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.

Many of us saw the light.

It blew our eyes out.

We saw nothing else

for a long time.

There must have been

some other gods, some

other shade of reality.

I remember the fire escape

glinting out beyond

my tin of baseball cards.

That was in the holy place,

the place of money exchanges.

Weeping and strange

movements of tongues

as the golden dishes of cash

were passed and pocket lint

was turned to alchemical silver.

I was pulverized by the light,

and left behind with the light

for a long time, long enough

to fuck with the light.

I learned.  The light had turned

me into darkness burned.

THE CANOPY OF AIR

The pages of a tightly coiled spiral

you can find the galaxies of outer space animals

see ctenophore

the distance to a rectangle

enclosing perfectly symmetrical spheres

clouds of gas and dust three thousand feet

eight thousand meters deep

spin turbulent configurations

with the waters hairlike hard protective

two colliding galaxies pass through each other

at some trackless crossroad

dark intruding opaque matter

the six hundred feet of water above the seafloor

space of lies where the seafloor

is no more than something in my brain

bioluminescence of the galaxies,

the stars within them

a form of camouflage one mile from the shore

the amount of plant and animal life

in a given area used by most comb jelly

architecture for the life he was born to live

indoor outdoor linen enveloped in the powder

feeling the timeless southern textures.