Blinding Silence

The undertow of the remotest river
sucks the flow of grave-yard chants exposing
fanatical gods in their ecstatic dance
finally sprawling upside down
to drink from the cup of a hand held wound
revealed but not naked enough for nailing
you to the wall until talk slips
between teeth, splinters lips petrified
of words, the slit of spitting stalactites,
the chilly hallucination,
the icy needle of numbness
when you kill what's not even yours
and you don't understand what it means
to murder infinity's flowers
when there's nothing left to repeat.

It Could Have Been

It could have been some Bacchic chase
a frenzy overwhelming the worshipper
now torn to pieces like the leftovers
of a corpse from some atavistic desecration
when the hunter stopped the pretence
of being a hunter and hurled himself toward
history's holy madness as the castrated bull
raging beneath the jackal's mask, the carved
goat's horns, the drums and cymbals
of his consort dancing in the sugarcane
before the anointed body of Pentheus
his 'one incessant scream' or so it seems
when I hear his threats on the message bank
and wonder if he'll ever put down the phone.

White As Camphor

He melts the moon in his head
catches white as camphor breath
her scent tracing faraway thoughts
at the back of his throat, the five
fold sacrament a dusky blue note
sounding softer than the husky
2 am voice stepping quietly into the street
celibate and unable to sleep
with cloudy dreams of snow dissolving
phosphorescent light he can never
describe the shades marrying him
to the death wish of his bride.

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