Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Buzz Buzz Beelzebub

Witches chalk circle fails to detect
the dark lord’s insect passing over me,
evacuee of time. Instead I sing
homilies in pulped language, fragment
of my eye, the witness insists I nail
down the furniture god carved of serpents,

electric like the ocean used to be, a serpent
who probed with squeezing to detect
the winds of an epic thought naturally nailed
to my mouth, sucking, as it were, me
into delicious intention while the fragments
watched the centuries jaundice and sang

that captive prayer the belted criminals sing
at inquests. And yet you deny the serpent
who wallows for the sake of it, deny fragments
intruded and by the supreme inquisitor detected
my lies that burn, oh heaven save me,
like insects inserted in my relation like nails,

buttery up-drift, profile, garlic and snails
who with marble in their columns sing
through their nostrils songs that watch me
twist and squeeze the alter like a serpent
the good priest put his hand down and detected
squeezing my heart out into fragments

like pomegranate pulp, teeth, fragments
of bone. How he wishes to collect me, nail
me back together. I say use a metal detector
to sweep the dirt and shit until it sings
of the jointed beams that ride as two serpents
together like shoulders carrying me

into the country, setting the stake, burning me.
I am pages in the book of curses, fragments
from the garden, hiss of the condemned serpent
spreading a foliage of light, dressing with nails
the green, an avian sound resonant, sings
advent of wings, flap insipid detector

keeps the serpents in the chalk circle so we
can nail them down and cut their tails into
fragments. Singing shivers, they devour me.

Monday, September 28, 2009



The nails are in search of a man to make
not a god, but a Tonka toy inspired
by track star haircuts leaned in from shaving,
milk wash like flesh over Formica until
it’s transparent. All art should be smooth.
Two handed but concrete soft, like in a dream.

Read the air. Not god but deception dreamed
this bomb. Not juice but horizons made
this confirmation of madness secret-smooth.
Print outs of not god but robot inspired
insects. The carnival secretes a visit until
I dissipate like a sink full of shaving

cream, a cake covered in chocolate shavings
radiating out in ripples like a dream
of denuded faces cutting density until
the lord uncorks in a wild fiasco made
for the people in the dunking stand, inspired
by the amoebas all over the smooth

carpet. I am almost never smooth
no matter how much combing and shaving
I can’t quite get the ladies inspired
to stitch their pulsing cages to my dream
or to climb through pressure and make
that noise that heats the room until

the wallpaper droops, or at least until
I convalesce in wheezy flame and smooth
the sheets. Involuntarily I make
the folds of a chair ration out the shaving
light between hard stomachs in a dream
in which I am almost nearly inspired

to give in and fall down the stair well spire,
to turn within the hospital parking garage until
there is nothing but fried ampersands, dreams
of grease & gravy, secretions holy-smooth
where I am the prisoner desperately shaving
a gun out of innocence or whatever I can make.

I’ll inspire you with a ring made of wax,
shave a little time off my dream until it is smooth
and hairless and ready to be holy, holy.



Thursday, September 24, 2009



The drain is a circle of eyes blinking back
the remnants of my shame. They investigate
so enormously as we dredge facile fact-bombs.
I am pierced in rows by a scientific fetish
and they labor in the Chrysanthemum-bulge
I cornered with the dogs to show you
I meant the best for your toad appendages.

Samples of decay threaded with appendages
like fingers and off-road tread leading back
to nightly deranges, how a house-fire bulges
with gowns of sound clawing to investigate
consciousness, the wet earth her scarlet fetish
prehensile projects from the tonsil her hope-bombs

the names withdrawing to canvass, bombed
to tombstone, all-terrain scrambled appendage,
time-balls; in with the oils like a candy fetish
in a dead rat’s mouth on the pestilent back
highway, where exterminators investigate
how long the carcasses make circus bulges

like bags of microwave popcorn bulge
from radiation, little roadside bombs
machine moved and glass investigated
by the machete who wants your appendage
removed from hero view, pruned back
along the historic landscape, that fetish

made turgid by hairs that tingle, that fetish
how your sting makes me welt, bulge
like the curve bones showing in your back
your heart beats away the dark with bomb
shakes, sprouts my prayer box to appendages
and the doctor splints, squints to investigate

how the trauma victim invests in closed gates
hedges of sheep, pink and wire fenced fetish
precision, with wild swinging appendages
that dance at the end of broken flower bulges,
like fields of gazing sunflowers carefully bomb
cut and gathered with hands to give back.

Thus the gentle caressing bomb of highway accident
is like the fetish for a missing appendage,
a bulge in your shirt worth investigating.


* *

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Darwin's Wren

Today my school had a special lecture on Darwin
which the public thought might raise a stink
with those who disagree with Moses and evolution.
Some on the faculty called for the creation
of a committee which would have a Wren
as its logo and could be seen from the walk

if you didn’t drive and chose instead to walk
which is how on the Galapagos Darwin
got around, spotting those big beaked wrens
and trudging through the waste and stink
of giant turtles who by their own creation
nest in sand bowls the product of evolutions

of flipper tosses and waddling revolutions
and romantic turtle starry night walks
on the theoretical beach, humming to create
just the right mood to catch observant Darwin
off guard with his notepad of fleeing the stink
of sea weed or the rotting body of a wren

I hit with my car on the way home, wrenching
the steering wheel to miss. I guess evolution
had it in for that bird, though it really stinks
because when I was a kid and still had to walk
I flinched at birds. poking notes like Darwin
at the beagle’s hull, like sympathy creates

possibilities, like turtles with necks create
less effective hidey-holes or if that wren
had just swooped up I wouldn’t need Darwin
to feel better, to justify its death as evolution.
I could have at least stopped, got out, walked
back to see. I open the vents to get the stink

out of the van when I pass something stinking
and dead. Sometimes it’s an act of creation
to kill, a turtle. To get in the car, leave walking
behind. Maybe there will be a giant beaked Wren
that can take on cars, something that evolves
into the splat on the road called Darwin.

Wheels roll out a wren’s beak in the traction
of my evolution. Every mark bears the stink
of creation. Monkeys walk in Darwin’s head.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Judgment of the Furies

We inherit grace, middle school and needles.
Recall how we were gasoline weaned
for mercy’s sake because mercy delights
in her electrical lights (bitch) meanwhile sparks
on the horizon are a prelude to the whip of dawn,
her magnetic cleavage beneath the meteor gown.

You men who worship at the temple gown
we can see you are in full endowment, needles
opening the gates to penetrate the crowd, dawn
of faces in delight. She stitches with grab cloth to wean
the abandoned flesh with the illuminating sparks
in hidden faces, by covering forbidden delights

in the feel of the sling in a beefy dress, delightful
and sexy, how the shudders trumpet in a patched gown,
how well she sutures it to my face with sparks
like a mouth. The officers assign needle-
time to fix utterance to your mouths, still unweaned
of distance, other undiscussed gasping dawns,

like the good or free will entombed in the hard dawn
of her new predicament, pouty with a tourist’s delight
for gasping sake in the leaving off. Rip, weaned,
rip rip, oh the windows open with new gowns,
a hand slung bodice of beads made with needles.
I remember being drawn, joined like sparks

to kindling, into fire then rearing from sparks
up onto cloth, exploding your clothes like a dawn
sky investing fingers with the ruse of needles.
Come water, she thinks, bead by bead. It delights
with shudders the fading water of the faithful gown.
She uses her jiggling trumpet call to wean

the pavement and grasses, she disaster weans.
What comes after? the radio? disasters sparking
earthquakes in solidarity with the long grass gowns
over what is sufferable, the held breath, dawn
shaped sewer’s burning lungs. The ocean bride delights
in the first dance on the surface of needles.

So the dawn of her dark eyes sparks needles.
My hand goes through her dark gown and I lose
it. She weans me of judgment and I delight.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Hagia Sophia

For a thousand years her breast was architecture’s flagship,
portal to the other world, holding the sky static
in her giant dome. Goddess of wisdom, we worship
the balanced helmet in her glossy paint, ship
in a bottle in a shop where with a t-shirt you get
a sandwich and a certificate of citizenship
in heaven, and with no commitment to stewardship,
and the shop keepers like angels are giving away
admission to knowledge or heaven or whichever way
you feel most conforms to the ambassadorship
the lord endows his buildings with, with wisdom
or the smug inverted hanging down face of wisdom

bearing hawkers of penance and bouncers pelting wisdom
with denial and velvet, buck toothed, high on internships
the cavernous emptiness of a bronzed-over wisdom
hides under plaster, saint craw, forgiving wisdom
where the priests rub their naked bodies, raising static
columns of fleshy worship, supporting the wise dome
brought from the temple of Artemis, sister of wisdom
who pawned her father’s house for what she could get
some track marks where they dragged her to get
her out of the way, morphine needles of wisdom,
minarets in her arm, blood poison to take her away
forsaking her as a goddess, though not even a saint’s way

is rough enough, like how a woman who fights away
the devil gets a plaque hewn in the scar of wisdom
like the church’s medical records, silver, bronze carried away
by the Moors, or under lathe and plaster sealed away.
Note who gets tickets to heaven can be a matter of ownership.
The rest of you maybe get statues or get to stay
in the wrinkled organs of the world, menageries packed away
like hard lozenges of mud and trees in the attic,
little bodies molded in front of the T.V. static
snowy packaging tied up and sent on rivers away
from comfort and couches, sent on a mission to get
life out of, not reviving juice, but the cracked eggs we get.

When the earth quake opened Sophia’s dome she didn’t get
under her desk in time, she couldn’t move the stars away
and climb in to the painted firmament. And things get
tricky when heaven is an idea on a wall. People get
impatient, they go for microwave dinners not wisdom,
they wonder why they were never let in on the get
or why the red silk ribbons spilled over the wall get
sticky. They wonder at the nibs of scribal penmanship.
It’s not irrelevant that the minarets look like spaceships
how the hell else could we be expected to get
from here to there? She wears a holy gown, mother fanatic,
it shimmers golden at the edges, paramour ecstatic,

Hagia, saint of balloons, rubbing up electrostatic
shock into knowledge, the brain and heart metastatic
growing one into the other until there’s no other way
but god to invert the dome to a dish so that it’s stable
in the middle, fruit on the table, round dogmatic
and delicious And a ripe and ready cure for wisdom
can be injected, spaceship, module mother wisdom,
church, sepulcher, juices injected, serum vatic
whosoever man or god can deny her ladyship,
one garment worn over or torn off, we worship.

Crown of thorns, minarets or horns, holy fellowship
demands drunkenness in air. Recall that by wisdom
we are tied, a boat in passing waters, may easily forget
the powdered dust that covers us, settling away
like the saints faces laid out in silver iconostasis.