escape fantasies

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"I take it apart
in the garage
like a puzzle:
the petals are greasy
as old bacon
and fall
like the maidens of the world
backs to the floor
and I look up"

~ Charles Bukowski, "Destroying Beauty"

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selah this, bitches—

that God so loved us
He gave us His only begotten son
& some postulate that
he is either madman or messiah

—but what of the fact
that only children are spoiled
& a bit self-aggrandizing?
or that, as Catholics say,
Joseph never slept with his wife?
& Jesus was born in a stable?

it sounds like his home life
would be difficult,
smelly,
full of sexual tension,
Mary saying no,
Joe getting drunk, making
lopsided furniture,
Jesus in the corner,
crying behind a fat cow,
his swaddling clotch
reeking of piss & lamb shit,
worried the three kings
were pedophiles bearing
frankincense, yes, but
maybe chloroform & lollipops,

maybe Jesus was a poet,
not insane or a god—
maybe he, too, wanted to escape
& with words become
a god.

***

sometimes, when i am drunk,
i think the spies are after me.
don't ask what spies
or why they chase me—
i am drunk—
usually i don't even know.
i wake up & read my texts
with red eyes & shame.
sitting there impishly between the usual &
embarrassing i want to fuck you's
& let's go to hawaii's
are those texts
about the spies—
no, i can't join you at the bar,
the spies are after me—
no, i can't come home,
the spies are watching—

it's not real (at least i think)
my mind is
stuffed full, overflowing
with science fiction shows—
sea monsters & dragons
all roll into each other
& i dream i can fly.

& it wouldn't be an insult,
at least not to me,
to ask whether Jesus had
one too many,
Tweeted one drunk night to his fans,
"#Water into wine!"
& then the whole shit
hit the ceiling—

& maybe he had good intentions.
i don't really want to fuck those girls,
i don't have money to go to Hawaii,
let alone take a few days off—

i had a fucked up childhood
& i have a drinking problem
& i protect myself with booze & poems

***

so why can't Jesus be
a sane man, too,
who at twenty
sat in the temple, terrified of
stables, hating kings, donkeys his friends,
& spun a yarn fueled by Mary Magdalenes
& wine he imagined he made from water?

he, like me, would be
scratching at a wound
that will not heal,
gnawing at the bones
of our youth &
howling at the moon—

& honestly,
hanging on a cross for our words
would be the best poem
we ever wrote.

ode to Collins.

---

I do not remember the day,
Much less do I remember the hour,
It was like a surprise, or picnic,
A lightning storm,
When I perused the poetry section
Still a bit tipsy from the prior evening—
The afterglow—
Embarrassing pieces of Dickinson, lingerie,
And honestly the best cigarette
Still staining my lack of suit and tie,

And it was there with the nine horse heads,
Quiet and alluring,
Standing in anticipation of my touch between
Bukowski and cummings,

Small and slim,
Adorned in a smooth shell,
The way an Indian princess
Or courtesan
Well-versed in the ways of love
Might lie in expectation of an illicit lover.

And I must admit, my hands trembled
As if you were she,
The first girl I kissed,
As if this was the first time I was to unclasp your bra,

And my fingers, unstable,
Lifted you from the shelf,
Ran my fingertips down your spine,
Kissed your barcode and your price.

And I opened you, I smelled your fragrance,
Your newness between your lines,

I wanted you as my own.
I craved you.
Deliriously.

And smiling,
I took you to the register and—
“Yes, thank you,
I found everything I was looking for.”

give the pastors Ex.

do not give me
age & its wisdom,
its armchair or cognac
& the aroma of the
intellectual cigars
& philosophical conversation —

i want explosions.

heat waves.

i want water balloons
& strobe lights.

give the pastors Ecstasy
& see what new gods they devise.

prophecy and dreams.

where are the prophets
who grab us by our throats
& spit the apocalypse
into our dreamy eyes?

& where are the dreamers
unhurried by debts
& book signings, with
songs of love & tangled limbs
to cause our ears
to tingle & shake?

& where are we?
on hammocks,
stoned & waiting
for prophecies & dreams.

daylight.

i want the wilderness to
wash over me
& leave me wet and gritty,
dyed with excess
& hope sweating through my pores.

i want the sun in my mouth,
burning holes through my lips
so that when we kiss,
you feel daylight on your tongue.

the sixth sense.

give me more senses
than tangerine chapstick
& orchid body wash
& fireworks on the Fourth of July
with a lukewarm light beer.

i want to smell the lust of lovers
& taste the world's vibrations.

i want to feel the cries of angels
& know the mystic Om.

i want the river of life to run through me
& spread my heartbeat
on every shore.

value menu love.

i do not know of sexual healing.

i know oblivion

& grief & distance.

i know the feeding of our souls
to each other with
our tongues.

i know
magic & houdini,
smokescreens
& vintage lunch boxes.

the value menu stops at 99¢
but we,

we do not stop.

we rise.
we summon eagles & owls.