poetries are published
in Heaven, did you know that?

They are made of glass and I am
afraid that my hands may
crush them when
I bring my fingers across
newly-printed pages.

My own poetries are so *******,
demonic; Enoch smiles
in the land of the dead and
prepares them for printing.

My own nature is so bland,
so ritualistic, so uninteresting;
I am not a ***,
I am not a rebel,
I am not a drug fiend;
I am a student
playing at being an anarchist.

But your lice-infested sheets
are gone and burned.

Your lover's hand,
now decayed beneath the French earth.

The ***** dens of Paris,
the absinthe dens of Paris,
seem to be gone.

You would not enjoy it here
anymore.

I hope I find you in Heaven,
for you have the most angelic
face in Heaven--
the clouds pale next to you,
the cherubs with their trumpets
turn away and weep.

I hope I find you in Heaven,
for we have a lot to teach
one another.

I once was a cowboy king
and the American desert was
my playground.

My kingdom was my mind
and then it was free
to wander in the grass.

I smoked false cigarettes
made of sugar and chased
invisible horses.

The waves washed over my feet
and they sank into
the wisdom of the sand.

I built for myself a meager
castle with a moat
so I could stand above it.

The fluorescent corridors were
my stomping-grounds
and the servants stared.

No door could hold me
for I bore the royal hall pass
on my belt loop,

right beside my Crayola revolver.

My Soul through nighted halls
did stagger to be remembered
and rejoined in hollow Void.

The limps, the shackles did echo
on shadow'd floor as fire
flickered in the lamps.

The empty sea full of Ego
it's waves did crack on temple
walls and we left it behind

to defend the fanning flames.

Pale heave of heavy *****
with each blossom of panting
breath--blue
roads of veins line the
tops of tender *******--
the hair on the head
a straw-colored pigeon's
nest unbrushed and dull--
the eyes are sunken and darkened
like Cleopatra and Isis
beneath light and gentle brow--
the lips soft and pink
like the skin of a babe and
the light of the Crucifixion--
rosebuds, rosebuds, darling rosebuds!
Reach out into empty silent air
spread out on the velvet sheets
to become scarlet and inflamed.

In the warmth
of a hot Georgia day
the sun hangs
suspended
on his invisible crucifix.

The clouds are
a fine pillow-fort
beneath the
innocent
blanket of the dripping sky.

The trees are
poking out from the earth
and praying
hopefully
for the spring to come sooner.

I.

The living creatures--
the living creatures rush forth &    
return!
They are in heat again &
they pant in their hot damp
prisons;

the windows are covered,
the wisdom of the morning is
cool against the white flesh;
brush aside sun-colored hair,
feel to touch the smooth neck,
lean in to the pale lips;
become a master of the tongue,
for the sun sets slowly unceremoniously
on youthful dreams.

The vigor of the Dog Dance--
press your souls together, contort
in the rich silken comfort, get inside
& touch the velvet throne;
the diamond mine is restless &
moves forever: there are clouds
in that golden hair, marble columns
in the rose garden.

II.

We have rested & recuperated
in our soft asylum; we have
violated & vomited in rhythms
with the serpent's palpitations;
we carry our naked babies to
the pond, peer into the rippling
sacrifice, see the shell of a bold &
beautiful reflection:
it is the moon & she dances about
our brains & she dares
us to sing.

Peek backward into golden cold
infinity:
a thousand haunted worlds,
a thousand frightened dreams
circling in the trial of the mind;
the trial has lived forever,
it beckons you to return
to it's moist cotton womb:
you must dance, you must sing,
you must howl & screech
into diamond encrusted
darkness.

My Angel comes to me
in the light of the morning.

She wears white linens
that cling to her skin
and illuminate her lovely
form.

Her Scorpio eyes
pierce my mind like a
fish hook and drag out
hidden desires.

She pulls me into her frame
and touches my flesh with
soft beautiful hands.

Her face presses my face
she pulls me by the root
and waters the vine and smells
like vanilla waterfalls.

She brushes my tongue with
hers, her lips with mine
and wraps slender arms
about my neck.

Her hips sway when she
glides down the twilight
corridor.

She moves her golden hair
from her neck and pulls my head
there--I lick and kiss and bite
like a wild animal
and she groans.

My Angel touched my ****
and the jeweled seraphim
danced.

Tenderly Dionysus
Wraps us in the folds
Of his earthy, leafy robe
Fragrant and exuberant
Smelling of cotton and
Jubilee and lavender
And he weaves
Necklaces and crowns of
Green verdant clover
Sunflowers for his Muse
Into our thick knots
Of tangled ***** hair

Springing
From the ground
Like flowers
And groping at our
Feet
Hoping to entangle us
And trap is forever

The thorny vines
Poking into
Our ankles and
Sliding up our pant
Legs to bury spikes
Within
Our smooth unsuspecting
Flesh

Drops of blood drawn
Drop like the bold sunset
Leaving pretty stains
On the soft skin
Pulsing and
Bruised

Smoking a beer
Drinking a cigarette
Greenery, a waterfall coming
Up from the ground
Suckling at the roots
And the dirt.

My tongue suckles
At my busted lips.

Headache, muscles aching
Uncontrollably.

The lonely tree
In the far off field is a
Flower tree--
The flowers are white
And pregnant with
Possibility
Like cold and clean
Sterile snowballs
Washed by the rain
This morning that fell
Gently from the
Milky clouds and woke me
From my slumber
Because they so rudely
Hid the sun from me

April, April
Your showers come down
In flat gray sheets
And I pregnant the earth
With cardinal majesty

April, April
Your flowery children are cloaked
In green fragrant humility
With roots that kiss
And **** gently at the wet earth

April, April
The sun smiles on you today
As you sit beneath
The cloud blankets of Sky
And cry

I dissected a cow's eye
Today.

I cut the muscle from the pale ball
And cut that alabaster sphere
In half.

The cornea was as hard as a marble
And perfectly round
When I lifted it from

The ****** pale moon
That stared up at my scalpel.

It was a returning.

After I make my way back
To old 1947 New York skyscraper city
In a time machine jalopy
The same color as a baby blue sky
With leather seats and chrome wheels
I would like to stop
In an old burger restaurant
Stinking of grilled meat and
Marlboro smoke and the stench
Of permed hair
To order a burger and salted fries
And I would like to stop just once
And stare out the wide window
Into a busy New York street
At the beautiful women
And the beautiful men
While I sip my coca cola
Out of a chilled glass bottle
And you **** on a gorgeous red
Cherry straight from the top of your
Cold vanilla milkshake

When they come for me
I'll be sitting in my desk
With a gun in my hand
Wearing a bulletproof vest

I will never be enough of a man
To dowse my saffron robes
In cold gasoline and set it aflame
In buddhistic conviction--
My dreams would scamper
From my burning head to find another,
My flesh would crack and burn
Like old parchment
In rough palms.

I will never be enough of man
To eat buckshot out of
A hollow cold steely gun
My mouth wrapped around the
Reaffirming thickness--
My eyes would dart and then close
My ears would ring and then collapse
Like an old building
Consumed in flames.

I will never be enough of a man
To wrap a rope round my neck
And stare blankly ahead
To seize the day
From God's hands--
My face would bulge
My limbs would twitch
Like a dying rodent
In the throes of cancer.

I will always be enough of a man
To kiss your lips
With my own and feel
Your curves in my hands
And look at the sun--
My trembling hands falter
My eyes can't see to feel for you
Like a blind pianist
Playing the blues.

The headdress danced in the sun
On the Indian's hollow
And eyeless skull.

It was framed in feathers
Brightly-colored serpents in the
Salty air flames licking at
Dancing and ***** bare feet.

Dark-skinned, tall, high cheekbones
And solemn eyes full of
Wisdom--he surveys the
Badlands, Moses's rigid face
Blank and silent in a
Heatwave desert.

Beyond the teepees and the
Black bonfire smoke and
The buffalo rhythm, the plateau has
Risen, bleached bones
Litter the plains as a constant
Reminder.

God's gray thumb
Was as heavy as a fistful
Of black steel
On the day he pressed it
Into the earth
And created a crater
And filled it with water.

He looked down at His creation
Then looked back up
At the Firmament and saw
A resemblance in the way
They both reflected that kind
Matronly face, bearded, wrinkled
Full of hope.

Then His hands were gray
On the day He blurred
The lines; the trees in
The garden stood solemn
And man and his wife
Looked on them
And got curious.