I am sure it is filled with cancer. And I am sure it is trying to push some of that cancer shit into all of our waiting bodies. There is a Hero inside me who would be brave. A Hero who would crawl up into the sun’s dark eye and explode like a teenager headed for a thousand virgins.

But when you’re standing in a field all choked up with these selfish bastard-puffs it’s like that mind-blowing orgy of brain-aha(!!) in “The Matrix” (or one of those “Aliens” flicks....O, the horror of it) when, slowly, exponentially, all the enslaved, multiply out, and out, and out, like so many worthless zombies, eating away at you——á la Lana Del Rey.

 

And why not? Fisting can be the way to break the dark ice, shimmering, in us. A way into the carefully crafted music. All the lifeboats, struggling, shimmering in God’s dark moonlight. A book full of charms, skittles, trolls, kings and keepsakes. Dry and still-wet fossils. A collection, a treasure, a ménage: as subtle and charismatic as a green-eyed snake. Titanaboa, perhaps, and its glinting horror and lust as it builds and builds, up, and up, in my religious blood. God is still (and always will be) the best damned writer.

Perhaps you will be there. And you will see (and say, mime) my mouth, shaking with styled bits and pieces of sex, violence and a dark-borrowed, fish with the head still attached. And if you close your eyes, now or then, or whenever (really, whenever, yes, whenever might be best) perhaps you, like me, will feel the strobe-like presence of some exotic being, moving through oil, mud, carnivals of darkness, suicide, etc, etc, blah, blah

All countries, really, are filled with blood but right now my eyes and my brain are slicing and stewing in Egypt’s blood. Later today, in our safe America, a friend of mine is waiting to dialogue, after we embrace, about the bruises, nuances and love in Egypt’s blood. We will talk about churches, I am sure. And the KKK. We will talk perhaps of that bad new Oprah movie. And I will think of places I’ve lived in. South Africa and Mexico that is. And I will think again of how I was a small boy once. A small boy who judged people, literally, by the shape and texture of their heads.

 

And, as always, she is like a sun everything else turns around. A sun, sweet, and cute, and a 7-year ballerina twirling around, waving to us. But I have seen her threaten to kill people. Judges and the audience, maybe. I believe Tony Hoagland wrote a poem about a bit tennis player that caused, I think, a bit of a racial stir. All my fantasies of Tony Hoagland end badly for Tony Hoagland. There’s no shaking hands. No apologies. Candy. Make up sex. No, sir: they all end badly.

Or when I’m really cruel. When I travel back to the island of Capri where Caligula swam around in a pool nibbling at the rotten, goat-body of his bad uncle (Tiberius). But, ya know, Cancer, like Caligula, is no damned joke. And yet I would laugh, laugh——Laugh as it grows up inside me. Like a snake, crawling into every cell in me. It wants, this snake, to enslave the Muse for a few, last minutes. Wants your whole joking brain to cower in the malignant dark.

And it entertained me on a flight a few years back. Some of it was inspiring. Some of it awesome, really. And it made me want, under some ripe and feathery gaze, indeed, to change my life, flying, and flying. But, then there’s that that exhausted thing (a bird, of course), crippled on a beach, in the middle of nowhere, my soul, devoured in a pile of crabs.

You’d find the spot quite quickly. No hassles. Right away even. But here you are now just standing there, sinking, deeper, and deeper, into grave consciousness. (sorry about that. nah.) “Would this be a comfortable spot?” ... “I wonder if there are pipes or roots here?” ... “Would the shade be enough here.” I’m an Atheist. It’s true. But,...

And be inspired by their vague youthful beauty. But when you’re dying they fuzz the dark, strangle it, kill it. I am sad. Sun after sun. Spores of a new creation eating away at me. The flower. O, it will come.