another titled poem

Regurgitation

Painted eve of blackened sky, blue blooded clouds

and twinkling cold stones of smokeless fire,

frame the scene of a midnight murder.

Gods amongst the gutters living constantly amongst the shifting world

of diamonds on the breeze, across frozen desert streets.

The adventures of two eyes that watch the seen and unseen

take up words that neither sign nor sing.

Beware fair matches struck to wake the sleeping world.

Now all is fire and ash, kisses and embers.

Progress and destruction, ancestral and contained

clipping laughter of elitism and dominance

muddied cries of disenfranchisement and removal.

We cannot return the forms our Gods amongst the gutters once wore

before imagination led them home to

the state of the unformed, without outline

without flesh nor bone to cling to,

so doomed they remain,

as ashes of a gasoline blaze,

adorned with icicle crowns of shame. 

Here's a poem that actually has a title

Bazaar

house of mirrors—

a train of loveless people.

house of horrors—

a world with love in it.

Tunnel of love—

Mirrors in mirrors in mirrors.

Am I a halo, like the wood or stone?

Can I be soft in my living grace?

Lose me and love me

into the waters

forget me and cherish me

through the fire

and see

we do not burn but shine

like last burning embers

of the twilight hour 

Spell the echo of sacredness

wandering from the forest and pastures,

like the tip of the unspooling fern, presenting

itself

where apparent is lost fly on glass worlds, neither

peacekeeper nor tyrant, neither insider nor outsider

bamboozled by real frames rather than open expanses

of transient reality

Revealed as input collecting and dispersing like the

collapsing cone

and sands fall, cascading

—trance and drone of ritual and celebration

mechanical crazed whisperings

artful articulations, silhouetted by casual and lackluster refinement

ornate arrangements

of movement, transition, and fluidity.

Chime the bells, in

synagogues, cathedrals, in halls of orgy

on mountain shrines

in semi-bloomed cloisters

of glass, drunk of the strong

wines where lies the decadence

of derangement.

In the voices of strangers’ faces

—Deranged, Garish

worn abominations whose elegant plumage equally

evokes the pageantry

of night,

the nakedness

of night,

painting the glory of body

masquerading through genders

in frenzy: whimsical, decadent and consuming

so that the remainder

calls forth nullibiety.

Such is madness and indulgence, twin gods of invention,

so to them give praise.

There is a God crying from within,

exalting a jubilant soul.

Know that I am devoured.

See the end through me

as I am the deliverer,

your angel of flesh.

The festival of your passing

from the halls of this world

lie in the maggots and decay

dancing in my labyrinthine intestines.

I did not kill you my child, but know

your death is still my

reward. Your death is

valuable to me and I

celebrate your fallen

form as a feast for

my body and soul.

We angels descend from

the heavens to feast upon you.

I am devoured in

devouring your stench,

and devoured in devouring

the putrid image that

stagnates in your corpse.

I am an angel of Satan

and a servant of God .

See me dance in the sacred

places of the funeral pyres.

See me bathe in the white

ash of crumbled bones;

ribs turned out from the sparse torso

shin bones remain of supple legs

collar bones remind of the absent

shoulders. I drank from that most

curious bowl that is the broken

skull, former dwelling place of

the frivolous intellect.

It would be easy

to go quietly into

the hands of an inviting

God that once was mine

and could be mine again, but I feel

it holds more wonder to

wait for hell fire than

drink from a foreign glass.

I rather my God punish me

than dream up a deceiving joy

that I embrace without fear. Let me

anticipate the roaring flames

and noxious fumes from

seared flesh and crack bone,

not that it should offer solace,

but to feel the cruelty of

the porcupine quill reminds

me that if my father punished

me for my wrongs, surely God

must do the same. In either

circumstance, love was the inspiration

so I am soothed in my troubles

by that lone fact. 

Lay down at the mouth of the Mississippi

for a baptismal burial of stony hymns

lingering on juicy acrid lips

known to the sinful wanderers

and beloved faithful