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
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.