poetry

Do the Undead dream?

the need to be touched with hardness and frequency

is subterranean- feral,

running both

hot and cold in me,

seeking neither

the wild

nor

the tame

but the merger

of those places when they met;

Primal-

as movement in the dust-devil Jinn

who took me quickly from child to Whore,

(like a thirsty Earth drinking Water)

as the Wind grating on naked mountains

-and Fire in the sky, hungry,

from tree line to equator…

a Perineum fault line

running between my soul and my spirit

I wish to be a satellite

whose trajectory is more

than solitary Flagellation

singular sensuality

and

the taste of her own blood

this is not life but a Vampire’s wet dream-

for the neediness of these things

and knowing the desire shall neither cease nor slacken.

Crosses, Garlic and Time do not bind me

and yet,

again, I hold back

content with canned pain

it’s attendant, noonday expectations

and the repeated search for more

a postscript forecast:
freezing Snow mixed with a wayward Spirit

your Winter ghost stole into the foothills with last night’s West born flurry,blowing against the window and door sill,
slipping in with a feral cat, taming himself for canned wet food

what is it that calls you back for visits?
surely,
you are not hungry also

I have little left, save memories,
from those wild horseback days of revolution we shared:

a fossilized fern imprint you found,
a book kindly autographed by Dee Brown,

a Comanche loose fan of redtail hawk feathers,
it’s handle wrapped in cut beads which, even in this dusk of storms,
make the dying season’s light dance

and a black striped, red wool
English spun blanket with moth holes-

“the better to see through to the other side,” I laughed once

“with such trade goods nations fall,” I still hear you sigh

lifting it from the coffined, erstwhile drawer;
deep within an inner closet
on the north side of the house-
a fit place for the artifacts of the dead and a place for their shades to loiter;

I peered through, one more time, rubbed it on my face, inhaled it
and lifting it up against the window,
framing frayed-hole, weather weakened light

(Held now with aged hands-
just an off-Res Winkte dancing in memory’s magick)

but saw neither your present position and place,
or it’s solution…
nor my future,

though I heard a Snake dance song
and the Arbor-side trill of your voice against a now ancient drum-
but maybe it was just my heart,
remembering younger yesterday’s with today’s older ears

the priest is a wet nurse

anointed breasts dribble milk gone to gall
so dark, so bitter, so impervious to scrutiny or correction
scribes, known to have ghost-written for god,
bartered their foreskins and the tongues of mothers
raped by angels in sweet demon’s guise
for it’s use to bind eyes and tongue sky and cave
and that hidden place somewhere between
where gravity and time hold sway

There is no

blue skinned squirting goddess Cunt

to bless me

anointed and invited

into yesterday’s cave

no

uncut, canker sore prophet Cock

offering a semen baptism

or knee bound mass

to feed my soul or my body

no

sexless impotent god-on-a-stick

dribbling Dionysian thigh cut Uterine father-blood

on tomorrows Tambourine

from here to eternity

or even the next roadside Rest Stop toilette

with nothing left

of myth or song

or Hollywood dance musicals

depicting capitalists and communists

fed to tomorrow’s cannibalistic dying sky

as earth’s bowels erupt

offering themselves to ocean and land

as the north pole shrinks towards the equator

and the north star fades to uselessness

and purple mountains majesty become beach sand-

the home of surviving crabs and worms

this will not be recorded by human hands

in any format

or radio wave

or half sentient AI

perhaps the events will be caught up in light traveling nowhere in particular

but surely everywhere at once

perhaps it will be capture by an emerging civilization

but they will not know what to do

anymore than we did

and even if some telescope

somewhere

records this the events will not be altered

only endless cycles of repetition of failure

depending on where you watch it from

our gods have a morose and cruel sense of humor

and we have honored by copying them

from the cave to the valley

to the moon and beyond

but no further as religious don’t discuss it

and we’ve never been good at anticipating the future

vampiric toilette in the new world order

can’t you smell it?
sort of like
a recently dug up grave
mixed with chocolate overtones
airborne aroma of gutted cadavers and the
smell retardant yet to be pumped in-
Everclear for ghosts
and a light bouquet of Seville oranges
as fresh as a Shakespeare set

these ancient formed receptacles
designed to hold the ripped away souls
of all who
cross paths,
fail the rimming test
or sees beyond the mist of skin color
of the empire
his family
and blood host council

can’t you smell it?
through your screen
and on your fingers
after a short
interval
of early morning tap-tap-tapping.
has it drawn you in already
or does it flirt with you on some edge?
if repelled, you are in danger

the church of the splendoriforous


what ever is to be
will be
regardless of spanish, italian, or english translation
doris day
or that bad Brit film director,
but
because-
it has to be

that is all there is to any god,
(or science)
the divine spark-
from beneath a rock
or within the spilt wood-
gravity
dark matter
the big bang
and all those little bangs
we humans brag so much of

the special thing,
that lofty cranial expansion thing
of color and letters,
bricks and boards and graveyards
and the knowing the difference
between this and that and the other:
that is what we are
and why our hurtful use of each other
is so unbearable to watch

though, I suppose, inevitable
like atoms splitting,
recombinant DNA
the Periodic Chart of Elements,
every deity ever honored,
every orgasm moaned aloud,
and every silent forgotten death

snacking on the dead

my mother died 9 days before I was born,
hospital records indicate she held me in with the sheer force of will
for 45 days after her due date,
being selfish and self-centered,
unwilling to give up anything she felt might eventually turn a profit

I was told the birth was difficult,
or rather her passing was,
leaving behind no ritual memories from Hallmark
or hope of heaven’s reclamation
(after a hearty nosh on a salted mommies soul)
only sheets stained with shit and blood and piss
in Polloch’s later period style,

an outline made of mute, wetted crucifixes
where the aforementioned body once labored,
and me with a spent uterine pacifier,
an obsession for minced meat pies
and spiritual tartare-
eaten with a raw egg yolk on easter
and capers and onions on christmas