THE SECRET SYMBOL

slipped from the stairs. see how she falls through the sky into raindrops of crystal. at Versailles, in between the mirrors, the teacups are spilling with fruit punch and the dogs are purring like kittens. rise from the puddle and summon the Militia: “looks like we’ve got a live one here!” stamp a smile upon my forehead and brand my rump with lightning. i’ll scratch some code on the bark of a tree (and even out of desperation). bring me Moses with the tablets and i’ll show him a thing or two (what i carved into my hand is what i saw and what i’d show you).

ATOMIC PURPLE

climbing trees and flinging anvils. obtaining enlightenment underneath concussions. from this day forth, we’ll sustain injury with confidence. rest assured, we’d have our kingdom amidst palm trees and canaries. wipe those tears of joy; for though i come from nowhere, i am the Immaculate One (perhaps the doctors were wrong as well – they, too, turned their heads up) – take my hand, i’ll take you to the forge where i’ve been brought up since my stay here. by the way, my books are sold here. we’ll catch comets by the tail and save our blesséd grapes in an olive jar (we’ll leap for stars and even though we’d miss we’d tell the judge that we’ve gotten more than our share). we must not be condemned. we’ll settle for nothing less. bells resonate in red alert: “we’ll smash your heads with coconuts if we have to!” the prince is dead, and we’ll unscroll the magic spell to bless him kindly – blindly.

SALT

open and close. the accordion’s heaving. one eye’s opened, the other one closed. here one second, gone the next (sprinkle sprinkle – where are you?). stars are stars are gods (our gods?). you’ll dance for as long as the tune plays. transience is permanent – the man with the plastic armor falls through the sky and is undressed in the vacuum as he’s taken back (blink). who’d swoop down to greet us (where are you?)? your predicament is forever hurtful – alone with your wild strawberries. if someone’s there, you get no sign (“someone’s at the door”). you despise your chore of the Great Nothing. begging for chains – the rattling screech hurts your ears. flagellate from guilt over nothing (you should kiss the stars). thrown on a glass field to collect coins. hammer yourself through a hole. “what’s become of…” they ask of me, “…he was here just a minute ago.”

ANIMATION X

were you with me as i walked the dripping sand dunes of the hourglass park? did your blunted fingertips keep my dead hand warm as i stumbled through fragmented puddles? only in this charcoaled radiance, do angels softly flutter like birds above my head. it would always be this way. and in my mind, the pendulum swings the guillotine,…and i'll read the mirror like i read the lines upon your face. on one knee, i gaze at my reflection and see the death and the dawn, the whore and the anchoress, the something and the nothing – as if i were a book or scripture. i was dreaming of a dragonfly in a field of glass time had forgotten. moreover, a space incomprehensible. would you be me deep inside this hourglass, you'd not think me. for now, i'll stand dejected sipping holy water from a shot glass with a slice of cheesecake in my hand. maybe next time… i'd roll the die, it'd never stop; flip a coin, it'd never fall. i guess i'll head back to my almond throne and have the angels sing me to sleep. it would always be this way. and i'll read the mirror like i read the lines upon your face.

IN BETWEEN A VELVET NOTHING

i saw you falling out of the tree yesterday. you were admiring a threelegged cat. did you see me coming towards you on my modest farm (don’t look so surprised…the heavens have always swooped down to greet the rising flames of cities)? my pigs flew towards you as well, and even the chickens would sing. i went fishing in the Amniotic Sea (i remember tugging the lifewormbaited string. your weight cut off the circulation in my finger) and remembered: “Happy Birthday!” you could not know and would not be destined (you’d cook a feast for plastic angels). i feel a tug and sprout out from the flowers to be buried in the mud. i saw the rope,…did you see me coming?

BLACK BOOK

come and peep behind the curtain,…Mary holds the child of straw. holding dear this pregnating mudhouse. it is not the harvest of children. weed for the donkey, and leather for pigeons. children wield daggers in search of oblivion,…in search of Everything. see their wounds – torched gates to the City. the slithering halo finds its way to your hand (“very good,” i commend you) – but, what of the trident? i shall wait for you at the other end of the spiral. when i see you, i pray, destroy me (do not but leave me standing); i’ll still see you again. i’ll watch you swallow the gods in one breath (again,…and again and again…). you’ll still be holding the matches and your leather stone pouch. Mary should be holding you. we should be cradled. we’ll search for the Buddha and give him a dagger (we’ll sharpen the blade with Her teeth). he’ll rise in the flames, matching his face with ours in the fire.

A PRAYER FOR ATOMICA

come on in and share this drink with me. we’ll have some tea and make a toast to rain…sweet acid rain, which gently falls from Heaven onto the shoulders of the statues of antiquity. eating marble. exposing skin. you and horror vacui. a syringe squirts a history’s worth of jelly roses, Disney, and placebo gods. existence denied. i saw you hanging postcards and Maestàs in this hallway of lies. and would you have your head pounded with a hundred mallets – you could play guitar with your forehead. i will clutch the scorpion as if it were a rosary and leave this swollen snowflake as an offering for this gift of mercy: x-ray eyes. a second chance. miserere nobis. gazed at a wall for nine years. had my eyelids drop off like some ripe fruit. i’d sprout the Oriental tea we’d sip with caution inside a train that’s bound for Hell. sitting cozy in the cabin, we’d play chess while humming an old tune of misery. Ta-mo déjà vu. and Sue is in the bar. he’s sifting through the honky-tonks and looking for the snake to thank for the flask of salt he’d use to sprinkle on some snails beneath the trees of Paradise (a pinchful would not be sufficient – he’d say he blinked as an excuse). miserere… with wounding arrows in his chest, the blind man sees; discarding horror from that train. he’d take the smiling pain – and without anesthesia. he would not wink a blink. he’d never sleep it off.

A SECOND DAWNING

we tread softly on strewn charred rose petals (i viewed the drowning of the Lotus King in forbidden secrecy – i was awakened by the noise). we’d sink our curious eyes into them and scatter them like seeds as we’d recall the old, Dead Hour. we’ll take the Devil by the hand and sweep up the remains into a pile of calcium sugar – the flames shall reach a waiting Heaven (They may be patient, but They won’t get a single penny out of me). we’ll extinguish the remaining fires with the skeleton’s tears. we’ll start this age anew with our perfumed feathers and furs of silk. we’d have no need to transcend duality (…it’d fall into our laps). but until we’ve been Realized (we await the opening eye), we’ll play chess inside your soul – we’ll chit-chat with a drunken Allah and give Him back His Fiver. i’ll chirp you a heavenly tune and send you a card. in your absence, i won’t miss you,…though you’d be a part of my nest.

JULIANA

a pat on the shoulder and a simple nod would set her free (with binding chains). she’d used to hang her eyes on coat hangers on the wall by a dusty book shelf – how she’d worry herself sick for days on end (she never liked that horrid wallpaper!). those dodging masks fixate underneath a promising sunset. they’d swirl into opened arms. she’d be bound to this. you could make lemonade out of the pills swimming in her stomach (no contact lens would display color). she’s clenching her fist and trying hard to cry as she lights her ritual candle (our Mother would be pleased) – she’s no money for the pharmacist. now it’s Easter and she’s staring at the wall…

THE TEACUP DISGUISE

kiss me with your guillotine lips. leave your mark, dispose of me. you can find me any time. just be sure to drop me a line (or don’t). i’ll still be here posting up placards for the Linnaeus Bible ( i just thought you’d like to know). how i’d like to feel quite certain that i’d be of use to you. i’m feeling pinned beside the wings of stapled butterflies and fallen leaves. i will reach a higher heaven when Ascension Day has come. i’ll bring you a silver dish of roses, then we’ll watch the stars. but for now, i’ll stay here lonely with no lipstick on my face. and i know you’ll never find me, so i’ll stand here by this well (i know you can’t – i’ve planned it out this way). your codes wash off my skin. i’ll watch the two sides on this Crystal Night (from trees), but i’ll just laugh.

DOMINION ZERO

line the sand. lightbulb the shrubbery. clickclickbeepbeep. a countdown to spontaneous combustion. nothing censored, nothing gained. a new myth for a golden age. the death of God (i’ve barely prepared toast). six sick Sikhs. the Golden Temple buried underneath the blue stars. swig a dose of sparkling ka from a plastic pyramid. unscrew the cap and dance the graves with millions. the precious jewels of paradise held in a crumbling cracker shrine… the weaving widow cries out, “Thief!” the many silver heads are tickytocking as the sun is hurled back in noontime position. six sick Sikhs smoke in their deathbeds. i’m sitting in the room with them, and i’m watching the destruction of angels as the smoke takes me by the hand. i pray for Dead Dominion, but i can’t really care.

BLOOD CAPSULE

down the stairs from Heaven fall the dice. they’re always sixes – pulled the rug out from beneath us. yes, we should still sing while we can. we’ll rise up, amplify, sing out of key, and shrill our voices for our sweet Video Jesus and Flapjack Mary (how She looks so sweet and very caring – “Mary, won’t you marry me?”) – She’s selling fast! embrace the weeping widow. don’t cry for me, for yesterday’s fist holds a switchblade today, and Britvaica sleeps underwater in a bed with soiled Atlantis. gelatin and plastic puppies – they’re here for you in doses thick enough to annoy you. “la la…” disturbance. wave goodbye (don’t look back). i’ll meet you in tomorrow’s purple.

INVOCATION ZERO

hands are itching in the vortex where the bandaged sweat fills up the raging sea like freshly squeezed lemonade (…the cup's still empty). bringing forth the Gingerbread God to tip the scales in our direction – our concession. i will witness the destruction of feathers and pick the locks to a new dawning. as a louse in my fields of New Eden, i'd spy the octopus sucking on the blood of Christ. 400 straws of sugar (room for all!) – a toast to Reclamation. our consecration (invocation). we'd feast like children in your Museum and leave a trail of cookie crumbs (we'd belch in modest satisfaction at having solved the transubstantiation fuss),…or so we must. but until then, i'll be waiting in the cold beneath the milk and lettuce (for my white steed). i'll bide my time and even tease with prolonged mercy…

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