Believer Not Believer

God scrubbed off
known history to save
the hanging man
dis crackup earth
heed mine teethwork eyes
eyes that are not
but could be desert
not nuclear riven nudity
vatic poet overcome
stark vision heatflame
pagan upheavals upending void
glitter skies

could well be nudity
not megaton riven aridity
shamanic upheavals overload
voiding skim skies
Krishna saved
from white history
to scrub
heads mine teethless eyes
that are not eyes
a testifying poet
smoking neon vision
of a lynched man
drowning crackup death

stark composer overloaded
night tamed desert
born of obscurity
not meltdown driven nudity
the hanging judge surfing
catatonic saltwater
arid shaman revolutions
abyssal zone goodbyes
heed these teethlips
soft phrases that are not
three stanza devils salvaged
from fiction
to begin

dis dis crescendo ah ma muh na muh ma muh na muh ah ma muh na muh ma muh na muh chanted nonsense audience tomfoolery et cetera all into an eventual silence

a lynching mob
passing over
crackup salted dirt
of God allowed back
historically crucifying our heads
built upon toothvoids
that are not
seminal shamanic evolution
tidal gland liquidities
birthed with aridity
not atom splitting
nobody poet’s final word
on desert subject

Past Life Paraclete

Just as much as any past life paraclete, I belong in this space, right here in this exact now. Life’s many other aspects? not so much, sure. Yet. I can still see my own hands, the dust of my creation, plentiful words. They also reality both fail me. Curling oily hair over damaged ear, blending mind and body into God. And not just once, neither, yep. My impulses lack logic, yeah…my eyelids are become singed by hellfire.

Collectively, we all risk the umbrage of psychosis.

Ever of the sky, I am flayed alive

in service

of those who hunt.

The Male Experience Centers on Pockets

The male experience does center on pockets. Pocketed memories repressed only to be uncovered years later. Encapsulating all pain into a brainy pocket only to be released at all the worst times. Hide these hands—and all they enact—away.

If you want to be—

human, get in line. I have written manifestoes pondering the nature of dreams. Fresh out the belly of islands. Sunday binge (now featuring poison). Bringing you something black. I contemplate opening up suicide doors. Holding her, making sure—

she is real. Will not attempt again. Renewal frightens us. Manhood seems to not allow fear. In the deeps. Federal time. Baggy fists full of spliff smoke.

I know a utopic vision: opposites reversing, spirals faltering into change.

Darkness from the heat of infinity.

I am possessed—

by something else.