Drawn up from a magic circle
in a desert born old, a tongue
sharper than a diamond—my
throat deeper than a mine—blooms;
glowing ecstatic like a new
tattoo of an old lover’s name.
One nail scratching ash won’t remove
fire from its flames, so I move through
roses, my eyelids unfolded
velvet; uncertain I deserved
it when cold hearts burned my fame to
add a story to the Tower
of Babel. Of deep voids traveled,
the weapon of art hasn’t felled
the poor, red wood of my shameless
words, so I know—Biblically—
how intimately infamy
becomes antiheroes raising
hell in their epic element.
Pathetic modes become logos
in the hands of putty; dust does
no justice to clay heretics
framed like bricks stoning me atop
temples to their idiocy.