memories of eden

Memories of Eden

flashbacks of death

forests in fire for all to breathe easy

when earth was a great vagina

& the heart a fertile womb

until the double-edged sword of time intertwined

in sickness & in wealth

in wonder & boredom

broke free the serpent of thought

coiled like a ring of smoke up from the mountains

chain-smoke the aurora

evergreens like bookends

the moon a grand nipple

now war ravages the landscape

now famine rapes the eyes

& martyred blood is a sacred wine

I fucked the goddess of confused Egypt

I fucked Mother Gaia once and knocked her up with twins

I fucked you & you knew it was me

the cherub with his flaming sword had to look the other way

you were a goddess & I was just a human slave

our child the blind bastard creator

stumbling around in the fourth dimension trapped like a polaroid

memories of Eden

in perpetual genesis

in a tight black skirt

in an undeveloped negative

like a pebble in your shoes

wet sand between the toes forever

I never tried to write a gospel

I never dreamed I’d fuck an angel

but Isis on a stick like cotton candy

like circus love like tomorrow

the breasts that rise and fall in the exhaust of the ages

between the firmament and the soil

the chasm the void the dark days between

only thing between love the magnet

& the crude metal of this tomb this man

collapsed on the altar

knowing himself naked

drunk on the dregs of the blood of Christ

hallucinating memories of Eden

sketched for eternity in young symbols

read the writing on the cave walls

just east of a lost garden

never where it used to be

forever where it seems

once a eunech

once a eunuch in the cold steel locker rooms of the goddess

I stole the cock of God to my waist and penetrated the Mystery like a night’s thief

through the Elysian fields blindfolded except for my drugs

I popped every poppy I could stick my tongue to

and the preacher’s daughter is my prostitute now

and her mom my own French maid

I walk my dog through the halls of her hostel

and rap on sleeping doors calling for a revolution in breakfast foods

you’ll never sniff a rosebush so sweet

as the one dangling from the beeline between me and my fuzzy navel

you’ll never drink apple juice so tart

as such that dribbles down my chin in a goatee of early morning mountain dew

the four horsemen who ride up over the rise

have come to call upon my erection making way for archangels

to take up saddles unto the doomsday parade

which suffers the streets boldly in the wake of apple blossom petals at your toes painted pink gleaming in the sun

while sparrows take up nest in the bonnet of your perm

for every day is a song if you can’t dance you’ll just have to sit on the sidelines

of high school gym and wait for somebody to show you how but for now

the birdfeeder is open for business

and Osiris will be home soon

I’ll make apple cider of your panty line and milk beeswax out of your areola moons

soon to be suction cups for the masterpiece forever at odds with its palette

fuck you, Jane Austen

fuck you, B.F. Skinner

            and the three-legged serpent you strode in on

                        so boyishly tame

                        in rapt Christianity like a candy bar

fuck Jeb Bush, too

            and make sure there’s one more milky Dilly Bar in the fridge for Aunt Rita

            when she finally returns home to roost her rabid rabbits

fuck you fuck you fuck you all and to all who still believe

that a tall tree is that much more than a pine tree

I sit and read old Japanese poems at your feet

Let's Pretend It's Sunday

let’s pretend it’s Sunday

and the sun’s just not so bright

let’s eat pancakes by the half dozen

skip church and just make love all day

we’ll build a fort in the bedroom

and never come out until Tuesday

let’s pretend it’s Sunday

drive through the twisting hills and bristling pines

until we find a deserted beach we can populate

with our stray thoughts like drunken seagulls

let’s pretend we’re sailors

who don’t know the sea from an all-night saloon

our ship is wrecked our anchor lost

nothing to do but sing about God and walk the dog

late afternoons at the Sand Dune

digging a fork into a well-done steak early summer out on the patio

writing poems about dreams disturbed incomplete

old couples holding hands

with camera around their neck

I’m a tourist in your aura until you let me loose

a vagrant on all fours to tear your carcass up like fruit flies on yesterday’s banquet

and so let’s pretend it’s Thursday and let the weekend loom like a rich dessert

if you wanna feel productive

you can put on another pot of coffee

but let’s pretend we’re single and just fuck like perfect strangers until the perfect day

shows us a new truth about ourselves together each other a miracle

they’re holding a sand castle competition on the beach

they’ve sectioned off all the best spots

I challenge you to pretend it’s Sunday

and build a stable kingdom out of everything small and priceless

against the hard waves of tomorrow

four ways to friday

fucked her four ways to friday

left my bandana on her bedstand

my paperback on her bureau

i fucked her with a love poem

i fucked her with words

i fucked her with a smile

i fucked her with a closed mouth kiss

fucked her every which way but hold on tight

the night is starting to get dark

the night, the night

the long & dangerous night

i held her in my arms

with nothing on tv but the news

nothing to do tomorrow but relish in the strung-out afterglow

with pot & coffee & reruns & Easter candy

monday i made her

tuesday I teased her

wednesday i humped her

& thursday we played doctor

i fucked her four ways to friday

& then spent the weekend waiting on an alibi

just hoping i got inside her

& when no new poem came to me by saturday

i went to church on sunday

looking for forgiveness in advance

before one more week of this shit

changed the way i fuck myself

changed the way i wrote poetry & ritualized my pre-work mornings

i fucked her with a thermometer

i fucked her with the glittery silver blue baton she was twirling in her backyard

i fucked her with the wooden spoon she had hanging in her kitchen

she used for rainy afternoon soups

i fucked her with a promise she held me to with relentless tickling

i decided to kill time

browsing through the used bookstore

looking for other ways to fuck her

instead of actually fucking her

i let my car run out of gas

my dishes pile up in the sink

my dirty laundry on the floor

my heating bill unpaid

just so i could fuck her with only my intellect

& she could feel privileged 

like she got fucked by thoughts & not just

nouns & verbs & adverbs

& a few not so housebroken loosely chosen

adjectives like

wild & excruciating & tantalizing & tumultuous

& torrential