Gospel

That's when time is most autonomous, infinite in all directions at once, not the dusty clitoris the kids fawn over nowadays. Life in the buttery web is simultaneously banal and divine, microbes scrubbed clean of the a priori. Ohio is riding shotgun, I presume, its harpoon dizziness an underworld that can only make my teeth more metallic than the horde of pimples I buried in the sand this morning. A man can feel his cells being drained of their structure the same way he can sense oral sex in the margins of a poetry chapbook. Electricity disgorges bleeding mushrooms that were growing secretly from the moss on the coachman's back, having grown tired of gay scholars and their shabby mystique. The commodity lies wounded in the stairwells of fine old buildings, vestiges of what is most bestial about hiding one's eyes dangling from its pale lobes. There was a certain tree that appeared inoccuous to most, but which served as a conduit for breasts from hell and strong, muscular legs to wreak their havoc on the afternoon's most frequently visited scenes of infection. Horses are free to add their own chlorine to the white world, of course. Haloes the shape of orgasms, wings perfectly quoted by the same discriminations carried to screaming, chanting crowds of alterity in a silver canoe while hemorrhages bask in the sun on the opposite shore. Oscillating burn-marks gleaned from my collection of spiderlegs remain as sublimations to be gnawed on by breathless explorations carried out by avant-garde whorls of blue, the air deep with blonde women, their detached retinas dragged along faithfully by Latina nannies. Redolent washes of key words trail the numinous crown that makes deconstruction possible, all of it a plethora to the rattling gospel beyond human imagination. My fingers are irresistibly drawn to the region of your thighs where mantras paint the wind and holy scriptures straighten the curls of endless reinvention.




For Jaie Miller