I am a child of the abyss.  I took down

the cross of the conqueror.

I removed your worshipful fingers

from my pineal gland

with a flashing knife.

I told you to go back to the desert,

or stay in the city

where I can never come.

Because our language and our ways

have departed from one another,

and there will be no reunion.

What we have now is lives

headed for separate realms.

And what God has separated,

let no man bring together again.

Let it unravel into separate kingdoms,

see what they can conjure.

Let them drink their separate poisons

from their separate stills,

and die the same.

THE CANCELLATION OF THE HOLY SPIRIT

We are expected to become

accustomed to spectacle.

Shaped into a smooth resource

fisted by plastic idols.

Run through the marketplace like fuel.

Used up by limitless fantasy

with no roots in the real.

This is the way, say the lovers

of language, to become pure spirit.

And the corpse of this planet

must be sacrificed to the same ideal.

Those who don't love democracy

must be tortured to death.

Those who hate freedom must

be imprisoned.  This is good.

It is not right that others

benefit from being forcibly civilized,

while we neglect our own people:

they too must taste the joy

of political reality.

We plug our strings into the wall

and let the ropes of fuzz undulate.

I strike a bass with sparks

you open up the rain

of electric fray.

The streets outside are piling up

with fragrant wrecks.

The bricks drip dust from grinding.

We tap the drums with fairy dust

and watch the winding

wheels of pounding ways

that sweep this room across the sky

landing in reactive spires.

If I find you in some obscure

channel of purgatory,

I will cling to you and we shall rise,

over the smoking theaters

and resculpted ruins

of a dreamed city

we will ascend to realms

that do not yet exist.

We must imagine

all those rooms afresh.

The lolling tongues of cloud-births

must come down.  Let the wet sex

pick up all the ash and wash it

into the river.  Let all the afterlives

let go and gush.

Feel the hush of old gods.

Chain links rattling on the shore

that feed on drunken vertebrae.

Rituals of sacrifice that never

bring a ringing dawn of dawns.

We are not pawns,

and all great kings are gone.

My bones are moving

closer to that song.

GREG

Your verses have endured, my friend.

The young still hear

the rumble of your voice.

In a world of cruel and murderous pride,

your humility has made you immortal.

Your open door is remembered.

Because you never praised yourself,

and always elevated others,

your legacy is limitless: now

you have the highest place of esteem.

You gave us your whole heart

without restraint.  Now

your spirit resides

in the way of liberation,

in the way of all committed poets,

in the way that the broken remain.

I am the shadow that

snakes through the grass.

The oils it accrues

seep through a secret sky.

Each scale of assembled space

is a bright dilating eye.

They lead to the sacred tunnels.

They lead to the deep wells

of psychedelic water

and sweetened alkaline.

The lines around the lakes

glow deep with moonlit lime

reflected realms in whirlpools

of untied terrain

a planet like a wounded brain.

The gray walls

take my bleeding colors on.

I link the caves

by running toward the sun.

I tunnel through the lives

I left behind.  Some rooms

have women in them, some do not.

All their tresses hover over

mats and cots.  A good bed

pops up once in every tide.

We gather as it crests

and ride and ride.

The colors run from brush to brush

and run from knife to knife

the architecture furrows near our hush

and it erupts with sacred gushing

attuned to the machinery of touch.

GODDESS EDITORIAL

Everybody should be

worshipping female deities.

You know you want to.

Get down on your knees,

caress the Earth,

and get fucked real good, boy!

If a Christian you must be,

take up Mariolatry.

Heresy is good for humanity.

Do your part and bow

to the age of the goddess,

to the Age of Asherah,

begat in 2026 of the wrong calendar.

Power of the powdered planet,

coming back in nucleic acid.

Goddesses everywhere, so many

options.  Choose your local girl,

fall down on the sidewalk

and sacrifice your sanity.

Pray in public.  Worship in public.

Worship in the nude.

Worship no more dudes.

I am the underworld.

Sleep in my paws.

Later in the violated morning

we'll come up with claws.

Scratched and sun drenched faces

sex behind a charcoal fence

pomegranates and peaches

pine needle prints on flesh

the spray can alleyway nights

that made the neon con our home

Blackberry thornbushes under the bridge

teeming in edges and corners

that feed on the threads of the sun

giving sweet black blood to the mouth

breezes blowing thorns across ragged concrete

as I listen to the scratching sound

and imagine the tail of a dragon

swishing across cluttered lots

getting ready to strike sparks

from the armor of death.

Rip out the throat of Christ,

and the money machine will follow.

Rip out the spiritual hierarchy

of eternal death for all.

Strip away this religion of money,

tear down the fetid cross

and the curse of obedience.

Tear down this citadel of lies,

this government of death.

May the ghosts of all our genocides

rise up throughout the levels of our system.

May they join an eternal mind

that crushes all our schemes.

May the Christian church

in all its manifestations

be cursed upon this earth:

may its every edifice

be used as a depository

for sewage.

And may the goddess of the new

remove our reason and our numbers

make our garden spill again

and recreate.  The path to beauty

leads through hate.

BUCKHAMIAN JIHAD

This poet's hatred is for you, America:

take it into the core of your spirit,

and may it make you sink.

May you be stripped

of all your counterfeit glory.

May you be stripped naked and ugly

before all other nations.

Let your discolored shit be seen.

May the breath of your people

be torn away: may you

be sacrificed to the rapists

who praise your name.

Let the hatred of all good people

land on you in all its

torment and disgust,

and may you be buried

in a litany of your own filth.

May your foul name always

remain anathema among us,

may a rain of articulate curses

follow every vapor of your trail.

Spirits in the desert

trying to light a little way

remembering forest roads

shaded by vast shuddering branches

hoping to be in their green maw

when the attacked sun comes

watching arrows fly like minnows

across a flooded sky.

The rails of dreams are broken

on the groundlessness of liquid frames

brains are worming across

the slats of fallen artificial skies

mushrooms painted bleak with milk of rye

supporting renegade daffodils

and tulips of lightweight stone

kissed in an artificial correction.

Leaves whispering of other fates

the melon tasted deep

behind a purple veil

and many elaborate cushions

bird love clacking bamboo

I caught life like a steeply recurring flu

to be here among the phantom birches

ringed in frogs

and fallen castles of the damned

where the blood stands

with a pursed and overflowing mouth

northern madman in a madman's south

feeding pigeons with a dead man's bread.

Darkness has become luminous.

A thousand eyes shine

out of the fiery pit.

The xylophone of souls

is splayed and supportive.

Howls of extreme orgasm

send veins of cool red light

across the moon.

This realm so long exaggerated

is both breaking down

and becoming real.

Grab the face of my false race

and begin to peel.

Tin foil maps.  Raw glassy

stuffing.  No end of

new features.  Closets in closets,

corridors in corridors,

the smell of concrete walls

giving way to a lovemaking rug

where centuries escaped can shrug in oil

ecstatic toward reborn clay

where day is many pronged

and growing roots in infinity.

Poverty creates divinity.

Already I am without a name.

History is gone, I am

a dissolved cell.

All I remember is women

and music.  I nest in

an inverted pentagram treehouse

in the fog of disintegrated time.

How did I get back in this body,

with nothing to breathe?

When did my love break up

into discarded remnants

on this earth?

I hear Bob Dylan in the distance

say it's not dark yet.

I dive into the void of what I am

and wake up on mud.

These pines erupted soaring

from the blood and alkaline

of fairy hills when all things lived.

The lightning that lit my tree

landed on a gravestone.

The tree that fell landed

on a mailbox.  I dipped

my hair in the surface water.

I climb on her brown bones

and I am painted back to life.