Rain, snow, ice storms, peaceful sunny days. I was riveted to life, a beggar cruising the endless alley. Oblivious, stupid, proud, supernatural, calm, who needed friends or lovers? O my rapturous childhood, I was right to hate what I hated. Listen: in Hell we don’t give the dying a penny, but we’re civil. We see the world correctly. We’re not salesmen. Nothing hurts us, not even the surly, confident ones, the false elect,who humiliate us, refuse to bless us. Southern swamps, you’ve sponged up all the light. My soul won’t stop grieving. I’d have to strangle myself to end these bleak hymns honestly. When I confronted the King of Hell, I said; Fuck martyrdom, fuck the sublime glow of art, the seriousness of inventors, the passion of business men and thieves. The East is a dream of never waking up. I wasn’t pondering my escape from contemporary anguish. I wasn’t exploring the spooky bible. Ever since Science took over, Man hides from himself. We cultivate fog, eat fever with our watery carrots and broccoli, get drunk,smile, sacrifice ourselves. Infinitely distant from the root, we exterminate ourselves with our own poisons. Rabbis and priests, this is not Eden. Time doesn’t exist. the world has no age. Formulate your own East, older than the stars. Don’t give in. You’re free to live beyond suicidal schemes of salvation. Science is much too slow for men like us. Cherished citizens, wake up. Your souls are asleep. You’re still addicted to the human. Truth’s everywhere, as close as our own hands. Weeping angels hover close to us. Soul, soul, this pure, radiant instant-sinister turning of ten windmills by the edge of some bare field in a black and hungry year-crucifies us.
Each of us is doomed to live many lives. Each of us will be crushed on the anvil of terror, reborn by awe. Action isn’t life, it spoils God’s power, it drains the last prayers from our throats. the soul’s theatre is invisible-sight, hearing, taste, smell, sense without organs. Listen: each of us lives many lives-plumber, angels, athletes, electricians, gods. Once I was a pig. I champion all laws of madness. I lived them all, I know the system. Terror gnaws my mind. the same dream drags me back into it, destroys the real world, calls me to inhabit it permanently. I’m ready to die, ready to be wind, darkness, ghosts. It’s as if God’s final curse is a live coal broiling my mouth. Islands and crystal blue sea. I dream you’ll wash away this disease of unspecified truths. I see the cross loom like redemption. The rainbow led me here, where remorse gnaws like a tapeworm, dragging itself out past my lips. My life is immense. I won’t dedicate myself to muscle and rhyme. Deadly sweet tooth of bliss, aria-in the gloomiest dungeons, at dawn, you warn me. I hear your first in the gossip of the men who raped my mouth and body. Then in the windswept leaves. Two truths, One truth. That’s the final terror we all have to accept-not one or the other, like a friend’s face whose torn-out eyes still recognize you.
The tiny bud scared me. Vicious landscape. I did everything to escape it. I told people I could visit them inside me, mocked the current darling of poetry. Their courteous bows to the smug audience of approval made me puke. Porno magazines, rotting Victorian travel books, medieval passion plays, junked movie sets, refrains from old songs, languages long forgotten, musty albums packed away with snapshots of the family desperately trying to smile-through all of it I saw that hard young body begging to be loved. I even invented a religion without icons or rites. I wrote a brief manual of prayers and regulations, I established walking and sleeping as two basic forms of sacrifice. I described God; obese, lazy, dressed like a stockbroker in His pink shirt and his chalked-striped flannel suit, smoking a cigar. I invented vowel colors, reshaped the cadence of consonants, consigned each syllable to a branch on the oak outside my house. I deleted the sense from poetry until all could hear was a faint abstract whisper like the breathing of a horse thirty feet away. English. English, my precise identity babbled its proofs in dreams. Nothing worked. I wrote silence. I wrote night. On scraps of paper. I scratched down hopeless love. I paced my crummy room like a squirrel-significant, hyper-acute, pathologically quick-but he would not be erased, a thousand years younger by then spread-eagle across my mind, inches from my face, the bulge between his legs, its gossamer brown hair and wild node, a crown I licked all over until he came.
The rich can’t sleep. Wealth should be everyone’s. All the rich know is lineage’s, but I’ve had to transcend my own suicidal habits, my own mute gift for oblivion. Now I’m good. Nothing to repent. But the clock still strikes the hour of absolute pain. Will I end up like a child, in Paradise, without sorrow? Divine love’s the only key to knowledge. Nature’s a display of pure goodness. I’m through with demons. the rational song of angels teaches salvation: Divine Love. I’ll die of worship, of loving the bare earth-both. I condemn anyone my departure would destroy. Save my friends, save the shipwrecked passengers. The ground under my feet is good. Sane at last. I’ll bless life, love my brothers. No more childish promises. No hope of escaping old age and death. My strength is God. Praise God. His omnipotent, abstract, transparent hands soothe my head. No early death for me-sons of good families, coffins glistening with crystal tears. I’ve been rescued by a man, converted, baptized, dressed in work clothes, chained to a job. What a relief? Christianity’s blade, stuck straight through my heart.
Beggars are too honest, they disgust me. Blue-white eyes, skull narrow as a broom closet. I’m like the Gaul’s, I don’t butter my hair. With the splendid disdain of kings. I love all the vices. Bosses and workers, slaves, the hand that writes with the pen guides the plow. History is hands. Will I never possess my hands, be cared for by invisible gods, fed by the sky., entertained by water? Devious tongue, I am lazier than a toad, Feeble, Christian notes, love song, what was I in the last century? You geniuses at profit and loss, what is the body? do you recognize your body? Progress is a great god with a mouth and no anus. The cosmos is a mechanical toy. Chemistry in a teaspoon. The world moves forward, an army without shoes. The revelation of fate in numbers is clear. I can’t explain what I mean, I’m not a ditch digger. I don’t fix wagons or doors. Driven toward the Soul, like a hungry steer. I heard sounds without reference to things outside themselves-the poor a clashing Hell of symbols. Your demolished silence, a king with no mouth.
Fire in my guts, dose of holy poison, crippling me. I’m a living corpse almost reborn, but I slipped away, Happy, Good. I’m ready for salvation, and yet Hell won’t tolerate my song of insolent hope. Life grinds us into ash. My parents baptized me, that water bliss enslaved me, slaughtered me with ardor, Hell, bless me. Only fresh crime could plunge me into nothingness. Give me justice. Her scales emptied of the past. Childhood comes back; grass, rain, belfry when the bell struck midnight. Fatal ignorance,nursery rhymes, Mary, Virgin Mary, you’re a lie. Don’t touch me. I smell like roasted skin. This is truth-There’s no history. Wealthier than a king, I decode secret wisdom’s, postulate the immortality of tables and chairs. Life’s clock stopped hours ago. Theology is somewhere else. Straddling a green wave, Jesus walks on purple thistles, Jesus walks on stormiest water. The ecstatic sleep of mine unveils the mysteries. Have faith, follow me, pathetic, exhausted laborers, fragile children-astonishing human heart, Hell, I’m sold on your glory, your worms and pitchforks, holocaust of lust-I’ve decided to be reborn and study every maimed piece of myself, kissed by Mother Earth. God, hide me, hold me; these words sniffing the ground are starved dogs, packed with sores. I’m hidden and absolutely clear. Smear dress-shop mirrors with wet dirt, choke lovers in bed with powdered rubies-change me. I live and live and live.