Taken from a book in which is recorded
                                                                                     The Word that created the world,

an ocean of a myth spitting sparks crackling
     with swallowed glass, shattered mirrors

                                                                                jettisoned by narcissists from their sinking
                                                                                     vessels, effervescent letters

cutting through those rubbernecked tyrannies of
     regurgitated prayers armchair

                                                                                philosophers with heretic mouths foam, a
                                                                                     hadith speaking openly of

what for so long has been kept closed, a poem
     sliced from a beast’s throat, exposing

                                                                                life’s great mystery for those who seek to know,
                                                                                     answering questions none ask, viz.:

                                        *

A love of things invisible that cannot
withstand fistfuls of wisdom, a prison of
a passion not above the heinous crime of
satisfying its insatiable craving
for some dead-white-guy’s nodding acknowledgment

     or to die while hardly trying,

                                        * *

no unsolicited opinion or limp-
wristed criticism too limiting, or
any remorse, so far beyond
your experience have I been reaching since
before birth, since long before willing my Self

     into being, a renegade

                                        * * *

soul on-the-go, running in double-time from
my Doppelgänger for having double-crossed
him, villainous and hale, heartless with palest
fingers, with diamond and dagger digging,
tongue of flame swinging against teeth of chain-link

     fence tearing some grave’s unashamed

                                        * * * *

bedsheets with grins, without love, often enough
too much chaos for others with such softer
constitutions to bear, to handle without
kid-gloves lest they catch my despair, pursuit of
my Muse almost Mosaic in the bearded

     severity of its spirit’s

                                        * * * * *

wilderness-dwelling doom, producing tacit
terror when I enter a room, an epic
attitude at once unjust and fitting, lip
biblical and apocryphal, quips and barbed
whining as eternal as noncommittal,

     fugitive and bound to writing

                                        * * * * * *

what flies inside the barren raven-picked minds
of vagrants, all things and nothing, where your faith
ends, and our need to be believed in by each
other begins, is that subtle crevice slipped
between pages where these words hide their meaning,

     imperceptible pieces of

                                        * * * * * * *

flesh and bone revealing my secrets, making
mortal this prophet you follow but ignore,
the keys to my kingdom (if you can see—let
alone read—them), deception taking from fools
inspiration enough to deceive them with

     breadcrumb meals of clues you feast on.