wake up, rod

I want Javier Bardem to fuck me but I do not want him to be my God. This time, I need the howling, pliant, longing thing moving through me to be flesh, not spirit -- for once. Mark these years and their occultic movements with the number of tongues that touch your nipples. A lover who touches your stretch marks in idle delight and in greed, better than any possible  heaven. Bones claved in a rough pleasure. I age, hear less of you in my ear and more of the eternal hum, unceasing, the bee and mayfly buzz of persisting. Stop fighting off the fire and learn how to burn better, how to grieve each thing until it feels something like Christ saying to the prisoners today you will be with me in paradise , and embracing each suffocation between be and me . I place my crystal wherever other people can touch it, ask them to steal it, let my dumb house torch and twist forever because I long and without it, I do not. I am on your left, always...

For once I'm the happy    one and my life isn't going               backwards. My wings caught fire,                      color became the lyre; the old                             cliché of living before dying. I                                    miss grief but not you. I kiss                                           he but not you. I am                                                  hook but I am not song.                         ...