I was riding on the
edge of life at the
speed of death
When the voice of crafty creation
wrote in neon green sigils
with luminous ink
on the back of my eyelids
so that
Every time I shut my iris
the image melts into
3-dimentional allusions to
illusions of hallucinations
where I stand in
hell, a restaurant famous
for brimstone smoked souls
served in skulls
where
I survive every second
waiting to graduate from life
through the inhuman calm
of an objective mathematician
where
I stifle rivaling legions
of our probable selves
and whisper and scream
by remaining silent --
The estacy of peaceful insanity
flows through all of us
Meanwhile in some corner of
an uncharted region of unremarkable
confusion
We remembered tomorrow
and planned out yesterday
with complete befuddlement, by
the words of our declaration of
independence from memories
carved in archaic anarchy
by
the tune of our proclaimation of
emancipation from history
sang in anachronic discord
SO HERE WE ARE
bundled up and naked and young
and old and wholly holy
We trust that if
If the symbolic rituals of cannibalism
in Catholicism can be holy
that if
If the unreasoning crusades of
advertising God’s name in vanity can be holy
Then Allen Ginsberg was right
...
So even the circus freaks
who weigh us feed us
sedate us restrain us
record us medicate us
blindly - are us,
are sanctity
Even the senile
who laughingly skinny dipped
into a pool of tears he cried
in his adolescent years
is sanctity
Even the unthinking laws
of physics that strangles
babies in wombs with
umbilical cords
are sanctity
Even the listeners who think
sanctity sounds like a pair
of feminine body parts,
Even lurking rapists suicide bombers
laundered money filthy politicians
reused condoms rusty scalples
broken kittens rabid puppies
castration scars and pus spewing clits
are sanctity
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