ancestral remedy

ancestors
anchors
chorus
of singing blood

see me now
hear me now
this heart beating
this sacrifice
fruiting remedies

in you i live
in you i die
offers of remembrance
carry these prayers
let them congeal
return them flowing

a sacrificial fruit
a sacrificial plant
a swirl of smoke
a circle of ash
a menstrual knife
a drop of blood
a prayer on these lips

what is my life
if not yours?
what is my life
if not sacred?
what is my life
if not a sacrifice?
what is my life
if not bound in blood?

them mens

Them mens they said yes
Even when she said no
Them mens, they wanted
More
Them mens,
They wanted
Menses
Odd senses of honoring
Those women
With intact senses
It wasn’t enough
To ritualize their own blood
They had to create
Their own creation
To replace past tenses

Old creation rained blood
Old creation brought
Impregnation
Old creation involved
The slow pangs of labor
Of evolution
The new creation was only spoken
Just creation
Six day’s worth of fatherly toil
Manly man sweat makes manly man soil
Make a man and take a woman from his rib
Man no lie
Man no tell fib
See, it’s written
And the cursed blood of woman
Lies in the apple she had bitten

Tell me brother
Tell me father
What’s it like,
Creating the world
Without a mother?
Do you bake some clay
Cup your hands and pray
But dare not say
The thousand names
Of faceless Yahweh?
(Don’t say the name,
Just say a word--God--
That’ll do, and Goddess too,
They’re just words.
Remove what’s “odd” in the middle,
And you’re left with just a “g(u)ess.”)

Them mens, they said yes
Even when she said no
Well, they said, we have to go
And make ourselves bleed
And for this we need
To breed our creed of the chosen seed
And with GOD SPEED!
We shall be the masters
We shall be the ones who bleed
Never mind your cursed blood
We shall shed it
For our father dwells in the sky
And this earth is our curse
We must repress it

Tell me brother
Where you come from?
Remember that place you emerged from the sea
Your mother’s yoni
The place of your dream?
Oh how you rape it
Drape it with fury
Hound for it with hunger
And curse it with despair
It’s sweet when it pleases you
But is bitter when it only teases you
It’s heaven when it creams on you
But fishy when it bleeds on you

Tell me brother
What is it to you?
A pussy, a snatch
A catch or a muffin?
A cunt, a cooter
A pooter or stuffing?
Oh how you’d like to pound it
Ground it
Grind it
Find it on your jock
Lick it
Stick it
Poke it
Stroke it on your cock
It’s just so pornographic
When it’s a pussy
And not a woman
--porno--
Let that word sit on your tongue
Roll it around and taste its blandness
--porno--
It just begs you to fuck it
An open space of vowels
Just make sure you come on your towel
And pray your mother doesn’t see you

Them mens, they had to say yes….
To be fearful of power
Is to be second best….
At least, that’s what someone thought
Long ago
And managed to convince enough men
To mutilate their dicks
When inspired by a burning bush

to the christians et al

if this life were perhaps
your only chance
to march to heaven
would you even consider
at a glance the small thing
we call a circle...
would you spend your life
with bent knees
outstretched hands gesturing
please, lord, spare me this strife
like life is a curse...
could you remove the lens
you train skyward
the eyes you pretend
that have the sight
to see inside the light
of geneses incalculable...
or is it simpler to view
life as two points
defining a line you try
to link to a hereafter
you think is greater
than the gift
we're currently defiling?

freedom

written in the early stages of the "war on terror"

dear friends, this is not our world
many "truths" are told
through the teeth of liars
what we are told is
that the world is our enemy
and we are united against ourselves

they hate our freedom
because we freely feed the machines of war
the bombs are not for free
yet freely they fall
free we are to rape and plunder
to kill and torture
our freedom demands human sacrifice
and a free hand we have
to enslave others and ensure our freedom

they hate our freedom to lie
our freedom to cheat
to freely sit in traffic jams
in cluttered freeways
freemasons freebasing on the blood of the poor
free to demand a place for our freemarket
get free cash back but "nothing's for free"
no free lunch in the land of the free
a freefalling catastrophe awaits
when freedom rings

maybe they're right to hate our freedoms
if it's freedom for us
and free food aid for mutilated children
they're as free to fly planes in skyscrapers
if we can freely bomb rubble into dust
they hate our freedom
because they never asked us to free them

the circus

this world
oh this life,
a circus run by the clowns
with elephants who
talk with donkeys,
mulling over their side show
pompous and bloated,
they flaunt their spoons of silver
like a royal scepter.

over the high wire
the world is walking,
billions of toes
gripping the tight rope,
monkeys and mice
of barren cages,
billions of them
eating peanut butter smeared
razor wire,
unwrapping lethal prayers.
my teeth chatter and my eyes lock shut,
bread crumbs and
cheap words stuff my ears.

the circus is a horror show
coated with cotton candy
and poisoned with strange flowers,
and there's a crazy odor
about the way the elephants talk
and forks fall out out of the mouths
of the donkeys
whenever they speak.

ode to the page

this page died...how long ago?....
once a living plant upon a planet
awash in green, then removed and
placed in a catacomb of arboreal layers
unfolding before me,
beneath the dagger point of this pen,
drawing blood upon the face of words
and ideas plunged deep into the flesh
of my mind, stabbing my thoughts
to release the slow spilling of speech
enshrined in the tomb of trees,
these pages, this poet-tree.

this page, now alive, brought to
animation by a magic plastic wand,
throbbing with the rhythm of thought sequences,
the staccato cadence of sentences
handed down from mind to fingers;
this page becomes a resurrected plant,
an ambition sprouting from a void,
a mission seeking an objective voice
telling of the union between that space
and this time; it is reborn from ash
becoming fire, burning the bridge
between rhyme and reason, it is
a reconstruction of life
patterned after the romance of seasons
peppering these printed scattered leaves.

this page is now a figured sculpture
of its own beauty, a monument to the moment-
this immediate being--it is a testament
to the tangible link between life and death,
between silence and breath, it is a reminder
that no matter is created nor destroyed,
only employed by the sculptor's hand
to turn mineral into bone, to churn water
from stone, framing thoughts into poems,
further forms of totems wrought from
all the things under the sun,
seen and unseen, heard and unheard,
known and felt.

this page becomes the map of me,
a maze inside the birth-death reenactment
trapped in a haze of ego confinement
released through the floodgates of
inspiration realizing the relation of a poem's
"creation" to its "creator's"
streaming conscious dream.

wine

red wine
crimson water
intoxicating blood
luscious lips of grapes
fluid of vines
sunlight's transmutation
kiss of tannic bliss
perfection of autumn
curved hips of a chalice
licking scents like sex
copulating fervent sips
trips to the moon
velvet coated tongues
under Dionysian influence
canticle of the fruit
budding passion
prayers of companionship
wash my woes away
keep my company
through the endless night

night

night
inversion of sun
mystery reigns
solitary
stars en masse
each one distant
solitary
mysterious

night
panorama of depth
darkness extends
eternal
reflection of eyes
wells to fall within
eternal
deep

night
immense shadow of earth
mirrors gaze
divinatory
prophecy of the past
returning to the present
light
shadowed

night
immersion in stillness
symphony of silence
contemplative
spirits walking about
secrets speaking truth
contemplative
silent

writing

blank rapture of divine rapport:
the word descends, pretends
to be inspiration, capture of sacred
breath, spirit inhaled,
pages impaled upon pens impregnating
trees with poetry, passing time with templates,
resemblance of life lifted to worship
through script.
blood fills drops like sips of wine,
like ink across these pages,
filling a crypt of trees,
words scripted
encrypted in semantic sentiment.

an old one

today i cannot write
as if words have gone south
wintering in unnamed poems
gathering feathers to adorn future pages
emotions flapping wings
following the sun
seeking the space
between
solitude
and
surrender