How can I be your priority
when your existence
is contingent on my belief?
Uncertain of origin, loyalty
even our ending’s
reassurance, why teach me this grief?
No man an island, but a city
in the shit of which dwells
every instance of purity
Too damned dirty to unearth, we
bury belief, cursed since
birth to people an earth only
For an eternity if we try
and fail your ambivalence
testing us with its acidity
On tongues cut paper lies
blot from the Book of the Living
every name since Adam sighed
To a muse and maker, deity
who never lived within
an inch of my reality
I issue this soiled decree:
do not ever be so mistaken
to believe I ever wanted to be
Those crystal waters issuing
from your logo’s weekend
signs flickering, pissing out these
Particles whose bawdy count exceeds
harmonious limits and
unwanted, make us need
You when bereft of love, we
are told it’s where we left it
but what if we never had it?
Intuited Introit; your bindery
sews up my soul in
a volume of autohagiography
Timing its release
to coincide with
its theatrical opening: a scene
Seeing both of us bleed
a Ferlinghetti Western
in which a poet is freed
By killing-off god; seats
will be filled, books read
asses into chairs, and each
Line delivered honestly
before an audience
lined up to worship me.