the devil’s lament


what gives a magnet

its magnetism? some-


intrinsic in its matter

that polyglot of latent


something lucid in the dark mirror

and twisty, angled like mal magic.


i wake interior to the devil coil into his slough body arms inquest up length of supple shirtsleeve flex the lissome forensic flesh acme power wear his ossified bones make him specious female fall as tangential comet trail for

an amalgam of angel, 

a luminary cabal of

singular person

i ford inches of soul

to build (he)r lapidary

stone altar

offer hibiscus viscous blood honeycomb and hecatomb

to slake her dial murder to see if god is home place a collect call on my red telephone. i heard the angels snicker say god doesn’t answer devils worshipful you are of the angel sinner bloody hands never took a daughter in wedding they tell me hallowed things that could dissolve gold but i only want to know how to say i love you in hendecasyllabics 


and now:

everything you do is

an act of godhead

is liturgy-cum-legislation

has the impetus to

cle/slash/ave the in(visible)divisible

you can tear atoms


eaves of worlds,

severed so be it

so it is written so it is done

pharaoh et al amen

to Amun-Ra


irregularities of light


death a little


dying fool, the

half life

of a decision is

life changing


the full span of one–

world building


so imagine yourself

and the choice 


co-conspirators in            love

judicious as you live because

hereafter is not    conscripted

looking at       me       ready to

alter every                        thing


In a Moment of Koan

These black mangoes glisten like plumb plums; they are sticky, tepid lips; they are nocturnes turning white stars black as piano keys.

Lustrous Marilyn Monroe sexpot is inverted; made into a fleshly stardom not of the zodiac; and, then, magically turned into Southern Gothic velvet as dark as crows.

The silken spirit crows are then conjured mystically into gauzy flowers and these iridescent flowers are slicked in a dripping, succulent gilty-blonde once more.

Their florid embers glower with lush undertones, like holograms. Purple petals spread out like tentacles in the tacky, honeyed air. Rainbow magnolias breathe breath as cloying as Cupid’s sweat.

Tropical blue ivy climbs a staircase of black angel wings, and lightning snaps the golden bowstring of the Tropic of Cancer.

Everything goes dark inside of this magical wardrobe. Every color turns black in this mystic forest.

The stars stand out in the void like Arabic scrawled on the air; like a magi’s breath crystallizing into a chandelier of levitating ice.

The stars are looking for you, their gas lamps burning. They are waiting for syzygic soul-photosynthesis to reveal a tablet of illuminated cuneiform within you:

From nothing, suddenly the nakedness of everything in a moment of koan.