we are god's pornography.

nuclear holocaust and decimation,
nations pleading for survival:
a mother’s children sold as slaves,
the salves upon a sick society:
we are god’s pornography.
(back and forth, back and forth.)

let the rain come down,
let the snows wash away
our memories of every
in and out which our inventive,
demented minds have
come up with. let them starve
us out until we remember
nothing at all, and let us play
our part, cracked pieces on a dirty
chessboard in some hidden
hallway up in heaven. let us pray

that god’s mom
doesn’t catch him yanking
himself (or herself) off
to another world war, or
another botched
moon landing, an alien
invasion, a peace accord
in israel, or some other such
silly fiction.

reverse commute

i take my meals in truck stops
along the highway, after-hours when
almost everyone is gone, when i can nearly
hear the echoes of the movements my jaws make
as i ingest. my head is empty, and i wear dark,
inconspicuous clothes. who i am in these
spaces is no one, and what i am doing is
going from nowhere to noplace,
as far as anyone knows. i imagine assassins
feel the same way at times, almost
lonesome but too uninterested to truly feel it.

my domain is my car; i speed on highways,
breaking the law only enough to feel
that i am getting away with something. my
domain is in the air above: i will one day arise,
as smoke toward the sun. it is also in the ground,
which will entomb my ashes. my domain stretches
from shoulder to shoulder, right to left, and
between my ears. my domain is my armspan,
or the length of my cock. my domain stretches
into every crack and crevice, every inanimate object
and idea that my mind might ever make a difference
to, or which might ever enter into that arena. it is whatever
my heart will allow it to be, from one moment—

a poem about you (for every girl ever)

one day i will write a poem
about you. it will say stuff about
your hair, and your nose,
and your voice. it will have passages
that go something along the lines
of, "beauty resides in your eyes
like sirens" and go on to say how i'd like
to reside there too. it will say, "your
heroic heart pounds out seething
seastorms whose great waves slash
against the sides of my single, simple ship
and splash upon the deck." this will be
no simple lyric; it will be
an epic ballad to be sung by bards
in every barroom, and barked by beagles
in every barnyard. for, after all,
there is a beauty which resides in your eyes:
it's like sirens singing me in, ever deeper.
and i'm sure you've already heard how i feel
about your heart. i will write a poem about you
one day, but for now i'm just researching.

for our fathers

for our fathers, who start out being behind the count
by not being the ones
who bear us, having not had
the intricate internal intimacy of us.
our fathers, who must fight on two fronts,
against their own obsolete upbringing and against our
inborn childish obstinacy. for our fathers, who are strong
but must at times appear weak for our sake, who
are weak but at times must appear strong,
for our sake. this is for our fathers, who frequently fear
that they haven't finished their job, whose hearts
are often heavy, sometimes hard, but always full, and whose
heads are often half against the facts that they
engender. this one is for our fathers, this
is for our fathers. may we one day love them in turn
as much as they have loved us.