New Age Cliff
Every new year: Rainbow Cunt Tree, Rainbow Cunt Tree.
Every new year sure sounds good to me. With a side
of drugs. And it does. And it morphs me. It’s head rush.
And the morgue. I need so much fuck. I needed ice
to feel younger, but the problems multiplied
and apparently all the icebergs are melting. The burbs
are pipe dreams, “rainbow country,” “only a highway
away.” Starbuck’s and lip gloss embody the meaning
of life, and meanwhile I’d like to welcome you
to the 14th Baktun. There’s still one full Baktun
to decide what to do with our Piktun. Maybe Passolini
for the new age. Maybe Rome for the next marathon
so I can finally wear the right shoes. Because the problems
are many. Foot and neck problems, fistycuff problems.
Dialing-for-Dollars problems. Needing a buttocks
massage problem and constantly nauseous.
The Queen of Pentacles is younger than me
(True or False). I’ve got loads of fashionableness,
but when I claim “to pray,” I might be showing off.
I might just be on drugs, waiting for things
to get better. On bright moonlit nights,
I’m as crepuscular as the next guy. Just as ardent.
I hardly have any secrets…I used to
have a secret, but I forgot what it was.
I’m not a feminist, for the record, although
I heard a rumor that my anger is intense.
I suppose that’s because I need an imaginary
standard distance between the Pope and my dad.
Or, I need virtue: living in the woods, soaping with grapefruit,
growing out my teeth, letting myself go. Tracksuits
are awesome for that kind of thing. I sold mine
to the gold guys. I’m surrounded by galactic bounty hunters,
could use more dragonry than I was allotted.
Only my brothers had dicks, and my dad—
when he wore a towel half-mast after a shower. Long
long before he ever died, which he’s now done.
I believe it’s quite an accomplishment.
God Being a Woman: the Beginning & the End
The fired-up moon reckons under a bell.
Whatever combat-opticons rewire, the tower
accumulates as copper. Heavy metal atonement.
Time has become allergic to staggering oceanic
flavors. Ironic Irish castle whistles belltower
belltower. When oh when will why power down.
The father keystroke hammers-up the socialist
engine, then boils an ancient grandmother head first.
Nocturne tears after Aubade. Nocturne abolishes
father engine. Aubade mother rejects the key.
Aubade mother interferes with the moon’s orbit.
Nocturne father slaves into Dutch East India
Company beside the planetary wheel, against
the desert’s joking zero. Against the Moon’s
orbit bashing Dutch East India father puzzle.
The Pope: any burning cloth. Any charmed smell.
The Pope swears across the planet. Slagheap god
pushes a cart below the heavy metal mystery.
A surgery reacts to the rosary. A rosary rockets
confessions above extreme sunniness. Father sun
refines the mistake. The available aubade abolishes
little rabbit teardrops. A funeral suggests extreme
sunniness. Teardrops entitle God being a woman.
Most bestial shriven woman advancing across
the naked sun. Most bestial woman-God rips
the top off the sounding crowd. The Moon’s
frowns in orbit. A scream fakes God being a woman.
God being a woman mends little rabbit. A
touched gun grows a gown throughout God
being a woman. Father headache’s most bestial
python. The opposite of fashion, the exotic
debate. When will God being a woman?
The source of life is a good companion. Forgiveness
closes a heavy box over the sea of fleshy graves,
and every passing girl wails and smiles
to make the signs cohere at starry midnight.
Knowing When To Let Go
Re-annoint Jesus as a girl, put in a female pope. —Antony Hegarty
“Women now rule the world,” said God (being a woman).
But don’t take my word for it, take acid. I should know,
being a woman, how easy it is to close your eyes
and just let it happen. You rock! Assume the scale
of the total universe! You’re an out-of-time
bearmarm gazing into the future math of an infant’s orifice
where heroic shrimp suck the shit out of history.
Your pseudo-explosions nestle into thrilling emptiness,
billow in archipelago fuzz, claw like frost at the air.
Just let it happen. Let it queen, coo,
twinkle, puddle, chub up, dawn on.
In dying, my father had a rancid smell the size of the future.
And this is going to astonish you but, I lost it. “Tomorrow”
became a blank document, like a sky bowing down
to meet the earth. It just happened! Like a first word,
a common breath. The Shangri-la in me unlocked
to its proper cosmic condition and suddenly I related
to the whole danza del mundo, that happy fiesta
de la navidid de las mommies. My father had a sound
that hissed and cursed the very air and that, too, my friend,
vanished. Not even a scar. The galaxy assumed
a neutral color, but it was okay. It returned
to the unborn animal of its accurate element,
and the deeper meaning of a ‘golden age’
was bequeathed to us as a massive vulva. No longer
concealed by roots or a mouth. No longer
living on borrowed teats or overstimulated eggs-
within-eggs. Flimsy trees of life became
utterly humungous panspermatic bodies,
cooing an inner peace upstream. The trouble
with doctors is they think they’re little tin
gods—there are several advantages to being dead,
dispersing into archaic nonspecification. Animals kill,
somewhere it will always be night, color’s harmony
peaks in the child. Don’t take the storm
out of the baby. Don’t you remember spinning
into other states of awareness? Didn’t you utter
that which is is, that which is not also is? Remember when
everyone was pretty all the time, and the how end
of the rainbow was always connected to doing it?
Here’s to taking acid, here’s to the shepherds in the fields
where it’s only night, here’s to the mouth of the cave
where we push and push and push the baby out because
Mommy told me it was the summer of letting go.
The End of Time as King of the Ghosts
Dear Little Rabbit, why does every day feel
like Wednesday? Why are you so hoppy?
Was the Sea happy to eat the cat?
Where are you going? Every morning
the doctors couldn’t disagree more.
Each cat feeds one rabbit in every
happy community. What is
the galaxy? What are the other bits
of things that orbit our star? Why
was the Galactic Center well-loved
by the Mayans? Dear Little Rabbit,
what do we know about the core?
Will the super massive black cloud
provide an interesting pausing place?
Many cats possess souls from distant galaxies.
What is the difference between fantasy
football and the fiscal cliffhanger? Many
cats are “shamanic types,” insufflating
portal dust/hormonal mayhem. Why
do all the cats rebuild their self-image
out in the boondocks? Which cat is the iceberg?
Dear Little Rabbit, do you say this despite
the facts? Are you really a centaur,
or does it make the Galactic Center happier
to be called “Joshua?” What is literally
my home? When will the map wrap
onto the fur of Siberia? What time
would Jesus do it? You should
take a full dose of Xiao Chai Hu Tang
so you can learn this shit, okay? Crushed
garlic and marjoram oil may cause
spasms, call your doctor. What is up
with Americans? Where did you get
that rose? The greatest generation is full
of planets and shit. When the pathogen
has eaten you can rest your lung. Now,
just what is the Galactic Center? Are you
happily emboldened by the win? Did you
remember to shrink-wrap the congrats?
None of the cats are being looted enough
by Sagittarius this year. The sun
made a conjunction back in Lithuania.
You see? The kind of galaxy we live in
is a spectacular band-spiral Mayan
template. What we all have in common
has been wonderful and regulated
by hormones. Is the Galactic Whore
a spiritual honing signal? Where
is central camp? Wouldn’t a cat phone home
after 25,000 light years? A global shortage
of helium means fewer balloons
up in the sky. Adam’s rib put the kibosh
on my Hello Kitty birthday party, again.
How many things can go into a black hole?
Why does only God know what happens
to the mind? Can you lead me to rebuild
an expansive cosmic feeling? Will there be
cats in it? College graduates have more leisure
time than high school drop-outs. Cat lovers
are more likely to be avid bird-watchers.
Do you have any idea how maddening it is
to have to care for someone who feels
that you owe them that? What about athletes?
Will Antarctica eat one of the galactic arms?
Nobody left us instructions on what to do,
and we’re not Mayan. It’s been wonderful.
Dear Little Rabbit, what manner
of various and sundry shitheads know
about this thing that we live on?
Is the black hole your happy place?
Can you go out and point to my dad?
When will influenza love me
like Maliniger loves the Western Sahara?
Now my head is Turkmenistan.
A pathogen ferried my lungs
to the Svalbard and Jan Mayen Islands.
What do you have in common with my cat?
What is up with the human race?
Should my time on this earth come to an end?
Why can’t I wear pants to church?
Will you probably bag Facebook?
What is dead? When will I learn how to read?
Why did my favorite color change
to Zibagwa-something? Dear Little Rabbit,
where do you hide the cat every morning?
Why? I am not your centaur, I am a horse.
This year was deep.
At first she wondered about it,
then she dug it out.
The wingless bat of sleep.
Bread & darkened meat are for sale, no glass.
Car pollen & salt. No tape.
It’s your laughter, hon—hung like gray pleiades.
Violet were the blanched bits of bacon.
Red throbbed near the Clichy.
Once tucked into pants, out came: I’m in pain
I’m in pain I’m in son I’m in breast.
Just keep saying fish-baby.
Cannibal Cabaret: the god who feeds but does not need.
Eyesockets beautiful butchers, sanguineous fecal,
compounded by the room and the shrieking madness.
She opened the arm’s ruined skin again
for the first time since gestation’s end—
golden cricket relics, nose envelopes,
heartstrung hostaged choristers.
Coifed complicit Judith!
Steve, dating his mother!
Music jammed up Lourdes’s negative energy!
Let’s Dance To This by Apollo,
Shadow Godz by the Alpha Centauri.
She remembers life as a window,
born to Death so soon from Life’s Dew.
This much if nothing else, Desert Doyenne, I know to be true.
Actually, maybe a demure drapery would be better.