Tabula Rasa

                I close my eyes and see figures assuming the form of my naked body:

                It looks like Miles with sweaty black skin purging self and society of the traditions held dear - the grand and fruitful experimentation of life itself.

                It looks like Ziggy Stardust flamboyantly plucking on a twelve string guitar and pondering the pansexual urges he couldn't quite understand as a boy in Brixton.

                It looks like El Boracho; with all of his wit and reason, he stares North at a gleaming future filled with preposterous proclamations regarding the psyches of people.

                It looks like the mystical Seafairy - red heals clenching the dank hair of man; while spinning a Kenny Burrell vinyl, he realized he was an African American.

                It looks like Jay Tea clad in spectral paisley patterns proclaiming the ideal that existence precedes essence and that meaning is derivative of humans experiencing their existence.

                It looks like Hank, hipster Jazz man manically improvising and hearing pitch, hearing rhythm and unaware - so unaware of the phrases to come.

                It looks like Tyler, sarcastically self-proclaiming beautiful Bitch Mother whose body is a womb to spontaneous laughter and joy - to vicious torment both relentless and steadfast.

                It looks like my father - oh well intentioned hospitable spirit of manhood! cock and balls and pubic hair and facial hair cloaked and veiled in the ideals and perceptions of a contrived masculinity.

                It looks like my mother; breast and bosom birthing the communist altruism and silly idiosyncrasies and vast love of all things - oh ravenous woman of God! Mother to man, child of God!

            It looks like experience manifested - man made flesh; the flesh made anew as I absorb and imprint upon the external and internal reality ripe in fertility.

                I close my eyes and see figures assuming the form of my naked body.

Monochronic

I can feel you around me, influencing my diction.

                - oh sweet men - boyish faces hidden behind

                                ashy beards of Father.

Your words tongue my ear, tongue my mouth,

                - metaphysical intercourse between those

                                who once lived and those about to die

Conversation! Spiritual entities communicating with this vestige plane.

Conversation - like the jazz musicians with lips perched;

                oral fixations on the orgasm of song (melody, rhythm, form).

                                Forever with ears open.

Body and mind interact in simple, chemical speech,

                allowing sweet, simple experience to take hold,

                imprinting on the fertile page of Fetus;

                                Nature and Nurture at a stand still.

Like the priest mid sermon, pausing only to speak

                in tongues of spirits, God's own Holy language.

                The Holy language of rivers, Time, and Space!

                The Holy language of cosmic sexual stimulation.

                The Holy language of trees, Earth, and Womb!

                The Holy language of cyclical rebirth and death.

                                - a death I cannot remorse

               

Out of placenta comes man, baptized in his embryonic ability.

Frontal lobe erect and engulfed with the implantation of ideals

                in Holy conversation; each ideal - personal, meaningful

With perceptions altered, we can look North and confide in Mother.

                With our hands. With the Holy symbolism of verse and rhyme.

                                With our mouths. With our words and the meanings we give them.

                                

An Accident

The Chemist

dropped the formula;

twitching in the nervous night

with its aspirations' tart thrusting.

Chemicals

combine! ferocious,

fervent hunger for the flesh

of delicious, delicate metal.

Clammy hand,

stupid man, stupid

white cloak veils intelligence;

"what have I done? God...what have I done?"

Foaming floor

feeds the formula

like people putting meaning,

idolizing bearded grandpa past.

Confused mouth

and body frozen,

staring at the reflection

of failed attempts to become Albert.

Formula -

viscous and holy!

It disfigures the framework

of the shifty eyed earth below him.

In the hole,

vibrant colors spring

guises of geometric

rainbows replacing amorphous earth.

Birth and death;

failure and success

fornicate the boundaries

aroused inside the clumsy chemist.

Mikaela

My dear, there is nothing

I can teach you in regards

to the finite earthly wisdom;

- you are holy

- you are sacred

- you are bound by nothing

because you were birthed

from nothing.

My dear, beware of man -

the almighty seducer, so

insincere in lust and love;

- they are vile

- they are ugly

- they are a representation

of infinite fertility thriving

on false altruism.

My dear, do not fear femininity,

for it births a peaceful pacifism

perched on your esoteric estrogen;

- it is righteous

- it is divine

- it is Christ looking

at Jerusalem with eyes forlorn in

the almighty forgiveness.

My dear, do not be consumed

by the elastic hatred of a world

in contempt of your beautiful soul;

- it is sympathy

- it is empathy

- it is not the selfishness

of red conservativism pinning for

the individual succession.

You are the crowning accumulation

of mother and father,

of mimi and grampy,

and me;

curly hair repose and restitution

alone in communist principles.

My dear, know that you

are lovely. You are for

everyone.

Irwin (For Kurt)

I walk amongst the dead people.

I don't feel their essence.

I don't quite feel anything.

I see specters longing to escape from man’s collapsed torso. This organism cowers, bright and iridescent, in a state of limbo. Fearing eternity, it pleads to stay with its host in the ground below. As man’s body is accepted by the soil, his soul is left lingering in the shadows; hands held out to God or whatever would accept him. The souls of young, grotesque figures leap out of holy wounds and orifices; a collective mass of spirits clinging to their unrequited love of a life being pulled away from them.

"May God's eternal love be with these young as they are flung into a world they are fully unprepared for and don't understand. May Your hand rest upon and guide the souls of selfish men negligent of Your glory; may the boatman at the beach of the river be free from judgment. May damnation be as swift and pure as death itself."

Souls, impure and violent, seek peace and forgiveness in the cold, cursed realm of limbo; fog crawls the floors of dead earth feeding off the looming lives of men and women who lived for death. The fog grows powerful, lusting after the cavernous and penetrable wounds left by flying death. Its sacred and divine member now throbbing with ambitious notions of judgment. Smelling the fruitful fertility of soldiers in the tattered clad of ethnocentric cultures, the fog enters deeply and without passion; pansexual in its lust for holy orifices. Genderless souls squirm from the continuum of unwanted sexual congress.

***

Sinless souls dance hand in hand to the beautiful waltz with an incomparable groove as the eyes of the raped are fixated on them for all eternity; one two three one two three one two three one two three.

"God's love is unconditional. God's love is patient. God's love is all around us; caressing us gently and embracing us. Our souls call out for love and peace, but our bodies long for devastation and destruction; the physical realms of Earth only nurture our physical bodies, but, because of God's eternal love, peaceful souls are allowed to rest for eternity. Keep these men Lord, and may Your will be done. Amen!"

A woman cowers in child's pose; her curses considered poignant to the small patch of land which received her sordid words and bore the weight of her emotional struggle. A small voice builds up inside of her mouth as she tongues each syllable. He gave his life for them...he gave his life for me.

Halloween Party

The Beast ripples quietly upon the ceiling -

pixel by pixel shortening the distance

between men and their symbols.

Meaning adheres the amorphous

exoskeleton of the tangible;

in manifestation of the empirical.

Fleshy appendage sweeping over soulless frameworks -

and my flesh wrought with the fear!

These communicating contortionists bending

and twisting to proclaim bare breast and buttocks;

preconceptions - wrenching and entwined.

Although the brightness of the being reflecting recognition,

both conscious of the moaning Mephistopheles,

I prompt "I think I should take the other one."

The Lovers

                They were the lovers -

                                possessed by such lucid lust;

                                                they fuck in the street.

                Cold emotionless

                                embrace; so automatic,

                                                vibrant, and human.

                Drugged out and messed up,

                                they didn't even see us

                                                sauntering by shocked.

                Vapid vagrant male -

                                "I think they will understand;

                                                they are college kids..."

                Her moans cut the night,

                                cut the night with viscous heat

                                                and palpable sex!

                The lovers' hips thrust,

                                electric pelvis gyrate;

                                                they fuck in the street.

A Text

"Hey what are you

doing tonight?!?!?!"

"Writing some gay ass

poetry, porning out,

you know....the ush."

"Oh dude, that sounds

like a really chill time."

"Yeah dude, wanna join?"

"No I

hate you."

"Whatever,

bro."

"Be over

in 10."

My Restless Leg Journal

A fervent, gripping madness circulates chemically

throughout terrified veins, serotonin bridging

some synaptic gap between the receptors

inside my vacant extremities

as you sensually bite your lower lip - the embarrassed embodiment

of the erotic draws your eyes to the flowing, fluctuating modern romance;

body aflame with carnal sensations spurting seed and pollinating

as the moaning floorboard provides a moist, fertile soil

feeding flower upon flower

simultaneously blooming and dying

while the dog in my backyard

screams violently at the invisible intruders of the night;

while the chickens in my kitchen chirp in daunting bursts

battling over feed scattered on the ground

and oblivious to the things I do at night

when I am alone in my bedroom.

My love for this world is deep, visceral, and God-like;

I will birth the bosom of imagination incarnate -

a healer of a decomposing Earth and a lover

to the prostitutes and whores selling their cosmic sanctity

to the cold dark streets and a practitioner of salvation

through immense beauty.

I can't sleep.

My legs shake.

I am just restless.

Samael and the Four Angels

I never loved you -

eyes glaring, body wanting

sensuality.

I only want you

in petty pleasure rain dance;

I keep my clothes on.

Conscious desire

takes the backseat as morals

flood all five senses.

I do not love you -

physicality haunts me,

embalmed with my fear!

***

I stare at my feet.

My inhibition consumes the moment

and it is my inhibition that keeps me here.

I decide on my indecision;

knees week and palms sweaty

in the conscious desire

of lust and love.

I pocket my hands as they

begin to tremble.

Thoughts stammer as I toy

with these silly syllables;

sentences slithering with paper syntax.

They are dulled -

transmuted by my own feelings of

inadequacy.

They fall upon deaf ears.

I find my bashfulness on the asphalt

as I exchange it between my right and left foot.

Our eyes don't meet.

I fear that any visual contact would

cheapen the moment.

The forgiving asphalt

does not reflect my face,

contorting in physical

manifestation of my confusion.

A comforting hand grasps mine

and there are no reservations

due to my clammy palms.

My mouth goes dry as I try

to palate every inch

of pride left in my body.

I close my eyes and try

not to think of what

brought me here;

the twisted, self-mutilating

situations that have forced

me to covet the touch

of another human being.

Physical beauty has haunted me.

Maybe it's my fault for

putting so much stake into it.

I am swept up in the sheer

ecstasy of the moment.

Underneath the streetlight,

I give her twenty bucks.

We head into the motel.

A Moscovici Claim

As the sweeping shadows blanket Earth in twilight,

a geriatric black man prowls the basements of the night.

Searching for the beat and the endless expression;

the vibrations of bop that resonate the Ekam

- in prison Singarathoppe

- in prison Limbo

unbaptized and wantonness!

As Mother Lily and Daughter Daisy stand sensually

with bisexual anthers erect and engulfed in fertility,

bearded Allen desires the sweet love and comfort

of wasps; 13 divisions of touch, motion, and vibration,

- orgies inside syconium

- orgies inside Cybele

Devine and Holy!

Underneath the Harlem Moon

Underneath the Harlem moon,

a generation of crazed

Negro youth boogied

to the viciously syncopated

bop -

dancing footloose foxtrot.

Underneath the Harlem moon,

an odd metered muse

eccentrically displacing a

rhythm -

ode to engulfed embouchure.

Underneath the Harlem moon,

an opaque ostinato

repeating that rhythmic

phrase -

swing that quarter note.

Underneath the Harlem moon,

a generation of crazed

hipster youth jive

the voraciously vibrant

bop -

all dancing footloose foxtrot.