You allow the hot stream in you
to tear open trash dams  
and pull blood
out of your clogged
and rubbery vessels —
emptying the blue highways that carry flow
back to the heart, the red arteries
carrying flow away from the heart.

Let it speak as it wishes, let the stream
attack and defend, define defilement
of what’s expected, chide the correct,
offer comfort to the addicted
and perpetually unjustly wronged.

This is how you learn
that what is permitted is also
somehow most forbidden in most places:
the undressed and messy view
of the charcoal body
of a prisoner newly released from fire,
the taste of that same fire in the words
once tangled and now unraveling
out of your head.

Let the stream pour from you
into the dirty streets, your blood
and delicious delirium
spreading and pooling,
staining everywhere as redly
as the insides are stained;

let it reveal the truth,
the large Truth
without compromise in image
or substance…let it show
what has been trapped inside you,
the charcoal prisoner’s body
that is now a gray covenant
between you and the jailors
that you’ll not shut up
at all, ever,
never stop accusing them
of negligent surrealism,
of imposing a small outside world
that imprisons the immense inside world
until no one can believe in it
or begin to understand it
without speaking, however poorly,
of how hot it is in there… 

“”Awake” will appear in the Winter 2012 issue of Amethyst Arsenic, www.amethystarsenic.com.”

can you think your way
into art
while feeling your way
past the artists 

can you hear
a keened note
from Miles’ horn
and not feel it
at least a bit
as the whistle-wind of his hand
cutting through the air
to land on a woman’s cheek

can you read Sexton
and not sense that the lessons of torture
which she rendered so delicately
were learned as much
through her infliction of it
as her suffering from it

can you watch Brando
and marvel at his sensitivity
while forgetting
his dead, stunted children

and can you
see through me through my words
and know I’m
a bad, bad boy
as often as I’m
a full-on man 

if you can answer these questions 
at all
no matter how you answer

please
more than glib is owed
to some questions
more than outbursts of disgust
or simpleton indulgence
for the creative process

please
don’t answer easily 
more than that
is owed to these

The lizard of self-loathing
was not looking for food
or shelter.  He sought
something else: your sense
of purpose.

And oh, he was good at it  —
been stealing from you for years.

So, you’ve disguised yourself —
haircut; wardrobe; new glasses, contacts
even; lose some weight,
change your name, set goals, resolve
to be better.  

Next time he drags by your door,
he doesn’t even stop.  Long tail-trail
in the dust behind him
indicating where he’s been —
in your business all these years.

Resentment made you do the work,
dammit; now it’s time to do
the right stuff for the right reasons.
Let the lizard be —  
you don’t need to kill him.

He’s so well-fed and sturdy
you marvel at what he must
have found nourishing in what you
had discounted about yourself.

Time to take stock of that —
you look good, feel good,
see sharply, move quickly.
You’re a hell of a guy
but you’re full of questions:
could you have done this earlier,
could your life have been easier?

Stop with the regrets already — see how
he’s turned to look back, sensing
something on which to feed?

Instead,
call it a new day
and go back to your house.
You won’t have to see him again
if you don’t want to. 

He began by admitting
its appeal, admitting
that the mere whiff of it
would so often shank
his more outlandish
fantasies,
and that he was kind of
in love
with the sight
of all that green blood.

He invited in
and gave it a bath
in salt water.  Dumped
a whole shaker into
a pan and slipped it in.

The next time
he imagined a rogue elephant
trampling his nemesis,
he let it in to the room,
set it up
on a little stand, a lap desk
perhaps, and listened
as it advised him
how to really get over
on all that bother.

He’d plod by the closet
where he kept 
the ritual vestments
and resolved to hit up Goodwill
for some worn Dickies
and green workshirts
before the next service.

It took a little while, 
but he got a real job.
Gave up the fire harvesting
and the raising of gryphons
for their talon dust.
Started
punching in and measuring time
in clicks and increments,
rather than in depth and flow.

Once he was stable,
he’d get home from work every day
and coo all night to the little one.
C’mere, my baby, my spreadsheet,
my Reddenbacher bag, he’d say.
C’mere and flue me, grue me, do me,
backbend screw me till I don’t want
the weird ever again.

You think: hey, I’d never be happy like that.
If you say that to him, now, he’ll say:

don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.
Try it first and then knock it: I recommend that.
It’ll open up like a door
to another door, exactly the same
as the previous one.  
I haven’t gone through that one yet,
but I anticipate pretty much
the same thing will happen,
and you wouldn’t think so,
but it’s kind of a relief.
I’m kind of in love with it. 

I am climbing to enter the forbidden cave,
to see the paintings, the ochre, the sienna.

I see my mixture of fear and ecstasy
on the rocks before me.

Later, I think of the painters,
how they’d chosen colors and layered pigments,
chewed stems of thistle to make their brushes.  

Did they eat wild melon, sip ice water
when they were done —

as I do,
now that I am done with wrangling
the wild beasts of my own art?

Omnipotence
reveals itself
in shadow.

Anything
could be there.
Is there.

I want to diminish
what power I’ve lent to it,
so I light a fire.

Losing nearly everything
to the flame —
wondering, now,

who or what that was
in the dark; where
it has gone; why

I can’t see myself
in the darkened, savaged mirror
I save from the ruins.