noth­ing is sa­cred
and fear?
read about it in a mag­a­zine
slip­pery bricks in red square
where the echos of wood slam­ming stone
ric­o­chet under the feet of is­lamic scarfed girls on skate boards
and evo­lu­tion oc­curs be­fore the tips of my fin­gers
and the lit­tle snakes of light that wrig­gle through time­space
be­fore my eyes.
Where fringe hangs from the pipes snaking across the ceil­ing of my base­ment
and sub­ter­ranean poets min­gle meth­ods of vi­bra­tions
bike lights and tim­pani
we’re trans­fixed.
We’re mic’ed and we’re broad­cast­ing
we’re open doors
if you come around back and
make a do­na­tion and
promise not to be a dick
you can lick brownie bat­ter off my fin­ger tips
you can use a wooden spoon
where we’re lean­ing against coun­ters
and through the thin soles of our sneak­ers
on never-clean linoleum and
splin­tered hard wood floors
there is po­ten­tial here
and magic
for the open palmed and shiv­er­ing
mov­ing icons across screens — cross ref­er­enc­ing point­less trivia
the essence and the root
a gen­er­a­tion pix­e­lated, mashed up and col­laged with no limit of in­flu­ences
in fear of NOT find­ing ne­glect­ing to look
and drap­ing our im­ages be­hind hung sheets like cur­tains
bar­gain shopped and paid for by the pound.
Where christ­mas lights don’t have a fuck to do with christ­mas
but we can’t af­ford lamps
and an apple grown down the road costs 2.50
and an apple grown on the other side of the world is sev­enty cents
makes sense
and our re­li­gion is WE HATE MONEY but WE DE­PEND ON MONEY
and THANK HO­LI­NESS for the money that does come
cause we’ll do any­thing to do it on the cheap
but we ap­pre­ci­ate beau­ti­ful things
and hand crafted things
like flat light on the attic of the wind
and if we had money we’d have
sharper knives and
more plates to eat from
but we haven’t had any­one go hun­gry yet
and I’d rather eat outta my mug any­ways.
If I had money I would buy clay
and a wheel to spin it into ves­sels
from which all of my friends and their friends could sip.
Where some of us smoke cig­a­rettes some­times
and some see ghosts in the smoke
and some live with heroin ad­dicts and drink bour­bon
bought by older broth­ers
to the ex­tent of poi­soned liv­ers
and passed out on couches with a lit­tle brown haired head
in a salad bowl
and some have two year olds named after an­i­mals and plants
like the names we wish our par­ents gave us
like the names of the world around us
or the world we dream around us
under pen tips and through howls
and clips from com­mer­cials filmed twenty years ago in japan
and kit­tens
and bass that vi­brates your in­sides
where we sleep curled up and naked
and awake in pale light
horny and hun­gry
into reach­ing out limbs
long and lean
and scruff like sand­pa­per that leaves my skin, rav­ished, red
and feel­ings get hurt
and dough rises
and we talk for hours about how we can be good to each other
and jump on bikes and ride fu­ri­ously
to a place where our in­sides are on our out­sides
and we’re broad­cast to the world
raw
and every­thing is noth­ing
and we’re small and in­con­ceiv­able
and ten­der and fear­less
to where we are not sep­a­rate
and to where we are all HOLY
and we’ll prac­tice our re­li­gion
like its every­thing we’ve got and
like our only chance in a vi­brat­ing snow­globe of sound­less fear
and the mag­a­zines preach that noth­ing is sa­cred.
I will make you break­fast.
I will wor­ship.