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.