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.

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.