spiritual language poetry & writings




Now Reader, hold fast–you’re in for a crude awakening!
It’s time we got this show underway da udder way
and were together, you and me, all-one at last:
for I’m the soldier in an all-out war
who, upon learning how to read REDRUM
in the writing on the wall, sees
what he hadn’t seen before–
how we all get away with murder;
I’m the once-and-future poet
who, upon climbing her poet-tree
goes out on on a limb, unforks her tongue,
and tells the whole world her storked story;
I’m the rabbit in the screen cage
who, by projecting from reel to real,
animates the loony New Age,
then hops out cagily and says,
I’m the dei-man, the Sissy-fuss Elf,
the soul’s survivor of the Fall
(R.I.P., from my p.o.v., is a non-stop R.E.M.
where every D.O.A. is a V.I.P.);
I sing and dance this girdy-birdy
in every un-un’s womb-sleep.
For I’m Dadirdydebil, don’t you know?
I word the world together by try-all and eros,
plucking appellations off the Tree of Know-how
and creating doublebolical meanings everywhere
– O to my ear to err is erotic!
As a born lyre I’m forever being told:
But that’s a rite — isn’t it? — we all should urn
(I’d be lying if I said I was lying).
For with laws as walls,
and innocence in the sense the allest wall,
what else is a human being human to do?
Binary thinking puts us in a bind
and makes us all pair-annoyed, and
unless we lose this chain of thought,
we won’t have a legacy to stand on.
As for me, I’m just (pardon the fun) keying on
where it says, LOCK! DON’T TOUCH!
And such places, mind you, I’d never break in-two,
nor would I ever pryde myself in, either
– I’ve got more-roles, after all!
I prefer, instead, going behind the seen
where see-sins circle in an endless psychle
and every moment’s a peek experience.
And the best way in, I’ve found, is in-word
(by the spy-role stare-way) where
once past the Guard and into the Den
I spy w/ my mind’s I sth beginning w/ Y,
I spy w/ my mind’s I sth beginning w/ O,
I spy w/ my mind’s I sth beginning w/ U –
beyond the sly-test doubt the greatest show on earth!
For don’t you see? Everyman’s a womb-man!
Just look below your waste… remember how
Dadadnotsobad, man-nipple-elated by whore-moans,
got Mamanotsogood oaverly excited?
Remember how, in a flash, ex-static
at the thought of being human, you went
merrily merrily merrily down the tubes
to catch forty winks in the Waist Land?
And remember how, bursting at the seems,
you ex-seeded yourself and finally up-peered,
ruddy or not, an 8-lb. prime-evil mothersucker?
You see (anyone can see it’s a conceit) how
I’m always being re-membered for my Body?
This isn’t just idol talk, either:
bearing the Cross of the Truth-of-fiction,
I write wrongs based on hysterical fact,
make whatever’s latent blatent,
and say what I mean mirrorly by meaning what I say
(You can, too — if you say you can’t, it’s cant).
For with each syllable both a silly label & a mything link,
what’s a word worth if not a thousand pictures?
The evidence is in Eve’s dance with Adam –
in which the phallus says, DON’T FAIL US!
and the uterus says, UTTER US!
and the fetus says, FEED US!
and the carrion says, CARRY ON!
– and when all’s sad and dumb there’s no place like OM.

Now there are some who say, IT’S SATANIC!
But I say, IT’S A TONIC…
For I make a conscious Joyce
to demonstrate my demon’s trait:
I enjoy pulling off the tab — boo! –
and letting the hole thing come
(the pleasure’s all mine, and what’s mine is yours)
out into the open where (O, pun it!)
pubic hair goes public.
– For not having anything to hide
is one’s greatest treasure!
But be aware — a new sense
can be a real nuisance
(if Saul can turn Paul, warrior
may turn worrier, or therapist the rapist).
For in order to get from HA-HA!
to UH-OH!
to A-HA!,
one has to go through an awe-full “ache.”
Then once your I’s grow Y’s, you stop
asking the reason why — you just
mind your own peace and cues.
Ha-ha! The yoke’s on you!
This motherlode’s been unloaded!
Do you God it now?

The power of the Word is brought to heal
only by a daring feet of the Imagination.
But remember — toeing somebody else’s line
is self-defeeting, unless it tickles your fancy
or touches the depths of your sole.
Reader, kneel thyself.