Heavens, is a ghoul chamber.
Their laughter ends a chapter in a
Book, veined throughout the fly-
Buzzed skies of your bone-
Rivered flesh, fresh with the screams of
Animal souls clean as a cutting board.
Hordes of horses trample
Across a shallow, long grass-
Threaded section of stream,
Dreamed by concentration camp
Ovens pounding up the hill with
Metal, melted down for the
Horseshoes, mind-fielded all the way
To the ground’s frightening phallus.
The golden seal of the page
Peels to reveal the smoke-
Stacked meal in the belly
Of delusion’s digestion, a bubbling
Primordial pool that’s the same
As real: hell’s center. The padlock,
Liquid here, mirrors the water
In the suicidal well.
Elemental language is poured
From a sky held by a rum bottle,
In the hand and down the tropical coast
Throat of your subtle body, evolving
Into the Solar Ship
I’m already aboard.
We balance that way; earth
Becomes air so the sentence’s
Openness can surrender to
And be filled with
Its opposite. That’s how traditional meter
Is buried in its grave.
No external forms as authority.
So if the vibration that creates the poem
Destroys it, opposites become each other
Where the inhale becomes the exhale:
Particulars change into oneness.
And I leave the poem’s coming and going.
My opposite feelings congeal as the liquid metal
Settles, dream and real welded together
To make the Great Poetry Vehicle.
