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.