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.

ARTFUL STUMBLES

Isolate that speck of life,

and fan the flames and waves.

Let these forms pour over it.

See if it can survive, pertly.

How do these cells speak?

Does your God live

inside a vast Woman?

Let me find that milk

and drink it all, or just

what's meant for me.

Let me have that cosmic titty.

Use my veins as seeking fingers.

Figure me out.  Tie my sex

to the stars.  Give this prayer

to someone who can write it better.

Touch my trembling clay

take me home to your vast reminder.

I surrender my agenda: give me

only the spark that sings.

SWAMPMAID'S RETURN

I sat beneath a bridge with my notebook,

watching birds boomerang in the viaduct.

I saw a swampmaid crawling

toward me through a drainage tunnel.

Her face and body were scarred,

but her terrible beauty still shone through.

She gave a rueful smile

as she emerged: we recognized

each other from nights

of love and madness

in the deep swamps of Georgia.

"Was it another orgy?"

I asked, teasing.  Swampmaids

have a gritty sense of humor,

and she laughed.

"There are cords, or strands,

that we don't see, anchored

in physical reality.  Right now

your kind is anxious that

the visible cords are being cut:

but the invisible connection,

the deeper fabric, is already gone.

This is the end of your time,

and ours too."

I took her slimy hand

and kissed it once, rubbing

the scaly back with my thumb

to press the kiss deeper.  "I can still

visit you in your swamps, and join

your frenzied water dances,

coated in your precious scum

that lets me breathe in mud?"

She laughed again (they like it

when I make speeches and perform).

"In former times we never would

have brought you into our midst,

no matter how deep your curiosity.

But now--our worlds are being

crushed together into this one:

we might even transform you

near the end, if you wish: it will

shorten your lifespan, but it will

also make it more--vibrant.

You are a dark and savage beast

but we find we like you."

I like you too, swampmaid.

I have fallen in love with your esoteric

and furious ways.  Give me fins

close to the end, and give me gills.

Let's watch their world burn

from the water that they scorned

and fuck like gods

in the radiant muck.

Let all my blood turn brown

as dark as earth before I drown.

On a ledge full of flowers

looking over little kingdoms drowning

brain pans filled with candy

rails that slither for haunted towns

cracked lots sighing under folded wings.

If I went fetal on this rock

and excreted my eyes

still the presence of natural channels

would lead me home to outer space

and seal this manuscript in gathered guts

beneath glistening lacquer.

Chariots of wheat are

piled high with sleeping bodies.

Clouds of steel are gathered

on harsh electronic poles.

The stumps of fallen trees are waiting

the soil beneath the blooming leaves is waiting

doors in stone slide open

pouring lights from naked ballrooms

the skin's transparent tresses

waterfalls of blonde on bones.

ON THE LEAVES

Bend down and kiss the Earth, wench:

spread your genitals for me

and let me watch them glisten.

Let me fuck you in the rain

and stay close and deep inside,

bathing my whole seed-shoot

in your juices.

We can laugh on the leaves

and kiss afterward.  We can

roll around in them

and let them stick to our skin,

we can let leaves

be our clothing for a day.

ROSA

Diamond mind

how I wish I could

find you in your epic dreams

and resurrect you

take you to a place

of luminous cool

and heal your wounds

with light.