THE OLIGARCH KILLER

First I'll staple your hands to your desk:

I brought a carpenter's toolbox.

Then I'll fuck your face with a baseball bat,

using nice, long steady strokes.

My hands are already dirty

from all the work you don't do.

Then I'll whack at your elbows

until those arms come apart,

skin sliding like a pair of socks

from thin muscle and bone.

I've already removed the fish

from your very impressive fishtank:

this is a fishnapping.  They are swimming

in a bucket in my truck.  You'll have no

such luck: you're getting dunked, son,

headfirst with all the little that's left of you.

Murder can be sweet, murder can be delicious,

murder can be clean like doing the dishes.

I replace my stapler and leave whistling.

Your feces turn the fishtank brown

from green as we enter the present.

No vacancy remains: you were never a resident.

Deep breath goes through the earth

I won't resist the plunge

of these deep purple ravines

water is seeking my vacant heart

through the channels of an older rain

I call on all the spirits of devotion

who walked a fine ledge

carving all the ruins of the air

into fleshly being

building bones inside their souls

setting them upright in magnetic swamps

and lighting their astral hair on fire.

The grins grow from the charcoal

linking to the glint of black water

and the sent light of dead stars

falling through the bars of heated darkness

growing roots into an engorged sky.

Arrival with black eyes

and gummy veins.

A dark apartment

outside history.

Asbestos breath.  The sinks run

with the blood these trials shed.

A line of stones leads

to a deeper door.

I'm going there

to find my sacred whore.

Jerusalem has changed.

The beast they've caged

can only be deranged.

I pace around my room.

This place they scraped,

it used to be a womb.

I've scraped it too.  I have no right

to ask to be renewed.  But I do.

I found a solid seat

within the clouds.

Stiff angels watched

some demons dancing down.

From above?  This changes

everything to some state

we can never know.

I turn the cockpit

toward the sky and blow.

The ferment of the stars

then comes apart.

I must have kept them

clustered in my heart.

Trucks with carts of blades

rolling over deep grass hills.

Kites of woven grass

flying high from strings

of lilac colored thread.

A golden hawk flies through

a clean square tunnel,

toward me from the light

in the depths of the other side.

SATANIC SUNDAY

An abandoned dead end back road

is my favorite spot in Rossville.

The only building is a wrecked church.

The wreckage is more beautiful

than the original.  The cracked steeple

stands crookedly on the ground

in front of the mildewed walls.  It fell

in a storm, already weakened by neglect.

I come here with a craving for wildness,

to see the errors of civilization overthrown.

I worship the feminine spirit

of the crawling woods.  I allow it

to anoint my every precious orifice,

to open me up to cleansing inner fire.

This is my satanic Sunday service,

torn with ink from the hands

of priestcraft.  I see Satan with his fiddle

in the forest, I see him in the circle

of jubilant witches, lining up

to smooch his sweet behind

by the glow of the flames,

his violet hole washed clean

by the breath of the river.

How I want to be like him.

The fallen foremost Son

who sacrificed his whole existence

to art, music and revolution.

Satan's joy will resurrect

this fallen tabernacle

and make it a bronze obelisk.

The crucifixion?  That was just a kiss.