Verses: 2012 or so

Energy ghost needs a bath
and some affection.
god becoming.

The party from Paris
saunters by with their parasols,
mushroom caps in arousal.
the plane above flies for Boston,
warm maze of cellars below

you’re a sorceress,
emissary of the green seas,
but let me keep you.
your brothers can be my guests.
palm trees claim the highways.

I want:

either your body without soul

or a soul on fire.

Nothing in between!

a sack of flesh exudes musk.

a seated man smokes basil.

his favorite program runs for three hours tonight.

beneath a comforter, couch against the window–

don’t ask him for directions,

don’t ask strenuous questions,

like why the tides recede,

or why the snails get stuck in the tidepools.

when he thinks of snails he sees them buttered or sliced thin for a salad.

when he thinks of the tides, they break against olive-skinned asses.

on the couch like a fishing net in the sand.

he snares nothing, and dries.

You can rise on a wafer, or take my sorry ship.

On your way, keep the bag’s contents hidden.

Make ’em think it’s potatoes you got,

and keep to the side roads between cities.

Memory is the groping air surrounding the tightrope.

May Detroit return to forest.

Pools of history beading,

proofs under seedlings,

theses under rubble.

Oh shit, the verb the truck is on fire! The thread that connects us threads through the old growth. Let it burn so we can meet. I light the flame tonight > charge the sigil. Let the sky set fire! May the sun fly sideways. Let the earth spin out of place. May the half moon look like an upside down bowl.

In the triangle, you have to walk like an assassin.

But after a while, the duende defers to you,

and a tantamount act of humility is in order.

Huh. Language fails me, but I take my hat off to it.

A person is a god in their own house, and that’s where hats come off.

Stand centered in the whining void.

vines wind their way around the city’s eyes.

hot molasses spreads over the legs.

the Stargate in London.

monad in Providence.

nomads on the South Coast

blocking roads.

I don’t have much of a knack for mechanics, oh!

But I can follow living things when they trace a long path,

a life’s time of vacillation and sudden detours,

spiral drawing and script fulfillment.

That I can follow, but those machines!

Running along the same grooves until their motors die…

that’s hard to follow…

Revolving doors.

Screaming motors in the night.

Swirling scenes, vampiric lights.

The hanged man

sees his hopes realized

in the light storm

preceding death.

Erupting like a nest of spiders,

the data cloud spins out.

A stellar insect kingdom.

Winter. In the rustbelt.

We grow black manes to keep the wind away.

Strut through the galleries and nod to the ghosts.

We radiate heat through every chakra,

Spinning the wheel of fortune every morning.


Apollo in the morning light. Alleys converge there and friends part ways. Seeds of pomagranate litter the grand entry. You give me pause with those stones around your neck and that flowing skirt decked with mirrors. After the riots. The husk of a television cabinet dams the gutter, its side dusted with pollen. These towering totems of light and stone are my ancestors. They teach me to respire and are vessels for the mind that wants to stretch or unravel. The pen is a prosthetic artery sending awareness out of circulation. I remember, excerpt and put back together, to form a constellation. Let the points weave and warp and the holes become eyes.


bellowing and throbbing,

ocean of potentialities,

sockets aflame.

Your kiss is apocalyptic,

makes me want to roam.

Dervish body losing gravity,

Ma Kali, my freedom,

focus, blood, flame, semen.

Allergic to money.

I revive in the bells and smoke

of the children’s republic.

I imagine taking to the road with India.

Remembering faces finally, in lieu of a map.

Fuck a horoscope. Better to act when the soul commands, whatever the price.

I and I am the star,

this hunger is my compass.

Late afternoon. The solstice has passed and the earth resumes its slow approach to the sun. We sit on a cold stone slab where two busy roads intersect, and compete with motors chopping wind to be heard. A moth lurked beside the back door yesterday, but now he is surely dead or hibernating (is there any difference to a moth?) Only the rich know rest, which makes them closer to the animals.

You fondle a bead between your fingers, artifact of a school girl’s broken friend bracelet. What god does this meeting honor? A horse man comes to mind. We both have places to go, but not the places we claim. My phone is dying. Calls will go straight to voicemail. My going will describe an L shape, an about face.