“Divination” is Lazy

Here’s an almost certain idea of the future:
more bleeding gums
and leaning up on the counter
a stomach cancer salting a snail’s pace.
Mild waiting time.

Takes a second to piss, but
No blood yet.
Old age is not God’s asperity so any shaken fist would be non-germane,
a waste of much needed calories.
Torpor is God’s ironic wrath.
Violently ingrown hairs that never break the skin.
Pimples on the ass.
There’s a tire that misplaces air and I gave an entire day to revolving
around the Morning Star.
Sometimes an eclipse
Sometime only two tall boys at night.
Sometimes you only eat a late breakfast.
I’m running on some time. Some.

A glaring hint of what comes next:
give me 5,000 despondent sexless weirdo fucks,
with 5,001 untraceable ghost guns.
Let them trip up the onward march of capital for a brief moment;
Let them rip up the occidental cultural pieces from oriental calloused hands.
Let them sip up middle management plasma with 3D printed plastic bendy straws.
In the end, it just means
a longer drive to a store on the north side because the one nearby is still spot-cleaning hemoglobin out of the chiffon and lace.
Mild waiting time.

Give me that army of genetic dead ends.
Their awkward virginal fumbling to finger-fuck a magazine pales in comparison of fear
to the eager hearts of 22-year-olds ready to cut your performance out of construction paper,
transfer your book from the shelves to the shredder,
turn your singular observations of the social fabric tent we’re all under
into their own personal My Lai Massacre, replete with reasons why you must now be canceled.
The gulag, not as place, but as a
State of being.
Homo sacer as an asterisk, not an exception, to the true classless society.
The Idiot’s Guide to Agamben,
lecture hall 11B.

Diligence is God’s sincere wrath, ironically.
Sometimes I wanna call Him a hack or uncreative;
arrested development that never got past taking ideas from Kafka,
hiding from consistency with the skin of dead scribes.
The Morning Star!
Mild waiting time
but here in the Blue Light we are not bound by tradition or rational zip-ties!

Two broken toes that never set,
a welcome distraction from a cyst that hovers like a phantom out of sight.
Gums still bleed even when apples are on sale.
Is there a tarot card that means stomach cancer?
A seven of swords,
disemboweling me in a sterile prayer circle.

Maybe if I have a daughter I can fight off expiration long enough
to teach her how to shoot guns,
front sight, front sight, front sight:
two in the chest, one in the head,
of any would-be rapist or neurotic, bootlicking civil servant;
whichever one comes to the door, wanting, first.
After all,
the Brock Turners of this world will want to hurt her
just as much as the David Hoggs,
both singing in unison about the need to declaw and defenestrate.

Is there a describable difference between cavalier promiscuity’s bed of nails
and being confined to a hospital gurney for the foreseeable series finale?
The road to debating whether to tell the family and burden their prosperity or let death just do its fucking job:
taken upon with traffic,
a mild waiting time.


“—light pollution, so the only stars you can see
in the city,
are the afterthoughts of the lamp posts’ gasp
on a sable road.”
This will have to do;
man makes himself over in the world
and the world was once himself,
so it only makes sense, it will have to do.

Phaethon in his Crown Vic pierces the ink,
Kevin Gates rippling the tide,
The panic of a moribund dog in the back alley
forces me back inside
to the native redolence of wood paneling and pot.
The prayers of the saints:
“O Lord, I begged for reprieve from the malodor
of these prosaic masses of men,”
doubtless a more indolent grab
for promotion has been made.
Better maybe to stay out of the boardroom,
quit your ear against the door.
Best to ensure dominion over the office when it
does finally swing open.
They either come with open arms
or you rush the door and begin stabbing the bastards.

The dog’s finale creeps between the drywall of my room.
The croupy death rattle of a mammal
tries to panhandle my empathy but I snap the strings.
I only have so much. I cannot manifest more.

Koresh (The Death Rattle)

Whither that right-hand Mount Carmel door? Pockmarked
and vampire-stricken by the cuspids of Mammon; has it
absconded to the Babylonian crypts or
rather did it rise like Enoch to that Great Multitude?

Whither the children who bawled as the flashbangs tore
through tissue paper eardrums, their mothers clutching at
them with bleeding stumps where caressing hands once
were? Do they doze languidly in a manger of soft hay or
do they toss and turn on beds of spent brass?

Whither the slick, down jacket labeled “Pilate” candidly,
slung over the spine of a legionnaire, bought and stocked,
not so that he may guard those great Temples of Usury (for
who in their right mind would—).
                                                       He rather combs the desert
‘lest a Gethsemane bloom, ‘lest a White Lily rise and go
unstamped by the Spectra’s black boots of Abaddon.

Whence has the God of Absence the reserve to cast aside
his unblinking Gaze? Did his Creation acquaint him in the Art
of Being Ruled?

God did not beckon them into that lake of fire, for they
walk with bayonets pursuing them,
“slain, but standing.”